Chapter Text
John lightly scowled as the shower ran. The entire flat stank of some cloying smell that he couldn’t name just yet. But as soon as he could identify it, he would feel much better. Especially considering who Sherlock had found in his bedroom within the past half-hour.
It had started out as a fairly normal day. Greg had asked them to stop by the station to give a report of the past week’s activity. No more heartless about the city, and no reports from anywhere else. Some quick consultations that were simple enough that Stephen had beaten Sherlock. They had afterward grabbed tea and sandwiches at a shop on the way home. Then, Sherlock had discovered one Irene Adler resting in his bedroom.
So far, Stephen had been staying out of sight, the ace up their sleeve if needed. The Woman didn’t know about Stephen. Frankly, only a select few knew about Stephen Strange Holmes, and they would prefer to keep it that way. In fact, Stephen hadn’t even existed until roughly a fortnight ago when they were eradicating London of a Heartless infestation.
Now that John considered it, he wasn’t sure if he was happy or disappointed that Irene hadn’t fallen prey to the ravaging Darkness. It certainly would have saved them all this trouble.
“John, you are practically seething,” Sherlock noted lazily, across the table from him. “What is running through that brain of yours?”
“I don’t trust her, Sherlock,” John answered. “Even while telling us that people are chasing her, she never tells us why she steals this information. Never tells us exactly why she needed to start ‘ensuring’ her protection in the first place. She could be working for some criminal mastermind for all we know.”
“Not a mastermind, John,” Sherlock said. “The only criminal worthy of that title was defeated by both the Darkness and our own keyblades sixteen days ago.”
John released an exasperated sigh as the shower turned off. He lowered his voice, never quite sure how truly insulated the bathroom’s walls were. “Just be on your guard. No flirting.”
Sherlock gave him a perplexed expression, little splotches of confusion touching John’s senses. “Why would I flirt with Ms. Adler? I’m a taken man.”
“But she doesn’t know that,” John answered. “And try to keep the radical deductions to a minimum. Based on past experience, that will constitute as flirting as far as she is concerned.”
“Very well,” Sherlock said. “And please, unless she shows signs of transforming into some heartless, keep your keyblades out of sight.”
“I know better than that, Sherlock,” John muttered. He turned back to his laptop, making sure he had a fresh document up for notes. Yes, more than likely if this was a case, it would end up being a case he could never post on his blog. But, potentially for future generations, or when he was a crochety old man with dentures it would be safe to share with the world.
“Any traces of Darkness?” Sherlock asked.
John kept an eye on the hallway. “Not necessarily more than usual,” he answered. “But there is a cloying scent that is about to drive me mad since I can’t place it.”
“Be sure to tell me what it is once you’ve figured it out,” Sherlock said.
“Only when she’s not here,” John said. “I don’t want her to know any more about our part in the heartless infestation than what has already been shown on the telly.”
Sherlock nodded, dropping the subject in time as Irene stepped out.
Thankfully, Ms. Adler had the decency to wear the blue robe Sherlock had offered her. That initial meeting was not something John wished to repeat. Somewhat disturbingly it smelled as though she had used both John’s soap and Sherlock’s shampoo. John wasn’t sure why it disturbed him, unless it was more of what she may have subtly been attempting to do that bothered him.
“Thank you for allowing me to stay for a bit,” she said, settling down in Sherlock’s chair. The cloying scent became stronger. It was definitely coming from Irene. But what emotion was causing that? “I’m needing to lay low for a while.”
“So, who’s after you?” Sherlock asked.
“People who want to kill me,” Irene said casually as though discussing the weather.
“Who’s that?” Sherlock asked.
“Killers,” Irene answered.
Client, client, John told himself in order to keep from rolling his eyes. Pretend that she is a normal client. “It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific,” he said.
Sherlock, of course, made a minor deduction. “So you faked your own death in order to get ahead of them.”
She shrugged. “It worked for a while.”
“Except you let John know that you were alive, and therefore me,” Sherlock pointed out.
“I knew you’d keep my secret,” she said, the subtlest flirt in her tone.
“You couldn’t,” Sherlock said, thankfully as oblivious of romantic advances as he used to be with Molly.
“But you did, didn’t you?” Irene said, relenting for the moment. “Where’s my camera phone?”
John did roll his eyes at that. He had nearly forgotten about the blasted thing, but considering the trouble it had caused them with some American agents— “It’s not here,” he said. “We’re not stupid.” Not anymore at any rate.
“Then what have you done with it?” Irene asked, genuine concern flashing out for a moment. A selfish concern, but still concern. “If they’ve guessed you’ve got it, they’ll be watching you.”
“If they’ve been watching me,” Sherlock returned coolly, “they’ll know that I took a safety deposit box at a bank on the Strand a few months ago.”
“I need it,” Irene insisted, the tiniest thread of desperation present.
John mentally sighed. As much as he didn’t like The Woman, she was still a lady. (In the broadest sense.) And the gentleman in him hated to see a lady in danger. “Well, we can’t just go and get it, can we?” he said, swirling the problem round in his head. Then he had an idea. It just might work. On its own merits along with a boost of a prayer.
He turned to Sherlock. “Molly,” he said. “She could collect it, take it to Bart’s. Then one of your Homeless Network could bring it here, leave it in the café, and one of the boys downstairs could bring it up the back.”
“Very good, John,” Sherlock said, gentle ripples of pleasure and congratulations slipping through. “Excellent plans with intelligent precautions.”
“Thank you,” John said. But just as he reached for his phone to call Molly, he caught another sensation. A tense, anticipating evaluation. He met Sherlock’s eyes, eyes that were smiling just the slightest bit. “You already retrieved it, didn’t you?” he asked.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, a corner of his lips twitching up imperceptibly. “Or was never there,” he said, the babbling amusement only detectable by John’s newfound senses. He pulled the camera phone from his pocket as John lightly shook his head.
But John was still pleased to know that Sherlock had genuinely believed his plan had merit. Even if it hadn’t been strictly needed.
Irene stood up as Sherlock studied the phone, possibly for the hundredth time since receiving it just last Christmas.
John paused. Or was it the same phone? Only recently had he started to detect things about nonliving objects, and he would have expected to at least sense traces of Irene. There was nothing but a clinical sensation.
“So, what do you keep on here?” Sherlock asked. “In general, I mean.”
“Pictures, information,” Irene answered, crossing her arms. “Anything I might find useful.”
“What, for blackmail?” John asked.
“For protection,” she answered.
Again, no explanation for why a dominatrix would need it. While John knew little about that line of work, not that he had any desire to, it didn’t strike him as a profession that would put one in mortal danger. Outside of potential deadly diseases if unprotected.
“I make my way in the world,” Irene continued. “I misbehave. I like to know people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be.”
“So how do you acquire this information?” Sherlock asked.
“I told you,” Irene answered, “I misbehave.”
“But you’ve acquired something that’s more danger than protection,” Sherlock deduced. “Do you know what it is?”
“Yes, but I don’t understand it,” Irene answered.
“I assumed. Show me,” Sherlock said.
Irene reached for the phone, waiting for Sherlock to hand it to her.
But Sherlock was waiting to enter the passcode, the code John had witnessed him obsessing over for weeks. “The passcode,” he said.
Clearly The Woman wasn’t going to share that sort of information willingly. Finally, Sherlock surrendered the phone. Irene typed in code.
John’s brow furrowed. She was too casual about it. Yes, she was hiding it from Sherlock, but she hadn’t moved to ensure that neither of them saw what she did. Something had also flickered through her as soon as she touched the phone. That wasn’t the camera phone and Irene knew it.
But she played her part well as the phone beeped in warning of the supposed security breach. “It’s not working,” she said.
“No,” Sherlock said, standing and reclaiming the phone. “It’s a duplicate that I had made, into which you’ve just entered the numbers: 1, 5, 0, 8.” He walked over to his chair and from under one of the cushions pulled out the real phone. “I assumed you’d choose something more specific than that but, um, thanks anyway.”
John wished he could tell Sherlock that the passcode was as fake as his duplicate phone. With Irene managing to trick Sherlock again, the consulting detective would feel it imperative to prove his superior intelligence. But he couldn’t reveal anything without informing Irene about his status as a keyblade apprentice which he would much rather avoid. He’d much rather not become an addition to her forbidden collection.
The phone beeped in warning, causing Sherlock to stare at it in disbelief. Surprise and a vague sensation of impressed wafted from the detective.
“I told you that camera phone was my life,” Irene said, lightly scolding. “I know when it’s in my hand.”
“Oh, you’re rather good,” Sherlock noted.
“You’re not so bad,” Irene said, smiling flirtatiously. She reclaimed her phone, her eyes never leaving Sherlock’s.
John fought the urge to shift as their eyes remained locked for the space of a minute. It was then that he finally placed what that sickeningly sweet smell was. It was desire, but unlike the warm, gentle desire he’d sensed from Molly and Kayla that caused him to think of summer meadows. This desire was twisted, a poison hidden under a thickly sugared coat.
He coughingly cleared his throat, looking pointedly at Sherlock. Both turned toward him. “Are we done with the staring contest?” John asked, his defenses making his voice a touch sharper now that he knew what he was smelling. “Might be best to get to this puzzle you want solved.”
Vague understanding flashed in Sherlock’s eyes. A subtle guardedness settled in. He nodded once.
Irene’s attention went back to her phone, as she moved away from them both. “There was a man,” she said. “An MOD official. I knew what he liked.”
John inwardly cringed. How many times had she said that or something similar? Before it unsettled him, but now it twisted his stomach.
Now facing both of them and the front of the phone hidden from view, she entered the code as she continued, “One of the things he liked was showing off. He told me this email was going to save the world.” She handed the unlocked phone to Sherlock. “He didn’t know it, but I photographed it. He was a bit tied up at the time.”
Sherlock was already studying whatever was on the screen as he sat back down at the table across from John again.
“It’s a bit small on that screen, can you read it?” Irene asked.
“Yes,” Sherlock answered absently.
“A code, obviously,” Irene said. “I had one of the best cryptographers in the country take a look at it.” She paused as though considering. “Though he was mostly upside down, as I recall. Couldn’t figure it out.”
John tensed. Sherlock was already diving into the shallows of his Mind Palace. Something would have to be done to ensure he didn’t just automatically start rattling off his deduction just to prove he could.
“What can you do, Mr. Holmes?” Irene challenged, before leaning into his space. “Go on. Impress a girl.”
Even as she leaned in to kiss Sherlock’s cheek, John made a decision. It may cost his secret, but it had to be done. In an instant the power exploded from his hand, his mind screaming the word as his lips barely moved to whisper, “Stopza.”
Time within 221 Baker Street froze. Sherlock’s eyes flicked up from his deductions. Stephen stepped in from the hallway, questions in his eyes. Irene remained frozen, her lips inches from defiling Sherlock’s cheek.
“Solve it,” John said in a low voice, “but not a word until after she’s gone. We don’t know who she’s working for. We don’t know how this riddle could save the world, but we sure don’t want her to know and potentially put the world in jeopardy again.”
“Right,” Sherlock whispered.
“We all know you’re brilliant,” John said. “You don’t need to prove it to any of us. Irene doesn’t matter. Let her think what she wants.”
Stephen now stood on Sherlock’s other side, resting a supportive hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. His eyes scanning what Sherlock had been studying. The Nobody, Sherlock’s twin in every way, was quick to deduce what Sherlock had figured out. He started clicking in patterns.
John recognized the Morse Code, but apparently Stephen had added another layer of using a foreign language.
Sherlock answered back in the same way. This continued for a few seconds.
Stephen then hurriedly came around to John’s side of the table. He rapidly typed single-handedly (honestly, John could be jealous of that ability), searching for a flight departing from Heathrow tomorrow evening.
John’s eyebrows shot up. This was supposed to save the world?
“Double-O Seven,” Stephen whispered. “Bond Air is go.” He immediately started clicking Morse back at Sherlock as he opened a new document page, typing more in. “The ash man. The two girls not allowed to see their dead grandfather. The man supposedly dead from a plane crash in a car boot. They’re all connected.”
Now John’s eyes widened. That means that whatever this was had been months in the making. Possibly years. But what exactly did that have to do with the plane and what Irene had showed Sherlock?
Stephen switched the document back to the one John had had opened before. He then returned to Sherlock’s side. A curious look on his face. “I never got a chance to see that locked screen for myself,” he mused quietly.
“You share all my memories, you’ve seen it,” Sherlock said.
“All overshadowed by your thoughts, theories, and emotions,” Stephen said. “It’s difficult to come to my own conclusions with those overpowering them.”
“Fair enough,” Sherlock admitted, apparently bringing the lock screen back.
Stephen started chuckling. “Brother,” he said, “even as a largely emotionless Nobody, even I can figure it out.”
Sherlock’s eyes lit up with understanding. A few presses of the buttons and a sense of victorious satisfaction swelled through the room.
“Show that off,” Stephen said before retreating.
Just in time because John couldn’t hold the spell for any longer.
Sherlock expertly smoothed his face to impassive as John forced himself to relax once more. All just in time for Irene to finish her movement to kiss Sherlock’s cheek.
Sherlock barely glanced at her before saying rapid fire, “An intricate mathematical equation supposedly able to make teleportation and/or traveling at light speed a viable method of travel. While unsure how that could save the world, I must say the officer has an addiction to showing off because frankly all he did was blow a lot of hot air. And I figured out the passcode.”
Irene stepped back, straightening in shock. “What?” the unguarded word slipping out.
“I am actually shocked that a shrewd manipulator such as yourself would make such an elementary mistake as to share your very heart with the world,” Sherlock said, standing to his feet, punching four buttons with an unneeded ferocity. “Surely, you trained yourself to avoid sentiment, to keep your heart from being destroyed as you moved among clients, wandered from lover to lover. For in your line of work, sentiment is the weakness of the losing side. But you couldn’t resist this.”
“Sherlock—” she started, her eyes, her tone desperate; her hand reaching to clutch his arm.
Sherlock merely looked down at her, unmoving. “You never stood a chance. Another claimed my heart long before you attempted to claim it.” He turned the phone to John, revealing the screen now read: “I AM SHERLOCKED.”
John felt a bit of wind knocked out of him. Now he felt as though he should have guessed. It was the perfect play on words and letters. And unexpectedly twisted in its own way.
“Call Mycroft,” Sherlock said.
“On it,” John said, pulling out his phone.
A part of him almost felt sorry for Irene Adler as she stood there in shock, her carefully constructed world crumbling down around her. But that was only a part and almost. How many lives had she ruined in her line of work?
“It is rather flattering in a way,” Sherlock said. “But as of sixteen days ago, my status has moved from single to pleasantly taken.”
Irene turned to John.
“No,” John said. “We are both straight. Sherlock is dating a lovely lady he’s known for a few years, and I am happily seeing a lady I had the pleasure of meeting at church two weeks ago.”
“I never took you to be a religious man,” Irene said, raising an eyebrow.
“I wasn’t until about three weeks ago,” John replied. Then the British Government picked up.
“Please, no more national emergencies,” Mycroft said. “I’ve had a very long day and am hoping to have a cup of tea just now.”
“Something tells me we just saved you from having a much longer day,” John said. “The Woman is in 221B. Sherlock figured out the passcode.”
“Security will arrive within fifteen minutes,” Mycroft said before hanging up.
“What changed three weeks ago?” Irene asked, intrigued and apparently determined to take advantage of her last minutes of freedom. “If it had been in the midst of that bizarre infestation of monsters, I may make some connection. But three weeks is just before or at the very start. Hardly enough time to put the fear of God in an army man.”
“True enough,” John said, slowly recognizing what that small part earlier was. The same part that a couple weeks ago had reminded him of a villain’s humanity, how God’s Son had died for him as well. It would take a miracle for this woman to change her life. But wasn’t that what John had needed as well when he started. “You could say that different aspects of my life had just started adding up.”
He pulled a gold chain out from under his shirt. “An army mate knew God and Jesus on a family level. He was different from the rest of us. He watched his language, didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, and never acted unseemly around the ladies.” John smiled sadly as he held the solid gold cross in his hand. “He never failed to tell the rest of us about his Father and Big Brother. His prayers, now growing up in Catholic services, I’d heard plenty of prayers, but I would always feel as though I was eavesdropping on a private conversation when I heard him pray.”
John looked up at Irene as she propped herself against the table. “He died as I tried to save him. I had seen plenty of deaths before and after. But I don’t believe I have ever witnessed someone leave this life as peaceful and joyously as he did, as though he was finally allowed to come home.” He sighed. “I didn’t really have time to ponder on that. Soon after I was invalided home, fighting for my own life. Then I met Sherlock, and my life barely paused after that.
“But before the heartless invasion, I started having dreams. Dreams that brought my old army mate back to mind, him and his prayers. It took time, but just before the invasion caught the attention of Scotland Yard, I stumbled into a church and was forced to face the idea of facing a great Darkness alone. I realized that I am not a good man, that in the face of the encroaching Darkness, I would not be able to stand on my own. So, I turned to the only One who could defeat the Darkness both within myself and surrounding me.”
“That cross belonged to your friend, didn’t it?” Irene asked.
“Yeah,” John said. “I finally managed to contact his family in order to return it. But they said that they believe he would have wanted me to keep it.”
“Nice of them,” she noted.
John absently nodded as he felt a crazy idea sweep over him. But it was ridiculous, he couldn’t possibly—he barely knew what he was doing. But the prodding was insistent, and with it came the question “What if you are the only person who will ever offer her this hope?”
He steeled himself, reaching into a bag on the table. Leftover New Testaments from a recent outreach event his new church had held within the past week. Handing out these little books of hope to strangers on the street was one thing. Offering it to a woman he knew was as dark and twisted as they come was different, especially since she had hurt his closest friend in multiple ways. “Here.”
Irene flicked her gaze between his face and the little Book, waiting for a catch before finally taking it.
“Read it,” John said. “It will explain things a whole lot better than I ever could.”
Irene nodded absently, already flipping the pages of the volume through her fingers.
John swallowed as he sensed his impromptu assignment was not yet finished. Really, Jesus? he asked. Do You honestly expect me to pray with this woman who has no doubt broken more of Your commands than I can even name?
A gentle reminder, not a scolding, but as good as one. He had been as much a sinner as she was. Even if this woman had been the only person in the world, Jesus still would have given His life in order to bring her into the Christian fold.
John silently released a breath. He could always ask, and the worst she could do was say “Absolutely not.” But if that was the case, at least he had asked. It almost hurt to force the words out, as though something Dark was trying to cut them off. “Might I pray for you?”
Irene looked to him startled. She then sighed, looking down. “I suspect I’ll need more than one prayer if I’m to survive even six months after this.”
John held out his hand, half-surprised when she grasped it like a lifeline. He then closed his eyes as he bowed his head. “Jesus, I honestly don’t know why You have asked me of all people to pray for Irene Adler. I’m sure there are plenty of others who don’t have a chip on their shoulder based on past experiences.” He gently squeezed her hand before she could draw it back. “But, I will do my best since You reminded me that I was once just as lost as she was.”
He prayed that Irene would be protected no matter what Mycroft and the government decided. He prayed that Irene would read and understand the New Testament she now held in her hands. He prayed that her heart would become moldable and open to Jesus and His Father. He prayed that she would start to hunger for true peace and would not stop her pursuit until she had found that peace in Jesus.
When he raised his head and opened his eyes, he was surprised to see Irene crying. She waved him off when he asked if she was alright.
Sherlock stepped into the living room. Apparently, Mycroft and his men had arrived in the midst of John’s prayer, but Sherlock, despite being a staunch atheist, had recognized that it was important to John. So, he had stalled the agents until John and Irene were through.
Irene stepped back into the bathroom to change into her own clothes. Then, clutching the small New Testament to her, she allowed herself to be led away.
That evening, Sherlock and Stephen would explain everything. How the plane was a death flight, a repeat of Coventry.
But unlike other shows of brilliance, John was surprised to discover, it held only a marginal interest to him. His heart was still bowed before his new Father’s throne, asking that Irene would find a second chance in Him.
~*~*~
Henry Knight tried to calm his breathing as the very thought terrified him.
“Henry,” his therapist said gently. “You’ll have to face your demons eventually.”
“I-I don’t think I can,” he gasped.
“We’ll work you through it,” she said gently. “We’ll help you get ready to face them.”
He shook, pressing the heels of his hands against his aching head. But yes, as much as he feared it, he had to know what had happened to his father. He had to find out if he was truly crazy or not.