Death ex machina. [John, Sherlock & Death. Complete!]
It wasn’t just John’s disapproval Sherlock had to contend with. If it had merely been disapproval, Sherlock wouldn’t have sent John out on a lengthy number of complicated errands claiming they were essential to solving the mystery of The City; go to the police department, go to City Hall, check out the hospital and see if he had a job waiting for him.
They were all crap errands, really. Sherlock didn’t yet care about the result. He needed time to go the library again. None of the Aurthur Conan Doyle stories were available but it hadn’t taken him long to stumble over the library’s massive collection of DVDs. While John shied away from the recent BBC miniseries Sherlock went right to it. And paled.
He also collected-- alright, the technical term may have been lifted-- a number of other DVD collections; Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the new series of Doctor Who. He would have taken more but Sherlock hadn’t met many others yet.
So when Sherlock finally returned to the flat he was hunkered down on the arm chair, watching the television with a listless expression. A high school aged Buffy was on the screen talking in her characteristically quippy dialogue to her little friends. Sherlock wanted to claw his eyeballs out with his fingers and pressed the fast forward button on the remote. The stack of DVDs was right next to him. Sherlock was on top. He’d meant to watch his own first but hadn’t brought himself to do so; Sherlock and John’s doppelgangers stared at him from the cover.
Was this the big secret? The City watched too much telly? Was that what brought them to this place? The very thought depressed Sherlock. Utterly and completely.
In general, John was good-natured about goose chases. He let Sherlock know when he felt he was being abused and he was certainly no pushover, but it was true that his flatmate could get away with things that no one else would be able to demand and receive. So, with only a minimum of grumbling, Watson had added ‘the police department’ and ‘City Hall’ to his list of places to visit. He’d already wanted to stop by the hospital, and as an extra, he’d popped in on the CBI - not to see anyone, but as Jennifer had mentioned the organization, he’d wanted to take a look. Wouldn’t hurt to know where it was, would it?
The trip had taken hours, more than long enough for Sherlock to locate his DVDs and get a ways into Buffy’s eponymously-named television show. He was not quiet about his return; he’d dispensed with the cane but he was still moving a little slower than usual. His leg was stiff, but not painful. It would fade.
“The fellows down at the police station,” John began before he was even halfway up the stairs. “Are rude. The one I talked to was also an idiot.” And if John was saying that, wow. Either his feathers had been ruffled by the rudeness, or it was absolutely, unquestionably true. “I wasn’t able to get the case file, but I can give it another go later. Or you might.”
The doctor appeared in the doorway. “But I do think I managed to get on at the hos--”
What. Was Sherlock watching? John couldn’t see the screen, but he could absolutely hear. “I’m sorry, did someone just say ‘fish of the day?’”
“Yes.”
Sherlock wasn’t facing John and saw no need to keep the cruel little smirk from appearing on his features. “That would be your girlfriend Buffy. Talking to her friend Willow. About the possibility of losing her virginity to her two-hundred plus vampire boyfriend. Not the brightest girl you could have chosen.”
Sherlock hit the button on the remote and started to fast-forward again.
Silence. Watson was stunned, and not just by the factual content of what Sherlock had said. The content would’ve been enough, what with the words ‘girlfriend,’ ‘Buffy,’ ‘virginity,’ and ‘vampire’ all in one sentence, but his surprise went further. Holmes had found the DVDs that John had pointedly avoided. He’d checked them out. And now? Thinks John had never wanted to see and hear where echoing around his flat.
“That--” John started, then shut his mouth again. No. Even angry, he would not yell. Instead, his jaw clenched and he adopted that serious, gruff tone of voice that so clearly said ‘I am angry, but I am controlling myself.’
“Sherlock, that’s such a massive invasion of privacy.”
“You should thank me. Anyone could have checked them out, now they’ve gone mysteriously missing. Besides, I read all the capsule summaries. Series two, her boyfriend turns evil and she kills him.”
Sherlock abruptly tossed the red box of DVDs at his flatmate.
“...Series three he comes back good again but dumps her. Series four she gets a new boyfriend who’s a military type like yourself. Series five he cheats on her and leaves her.”
With each description, Sherlock tossed another collection of episodes in John’s direction. Now he was obviously trying to goad John. Otherwise the summaries would have been about the battles she faced or some significant observation about her fighting style or psychological state. But that was only because he hadn’t gotten there yet. “She’s a super hero with a martyr’s complex ready to die. She’s died twice in the series alone. I can’t believe people actually watched this melodramatic drivel.”
If he’d been looking for a reaction, well, Sherlock was about to get one. “Okay.” He took a breath; he had a lot to say and he’d need the air. “One? She’s not my girlfriend.” That, he felt, needed saying first. “Second, I know that she’s died. She told me.” She’d only mentioned the once, but John wasn’t going to admit to that. “Why are you doing this? Honestly. What are you getting out of this -- this voyeuristic ‘melodramatic drivel?’”
John thought he knew. If he’d been able to divorce his emotion for the first girl he’d met in the asylum, a girl for whom he was slowly developing feelings, he’d have admitted that a little research was probably for the best. If Sherlock had wanted to sit down and watch Doctor Who, John would’ve been right beside him.
Cold logic had never been Watson’s strong suit, though. He was smart enough, but he was emotional. Loyal. And sometimes, loyalty trumped what was wisest.
Sherlock ignored John at first. By the time the episode played again the slayer was fighting vampires right outside her surprise birthday party. He would have hit fast-forward again but Sherlock had to respond to his roommate eventually-- right as Buffy found herself strangled by a severed demon arm.
Sherlock took the much lighter set of DVDs-- the one entitled Sherlock-- and tossed them at John. He was in a petulant throwing sort of mood. The next was series five of the new Doctor Who-- just to make sure John would recognize the man with the bow tie on the cover.
“...Well I know why The City has brought us here.”
John caught the box sets, one after another, his irritation growing with every moment. He turned them over, their own series first. Well. That was unsettling. “So we’ve a biography, and...” And Doctor Who. While Watson wasn’t a fan, he recognized the series name. Everything clicked into place. “That’s who he is? But that’s--” Absurd? Impossible.
Congratulations, Sherlock. While John hadn’t forgotten his indignation, he had been successfully sidetracked.
“Alright. Why has the City brought us here?” He’d bite. John knew Sherlock was just waiting for him to ask.
“Look John, look. It’s not a biography. Look at the names of the ‘actors’ on the front cover. Read the description on the back.” Sherlock scowled. “It watches telly, John. That’s why we’re here. We’re its entertainment.”
“You are not actually--” John broke off. No. Other people might joke, but Sherlock wouldn’t. He turned the box over to read the bit on the back. He reacted to something he’d seen, his eyebrows climbing his forehead. His loyal friend, Dr. John Watson? Not untrue, but did it ever make him sound like a sidekick. “So it’s, what? Brought us all into being to see what happens when we’re dropped into one place?”
If that were true, it was immensely depressing on a number of levels. What was known could not be un-known, however, and while John might occasionally prefer ignorance he’d never prefer self-delusion.
“And I’d imagine that means we can’t go home. We’d simply cease to exist, because we’re just programmes on the telly.” So depressing.
And as if to congratulate John for a job well done, the consulting detective turned the television off. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he finally spoke, “My theory is Buffy has lasted as long as she has because she runs head first into trouble. The City provides monsters and she fights them. It’s not exactly difficult to give her entertaining material to work with.”
There was a knock on the wall, just behind John. Death could appear on a whim but it seemed impolite to do so without announcing her presence. Sherlock instantly sat up. He would have-- should have-- noticed her come in. But there were other details as well-- the lack of brand names on her black clothes, no scent to indicate what sort of soap she used.
For the first time in Sherlock’s life he had no idea who this woman was.
“Hello John. Sherlock. That’s not exactly right. You’re close, but I’d hate for you to have an existential crisis.” Death sighed. “And for the record, I’m from a comic book not a programme on telly. That’s not the point.”
Death was always a bit malleable. To the Americans she spoke with an American accent. To the British, a British one. To the modern day citizens she wore modern clothing, and to the time displaced ones, her style was much more familiar.
Yikes. Watson gave a start - the strange things in the City just never stopped coming. In spite of himself, he tensed - after the rampaging riddle-bot he was taking no chances. “Right.” He said, as if he were accepting what the stranger had said. (He wasn’t; Sherlock might have been quick to accept, but John needed more time.) “Comic book. I’m sorry, who are you?”
Normally he’d have been more tactful, but he’d had a trying day.
“Just call me Didi,” she shrugged. “I overheard your conversation and thought you could use some reassurance, for whatever that’s worth.”
Sherlock stared. He felt more uneasy than anything else and was eager to see her leave. He couldn’t have said why. He was missing something. Some important detail. It was staring at him right at that moment.
“Stories can be real,” Death explained. “The two of you have been born and reborn and a part of many stories. So many stories, it’s sort of impressive you haven’t been in The City before. But just because you’re not here in The City doesn’t mean you won’t exist. You just won’t exist here. I don’t want to sound condescending, this is my brother’s area of expertise anyway, but it’s really nothing you should worry about. It’d be like worrying about clouds in the sky, or the ground being made of Earth. These things just are. You’re here for now-- so what is it that you want to do? I’m not defending The City, we’ve disagreed on a lot of things, but for all the constraints it’s put on you, you also have a lot of freedom.”
Sherlock kept a neutral face and said nothing.
John wasn’t sure he followed. Was this one of those ‘you live on in imagination’ things, or was this strange girl suggesting that they’d actually have somewhere to go? Either way, she had a point; they could get worked up about it, but what would any of that accomplish?
Watson looked to Sherlock, who was - to an ordinary man, at least - unreadable.
Well. That left responding to him, didn’t it. “That’s the question, isn’t it? ‘What do you want to do?’ I don’t honestly know the answer, Didi.”
“Start with one simpler question: Are you going to worry about why you’re here, why you’re alive? Or. Would you rather focus on living? There’s no right answer. But answer the first question and then you’ll be ready to figure out what it is you want to do.”
And with that, Death shrugged her shoulders and showed herself out.