These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.

SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS

Part One: ACCLAMATIONS

Ch. 22

EVENT HORIZON

The greatest of Thanks to my Beta and friend - SHERLOCKSSCARF - who positively excels in strengthening my storylines! Thank You, Sweetheart !

Warnings: High Strangeness.

"Evil was coming. I wondered whose face it would be wearing."

― Dean Koontz, Odd Thomas

OooOooO

John drops his mobile and turns toward Sherlock, grinning.

The detective sits in his chair, his impossibly long legs stretched out, with his hands templed in front of him. He stares at nothing in particular. He does not even glance up at John.

"Yes, yes. It's obvious. Ms. Hansen has asked you to give her away as a father surrogate. It's about damned time."

John stands in front of Sherlock, his hands on his hips. "Just once. Just once in, oh, I don't know – maybe once every three months, can I be the first to tell you my news?"

Sherlock drops his hands and regards his intended. "Oh, all right. John, whatever did Ms. Hansen request of you that has you so happy?"

"You know what, Sherlock? Shove it."

John wheels and goes to their room, thinks better of it, then jogs up the stairs to his old room.

The detective can hear the sturdy footsteps as they cross the floor to the cupboard, stand a moment, then come back down the stairs.

"Sherlock –"

Sherlock stands and holds out a silver piece of plastic. "Here. You will need a suit and our wedding suits aren't ready yet. They would not be appropriate anyway. And for God's sake, get something decent, John."

John takes the credit card reluctantly and studies it a moment. He glances up at Sherlock. "Mycroft?"

"He was being annoying."

John sighs. "Yeah. Right. You're not coming?"

"I believe any of my suits will suffice for Ms. Hansen's wedding. I think you can manage to shop for something adequate, John, without my assistance. Besides, I have work to do."

Sherlock crosses to the window and pulls back the curtain to stare out at the street.

"Yes, I can see what you have to do is incredibly important."

"Sarcasm, John." The detective drops the curtain and studies his killer-healer. "I will be studying the copy of the insignia that Adair had painted on the violin case. Both you and Mycroft took adequate shots of it. I have the copy you forwarded me here."

He brandishes his mobile. "It will take concentration."

"Of course." But John continues to stand and look at the other man. "Sherlock –" he begins.

"It's fine, John. Just go. And here – " he turns and walks to John to hand him a small business card. John takes it and glances down.

"Gieves and Hawkes?"

"Adequate for the occasion, John. 'They have a fairly decent line of ready-to-wear. And time is of the essence, isn't it?"

"Well, the wedding is Saturday."

Sherlock turns John around with his large hands and shoves him toward the door.

"And this is Thursday. Off with you. And don't come back without something more appropriate than that horrid suit you last wore to the Wilder court case."

"I'll have you know that suit has stood me in good –"

"It's horrid, John. It should be burned. In fact – hmm."

John turns at the door. "You wouldn't dare."

Sherlock smiles, one of his rare genuine smiles that tumbles John's heart in his chest.

"The faster you leave –"

"Yes. Yes. I'm going."

The soldier stops at their door again, turns and comes back to the detective, who watches him approach.

John reaches up and Sherlock reaches down. The kiss is warm, not as long as John would like but there will be time for that later.

"Okay. I'm off."

Sherlock watches him go. Then he crosses back to the window and watches as his paramour crosses the street.

"—the faster you can return," he says softly.

OooOooO

"Yes, Mrs. Holmes. I'll see to it."

Mrs. Robinson turns to leave her morning meeting with Regina Holmes, thinks better of it and turns back. She places a small brown envelope in front of the Holmes monarch.

"What's wrong with my memory? This came for you in this morning's post. I'll be right back with your tea."

"Thank you, Mrs. Robinson."

Regina Holmes finishes her notes on the computer in front of her and saves her file. She removes her reading glasses to rub her tired eyes.

The envelope that Mrs. Robinson delivered beckons.

She picks it up and glances at the unfamiliar writing on the front. In vivid indigo ink, the name R. Holmes and her address adorns the front of the envelope.

The postmark says London. There is no return address.

Regina frowns and reaches for a beautifully inlaid enamel letter opener. The envelope is bulky and so tightly sealed, that at first the opener refuses to slide through the glue on the back flap. It tears slightly as she opens it.

She shakes the envelope and something small and solid tumbles out.

Regina stares. She picks it up and turns it over. The varnish shines as she turns it this way and that.

She still holds the small object, which gleams in the light from her desk lamp, when Mrs. Robinson comes back in, a tea tray in her hands.

"Well, my goodness. Whatever is that?"

"You know," Mrs. Holmes says slowly. "I really don't know. There is no return address."

She looks up sharply. "Was this in with the rest of the post, Mrs. Robinson?"

The housekeeper shakes her head.

"There wasn't anything else. Just that envelope. I took it from the postman myself. It's been lying on the front table, waiting for me to bring it up to you with your tea."

Regina nods. "How odd."

She lays the item back on the blotter and regards it. "I know what it is, of course, but why it was sent to me…"

Her soft voice trails off and she picks up her mobile. A few taps and her eldest son's voice can be heard.

"Mummy?"

"Mycroft. The strangest thing just came with today's post."

As they talk, Mrs. Robinson does her best to tune out the hurried conversation, as she busies herself with Regina's tea. She adds milk and lemon, then picks up the tray.

The door opens behind her and Deborah Sakai comes in. Eugenia Robinson's eyes widen when she sees what Deborah holds on the palm of her hand.

"Mrs. Holmes? The oddest thing was sent to me. Sorry. You're on your mobile – oh."

This as she notices what sits on the desk in front of her employer. Deborah glances from the small object in front of Regina to her own open hand and the item that rests there.

"Mycroft? Hold on, son."

Regina Holmes glances up at her assistant and at what she holds out toward her. She raises an elegant eyebrow.

She does not take her eyes off Deborah as she speaks to her eldest son.

"Son? You might want to send someone out here. It seems Ms. Sakai has received a similar item in today's post. What? Very well. We will have them ready."

She sets her mobile down with a click and stands. Hesitantly, she reaches out to pick up the object off her blotter.

The two women, Regina Holmes and Deborah Sakai stand beside each other – and stare at the two small, near identical items that rest in their palms.

Eugenia Robinson shakes her head and leaves with the tea tray.

"Too many strange things happen in this house, if you ask me," she mutters under her breath.

Of course, no one asks her.

OooOooO

Mycroft drops his mobile on the leather seat next to him and watches the scenery pass his window. The car has excellent sound-proofing and the motor is a barely perceptible hum in the background. His driver is efficient and silent, as always. All of which allows him to think about the strange information his mother just imparted.

On the seat beside him, the Cremona violin rests in its case with the ominous message hidden from view. His fingertips brush against the surface of the case as he considers the mystery of the instrument stolen from the Holmes estate in France – the antique violin originally owned by his uncle, Mycroft's own namesake.

Mycroft frowns at London as it passes by. One of his people has been dispatched to the Holmes estate to collect the items from Mummy, but it irks him to know that someone other than himself will be on hand for her. Alternately, there is work to be done, his people are reliable and efficient and he cannot go traipsing over the countryside at Mummy's merest whim.

The items will be in his possession soon enough.

Still …

He fingers the Albert chain that holds his pocket watch. Abruptly, Mycroft pulls up the watch and snaps open the case. He glances at the time, and then snaps it shut again. He balances the fact of someone else collecting the items against what information may be gleaned from being on the scene itself.

A familiar ring tone chirps from the mobile on the seat next to him. Anthea.

"Mycroft Holmes."

"Sir, the afternoon post brought a small package. We took all the usual precautions –"

"And?" he prompts. A sense of foreboding causes him to use a sharper tone than he intended.

"I think you might want to see this, Sir. I'm sending the file."

"Please," he says and hangs up. He taps impatiently on the case – once. Twice. Three times. The notification sounds. He thumbs open the small file and considers the photograph of the item balanced on his PA's palm.

"Right," he says aloud.

"Sir?" his driver asks. Really, the acoustics in his car are most excellent.

"Kindly have my PA cancel my request for a courier at my mother's estate. We will drive there in person immediately."

"Certainly, Mr. Holmes."

As the car changes lanes, preparatory to leaving the city, he wonders whether or not he should call his brother.

Mycroft's long fingers hover over the call button. He finally decides to wait until he sees their mother.

OooOooO

Some hours later, at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson hands John the afternoon post as he comes through the front door.

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. Have you seen his nibs?"

"Upstairs, John. As far as I can tell, he's been in all afternoon. And please slow down on these stairs, John. Honestly, sometimes it's like a herd of elephants going up and down."

John grins. He takes the bundle of envelopes from her, one of them rather bulky, as he endeavors to juggle the post in one hand and his new suit, carefully pressed and on its hanger, in the other. He finally drops the post into the shoe bag he carries and bounds up the steps.

True to her observation, the echo of his footsteps reverberates through the otherwise quiet hallway.

Despite the noise, Mrs. Hudson watches him and smiles. And wonders if the doctor even realizes how far he has come that he is able to do this simple thing - take the steps two at a time.

Their door is open and John comes in with a cheerful whistle. He crosses to his chair and carefully lays the suit across its back and drops the bag that holds his new dress shoes on the floor. He retrieves the post from the bag and glances through it.

Sherlock stands in front of the window, one slim hand holds back a curtain as he looks out at the street below. He turns as the doctor enters.

"Ah, John. Finally. I see your errand was successful."

The detective glances at the suit draped casually over John's chair, then turns back to observing the scene below.

"Yes. Believe it or not, I was able to shop all by myself."

If Sherlock notices the ex-soldier's sarcastic tone, he ignores it. Instead, he keeps watch over Baker Street below them.

John fishes out Mycroft' s purloined credit card and drops it onto their coffee table for the detective to find. He tosses various envelopes on the table until he comes to the largish brown one. He does not bother handing any of the post to Sherlock. The detective never bothers with it. If there is something interesting, John will tell him.

"You know, John, that just watching the street below gives you fascinating insights into the human mind. Example, the woman in the unfortunate shade of green, at the crosswalk below. On her way to a job interview, which will be unsuccessful due to –"

"Translation - Sherlock Holmes' violin was taken away and now he is bored," John says good humouredly. He holds up the bulky envelope with his name on it and hefts it in his hand. It is heavier than he expected. His thumb slits the envelope.

"Really, John, it can't all be running around and – "

"Sherlock."

"- chasing criminals through the streets. You were the one who said we needed to take a rest –"

"Sherlock."

The detective breaks off at the tone of voice and turns, a frown line settling in between his pale eyes. "John?"

John stands still and stares at something he holds on the open palm of his left hand. Sherlock crosses over, glances at the small pile of bills, adverts, urgent entreaties from potential clients and one brown envelope that lie on their coffee table. The name John Watson and their address is scrawled across the front of the brown envelope in deep blue ink.

Postmark, but no return address. Odd.

Then Sherlock looks at the object on John's hand. He observes his soldier's rigid stance. At the same time he sees the tiny needle-like projectile that sticks out of the half-opened lid. His heart begins to race.

"John –"

"Sherlock, there's a note. Fell to the carpet."

"Okay, John – but do not move."

"Not moving," John whispers. His hand is rock steady.

The detective watches the ex-soldier for a moment to make sure he remains still, then bends to retrieve the single sheet of paper on the floor at John's feet. He glances at the printed words. And his complexion turns paler, if that is even possible.

Sherlock frowns. His eyes narrow as he glances from the note to John. His soldier's hand, arm and body are entirely steady.

But beads of sweat dot John's hairline.

Sherlock looks down at the white sheet of paper. And at the black letters that jump out at him.

If I were you, John Watson,

I would refrain from moving.

A Note of caution from a concerned friend.

"You began to open it, John. And then stopped."

"Yes, well done," John says. "I slipped the catch and this – thing – sprang out."

Sherlock looks at him sharply. "Some sort of spring mechanism. John! Were you –"

"No. It did not stab me. But it was a near thing."

Both men consider the small hinged box and the gold-colored spring protruding from the half-open lid. It has a sharpened edge that subtly gleams in the afternoon light.

"Can't be a bomb, Sherlock," John's voice comes as a loud whisper, not entirely certain why his normal speaking voice comes out as a harsh whisper. "If it was a bomb, just the act of sending it through the post would discharge it."

"Don't be so certain about that. Postal marks can be faked. Do not move, John."

"I ran up the stairs with it just now. If it were going to go off –"

"Valid point, John. Please stop talking."

Sherlock's mobile is in his hands, but he pauses, his thumb over the call button to Mycroft.

"Again with the not moving," John says quietly. "Who are you calling? Mycroft?"

"I was."

"What's stopping you?"

Both men continue to study the object in John's hand.

"John, what you said about a bomb being set off –"

"Well?" John demands. His fingers begin to itch. The sensation is maddening. "Well?"

"John, the odds are 97% that it's harmless – that this is a sick prank – but what if it is set off by the transmission of digital signals. Such as in a –"

"Mobile phone," both men say simultaneously.

Sherlock nods.

John does not nod but he does say quietly, "Good point."

He glances down at the wooden box that rests in his hand and then up at Sherlock. And is taken aback at the look of utter fury on the detective's face.

Oh shit.

"Can you text?" John asks. A trickle of sweat pours down his spine, plastering his shirt to his back.

"Not certain I should risk it," Sherlock says grimly. He lets his hand open and the printed note drops to the coffee table next to them.

"This cannot be happening," John says. He glances quickly at Sherlock, whose pale eyes have not left the box balanced on his lover's palm.

"You said he was dead," John says. His voice is steady as his hand. Sweat drips down the side of his face from his hairline.

"Dead and buried, John. Both of them. And it's probably not an explosive but we have no way of- Mycroft."

"The bugs?"

"Bloody hell," Sherlock says. He is loathe to raise his voice. "Mycroft, if you are monitoring, get the bomb squad here. Now, damn it!"

He looks at his soldier's grim face. John's complexion has paled beneath the faint tan.

OooOooO

After he sits through tea and afternoon sandwiches, Mycroft finally makes his escape. He settles back in the soft leather seat and fingers the objects he retrieved from Regina Holmes and Deborah Sakai.

He frowns as he turns them over in his hands. And decides that he can no longer wait. A call to his brother is definitely in order.

But before he can bring out his mobile, his driver interrupts him.

"Sir? There seems to be a situation at your brother's flat."

OooOooO

"John, how long can you continue to –"

"Long as it takes," John says with grim determination. Sherlock nods.

Then they hear it. Someone comes quietly up the steps. Both of them recognize their landlady's footsteps.

Her cautious footsteps come closer, then stop just inside their door.

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock says. "Do not enter this flat."

Their landlady stares across the short distance at her boys.

"Sherlock," Her face is pale and she rings her hands. "Your brother called my landline. Says to tell you that the bomb squad is on the way. And to tell John not to move."

Sherlock nods. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Now please leave. Quickly."

"And in case anyone is still paying attention, I have no intention of moving," John says with grim intensity. "Mrs. Hudson, get out of here. Now. Leave the building and go stand across the street."

She nods, but turns at the door. Both men can hear the quiet concern in her soft voice.

"Mycroft says it's probably as safe as houses, but best not take a chance."

"Glad we got that straight," John says. His right hand is clenched by his side. He slowly, cautiously opens his fingers, just to release tension. His left hand begins to ache from the strain of holding the box steady.

Mrs. Hudson walks cautiously back down the steps. A moment later, they hear the front door open and close.

Sherlock crosses to the window. He looks out and nods once when he sees the landlady cross the street.

"She's safe," he says. He keeps his tone as neutral as he can make it.

A tickle is working its maddening way up the ex-soldier's throat. He fights the urge to cough. Instead, he says, "Mrs. Turner – the married ones? God, the afternoon crowd at Speedy's?"

"None home, John. She's out of town and her tenants are away at work, both of them. As for Speedy's, panic might ensue if we –"

"Better panic, Sherlock, than injury. Or death."

The detective nods. "Quite right. But I insist we are overreacting here."

You hope, Sherlock. You hope we are overreacting. But John does not voice these thoughts aloud.

Sherlock pulls out his mobile again, stares at it for a second, then lays it on his chair with a loud "Damn!"

He looks desperately at his soldier.

"John -"

"I know," the soldier says. "Hurry."

With one last glance at John, Sherlock crosses to the door and then thunders down the stairs, mentally cursing all the way.

John listens as the detective's solid footsteps recede. He hears the front door open. Then, nothing.

He knows Sherlock will be right back. He knows this. But the sudden silence in their flat is deafening and threatens to overwhelm John's senses. A drop of sweat slides down his neck.

He looks down at the hated box.

I don't know who you are, but by God you will pay for this one. That's a promise, you utter bastard.

After a hurried conversation with Mr. Chatterjee, Sherlock uses the man's mobile to make a frantic call to Emergency Services.

"Already on their way, Mr. Holmes. And I do recommend most urgently that you vacate the building as a precaution."

Sherlock slams the mobile down. To hell with that. All he can think of is getting back to John. Now.

Sherlock takes the steps two at a time and arrives back by John's side before the first cafe patron has even left the building. He quickly goes to the window to watch the exodus of clients cross their street. No one runs but they certainly aren't dawdling. Most of them rush hurriedly down the street, away from Baker Street. A few recognize Mrs. Hudson and stand with her on the corner, silently watching their building. Several people point mobile phones in their direction.

John waits for the detective to give the all clear, which he does by a simple nod from his position at the window. He briefly shuts his eyes in relief.

John fights to remain still, as he tries to keep his knees loose and unlocked. That is what makes soldiers pass out at parade rest – locked knees. He wants nothing more than to fling the offending object away from him, then bend his knees and flex his hands.

Instead, he goes over a calming mantra he learned in therapy.

It doesn't work.

John takes another slow, deep breath to steady his hand and nerves. The desire to close his hand over the sides of the box, to squeeze just to restore circulation to his fingers, grows stronger.

He doesn't move.

Sherlock takes a step toward John and bends down until his eyes are on a par with John's palm. The pale eyes narrow as they pore over the deep mahogany surface. He walks around John and peruses the box from the other side.

Nearly 14 centimeters by 11, perhaps a bit more. Hinged. There's the edge of a label on the bottom. I cannot make out the fine print and cannot ask John to move his hand. Other than that, no identifying characteristics. Just a hinged box. And one wicked-looking spring. Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to make the mahogany-colored surface gleam.

The question is: how long can John hold this thing steady? And does it matter? Obviously, it was bounced up and down in the shoe bag. Are they being just a bit gullible here?

"John? There's a label on the bottom of this but your palm is obscuring it. How heavy is it?"

"Heavy enough," John says. "Maybe a half pound, maybe a bit more? Seems too heavy for its size."

The detective shakes his head. "Not if it's holding a mechanism inside. The weight is just about right, John."

He walks slowly around the soldier again and studies the box from all angles.

"No other identifying marks. If I could just –"

"Sherlock, get the fuck out of here. Now," John says grimly.

"John, the odds are 97% that it's just an ordinary box that the sender has modified to – "

"When the odds hit 100%, talk to me. In the meanwhile, get the hell out of this flat," John says.

Sherlock looks at him. Then shakes his head. "No, John. Someone's idea of a sick joke. There is no valid reason for you to order me out of our flat."

"Then why in the fuck did you tell me not to move, hmm?"

His left hand remains rock steady, but sweat pours freely down the sides of his face now.

Sherlock crosses to the kitchen area, and comes back immediately with a dish towel. He gently mops John's face for him, as if the doctor were performing delicate surgery and Sherlock were his nurse.

The detective tosses the towel behind him and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Sherlock – please!" John says, his voice quiet but tinged with desperation. "Please, love. Just get the fuck out—"

"No, John."

"Sherlock, I don't know how long I can hold the blasted thing steady. Just leave. Let the bomb squad take care of this."

Both men hear the scream of an approaching siren. Sherlock hears it as the tires of several vehicles come to a screeching halt outside 221 Baker Street.

"Anthea's on the ball," Sherlock says quietly. His eyes have not left John Watson's face. His soldier's dark blue eyes lift from their perusal of the hated item to Sherlock's face. The two men look at each other.

Sherlock glances from John's pleading eyes to the box and back again. His mind sorts through recent events. He attempts to fit this new fact in with the puzzle of the violin.

He can't make it fit.

"Sherlock, they're here. For the last time, I want you out of here, just in case. For fuck's sake, do this one thing for me."

Sherlock straightens and looks directly at John. He takes in his soldier's stance, the way his right hand clenches and opens, in an attempt to release pressure. He studies John's face, set and determined under the light tan. Warmth sweeps over him and he – nearly – smiles.

His dark curls shake. "What part of 'No' did you not understand, John Watson?" he says softly.

John glances at his love and his thin lips purse.

"You are the most arrogant, maddening, dictatorial, childish son of a bitch that it has ever been my pleasure to –"

"You love arrogant, maddening, dictatorial – I'm going to ignore the 'childish' bit – and really, John, is this the time for profanity?"

"Never better. Sherlock, please!"

"No, John."

Sherlock can hear voices downstairs. The bottom door to 221B opens. Several pairs of heavy feet march determinedly up the stairs.

A stern voice calls out, "Holmes? Watson?"

"Up here. I do recommend you hurry."

He swiftly crosses to the window once more. There are three emergency response vehicles parked outside. The scream of a fire engine can be heard in the distance.

"Christ," John swears, under his breath.

"Okay, what have we got?" The voice belongs to the first responder, who bends to set quipment on the floor. His partner stands beside him and behind them both, a third person hovers with more equipment. All three individuals are dressed in heavy body armor.

Sherlock drops the curtain and turns his back on the window, just as his brother's dark car glides to the curb opposite 221B.

He addresses the three men who stand behind John Watson.

"Gentlemen," he says grimly. "We appear to have a problem."

OooOooO