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alt_pantheon

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"You had nothing but speculation and theories. There was no evidence he was ever involved in anything. You forced an innocent man to his death because you couldn’t handle the truth, that there might be someone better than you!"

She burst into tears, hands over her face.

I didn’t, I didn’t, he was guilty, I know he was. I never wanted to hurt anyone, God, the look on Watson’s face, Lestrade, God I didn’t want this to happen-

Jim stood with a huge smile as she snivelled and curled in on herself. Sherlock could hear it now, the guilt overriding everything else as she looked at her hands and saw his blood on them. He smirked.

"Shall we go find Anderson? I’m sure he’ll be even easier to crack."

Sherlock licked his lips. "So long as I get a turn."

When they’d reduced Anderson to a weeping ball on his bedroom floor Jim chuckled and clasped his hands.

"Who’s next? What about a visit to dear Mycroft? Spilling all your secrets to Moriarty should be good enough to get a whole tantrum, maybe some smashing and wailing too."

Sherlock’s lips tightened and Jim scowled.

"Aw, don’t want to torment your brother Sherly? You had no problem doing it when you were alive."

"This isn’t Mycroft’s fault."

"It’s as much his as it was Donovan’s or Anderson’s. They all followed my lead. They gave me what I needed to get you on that roof."

"He’s my brother."

"He was your brother. The only person you belong to now is me."

He grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and the room spun and suddenly they were in Mycroft’s office. He was alone, the fire crackling, a grandfather clock ticking away the seconds loudly in the silence of the room. His jacket hung on the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up and waistcoat open. He had several bottles of Scotch on his desk, one tipped on its side in a puddle, one empty, one that he tipped into his glass as they watched. Mycroft raised it to his mouth unsteadily, spilling some on his shirt. Sherlock’s heart ached again and he wondered if this was what Jim had meant about the burden of your mistakes.

"Look at him Sherly! The stench of agony coming off him! This is fucking child’s play."

Jim walked over and took a deep whiff, light pouring off Mycroft in dull grey waves. Sherlock walked to the edge of the desk and pressed a hand to Mycroft’s shoulder tentatively.

I’ve failed you, Mummy. I couldn’t keep him safe. I am a worthless son. I have let the family down, Father. You told me to look after them and I couldn’t stop this.

"See? He’s an inch from jumping off a building himself."

"Don’t." Sherlock said.

"Why not? If he jumped you could speak to him again." Jim grinned mercilessly.

"Please. If...if I make him lose control now, if I show you I can be detached, will you leave him alone after that?"

"He’ll be mine someday anyway, Sherly. He’s killed too many men for Queen and country. His intentions may be good but his soul is marked for me. I’m almost looking forward to it, actually. We could use someone with his methodical mind to keep an eye on things below."

"Please. Let him come in his own time and I’ll get you your outburst."

Jim looked him over. "Are you sure that’s kinder? This way he has to live with his guilt every day."

"He’ll do that even when he’s dead, but at least on earth he can learn to manage that burden."

"Fine. Show me what you’ve got, little demon, and I’ll leave the Ice Man alone."

Sherlock clenched his jaw but took a sniff. Mycroft’s guilt felt like a sickness, dizzying and sad. He leaned in and Jim copied. Sherlock sighed.

"Could I have a moment, please?"

"Sorry." He held up his hands, backing away to lean on the window.

Sherlock resettled himself and closed his eyes. He didn’t need to listen to Mycroft’s thoughts to know what he was thinking.

"Are you enjoying this, Mikey? You’re finally an only child again like you always wanted."

"No," his brother said aloud, voice trembling, "No I never wanted that."

"Didn’t you? Not even when I was following you around, messing up your books, passing out in alleys?"

"No. God I’d give anything to take this back!"

"You can’t. You gave Moriarty what he needed to rip Sherlock away from the people who needed him, and for what? A few lives of strangers who will never make one third of the difference your little brother did?"

"I didn’t know...I didn’t mean to...I thought I was doing the right thing."

"You knew there was nothing harmless in Jim’s questions."

"I never thought we’d let him go."

"But you did. You grew a conscience at the wrong moment, Mikey."

"And you didn’t even warn Sherlock about it. You could have arrested Kitty Reilly the second she threatened to print that article. I guess it’s only okay to abuse your power when it’s to kidnap Sherlock from his apartment or take John off the side of the street."

"God, I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry, I should have done more, I should have been better!"

He was sobbing now, fat tears rolling down his cheeks unchecked. Sherlock glanced at Jim. The devil looked ecstatic, eyes hungry as he stared at Mycroft. He’d need to do more.

"You’ve thrown away the only thing that meant anything. That’s your legacy, Mikey. A corpse who did nothing but love you and a medal for honourable service to the Crown that you’ll never be able to show anyone."

Mycroft snapped. Sherlock felt the shift coming, the rising cloud of rage and sorrow. He swept the bottles off the desk along with everything else, pens and lamps and notepads scattering over the floor. Mycroft stood quickly, chair falling with a crash. He tipped the heavy wooden table, staggering to the mantel. There was a large portrait of the young Queen there, as well as a few small framed photos of Mycroft at different important moments: his graduation from Oxford, a mission to India, his appointment to the Service. He stared at the glass for a moment before shoving them all aside.

None of Sherlock, none of Mummy, none of anyone who mattered. I’ve got nothing left, no wife or children, just an office and a reputation for keeping things neat. Is that all I am? Is that all I can do, take things apart?

He pulled the cushions off his armchairs and the books off his shelves, and as he raged the air filled with bright red light. It saturated Sherlock’s pores, as invigorating as it had been in Paris. Jim walked up behind him and wrapped an arm around his stomach.

"Isn’t it glorious?"

His hand kneaded at Sherlock’s side as they watched Mycroft throwing things across the room angrily, smashing the walls with a firebrand. He flung that away too and fell to his knees hard, wrenching sobs from his throat at he clutched his own arms. Jim growled low and moved his hand down to cup Sherlock’s groin.

"Bend over the desk."

"What the fuck did I just say?" Jim glowered.

Sherlock cringed at the gleam in his eyes and hurried to obey. Jim tore his pants down and Sherlock could hear him wrestling with his own belt before he slammed into the other man with a gurgling sound of satisfaction. He began to saw in and out, the friction affecting Sherlock enough that he moaned.

He didn’t want this. From their position he was staring right at Mycroft weeping in the wreckage of his frenzy, his brother looking old and wrung out for the first time he could remember. Sherlock had done that. He had jumped instead of asking for help. He was just as much to blame as Mycroft.

But even if he despised himself, Jim’s movements felt too good to be ignored. Practicing his temptation on Anderson and then Mycroft had only made him more susceptible to sin himself. It wasn’t just the lust he enjoyed; he loved the depravity of it, of doing this while his brother cried, he loved the thought Mycroft had driven him into Jim’s arms and that if he knew what was happening four feet from him he’d probably jump into the fire right now. Sherlock closed his eyes at the thought and came hard, muscles squeezing Jim until he bellowed and bit Sherlock’s shoulder. It flared up in red, raw pain, followed by a thick scent of blood. Jim licked it off him and spun Sherlock, forcing his tongue between the other man’s lips so he could taste himself.

It was like normal blood, coppery and bitter, but there was a tinge of something...something like aniseed and sulphur.

"You taste that, Sherly? You’re starting to change." He giggled.

Sherlock stole a glance back at Mycroft. The guilt was still there but he felt the satisfaction too – like he was two Sherlocks looking at the scene with different eyes.

"Shall we pay a visit to the good doctor? I’m sure he’ll be worth a good crying fit."

Sherlock felt a rush of excitement at the thought of John. The man would be an emotional wreck. Who knows, if they pushed hard enough he might lose his mind and go on a spree – they might even be able to convince him to kill Donovan and Anderson.

But the part of Sherlock that still loved his friend shook his head. John was a good person. He’d never willingly help Jim mark his soul and damn the soldier to an eternity at the devil’s hands.

"I don’t want to see him."

"Not even for another shag as good as this?"

"Awwww, Sherly loves Johnny! You think he’ll escape my clutches, Sherlock? John’s killed men before."

"Because he had to, to save his comrades or to save me. He has never killed maliciously. He is a good person."

"He still sins."

"He couldn’t be one of yours. If minor sins counted Hell would be overflowing and Heaven would be empty."

"Come on Sherly, humour me."

He seized Sherlock and they swirled out of Mycroft’s office, landing in 221B. John was curled on the floor by his armchair, staring at Sherlock’s violin where it lay abandoned in his seat and sobbing. The flat was so full of sorrow it seemed to slow time, the air moving past stickily as Sherlock frowned. He could hear the despair in John’s thoughts, and the anger simmering underneath when they got close to Moriarty or Donovan or Mycroft.

"I told you I didn’t want to see this!"

Jim opened his mouth to say something and stopped. "Oh fuck it."

Sherlock followed his gaze to a man standing by the kitchen doors. He had long white wings that gleamed with a pearly yellow light at the edges, his dress a simple white tunic. There was a sword strapped to his waist though, and his eyes were hard beneath soft red curls.

"He is not yours, Lucifer."

"Sod off Adriel."

"He is marked for our Heavenly Father, and I shall see he stays that way."

Jim sighed huffily but folded his arms. "Carry on then."

The angel knelt by John and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, whispering softly. Sherlock could see some of the tension leaving John’s frame and felt the anger dissipate, replaced only by grief. Jim scowled as Adriel stroked his arms.

"Why did you back off?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Angels and demons are not allowed to directly interfere in each other’s business." He ground out between his teeth.

"So why doesn’t God just assign an angel to every human? Then you’d never get to tempt them."

"Because humans are supposed to have free will. The man I tempted in Paris may be coaxed into forgiving his girl by an angel tomorrow, but the mark of his sin will stick. If you tempt people enough you can sway them so far they never redeem themselves. It helps that most people are naturally closer to sinner than saint in the first place."

Adriel looked up at Sherlock and his jaw tensed. The detective could tell he wanted to say something but was bound by the rule that he couldn’t interfere. He took a small comfort knowing John was protected for now.

"Let’s get out of here."

"Fine by me." Jim offered his hand. The room swam around them and then disappeared.

Jim led him back into the tent world, his mood soured by his failure to reach John first. He’d been looking forward to a fabulous rampage. The drunks lying over his floors made him angrier and he kicked them aside, the others scrambling away warily. Everyone watched worriedly, aware their master was not going to be forgiving tonight. Sherlock followed him further into the maze until they reached a larger chamber with a throne raised above a pit full of pillows and sheets. One wall was lined with a long golden table covered in food and drink, enormously obese souls stuffing their faces. A band in the corner that were so malnourished they could have been skeletons played a long haunting dirge, their faces blank. Jim slunk over and collapsed into his chair. Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to do with himself, but Jim waved a hand and summoned a short backless seat next to him.

He sat, remarking that several of the other souls raised their brows when he did. Jim rolled out his shoulders, stretching his arms above his head. He twitched his fingers at a nearby soul and the woman hurriedly over with two thick pewter goblets and an amphora as long as her leg.

"My Lord." She bowed.

"Just pour, Isabel."

She was quick, handling the container like it weighed nothing before presenting a glass to Jim. He nodded to Sherlock and she poured for him too before scurrying back to the table. Sherlock sniffed suspiciously. It looked a little thick for his liking, and he couldn’t tell if the red colour was a reflection of the walls or the actual liquid.

"It’s a concoction."

"Concoction of what?"

"Wine, herbs, bit of virgin’s blood."

Sherlock raised his brows and Jim rolled his eyes.

"The virgin gave willingly, Sherlock. Just drink it."

He brought it to his lips hesitantly but the first taste was like a revelation. The mixture sank into his bones, making him feel blissful, his body heavy and slow. He drank eagerly, spilling it from the corner of his lips. Jim grinned and leaned forward to lick it off, teeth clicking together next to Sherlock’s ear.

"How do you feel, darlin’?"

"Like I’m made of water." He answered in a mellow purr.

Do you feel like smiting a few souls?"

He shook his head lazily. "I’d rather kiss you."

Jim grinned and licked his teeth. "I suppose that could be diverting."

He leaned in and pressed their lips together, sucking the remnants of the wine from Sherlock’s tongue. He spilled his cup as he grabbed Jim, holding on tight as they kissed. The wine made every movement seem slower, as if their lips lingered in the air barely touching. Jim waved a hand at the band.