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saki101Title: Uncalibrated Measurements
Author: Saki101
Genre: slash
Rating: PG (this section), NC-17 overall
Length: ~2300 words
Warning: AU, post The Reichenbach Fall
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock and no money is being made.
Author's notes: This is a continuation of The Other Experiments Series which forms an AU frame for the Experiments Series. Uncalibrated Measurements follows Bibliography.
Excerpt: They’d twisted towards them through the black air, luminous sheets of pale green light...
Uncalibrated Measurements
The sky was nearly clear, John’s fever nearly gone when they stepped onto the roof. He and Molly and Mike formed an odd-looking trio of figures in their biohazard suits, John thought, nothing like the occasional workman who would bend to his task there or the lone smoker who might sit along the low ledge indulging his addiction. Certainly nothing like Sherlock had looked poised on the edge, where John seemed to see him now out of the corner of his eye. John drew in a slow breath. It was hot inside his suit and everywhere he glanced made him even warmer, made him want to rip the suit off and…And what? He looked down at the rippled surface by his feet. Claw at that with my bare hands? A small hum escaped the thin line of his lips. Maybe.
“You all right?” Mike asked.
John didn’t raise his head. He didn’t want to catch Mike’s eye. It had been hard enough convincing Mike to let him come up here now, before his temperature was perfectly normal. John was fairly sure the expression on his face would not reassure Mike that the correct decision had been made. He angled his body and took a step to the left, and then another. Molly had explained before they came up. One would miss it otherwise, John thought, just a swath of raised tar, a bit shiny where the light was catching the curves of the hardened bubbles. He could see why the maintenance worker thought it was a chemical spill. Of course, there shouldn’t be any chemicals up here, certainly not any being splashed across the roof, evaporating into the unsuspecting sky, trickling down into the gutters.
“Had you been up here since…” John asked.
Molly didn’t make him finish the question. “I examined the body in situ before it was brought down to the morgue. After that, no.”
“I came up during the clean-up. Usual procedure for blood,” Mike added. “Not since.”
John nodded. Blood was a hazard. Not only for the squeamish. There were procedures. He could see the top of the opening for the gutter. It was farther along the roof, away from the place where Sherlock had stood. John hoped the hoses had been aimed in the opposite direction when they'd cleared the pavement of Sherlock’s blood. He wouldn’t want it to have mixed with Moriarty’s as it flowed over the kerb down into the sewers. John took another deep breath. It continued to get warmer in his suit.
He squatted, forearms balanced on his knees and stared at the outline, following it from the feet. The sun was reflecting off the corner of John’s visor, distorting his vision, but he could see the shape. The legs had been slightly splayed, forming a vee. John shook his head. He understood why Sherlock avoided protective gear when he could. John couldn’t smell it; couldn’t touch it. He wanted to touch it. “You took samples?”
“Ian and I. This morning. Yes,” Molly answered. “From where you are now and here,” Molly gestured. John caught the white flicker of her sleeve, glanced up. Her arm was extended over where the blood would have been. “And in the middle.”
John cocked his head, looked up the legs to where the shape flared out. Must have worn a coat. There were differences in the surface. The domes of the bubbles were larger in some places. See how carefully I watched, Sherlock? Imitation and all that. “Did you measure for depth?”
“Ah, no,” Molly replied.
“Do we have anything to hand we could use for that?” John asked. He wanted to plunge his hand into it, seize something, squeeze it until it gurgled out answers to questions he hadn't yet formed.
“Martin’s tool box. It’s still by the stairs. He must have been grabbed for decontamination before he got to finish up here,” Mike said.
John didn’t turn his head. Mike’s voice grew softer as he walked away.
They’d been in Iceland, he and Sherlock, walking over a lava field. It had looked like this on a larger scale. Sherlock had found what he wanted, had pointed the Interpol officer who was an old mate of Lestrade’s in the right direction. The officer had left happy, well, happier. It had been a grim part of a larger, grimmer, case. They hadn’t left then though. Sherlock had told the others they would return later and taken John’s elbow, steered him further into the twilight with just a torch beam until the lights of the others' vehicles were gone. Sherlock had sat, tugged John’s sleeve and switched off the torch. Despite the chill, he’d sat next to Sherlock without a question. A cold while later, he’d felt Sherlock’s arm brush past his shoulder. John had looked towards the horizon and seen them. He’d mentioned to Sherlock once that he’d always wanted to see the northern lights. They’d twisted towards them through the black air, luminous sheets of pale green light, wondrous, otherwordly, the same colour as Sherlock’s eyes. John smiled.
“John.”
There was a gentle tap on John’s glove. The image faded. John’s fingers closed around the long screwdriver. “Ta,” he said.
“Nothing better suited,” Mike said.
“It’ll do, I think,” John said and jabbed the darkly glinting surface nearest him.
**********
Still crouched, John sidled along the perimeter of the damaged surfacing, taking informal readings, some near the edge, others further in. At the foot, the tool had broken the crust and sunk only a couple centimetres into the tar before it hit the concrete underneath. Below the knee, it had sunk twice as far. Further up, a couple centimetres again. John aimed at another spot at the edge. Half the shaft was buried before it met something unyielding.
“The hand with the gun,” Molly said and her voice quavered slightly.
John remained still for a moment before he stretched out his arm and stabbed in the centre of the area. A couple centimetres deep, roughly. He stood and stepped towards the head. He leaned down and plunged in the metal. The shaft was nearly covered. John nodded and pulled it out, straightening his back and taking a few breaths before he turned and thrust the tool above the head. It sunk in nearly as deep. He stood again and his eyes narrowed as he considered the other extrusion of the outline, the other arm. He squinted into the sun and wished he could wipe his forehead. John retraced his steps around the feet and knelt by the hand that had not held the gun. What did you do with this hand, you… John didn’t bother to select a word. He raised his arm, his fist clenching around the screwdriver and pounded it into the roof. He felt the material of the glove tear as his hand followed the handle of the screwdriver past the jagged crust, felt the heat flow up his arm as it sunk deeper, felt himself being tugged backwards.
“Found the leak,” John muttered. The heat had surged up to his shoulder before the impact of the roof jolted along his spine.
“John, John!” Mike shouted, pulling John’s head back to look through his visor.
“The glove’s torn,” Molly said, holding John’s arm at the elbow. John’s chest was heaving, his hand still clutching the mired screwdriver. His face was scarlet.
“He needs air,” Mike said, glancing at Molly. She nodded and dropped John’s arm. Their fingers flew over the fastenings, pulled off the hood.
John gasped. “What,” he wheezed. He stopped to gulp more air, his nose wrinkling at the stench. He wiggled his ungloved hand at the roiling tar.
Molly’s and Mike’s eyes followed the gesture. Without a word, they both stepped away, dragging John onto his feet and back with them towards the stairs.
“What did the bastard do,” John took another deep breath, “with that hand?”
***********
“He’s dead? You’re sure he’s dead?”
Molly nodded. “It would be hard to be deader,” she replied. “Half his brains were out on the roof in that pool of blood. The whole top half of the back of his head was shattered.”
John looked down at his cup of tea, ran his finger along the curve of the handle. “So he'd turned himself into some sort of biological weapon?” John asked, without looking up. “Am I contagious now?”
They were seated in the biochemistry lab a couple floors below the archivist’s office, Mike and Molly still in their cleansed biohazard suits, John in fresh scrubs, hair damp from the decontaminating shower. John turned to Mike.
“I don’t think so,” Mike replied.
John sighed, refocused on his mug of tea. The sound of snaps being undone made him look up as Mike pulled off the hood of his suit.
“I really don’t think so, but I’m not sure about what’s on the roof,” Mike said. “Although you may have neutralised it now. Or maybe you activated it last night. I don’t know. Were you ever in close physical contact with Moriarty?”
John considered Mike’s face, thought about his wife and his children and smiled faintly. “I had my arm around his neck once, but he had several snipers aiming at Sherlock at the time so I didn’t have the pleasure of snapping his third vertebrae,” John explained quietly.
“No bleeding wounds at the time though?” Mike probed.
John shook his head. Molly drew in a sharp breath and they both glanced at her.
“No, no, nothing like that. We only had three dates, but, but,” Molly paused, her eyes darting between the two faces watching her. “I offered to make him dinner at my place. I was slicing some cucumbers for salad and he hugged me, from behind. I was surprised, the knife slipped.” She pressed her lips together. “He apologised and took my hand, kissed the finger that was bleeding.”
John rubbed his hand across his face.
“Take your glove, and your hood, off, Molly,” Mike said, pulling his own gloves off and getting up. “We need a blood sample. A pin prick will do.”
“Are you sure, Mike?” Molly stammered.
“If it wasn’t then, it could have been during the autopsy. You’ve been exposed to a lot of his blood,” Mike replied, opening a drawer. Latex snapped, a wrapper crinkled. Mike set a box of disposable gloves and half a slide on the table. He reached for Molly’s hand. She pulled her glove off.
Mike smeared the drop along the slide, pulled off his gloves and turned to John. “Your turn,” he said, extracting another pair of gloves from the box.
“I don’t understand,” John said, but he still held out his index finger for Mike to lance.
“You seem to have built up immunity to Moriarty. I’ll show you what I mean,” Mike replied and added John’s blood to the slide, covered it and slipped it into the nearest microscope. He adjusted the eyepiece and motioned to John. “You first.”
John’s brows lowered, but he did as requested. “Maybe she’s coming down with a cold or some…That’s not a typical immune reaction.”
“No, it isn’t. Rather aggressive, don’t you think?” Mike said. “Take the hood off and have a look, Molly.”
“So what do we do?” Molly asked.
“Well, as we have the antidote to hand, it’s just a question of administration. Jab or a hug and a kiss. I’m fairly sure either will work, so take off that suit,” Mike said.
“What?” Molly and John said at the same time.
“A jab will be fine, thank you,” Molly said, but she did start to undo the fastenings on her biohazard suit.
“What?” John repeated.
“I’ll need a bit more blood from you, if I’m going to inject her,” Mike said and his voice sounded tired.
“Was his hand cut, Molly?” John asked.
“What?” Molly said again, looking up from a complicated fastening above her boot.
“When you examined Moriarty’s body. Was his hand cut?” John expanded.
Molly shook her head. “No, the skin was intact, but, but there were ruptured blood vessels beneath the skin of his palm.”
John looked at Mike. “A hug or a kiss? Skin to skin contact would do it?”
“I believe so. Either way, she’ll have at least a bit of a fever for a while,” Mike replied, holding up the hollow needle.
“Moriarty’s hair was brushing against my jaw when I had him…” John’s arm curled at the elbow and his fist clenched. “He turned towards me and spoke. Airborne?”
“Maybe,” Mike replied. “A jab will be quicker, I think.” He swabbed the inside of John’s forearm with alcohol.
John pulled his arm away. “He touched him. Moriarty touched Sherlock, his face, his hand. His hand.” John saw Sherlock’s hand stretching out towards him as he stood on the ledge. “Molly, did it hurt when Moriarty kissed your finger?”
Molly shook her head. “Just the sting of the cut. Nothing more.”
John frowned and reached past Mike towards Molly. “May I?” he said.
Molly’s eyes widened, but she held up the index finger Mike had pricked. John leaned along the table, his lips parted. Molly touched her finger to his lower lip and his mouth closed over the fingertip. “Ow,” Molly said, pulling her finger away. “Ow,” she repeated, shaking her hand and looking at Mike.
He set down the hollow needle. “You won’t need a jab now. Might be best to stay here tonight though and we can check your blood again in the morning.” Molly looked at John.
“I’m sorry,” John said, tapping lightly at his lower lip.
Molly bit down on her finger for a moment. “I don’t like jabs either,” she said and tried to smile.
John considered his hand. “That’s what Moriarty did with his other hand. He touched Sherlock and it hurt him. It probably hurt them both.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next part, Blood Samples, may be read here.
Author: Saki101
Genre: slash
Rating: PG (this section), NC-17 overall
Length: ~2300 words
Warning: AU, post The Reichenbach Fall
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock and no money is being made.
Author's notes: This is a continuation of The Other Experiments Series which forms an AU frame for the Experiments Series. Uncalibrated Measurements follows Bibliography.
Excerpt: They’d twisted towards them through the black air, luminous sheets of pale green light...
The sky was nearly clear, John’s fever nearly gone when they stepped onto the roof. He and Molly and Mike formed an odd-looking trio of figures in their biohazard suits, John thought, nothing like the occasional workman who would bend to his task there or the lone smoker who might sit along the low ledge indulging his addiction. Certainly nothing like Sherlock had looked poised on the edge, where John seemed to see him now out of the corner of his eye. John drew in a slow breath. It was hot inside his suit and everywhere he glanced made him even warmer, made him want to rip the suit off and…And what? He looked down at the rippled surface by his feet. Claw at that with my bare hands? A small hum escaped the thin line of his lips. Maybe.
“You all right?” Mike asked.
John didn’t raise his head. He didn’t want to catch Mike’s eye. It had been hard enough convincing Mike to let him come up here now, before his temperature was perfectly normal. John was fairly sure the expression on his face would not reassure Mike that the correct decision had been made. He angled his body and took a step to the left, and then another. Molly had explained before they came up. One would miss it otherwise, John thought, just a swath of raised tar, a bit shiny where the light was catching the curves of the hardened bubbles. He could see why the maintenance worker thought it was a chemical spill. Of course, there shouldn’t be any chemicals up here, certainly not any being splashed across the roof, evaporating into the unsuspecting sky, trickling down into the gutters.
“Had you been up here since…” John asked.
Molly didn’t make him finish the question. “I examined the body in situ before it was brought down to the morgue. After that, no.”
“I came up during the clean-up. Usual procedure for blood,” Mike added. “Not since.”
John nodded. Blood was a hazard. Not only for the squeamish. There were procedures. He could see the top of the opening for the gutter. It was farther along the roof, away from the place where Sherlock had stood. John hoped the hoses had been aimed in the opposite direction when they'd cleared the pavement of Sherlock’s blood. He wouldn’t want it to have mixed with Moriarty’s as it flowed over the kerb down into the sewers. John took another deep breath. It continued to get warmer in his suit.
He squatted, forearms balanced on his knees and stared at the outline, following it from the feet. The sun was reflecting off the corner of John’s visor, distorting his vision, but he could see the shape. The legs had been slightly splayed, forming a vee. John shook his head. He understood why Sherlock avoided protective gear when he could. John couldn’t smell it; couldn’t touch it. He wanted to touch it. “You took samples?”
“Ian and I. This morning. Yes,” Molly answered. “From where you are now and here,” Molly gestured. John caught the white flicker of her sleeve, glanced up. Her arm was extended over where the blood would have been. “And in the middle.”
John cocked his head, looked up the legs to where the shape flared out. Must have worn a coat. There were differences in the surface. The domes of the bubbles were larger in some places. See how carefully I watched, Sherlock? Imitation and all that. “Did you measure for depth?”
“Ah, no,” Molly replied.
“Do we have anything to hand we could use for that?” John asked. He wanted to plunge his hand into it, seize something, squeeze it until it gurgled out answers to questions he hadn't yet formed.
“Martin’s tool box. It’s still by the stairs. He must have been grabbed for decontamination before he got to finish up here,” Mike said.
John didn’t turn his head. Mike’s voice grew softer as he walked away.
They’d been in Iceland, he and Sherlock, walking over a lava field. It had looked like this on a larger scale. Sherlock had found what he wanted, had pointed the Interpol officer who was an old mate of Lestrade’s in the right direction. The officer had left happy, well, happier. It had been a grim part of a larger, grimmer, case. They hadn’t left then though. Sherlock had told the others they would return later and taken John’s elbow, steered him further into the twilight with just a torch beam until the lights of the others' vehicles were gone. Sherlock had sat, tugged John’s sleeve and switched off the torch. Despite the chill, he’d sat next to Sherlock without a question. A cold while later, he’d felt Sherlock’s arm brush past his shoulder. John had looked towards the horizon and seen them. He’d mentioned to Sherlock once that he’d always wanted to see the northern lights. They’d twisted towards them through the black air, luminous sheets of pale green light, wondrous, otherwordly, the same colour as Sherlock’s eyes. John smiled.
“John.”
There was a gentle tap on John’s glove. The image faded. John’s fingers closed around the long screwdriver. “Ta,” he said.
“Nothing better suited,” Mike said.
“It’ll do, I think,” John said and jabbed the darkly glinting surface nearest him.
**********
Still crouched, John sidled along the perimeter of the damaged surfacing, taking informal readings, some near the edge, others further in. At the foot, the tool had broken the crust and sunk only a couple centimetres into the tar before it hit the concrete underneath. Below the knee, it had sunk twice as far. Further up, a couple centimetres again. John aimed at another spot at the edge. Half the shaft was buried before it met something unyielding.
“The hand with the gun,” Molly said and her voice quavered slightly.
John remained still for a moment before he stretched out his arm and stabbed in the centre of the area. A couple centimetres deep, roughly. He stood and stepped towards the head. He leaned down and plunged in the metal. The shaft was nearly covered. John nodded and pulled it out, straightening his back and taking a few breaths before he turned and thrust the tool above the head. It sunk in nearly as deep. He stood again and his eyes narrowed as he considered the other extrusion of the outline, the other arm. He squinted into the sun and wished he could wipe his forehead. John retraced his steps around the feet and knelt by the hand that had not held the gun. What did you do with this hand, you… John didn’t bother to select a word. He raised his arm, his fist clenching around the screwdriver and pounded it into the roof. He felt the material of the glove tear as his hand followed the handle of the screwdriver past the jagged crust, felt the heat flow up his arm as it sunk deeper, felt himself being tugged backwards.
“Found the leak,” John muttered. The heat had surged up to his shoulder before the impact of the roof jolted along his spine.
“John, John!” Mike shouted, pulling John’s head back to look through his visor.
“The glove’s torn,” Molly said, holding John’s arm at the elbow. John’s chest was heaving, his hand still clutching the mired screwdriver. His face was scarlet.
“He needs air,” Mike said, glancing at Molly. She nodded and dropped John’s arm. Their fingers flew over the fastenings, pulled off the hood.
John gasped. “What,” he wheezed. He stopped to gulp more air, his nose wrinkling at the stench. He wiggled his ungloved hand at the roiling tar.
Molly’s and Mike’s eyes followed the gesture. Without a word, they both stepped away, dragging John onto his feet and back with them towards the stairs.
“What did the bastard do,” John took another deep breath, “with that hand?”
***********
“He’s dead? You’re sure he’s dead?”
Molly nodded. “It would be hard to be deader,” she replied. “Half his brains were out on the roof in that pool of blood. The whole top half of the back of his head was shattered.”
John looked down at his cup of tea, ran his finger along the curve of the handle. “So he'd turned himself into some sort of biological weapon?” John asked, without looking up. “Am I contagious now?”
They were seated in the biochemistry lab a couple floors below the archivist’s office, Mike and Molly still in their cleansed biohazard suits, John in fresh scrubs, hair damp from the decontaminating shower. John turned to Mike.
“I don’t think so,” Mike replied.
John sighed, refocused on his mug of tea. The sound of snaps being undone made him look up as Mike pulled off the hood of his suit.
“I really don’t think so, but I’m not sure about what’s on the roof,” Mike said. “Although you may have neutralised it now. Or maybe you activated it last night. I don’t know. Were you ever in close physical contact with Moriarty?”
John considered Mike’s face, thought about his wife and his children and smiled faintly. “I had my arm around his neck once, but he had several snipers aiming at Sherlock at the time so I didn’t have the pleasure of snapping his third vertebrae,” John explained quietly.
“No bleeding wounds at the time though?” Mike probed.
John shook his head. Molly drew in a sharp breath and they both glanced at her.
“No, no, nothing like that. We only had three dates, but, but,” Molly paused, her eyes darting between the two faces watching her. “I offered to make him dinner at my place. I was slicing some cucumbers for salad and he hugged me, from behind. I was surprised, the knife slipped.” She pressed her lips together. “He apologised and took my hand, kissed the finger that was bleeding.”
John rubbed his hand across his face.
“Take your glove, and your hood, off, Molly,” Mike said, pulling his own gloves off and getting up. “We need a blood sample. A pin prick will do.”
“Are you sure, Mike?” Molly stammered.
“If it wasn’t then, it could have been during the autopsy. You’ve been exposed to a lot of his blood,” Mike replied, opening a drawer. Latex snapped, a wrapper crinkled. Mike set a box of disposable gloves and half a slide on the table. He reached for Molly’s hand. She pulled her glove off.
Mike smeared the drop along the slide, pulled off his gloves and turned to John. “Your turn,” he said, extracting another pair of gloves from the box.
“I don’t understand,” John said, but he still held out his index finger for Mike to lance.
“You seem to have built up immunity to Moriarty. I’ll show you what I mean,” Mike replied and added John’s blood to the slide, covered it and slipped it into the nearest microscope. He adjusted the eyepiece and motioned to John. “You first.”
John’s brows lowered, but he did as requested. “Maybe she’s coming down with a cold or some…That’s not a typical immune reaction.”
“No, it isn’t. Rather aggressive, don’t you think?” Mike said. “Take the hood off and have a look, Molly.”
“So what do we do?” Molly asked.
“Well, as we have the antidote to hand, it’s just a question of administration. Jab or a hug and a kiss. I’m fairly sure either will work, so take off that suit,” Mike said.
“What?” Molly and John said at the same time.
“A jab will be fine, thank you,” Molly said, but she did start to undo the fastenings on her biohazard suit.
“What?” John repeated.
“I’ll need a bit more blood from you, if I’m going to inject her,” Mike said and his voice sounded tired.
“Was his hand cut, Molly?” John asked.
“What?” Molly said again, looking up from a complicated fastening above her boot.
“When you examined Moriarty’s body. Was his hand cut?” John expanded.
Molly shook her head. “No, the skin was intact, but, but there were ruptured blood vessels beneath the skin of his palm.”
John looked at Mike. “A hug or a kiss? Skin to skin contact would do it?”
“I believe so. Either way, she’ll have at least a bit of a fever for a while,” Mike replied, holding up the hollow needle.
“Moriarty’s hair was brushing against my jaw when I had him…” John’s arm curled at the elbow and his fist clenched. “He turned towards me and spoke. Airborne?”
“Maybe,” Mike replied. “A jab will be quicker, I think.” He swabbed the inside of John’s forearm with alcohol.
John pulled his arm away. “He touched him. Moriarty touched Sherlock, his face, his hand. His hand.” John saw Sherlock’s hand stretching out towards him as he stood on the ledge. “Molly, did it hurt when Moriarty kissed your finger?”
Molly shook her head. “Just the sting of the cut. Nothing more.”
John frowned and reached past Mike towards Molly. “May I?” he said.
Molly’s eyes widened, but she held up the index finger Mike had pricked. John leaned along the table, his lips parted. Molly touched her finger to his lower lip and his mouth closed over the fingertip. “Ow,” Molly said, pulling her finger away. “Ow,” she repeated, shaking her hand and looking at Mike.
He set down the hollow needle. “You won’t need a jab now. Might be best to stay here tonight though and we can check your blood again in the morning.” Molly looked at John.
“I’m sorry,” John said, tapping lightly at his lower lip.
Molly bit down on her finger for a moment. “I don’t like jabs either,” she said and tried to smile.
John considered his hand. “That’s what Moriarty did with his other hand. He touched Sherlock and it hurt him. It probably hurt them both.”
The next part, Blood Samples, may be read here.
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Date: 2012-05-27 05:06 pm (UTC)