The Highgrove Ritual

by

Owlcroft and Paula Douglas

A/N: The authors thank Dr. D.P. Lyle, M.D., author of Murder & Mayhem, for his generous and invaluable advice. Dr. Lyle is solely responsible for any medical accuracy in this story, and the authors are solely responsible for its absence. Now go buy his books.

Chapter Four

When Sherlock's brain registered John falling, understanding hit him like a cataract punching through a dam-when it was far too late to save them. The Golden Sickle Pub...the mistletoe depicted on the sign...the gold sickle in the cache...the moonstone mistletoe berries on the crown...his own sudden illness..."Gold is of all metals the most precious, and it is the tincture of redness"...Highgrove's motive for involving them...All of it came in the heartbeat it took him to lunge forward, catch John's arm, and break his fall.

A quick check of John's pulse as he lay motionless reassured him, and he looked up in time to see Larkin drop the stone with which he'd struck John. Without a word he sprang at Larkin, but Highgrove was ready for that, and pinned his arms from behind. Highgrove had never been the warrior he wanted to be, but he nevertheless knew how to fight, and with Sherlock's strength failing the Colonel easily countered his efforts to break free.

"I knew it," Sherlock snarled when he had exhausted himself. "This was never about the caves and the gold."

"Oh, it was about the caves and the gold, Mr. Holmes. But you've finally figured it out, have you? Why I wanted you here?"

"Seriously?" Sherlock panted. "Is that it? That's your big plan? All that rot about the map, the druids, the gold...all to get you in here for some rubbish ritual?"

"No, Mr. Holmes. To get you here. The Ritual's most important ingredients are you and Captain Watson."

Sherlock furiously renewed his efforts to free himself, but Highgrove blocked his every move and waited patiently until he ran out of air and strength. If Highgrove hadn't been holding him up he'd have been on his knees. "You're out of your mind," he gasped finally.

"Not at all. Transmigration of the soul was well known to the Celts. 'They believe that the soul does not die, and that after death it passes from one body into another...for by such doctrine alone, they say, which robs death of all its terrors, can the highest form of human courage be developed.' Julius Caesar wrote those words."

"'Spirits are commixed with it and by it fixed,'" Sherlock quoted.

"Exactly. The Morrigan has blessed this place. She approves of our offerings. The signs are everywhere. The very fact that you two came here together means that she's given us her blessing. 'The highest form of human courage.' Did you know that they called Captain Watson 'Lionheart' before Delaram?"

"You honestly think that killing John will transfer his courage to you?" Sherlock cried. "I've never heard anything so stupid in my life."

"I know it will. 'The soul does not die,' Mr. Holmes. 'After death it passes from one body into another.' The druids knew it, my ancestors knew it, and I know it. Captain Watson's courage and your intelligence are gifts from the goddess. Gifts from the Morrigan."

"And of course you put mistletoe in the tea," Sherlock said.

"Berries," Highgrove agreed.

"John was supposed to drink it too, wasn't he?"

"Preferably."

"And the old man? You never cared whether he knew about the box. He was a test case, wasn't he?"

"He lived a long life. It was important to know whether the dose was correct."

"Where'd you really find the map? Tucked away in some old book?"

"The Oldgroves library," Highgrove said simply. "I was after a volume on the top shelf one day. Started moving things about and found it pressed between the pages of a three hundred year-old accounts ledger. The legend of the cave and the gold have been in the family for generations, of course, but no one in living memory had ever seen the map and we always assumed that it had been lost long ago. I puzzled over it for two years before McShane found that box and I realized that I'd lucked into the perfect way to get the Ritual translated. I wasn't lying when I said I envied Captain Watson," he added. "I never had a chance to distinguish myself in battle, never got to prove my bravery the way he proved his."

"You never will. You never could."

Highgrove looked at Larkin, indicated John with a nod. "Get him tied up before he comes around."

"No!" Sherlock shouted. "John! John!" He strained to get at Larkin, his face contorted with feral rage. "I will kill you if you touch him. John! Get up!"

In moving around John with the rope Larkin briefly stepped within range and Sherlock lashed out with a kick that would have disabled him had it landed as intended, but Larkin was fast and Sherlock was slowed by the poison. Larkin turned so that Sherlock's foot struck high on his outer thigh-a painful but not debilitating blow. In a flare of anger he back-fisted Sherlock, snapping his head to the side, and Sherlock slumped in Highgrove's hands. Starbursts blazed in the darkness that crowded the edges of his vision. He fought to raise his head, but Larkin followed up with a straight punch, and if Highgrove hadn't been holding him up Sherlock would have been face-down in the dirt.

The first thing that penetrated John's awareness was the sharp, hard-edged pain in his head. Some instinct warned him to lie still, to keep his eyes closed and stay silent, and soon his conscious mind remembered why. He could feel the damp air on his face and smell the dirt, and he knew he was still in the cavern. Ropes bound his hands and feet. The memory of Sherlock's illness and Highgrove's unexpected arrival returned, and he could hear the Colonel and Larkin speaking and moving about behind him. Larkin: of course. Larkin had blindsided him. Just what reason they had for the treachery he couldn't imagine, but figuring out the Colonel's motive could wait. Freeing himself was the priority.

What really scared him was that he couldn't hear Sherlock. The pain in his head was making him nauseous, but that fear focused his mind amazingly. He opened his eyes to the merest slits and assessed his position: He was lying on his side with his back to the altar, apparently still where he'd fallen. Shadows flickered and jumped about the walls and ceiling, but where he lay in the dirt he was mostly in shadow. Slowly he reached for the knife in his front jeans pocket, keeping his movements as small and unobtrusive as possible. If he attracted their attention before he freed himself, Sherlock, wherever he was, had no hope. Opening the knife was a two-handed process at the best of times. Now, with his hands bound as they were, he had to grip the haft in his teeth as he pried at the blade. He dropped it twice before the blade locked open with a soft snick.

"What was that?" Larkin whispered. He'd been dragging Sherlock's body to the altar, but now he straightened and listened fearfully.

"What's wrong now?" Highgrove demanded irritably.

"I heard something," Larkin insisted.

Highgrove scoffed. "There's nothing to hear," he said. "Grab his feet and help me lift him. Toss me that rope. Get his feet tied. Come on."

"There!" Larkin cried suddenly, and there was silence as both men stood still, straining to hear.

"I don't hear anything," Highgrove decided finally.

"It's the witch," Larkin whispered.

"Oh, for God's sake, Larkin," Highgrove cried. "That's a rubbish myth someone made up to titillate tourists."

"No, sir. No. The bones. Remember? They found her bones."

"If they found bones then she's dead," Highgrove told him.

"But the Ritual, sir. Even the Ritual warns about her."

"What are you talking about?"

"'Take heed of the guard,'" Larkin said. "'Take heed of the guard at the druids' gold trove.' That's what it says. That wasn't written for tourists. It's a thousand years old. The Ancients knew. They knew."

"The Ancients knew that the Morrigan guarded the gold," Highgrove replied. "The gold is hers. These offerings are hers. That's the whole point: by using her own gold sickle in the transmigration ceremony we'll have her blessing."

"But if the guard is the Morrigan-" Larkin began.

"It is."

"Remember Cuchulainn," Larkin quavered. "Remember what she said to him. 'It is at the guarding of thy death that I am, and I shall be.' She never gives anything freely. The Ritual says so: 'At the druids' gold trove you must give it your all.'"

"Goddamn it, Larkin," Highgrove cried in exasperation. "Will you listen to yourself? We're not asking her to give anything freely. What do you call these two? Of course she demands a price, and they're it. They'll be giving their 'all' in about five minutes. The Morrigan has already blessed this place. Everything that's happened proves it: the spring, the gold, the sacrifices. That map was lost for centuries, but she led me to it. She led me to these men. What possible reason would she have for doing that if she didn't approve? If she didn't want us to carry on? Why would she do that if we didn't already have her blessing?"

"But-"

"No!" Highgrove snapped. "Get the chalice. That's an order, Larkin," he added, when Larkin hesitated.

Their chalice was a crudely-made red-gold goblet of sorts which they'd found interred with the other relics. Larkin dipped it in the font, then stood at Highgrove's right. Highgrove himself moved to stand at the head of the altar. Larkin handed him the goblet and Highgrove clutched it with both hands and raised it over his head.

"O phantom queen, goddess of strife," he intoned.

"We praise you for the brilliance of your power

We honor the symbols of your strength:

The mighty oak that never bends

The raven that sees all

The wolf that destroys all who oppose her.

Goddess of death and rebirth, bless this water

That it may sanctify the offerings of your servants."

He dipped his fingers into the cup and flicked the droplets over Sherlock's insensate form, then drank from the goblet and passed it to Larkin, who likewise drank from it.

"The Waters of Rebirth," Highgrove cried. He caught up the gold sickle and held it aloft, and with the thousand-yard stare of the fanatic in his eyes, he chanted.

"Goddess Morrigan, phantom queen:

We seek to walk in your footsteps

Goddess of the Old Times,

Goddess of our Mothers and our Fathers, speak to our hearts

Share with us and bless us, that we may become one with you.

We invoke thee, Morrigan, opener of every gate

Take this man's wisdom and make it yours

And in so doing, bless your faithful followers

Share with us that wisdom, that we may follow you more truly

So that we may purify ourselves and become worthy in your eyes

We offer you this man in sacrifice

We give you the blood of his heart."

Highgrove shifted his grip on the sickle.

John only half-listened to Highgrove and Larkin; his focus was on freeing himself before they took any notice of him. Before they killed Sherlock. His hands were sticky with blood where he'd cut himself and their muscles cramped from the unnatural angle at which he had to grip the knife, but when the words blood of his heart reached him he knew his time was up. He bore down on the ropes with concentrated fury and suddenly he was through. He didn't bother trying to free his feet. He dropped the knife and reached behind his back for the Browning under his coat, then pushed himself up onto his knees as he turned to face the altar.

Highgrove and Larkin had placed two common outdoor oil torches of the sort people sometimes used in their gardens, one on each side of the head of the altar, and each man wore a cowled, rough-woven black robe. John would have laughed at the absurdity of it all had Sherlock not been trussed hand and foot to the stone slab, inert, his face slack. In the uncertain light cast by the torches John couldn't tell whether he was breathing or not.

John made himself slow down, made himself think and be certain of his aim, and then he smoothly squeezed the trigger. The oil vessel of the torch between Highgrove and Larkin disintegrated. The noise of the shot, horribly loud in the confined space, made both men start violently. Larkin dropped the chalice with a terrified gasp.

"Get away from him," John rasped, swinging the gun to cover Highgrove, who stood with the knife poised above Sherlock's throat.

"That's not going to happen, Captain," Highgrove replied, and something in his manner, something in the euphoric, distracted way that he spoke reminded John ineffably of junkies he'd seen in City hospitals.

"The Morrigan has blessed this place," Highgrove went on. "She's blessed me. She expects a tribute and I'm going to give it to her!" He grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's hair and jerked his head back. The pain of having his hair pulled began to bring Sherlock around and he groaned-a huge relief to John, who until that second hadn't been sure whether he was alive or dead.

"No!" John yelled. "Let him go! Move that knife one more time and I swear to God I will kill you."

"You don't understand, Captain," Highgrove said, still clutching Sherlock by the hair. "The Morrigan needs you and your friend. She needs your blood. I need it. Transmigration requires it."

"Throw down the knife and get away from him. So help me God, Colonel-"

Suddenly the remaining torch whipped violently, and as it did a low, ethereal moan filled the cavern, rising and falling erratically.

John didn't know what the hell the noise was, but its effect on Larkin was immediate and profound, and a way to exploit it came to him at once. "You hear that, Larkin?" he said grimly. "You know who that is, don't you?"

Larkin stared past him, aghast. "No," he whispered.

"Yes. How do you think I got free?" John said. "I had help. Her help." He raised his voice and cried, "'Rash beyond all reason, why comest thou to look on me?' You know what that means, don't you, Larkin? The guardian is coming. She's coming for you. Can you hear her?" The low moaning, sighing noise rose in volume once more.

"No!" Larkin screamed, and bolted toward John. John very nearly shot him, but Larkin fled past him, out the chamber door, in a frenzy of blind terror.

When he realized that he wasn't Larkin's target John quickly swung back to cover Highgrove. The Colonel had dropped the sickle and he too stared past John at the weirdly dancing shadows at the back of the cavern. Again the sighing moan filled in the room. The torch flame whipped violently and nearly went out.

"No," Highgrove half-sobbed. "No. No! The Ritual...I did everything right...The spring...the sacrifices... Goddess of strife...Goddess of..." he began in a choked voice, but he couldn't finish the prayer. He edged toward the chamber door, staring wide-eyed into the shadows dancing at the back of the cave, and then his nerve failed and he ran.

John turned with him, pivoting on his knees to keep him covered with the gun, and out of the corner of his left eye he thought he saw movement. He swung toward it but there was nothing there. Just the shadows cast by the erratically flickering torch.

He stowed the gun, grabbed the knife, and slashed the ropes binding his feet. Awareness of his headache returned with a vengeance once he stood up. Blood dripped liberally down his neck behind his ear and soaked his shirt as he stumbled to the altar, where Sherlock was trying feebly to raise his head. John saw at once that he was much sicker now, and livid bruises were forming where Larkin's fist had made contact. Once freed from the ropes Sherlock turned away from John, hung his head over the side of the altar, and threw up.

"I know the feeling," John said, cutting the ropes that held his feet. "We have to get out of here. You okay?"

"No," Sherlock gasped.

"What's wrong?"

"Phor..."

"Four?"

"Phora...toxin."

"Phoratoxin? What are you-"

"The tea."

"Oh, God," John said, realizing. "There was phoratoxin in-They poisoned the tea?"

"Yes."

"That's it. We're going. Come on," John said urgently, helping him to sit up. "They're gone now, but they could come back. We gotta get you to hospital. Can you walk?"

"You're bleeding."

"Don't worry about it."

"John-"

"Forget about that. Can you walk?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, with a trace of his wonted asperity. But he could barely stand, and John had to support him out of the chamber. As they approached the cavern exit Sherlock suddenly shied; at the time John assumed he had stumbled, but the instant they emerged into the passage Sherlock broke away from him and threw himself against the slab door. He couldn't shift it.

"Help me," he cried.

"Leave that, for God's sake," John said. "It doesn't matter."

But Sherlock continued to heave futilely at the door. "Help me," he cried again, and John pushed the door closed for him.

Sherlock sagged against the rock wall, but John was desperate to get him out of the caves and unwilling to let him stop: Whether he rested or not he would only get sicker. "Come on," he said impatiently. "We have to go."

Sherlock shook his head. "No," he said. "Listen."

"Listen to what? Sherlock-"

"Listen," Sherlock insisted, and then John heard it, too: The noise came from far to the south, within the big cavern where the River Axe coursed swiftly in its bed: shouting, a scream, and two distinct splashes. Then only Sherlock's labored breathing broke the subterranean silence.

"Jesus," John whispered.

"'It demands a great toll,'" Sherlock recited.

"'You must give it your all,'" John replied.

"They did give their all," Sherlock said contemptuously. "May it profit them." He pushed himself away from the wall but a sudden stab of pain made him stagger and he fell back with a cry.

"Sherlock!"

"I'm fine," Sherlock said automatically, but the pain doubled him over. When it receded enough for him to stand upright-it seemed to come in waves, like the nausea-John helped him along the passage and then up the tunnel, and they stepped out into the cool, clear dusk. The wind tossed the tree branches and swirled the dry leaves at their feet.

Even with John half-carrying him the effort required to get up the slope left Sherlock exhausted and blowing, but John refused to let him stop and steered him at once for the manor house and their car. A direct route there would take them through part of Smokham Wood. If he could get Sherlock to the edge of the woods he could bring the car across the fields to him, and he thought that on balance the direct route through the trees would be faster than the more forgiving path around them.

And they were running out of time. Sherlock was failing rapidly. He stopped twice to throw up before they were halfway through the woods, and each episode sapped what little strength remained to him. After the second bout his legs folded under him and he sank to the ground in spite of John's best efforts to keep him on his feet.

He knew what was happening to him. "'taxia," he gasped.

"I know," John said. "I'll help you. Come on. Just a little bit farther. We're almost home."

John tried to get him up again, but it was immediately apparent that Sherlock was through. The poison had drained the power from his muscles, and although his mental toughness matched anything John had ever seen in special forces troops, his body simply could not obey the command of his will. He lay on his side, his eyes squeezed closed and his face contorted in a grimace of pain and anger.

"Hurts," he admitted reluctantly as John knelt beside him.

"I know," John said, trying to keep the distress from his voice. "I know it does. Listen: Fifty metres to the end of this wood, and then you can rest. I can bring the car to you. But we have to get out of here. Understand?"

A nod.

"You've gotta stand up for me."

A shake of the head.

"Yes. Sherlock, mate, I know it hurts, but the longer we take now the worse it'll be for you later. Come on." He drew Sherlock's arm around his shoulders again, lifted, and brought him to his knees. Sherlock by this time was almost completely incapable of helping.

"Come on, Sherlock," John urged. "You just had to have two cups of tea. At least give me a hand, here." He received only a low groan in reply. "On three," John told him. "When I say 'three,' you stand. Got it?"

John took a deep breath, braced himself, and counted. "One...two...three. Now, Sherlock. Stand up!" he cried.

Sherlock really tried-John could feel it-but it was nothing like enough. John took nearly all of his weight himself, and in spite of his lean build he was dismayingly heavy. There was no longer any question of him walking out of the woods, assisted or not. His head lolled against John's shoulder and his knees buckled. There was only one thing for it.

"You're not going to enjoy this, mate," John said, "but we're running out of options. Here we go." He caught Sherlock's wrist, ducked under his arm so his shoulders were under his chest, then pulled Sherlock's arm down and over his shoulder. He hooked his free arm around Sherlock's legs and staggered with him the rest of the way out of Smokham Wood. Once he reached the tended lawn he stopped, knelt, and reversed the process he'd used to lift him, carefully settling him in the recovery position: If he vomited again before John returned that would give him the best chance of not aspirating it.

"Don't go away," John said, not sure whether Sherlock even heard him. He raced for the car, and as he bumped back across the lawn with it he saw without much surprise that Sherlock, still stubbornly fighting, had somehow heaved himself back up onto one elbow. That made it marginally easier to get him up and into the passenger seat, where he slumped against the door, his head hanging, his eyes squeezed closed, and a fixed expression of misery on his face.

As he drove John dialed 999, identified himself, relayed via the emergency service what the hospital should expect, and told them to stand by with a gurney, IV fluids, cathartics, vasopressors.

By the end of the fifteen minute drive to the West Mendip Community Hospital Sherlock had stopped responding to John's voice, but the ER staff took him quickly in hand. John was urged into an adjoining room to get his still-bleeding scalp laceration sutured, while Sherlock received epinephrine to counteract the low blood pressure that had made him so dizzy and nauseated, IV fluids to flush the toxins from his kidneys, and, against John's best medical advice, provided gratis to the doctor, an NG tube through which an activated charcoal slurry was poured. Within half an hour his symptoms abated enough for him to realize what was being done to him, and by whom.

John's first hint that he was feeling better came when a woman screamed, followed instantly by voices raised in alarm and anger, something metal clanging hard against the wall, and Sherlock's voice, not very strong but utterly adamant, rising above the general uproar. "Get out!" he shouted. "Get out! John!" John broke away from the doctor suturing him at the first shriek and hurried next door as the screams and shouts intensified.

Sherlock was sitting up on the gurney, breathing hard and looking furiously indignant. Blood streamed from his nose. He gripped the NG tube in his right hand and the terrified doctor's wrist in a joint lock with the other. Two nurses and a male orderly formed a semi-circle around the little tableau and were exhorting him to let the doctor go, but no one quite dared to approach the violent lunatic. John shoved roughly through them into the center of the little room and interposed himself between the warring sides, but when he spoke it was in a low voice that forced the others to stop clamouring in order to hear him.

"Sherlock," he said quietly, looking not at the outraged detective but at the nurses and orderly. And when the doctor stumbled back, gasping and cursing and cradling his hand, he said to the man, still in that low, calm voice, "What did I tell you when he came in? I said, 'Don't tube him; he'll get combative.' I'm sorry, but I did warn you. Please. Just...let me take care this. Go. All of you. Please."

When they hesitated, looking doubtful, Sherlock waded back in. "John, how would you evaluate the professional ethics of a married ER doctor who carries on simultaneous affairs with three nurses and a male receptionist?"

"Sherlock!" John cried, but the rhetorical question very effectively cleared the room, although an equally noisy new dispute arose at once in the corridor.

Sherlock didn't have time to look smug before John rounded on him. "Dammit, Sherlock, I was in the middle of having my scalp sutured. Those people were doing their jobs."

"And disregarding your instructions."

"You didn't know that-and anyway, I'm not in charge here!"

"You are now." Sherlock couldn't keep the note of triumph from his voice.

John closed his eyes. He counted to three, and while it would be an exaggeration to say that Sherlock quailed in the face of his profound irritation, he was reduced to sulking at the floor, and he accepted without objection the glass of fluid John handed to him. "Drink that," John ordered, and when he finished John exchanged the glass for a wad of tissues and said, "Mop yourself. Give me your hand."

Sherlock offered his right hand, palm down, and John reinstalled the IV needle that he'd pulled out mid-tantrum. "Leave it alone now," he said, not unkindly. "You need the fluids if you want to keep your kidneys."

"What did I just drink?"

"Oral suspension of sorbitol. Lie down before you pass out again." Sherlock complied, curling onto his side and drawing up his knees. John threw a blanket over him and regarded him thoughtfully. Now that Sherlock's temper had ebbed he looked perfectly wretched: His face was grey and lined, his eyes red-rimmed. "How's the pain?"

"Better."

"Scale of one to ten."

"Five."

"Dizziness?"

"Less."

"Scale of-"

"Four."

"Nausea?"

"Six."

"I'd ask about the ataxia but you're obviously strong enough to assault the staff."

"I didn't-"

"Shut up. Think you can let me finish getting stitched now?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Keep them out."

"It's a hospital, Sherlock. They're nurses. They work here."

"No."

"Be quiet until I get back. Fifteen minutes. If their lawyers get here before I do you're on your own."

Three hours later they were discharged, exhausted, dirty, and unlamented. Under his bruises Sherlock was paler than usual and certainly quieter, but he walked out under his own power holding an ice bag gingerly to his face. John's stitches were covered with a plaster and the dispensary had given him something effective for the headache. Of the two of them he was the only one in any condition to drive.

Back at the hotel Sherlock crawled tamely into bed and settled in with a groan. John cleaned himself up as well as he could, then climbed gratefully into his own bed and clicked off the lamp. Silence and darkness settled over them.

The room was beginning to swim in a very pleasant fashion as sleep rose up to meet John when Sherlock's voice recalled him.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"Please go rev the car."

Epilogue

They missed the first two trains from Bath station. Both of them slept past the first, and John let Sherlock sleep past the second, so it was early afternoon before they left the hotel. While John queued up to buy their tickets Sherlock returned the car, then phoned his brother.

"I am sorry, Sherlock," Mycroft said, when Sherlock had covered the high points of the adventure for him, and when he'd agreed to officially handle the question of Highgrove's disappearance. "I had no idea that something so simple on its face would turn into such a debacle."

"Oh, please." Sherlock paced the platform with unconcealed tension. "Do you expect me to believe that you had no idea Highgrove was a superstitious flake? Surely that's in his file somewhere, marked with a little sticky tab. Perhaps labeled 'N' for 'nutter'?"

"I have neither the time nor the inclination to memorize the service records of every one of Her Majesty's troops," Mycroft said loftily.

"No, but you might have dug a little deeper with this one since you were so desperate for us to get involved with him." Sherlock glanced over to confirm that John was still at the ticket counter, then dropped his voice to a fierce whisper anyway. "You know as well as I do how much John hates anything to do with Delaram, and Highgrove never got off it. That's all he'd talk about. You might at least have thought of that."

"Yes, Sherlock, because I'm clairvoyant and I knew three days ago that Highgrove would choose that as a conversation starter. As far as that goes, you were there. Why didn't you shut him up?"

"I tried. That's not the point."

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"What is your point?"

"I think it's that we're through taking any more cases you steer our way."

"What about taking a holiday?"

"What the hell does that mean?" Sherlock demanded irritably.

"It means that you might like to consider John before you finalize your new policy."

Sherlock stopped pacing and the colour rose in his cheeks. "Me? I might consider him? Mycroft-"

"He's due for a break, Sherlock. A little time off in the country at no cost to either of you. The gift of a grateful nation. I'd originally hoped that this case would provide it for him, but of course I had no idea that your 'nutter' would over-face you."

"Over-?" Sherlock was nearly speechless with indignation. "I wasn't 'over-faced,' Mycroft. I knew about the murder, the map-"

"Yes, bravo. Congratulations. You got everything right except the part where you voluntarily swilled the poison he gave you."

"You're right. How stupid of me not to have figured it out. The obvious motive for so much twenty-first century crime is druidic ritual sacrifice to transmigrate souls."

John approached with the tickets at that point and easily deduced from the level of sarcasm and rancor that Sherlock was speaking with his brother. He held out his hand for the phone. "Let me talk to him," he said.

Sherlock handed the phone over with a grin: Mycroft was going to catch it now.

"Mycroft." John's voice was terse.

"John," Mycroft said smoothly.

"Don't 'John' me, dammit." His dead-on mimicry of Mycroft's tone made Sherlock snort. "That 'friend of a friend' rubbish you used to suck us into this case nearly got us both killed yesterday."

"That's an exaggeration, surely. You had a gun-"

"A gun's no good against phoratoxin!" John shouted, to the delight of Sherlock and the consternation of several bystanders. "Your brother was about forty-five minutes from respiratory arrest. If we'd been much farther from civilization...Do you think I run around with vasopressors and gastric lavage equipment in my pockets?"

"John, I really am sorry. Please."

John stood glowering, his mouth a tight line.

"I'd like to make it up to you," Mycroft said.

John snorted derisively. "Oh, this I gotta hear."

"Sherlock's due for a break, John. You know he is. I'd hoped that this case would provide you both with something a little less...hard core, shall we say? I had no idea that it would end so distressingly."

"Well?"

"What would you say to a genuine holiday? On the house, as they say. The gift of a grateful nation. Get you both out of London for a while. You know he needs some time away."

"Uh-huh. And we'll discover your ulterior motive for offering this when?"

"Has living with Sherlock really made you that cynical, John?"

"No. Getting to know his brother has made me that cynical. Goodbye, Mycroft." He handed the phone back to the thoroughly delighted Sherlock. "He wants me to take you on holiday."

"Really," Sherlock drawled. "He wants me to take you on holiday, too."

They were thirty minutes into the journey home when Sherlock suddenly opened his eyes and sat up. "'Rash beyond all reason, why comest thou to look on me?''" he said.

"What?" John said, startled.

"Where'd you come up with that line?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh. Those brochures I found at the hotel," John said. "That was something the Wookey Hole Witch was supposed to have said to the clergyman they sent after her, to stop her putting curses on village romances. You heard that, huh? I thought you were out of it then."

"I just remembered it. Not bad."

"Yeah. Sometimes it's like that. You think of the oddest things at the oddest times."

"Mm. How did you know it would work?"

John laughed. "I didn't. I didn't know what Larkin was looking at, or thought he was looking at, but that noise really pushed him over the edge. At that point I think it would have worked if I'd told him flying monkeys were coming to get him."

Sherlock blinked. "Flying monkeys?"

"Never mind. You know, I wonder if those guys were..."

"Tripping?"

"Yeah. I wondered about it at the time, but you know how it is. A thing flashes through your brain and then it's gone and you never follow up on it. Or maybe you don't know how that is," he added, because Sherlock was eyeing him skeptically.

"If they ever recover the bodies I wouldn't be surprised if the tox screens showed high levels of some entheogen," Sherlock said. "Psilocybin, maybe. That's a fast-acting one. Not hard to come by."

"Magic mushrooms."

"Drug-induced paranoia, panic, terror," Sherlock said. "Blundering about in that pitch-dark cave, one of them runs into the other. Each assumes he's just been caught by their 'Wookey witch,' attacks the other, and it's all over but the drowning."

John nodded thoughtfully, then said, "You heard it, right? That kind of 'wooo' thing? Got any theories on what that was? "

"Obvious."

"Well?"

"Really, John. Those caves are riddled with anfractuosities. It was a breezy day. Obviously the cave contained at least one natural flue that communicated with the outside, and the wind blowing across it created the noise."

"Like blowing across the mouth of a bottle."

"Yes."

"Huh. But we were in there for half an hour, and that was the only time we heard the noise."

"Maybe the wind veered. It probably has to come from a certain direction to produce the effect."

"Good timing, anyway. Would have been a PR nightmare to have shot them."

Sherlock grinned. "Would have served Mycroft right if we'd dropped that in his lap."

John smiled at the thought, and then in replaying that part of the case another question occurred to him. "Why were you so desperate to get that door shut?"

"What door?"

"To the chamber."

A shrug. "I'd been poisoned. I wasn't acting rationally."

John narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but Sherlock was giving him nothing. "Did you see something in that cave?"

"Something?"

"Yeah. Something."

"Can you be any less specific?"

"Anything, then. Did you see anything? Is that why you wanted that door closed?"

"For God's sake, John," Sherlock said disgustedly. "You mean, did I see the 'Witch of Wookey Hole'? How could I see something that doesn't exist?"

"I didn't say it-"

"You're a doctor: You know that one of the effects of phoratoxin is impaired vision."

"But you acted like you saw something when-"

"John. The only thing I could see in that cave were two frightened men. And you."

They spent that evening, as they did more evenings than most people who knew them would have guessed, reading quietly. A fire flickered and snapped in the fireplace. John chose The Nutmeg of Consolation, Sherlock an organic chemistry journal. As he read, Sherlock maintained what John called a listening watch on his surroundings, which in this case constituted the flat, of course, but mostly John, and they'd been sitting silently for three quarters of an hour when he became aware that John hadn't turned a page in eight minutes. Sherlock gave no sign of having noticed, but he wasn't surprised when three minutes later John laid the book aside.

"Listen," he said, with uncharacteristic hesitance. "Um...You asked me why it bothered me when Highgrove talked about Delaram like he did." He paused, cleared his throat. "That was a bad day, and I didn't like hearing him act like it wasn't. I didn't like talking about why, much, either. I still don't. There's something else I'd like to explain, though, if...?" He glanced at Sherlock.

Sherlock set aside the magazine and turned his full attention on John.

"I loved the army," John said. "Loved it. Not the war. That was horrible, of course. Unspeakable, sometimes. But I loved the army, and I didn't even know why until I came home." He paused again, gathering his thoughts.

"The first time I met your brother he said I was going to crime scenes with you because I missed the war. He was wrong. I didn't miss the war; nobody sane does that. I missed how people behaved in it. I know it's a cliche, but you never knew from one second to the next..." He stopped, looked down at his hands, and when he went on his voice was tight. "Did you go to the latrine at the wrong time? Bend over to tie your shoe? Stand up from tying your shoe? Get into the wrong chow line? Sometimes things like that made the difference between dying or seeing another day."

He stopped again, and Sherlock waited. John was staring into the fire and Sherlock knew he was seeing something far away from Baker Street, but when he spoke again his voice was almost normal, although he didn't look up from the flames.

"You'd think that would be a horrible way to live, but people in a combat zone treat each other better. Words mean something. Most people-civilians, I mean-they treat each other like rubbish. They lie, they say things they don't mean, promise things they won't deliver...Those things that military men talk about, like honor, respect, integrity...brotherhood...Things people laugh at. If you're not afraid of being killed while you're watching telly they're optional. In a combat zone they're mandatory. Here-" he gestured to take in the whole city "-people don't take life as seriously, because most of them don't walk around thinking that it might be taken away."

"In the army I didn't think about any of that. It was just how we were, and all I knew was that whatever we were doing, it felt right, like it was the right way to live. The way things should be. When I got back to England and that was gone it was hard to take. It felt like I'd lost something important. People just go along, caring about what brand of shoes some celebrity wears, which politician got caught with his pants down this week. I hated it. I hated that..." He gestured vaguely, searching for the right words.

"Unthinking frivolity," Sherlock supplied.

John looked at him in surprise. "Yeah." He frowned. "How do you do that?"

"What?"

"Just...know."

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm listening," he said, and when John looked skeptical he added defensively, "It happens."

John smiled. "Yeah. Unthinking frivolity. Anyway, I hated it. Ella said it would take time to get used to civilian life, but I didn't want to get used to it. I didn't want to lose what I had in the service. But I had no idea how to get it back."

"What did you have in the service?"

"A mission. Something to fight for as hard as I could, and someone to do it with. We had a common goal, and our only reason for being there was to help each other accomplish it."

"And you still miss that."

"No," John said, meeting his eyes. "Not for about six years now."

Sherlock stared at John then with an expression that John had seen many times, though never before directed at him: the expression that said Sherlock was wondering how he could have been so dense for so long, the one that said he was looking at a puzzle to which he'd just been handed the key.

To the extent that he thought about it at all, Sherlock, like his brother, had believed that John missed the war, and that missing it was a necessary and sufficient reason for his singular and otherwise inexplicable willingness to join in Sherlock's adventures. He remembered the day he'd returned to London from self-imposed exile, remembered Mycroft telling him that John had "moved on with his life," remembered scoffing, "What life? I've been away." He'd been so smugly, insufferably confident that he knew exactly why John stuck around. After four years and all the evidence to the contrary, he'd still seen John as he was when he'd met him: withdrawn and isolated. Six years since their first meeting, and it finally dawned on him tonight: John was alone in those days because he and Sherlock, in spite of their very real differences in mind, body, and habits, were in one fundamental way very much alike.

Sherlock lived his life very effectively alienating people because he utterly declined to compromise: He held himself apart, neither making nor accepting overtures of friendship, because he had learnt at a very young age that involving himself with people led invariably to demands that he bridle his cleverness, throttle himself back to the pace of the herd, or deviate from the reason that he valued above all else. He not only declined to comply but passionately resented any request to do so. John never deliberately drove people away in Sherlock's style, but in those days he, too, held himself apart: Not because he was desperate or needy or weak, but because he was every bit as strong as Sherlock, every bit as unwilling to abandon his values. Each of them, for his own reasons, had been strong enough to remain alone until he encountered the one man he could have met who not only never asked him to compromise, but who firmly rejected the desirability of doing so. The one man who expected, needed, and reveled in the very best he had to offer.

Most people underestimated John Watson. John sometimes underestimated himself. Sherlock, too, had made that mistake in their very first case together, but one of the many attributes on which he prided himself was his ability to avoid making the same mistake twice. With real chagrin he realized that he'd badly misjudged John again.

John finally couldn't take the staring any more. "What?" he said.

"I...apologize," Sherlock said.

John regarded him warily. "Okay. Why?"

"Your limits, John. I don't think I'll ever get your limits. At least, I hope not."

"What does that mean?"

Sherlock didn't answer, and John knew that expression, too: the one that said the cryptic reply was all he'd ever get. He sighed and stood up. "I'm tired. I'm going to bed."

Sherlock smiled as he watched him go. "Good night," he said, and then added very quietly, far too quietly for John to hear, "Lionheart."