Title: Invisible Bonds - Chapter 16
Length: 3,658 this chapter
Pairing: Sherlock/John, currently one-sided and purely platonic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: AU world/OCs are mine, but I (sadly) do not own the world of BBC Sherlock in which this fic blatantly plays.

Summary: In a world where myth, mystery, and the supernatural flourish beneath the veneer of modern civilization, Sherlock is a master of magic as well as science and deduction. But there are some things that he cannot see, riddles he cannot unravel, even when they walk right beside him in the form of one John Watson…

Beta: Many thanks to non_canonical for her friendship, brilliant advice, beta and Brit picking and to numberthescars for her amazing beta work.

Special thanks go out to abundantlyqueer. If it wasn't for her initial encouragement, I wouldn't be writing at all.

Notes: This is the second story in the Fallen series. One should read Fallen first, otherwise this probably won't make much sense. ;) This is also a WIP, but I'm VERY committed to finishing it! 80,150 words posted, 83,000+ words written so far!

Sorry this is so late again! I've been working/watching the Seattle International Film Festival which, thank God, ends tomorrow. Future chapters should come out much more rapidly.

Invisible Bonds: Chapter 16

“I’m sick of it Greg. I know that the promotion means more money, but it’s not worth it. Not at the cost to our family. It’s always work with you. We never see you any more. You’re not a father. You’re barely a husband.”

The words are all the more cutting for how quietly they are spoken by the petite brunette standing at the bottom of the stairs, one hand resting on the railing. Only the tight grip of her fingers belies the calmness of her tone. A loud hammering at the door timed with yet another bleating of Lestrade’s phone - the fourth one since they started arguing - causes them both to tense up.

“You know what? Just answer your damn phone and the damn door!” Her hand waves through the air, angrily now. “I hate this Greg! I hate the fact that you’re always going off at all hours for work and that I don’t even have the right to be angry because you’re out there catching criminals and protecting the streets of London.” He opens his mouth to respond, but her hands flies up, palm out, cutting him off. “No, I’m done talking about this.”

Lestrade, hands resting on his hips, watches his wife climb up the stairs before he sighs and opens the door of their flat. He peers out blearily, eyes squinting into the darkness before he grumbles, “Christ, Sherlock, what do you want?”

“You haven’t been answering my texts. Why haven’t you been answering my texts? I need to get into the museum.”

Irritation prickles along Lestrade’s skin. “Right. Well, I suggest you get a cab over there first thing in the morning, then.”

Sherlock is the last thing Lestrade wants to deal with. Not now. He doesn’t have the time for this now.

Sherlock makes his ‘annoyed’ and ‘don’t be stupid’ face before correcting, “I need to get into the museum now.”

Rubbing at his tired face, Greg glances uncertainly over his shoulder toward the stairs before turning back to the tall, angular, pain-in-his-ass. “Look. You can’t just barge in at all hours, come to my home, snap your fingers and expect me to jump up and give you whatever you want. That’s not how the world works. And now is really not a good time for me.”

Sherlock’s eyes rake over his disheveled hair and clothes, narrowing and assessing before he points out, “The fight with your wife is already over.” His head tilts to one side like some strange bird, listening to sounds coming from the room above before adding, “She’s already packing a bag. A large one by the sound of it. Going to her sister’s then?”

Cursing under his breath, Lestrade’s eyes turn hard and brittle. “The kids are visiting there. She’s just joining them.” Which is a lie. That was not the plan. The plan was for them to talk about their marriage, to try to fix things. Not for things to fall apart faster. “Don’t push me Sherlock. Not tonight.”

For once Sherlock shows a modicum of tact and doesn’t call Lestrade out on the lie. Instead he shakes his head and changes tactics. “I need to get into the museum. I’m close, Lestrade. I just need the book to break the cipher. Soo Lin started translating it while I was fighting the ghost. The book must be on the desk where she was working.”

Lestrade’s shoulders slump, his hand lifting to pinch the bridge of his nose as he takes a deep breath and leans his other hand against the doorjamb. Sherlock must see it as a sign of weakness or defeat, or he is just incredibly determined. Maybe both are true. The consulting detective presses on, pushing at Lestrade’s pride. “Nothing you say now is going to change her mind. Do you really want her to walk out on you first? Wouldn’t it be more satisfying to beat her to it?”

He lifts his head to glare at Sherlock. “And prove her right at the same time, by going off on police business with you?”

Sherlock’s head tilts, a faint smile touching his lips before he notes, “She doesn’t have to know it’s for work. You could be going out for a beer. With your mate.”

A rough snort of laughter escapes the DI, his eyes lifting to Sherlock’s with a faint glint of bitter humor. “You and me? Mates?”

Sherlock’s nose lifts slightly, all the more so he can look down it at Lestrade. “It’s not inconceivable.”

“Right.” It must be compelling, or he must be crazy, because Lestrade finds himself turning to yank his jacket off the hook, pulling it on as he calls up the stairs. “Going out for a pint!” He doesn’t even wait for an answer, but steps out and shuts the door. It feels kind of good to be the one who leaves first, rather than being left. Lestrade will just have to hold onto that delusion when he returns home to an empty flat. He takes a deep breath, in and out, before shoving his hands into his pockets and turning his gaze to Sherlock. “I don’t lie to her. Not ever. So you owe me a pint, 'mate'.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and leads the way, calling back over his shoulder, “Fine, fine. What is it with you all these days? Dinner? Drinks? I’m not some ruddy escort service…”

A tiny smile graces Lestrade’s lips as he murmurs in reply, “Thank God…”

*****

Getting into the Museum isn’t as difficult as one might think - The Board is eager to have the break-in solved, and happy to oblige the Detective Inspector. Lestrade’s just grateful that it isn’t his division though he feels just a little bit guilty over the fact that he isn’t really there to solve the break-in. He already knows the answer to that question, just as he knows that no one will ever get caught or arrested for it. Not unless he decides to bring Sherlock in as an accessory. He seriously doubts the consulting detective has any idea just how tempting a prospect that is to the DI. A smile curves his lips at the very thought.

Sherlock, however, is less pleased.

“Nothing. There’s nothing here!”

Folding his arms over his chest, Lestrade rumbles, “Well, I told you that, didn’t I? With the massive damage done to the rotating exhibit hall, they did a check of the whole museum. Noted the ceramics left out here, had us come in, check for prints, take photographs, the full shooting match. Nothing out of the ordinary found.”

“I’m not looking for out of the ordinary. I’m looking for a book! Most likely a very ordinary book!”

Glancing about Lestrade gestures at the various and sundry desks surrounding them. “There are plenty of books.”

Shaking his head, Sherlock points to the desk where Soo Lin had been working that night. “No. We found the pictures here. This is where she did the translations. If she was translating them here, then here is where the key for the cipher had to have been.” Sherlock begins to scour the area, crouching down, peering this way and that, only pausing when something catches his eye. He has to kneel on the floor and reach beneath the desk to snag the small scrap of paper, turning it over and staring at it.

Stepping over to the madman as he rises to his feet, Lestrade looks down at the blank piece of paper and then up to Sherlock’s frowning face.

“What? What is it?”

He can’t understand why this has caught Sherlock’s attention. There’s nothing there. It’s just a piece of scrap paper; the sort one might jot a note down on. But Sherlock stares at it as if it were the most relevant and important clue in the world, if he could just string together why. Silvery eyes lift to Lestrade’s before Sherlock pockets the slip of paper and shakes his head. “Something. Not sure exactly what yet…” His deep voice trails off as the man retreats inside the confines of his head, his expression one with which Lestrade is well acquainted with. It usually precedes a breakthrough in a tricky case.

He waits a moment before clearing his throat. “Are we done here?”

Sherlock’s eyes return to the here and now, focusing on Lestrade for a sober moment before he nods. “Yes. All done here.”

“Right. Good. Well, I’m off for a pint then.” He never said he was going with his mate. Just as well, since it looks he’ll be drinking this pint alone.

*****

The cabbie is a bit puzzled by the request to just ‘drive around’ and ‘stop talking’, but he flips the meter on and bites his tongue before commenting on nutters in his taxi. Getting all kinds these days it seems.

Sherlock couldn’t care less. He needs to remember something. Remember something exactly. The white noise and motion of the cab will help him delve into his mind palace in order to do so.

Closing his eyes, he focuses, envisioning the structure, unlocking doors to unlock the memories carefully and methodically stored behind each. He moves through rooms in his mind, sorting through time, images and data until he reaches the night when he confronted Soo Lin and Siwang at the British Museum. The scrap of paper. Even blank, there’s something about it that tugs at his memory. The shape of it, the ragged edge where it had been torn off from something else. It’s hauntingly familiar.

Carefully he reconstructs the experience, images surfacing and coming into focus as he examines his memories in slow motion, searching for that piece of paper. And then he sees it – Soo Lin’s hands picking it up, taking up a brush and ink, drawing a symbol, the Black Lotus symbol, upon the blank surface. Her words, and his, ring in his mind.

It’s the smugglers code. Anyone who bears the mark can read them.

Right, right, it’s a book code. But what’s the book?

It is not so simple as that. The code, it is enchanted…

His eyes snap open and reaching into his pocket, Sherlock pulls the piece of paper out to stare at it again. It’s the same piece, but the symbol is gone. Leaning forward with newfound eagerness and determination, Sherlock nearly gives the cabbie a heart attack as he barks, “221 Baker Street! Now!”

His fingers drum against the upholstery with impatience and excitement and he literally tosses money at the driver as he flings himself out of the vehicle once they arrive. Taking the stairs two at a time he calls out triumphantly, “John! I’ve figured it out! It’s not a book! It’s the mark! The mark allows members of the society to read the encoded messages! John!”

But there is no reaction from above, no banter between siblings, no shouted out greeting in return or compliment of “brilliant” or “fantastic”. The brief supposition that John and Harriet went out is immediately dismissed, seeing as the door of the flat has been left wide open. His steps slow, uncertain as he steps through the doorway.

“John?”

Sherlock stops dead, eyes narrowing as they take in the overturned coffee table and knocked over books. But when his gaze lifts to the wall, they widen. There, across the windows, is the familiar yellow cipher. The words that Soo Lin translated for them.

Dead man.

*****

A fist is hammering upon her door, hard and determined it would seem to break through to the person on the other side. Between that and the incessant ringing of her doorbell, Molly is awoken from a dead sleep, dazed and disoriented and severely put out. She doesn’t know who it could be, but when she finds out she is really going to let them have it. As such, when she flings it open and barks, “What?!” she’s aghast to see Sherlock standing in front of her.

Oh God. What is she wearing? A quick fluttering of her fingers reveals to Molly that she’s in her pajamas, wearing a pair of tatty slippers, with her terrycloth dressing gown haphazardly pulled on and still not quite settled over her left shoulder. No makeup, hair tied back in an unkempt ponytail. Her eyes are probably crusty. Oh God. Her face instantly flushes. Embarrassment. Him, seeing her like this? The worst.

“Sherlock?”

For all her fretfulness, Sherlock seems wholly unaware of her casual state of dress. Or perhaps, and reasonably so, he expects it. It is after midnight. “Molly, I need you to come to the morgue and pull out Lukis and VanCoon’s bodies one last time.”

Oh. Of course. His work. That’s all it ever is. That’s all that ever matters to him. She thought he was actually thinking of her tonight, not just taking her out to dinner, but also to the circus. But she was just a cover. Just a convenient foil for him to use, killing two birds with one stone, as it were. All for the work. And here he is now, not to apologize but because he wants something from her. For his work. Again.

Well, enough is enough.

Molly’s eyes roll back, her hands folding over her chest in an attempt to seem tougher and hide the fact that she’s wearing her nightclothes and looks like hell. “No. Sherlock, enough. They’ve been processed and are due to be picked up tomorrow. If you want to see them again, you’re going to need a warrant from the police.” There. She’s stood her ground, stood up to Sherlock and all of his requests and demands. She feels a tiny flicker of pride at the achievement, but it is short lived.

Sherlock never touches her. Never touches anyone. So when his hands reach out to grab her arms, shaking her, Molly gasps in surprise, eyes opening wide.

“There’s no time! I don’t have time for the police, I need to see those bodies now!”

When has she not heard this before? Despite the frustration on his features and the fact that he is still gripping her arms too tightly for comfort, Molly lifts up her chin and refuses him again. “You’re going to have to make time.”

He releases her and Molly tips backwards slightly at the abruptness with which he nearly pushes her away, hands lifting to drag through his hair as he spins around on her doorstep before turning back to her. “You don’t understand. There. Isn’t. Time! John and Harry have been taken by the same people who killed Lukis and VanCoon. If I don’t see those bodies right now, John might die. Harry too.”

Molly’s hand lifts to her mouth in horror, eyes wide as her heart kicks into overdrive, pounding as a sudden rush of fear and adrenaline spikes through her system. And just like that she reaches over to the side and grabs her keys off of the hook she keeps them on by the door, switching her bathrobe for a proper coat as she asks him, “Do you have a cab already?”

“Yes, of course!”

She closes and locks the door, pushing a strand of hair from her face as she lifts her gaze up to his.

“Then let’s go.”

*****

They get a few odd looks when they arrive. Well, Molly does. Her coat is long enough to hide most of her unorthodox outfit, but there are still fleece kittens peering out from beneath the hem and slippers that have seen better days on her feet.

She quickly and methodically ditches the coat once they are alone in the morgue, pulling on a lab coat before going to bring out the bodies. Sherlock can’t keep still it seems, pacing and circling and bouncing on his toes with a desperate kind of impatience. She hurries.

“I just need one of them!” he calls out after her belatedly. That’s good. One will take less time to pull than two. She chooses Lukis, since his cause of death is still listed as “undetermined”. More like “inexplicable”. If need be, she can use the complications of the case to defend pulling out the body once more.

As with the last time Sherlock has her unzip the bag by the feet, pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves before ordering her.

“Molly turn around.”

Blinking, startled and a bit unnerved by the request, Molly asks, “Why?”

Sherlock’s body has gone still and steady now that he has what he’s come for. His gaze is sober and serious. “Because if you see what I’m about to do, you’ll feel obligated to report it and you’ll get in trouble. And I think we’ve all had more than enough trouble for one night, don’t you agree?”

Molly hesitates for only a moment before nodding and turning away. Whatever it is that Sherlock does, it doesn’t take very long. She hears the zipping of the bag, the clink of the scalpel being placed upon the tray from which it was picked up, the soft snap as he pulls the gloves off and disposes of them. A hand lands on her shoulder and squeezes. She turns to look at him, her eyes deliberately not turning to Lukis’ form, her mind deliberately not trying to guess what Sherlock has done.

The nervous energy is back. He’s ready to move again, to do whatever it is that he has to do to hopefully find and save John and Harry. Dear God, please let them be all right. Please let Sherlock find them in time…

“Thank you Molly. You may have just saved two lives tonight.”

She says nothing, just offers a timid nod and lets Sherlock go. Not that she could stop him even if she wanted to. Taking in a deep breath, trying to calm her pounding heart, Molly looks around the morgue for a moment, hands rubbing over her arms as she murmurs to no one, “That would be nice for a change.”

*****

He now can do what Soo Lin did. What he has to do.

After he replayed the memory in the cab, he understood. He tried to replicate the transfer himself, back at the flat, but it took him only a few tries before he realized that he did not have the skill or the artistry to properly draw the symbol as she had done. Or perhaps there was something more to it that he could not replicate. A ghostly power or a prayer to an ancestor or sympathetic God. Unfortunately, the discovery of their ransacked flat, the threatening cipher and John’s absence meant he didn’t have the time to replicate Soo Lin’s methods.

But Sherlock doesn’t need prayers or ancestors or Gods. Fortunately, Sherlock has Molly. He doesn’t have to draw the mark or imbue it with magic. He only needed to harvest it from its source to access the magic imbued within.

The spell is a relatively simple one – a binding spell used to bring two objects together. Traditionally it’s used to fix things that have been broken, or to bind two materials together for sake of building something. It was never meant to bind flesh to flesh. Fortunately Sherlock is neither squeamish nor constrained by certain expectations of decency. He also never backs down from a challenge.

A few words changed, a few ingredients added, and the altered spell is complete. On occasion he almost finds himself asking John to pass him something, or beginning to explain to him what exactly he’s doing. After a few times of doing this, he brings over the skull to talk to instead. It helps him focus.

He lays the carefully cut piece of flesh against the inside of his forearm. He’s not precisely sure what will happen once he makes Lukis’ flesh one with his own. The tattoo, or more importantly, the magic bound into it, will be his key to understanding the code. But conversely, it also, ties him to the Black Lotus Society. To access the benefits of the mark, he must also risk the dangers of it. The only thing that protects him is the fact that the original binding spell, the one that bound Lukis to the Black Lotus, was meant specifically for Lukis, not Sherlock. Still, he rather hopes no one is paying attention to the roster of members, on the off chance they notice that they have suddenly, and inexplicably, gained a new member by the name of Sherlock Holmes.

First he needs to find John, and in order to find John, he needs to translate the text. And in order to translate the text, he needs the tattoo. How to remove it is a problem to be solved later. He has more than enough problems to deal with at the moment.

A dab of his blood, a whisper of words, and the cold scrap of flesh resting against his skin shivers, the edges blurring, blending. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, hands clenching into fists as the pain hits him. By the lack of screaming, he deduces that it’s not as painful as branding - more akin to the sensation of stubbing out a cigarette against flesh. When the pain passes, his eyes flicker open and drop down. It’s an ugly thing, slightly raised, the heavier, rougher and darker skin of Lukis’ heel in sharp contrast to the soft, pale skin of Sherlock’s inner forearm. It itches intolerably. His nose wrinkles slightly at the sight before he quickly rolls down his sleeve to hide the mark.

Now, to see if it has worked.

Picking up one of the photographs, Sherlock stares at it. At first there is a flicker of dismay as nothing happens. The Chinese symbols remain Chinese symbols. But while the symbols remain steady, their meaning becomes clear in stages. First, he can read them as numbers without referring to the numbers he’d already written down. Second, the pairs of numbers suddenly gain meaning and become words in his mind.

Nine mil for jade pin dragon den royal tramway.