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“Man, know thyself, and thou shalt know the universe and its Gods!” - The Oracle at Delphi
----
The first time they parted ways he still went by his own name. Dionysus.
A beautiful name, it was. A name invoking the spirit of celebration, the dramatic, the wild abandon.
He did so love his name, but it was fun to play a character every now and again.
The first time they crossed paths it was at the beginnings of something new. He called himself Yehoshu’a. He played at being a carpenter; a devout man, and quiet, poor. So very unlike himself. A laugh. Apollo went by Rephael when he walked the earth; a shepherd, riding horses instead of his chariot.
The humans had long since stopped worshiping them, but they were not gone. The sun still crossed the sky, the moon still marked the night, and grapes still grew on the vine. Lightning danced in the clouds, lava boiled beneath the crust, the winds blew, the waves crashed. Humans fell in love, they waged war, they were born, they died. The harvest came and went.
The power of the forgotten Gods; ever present.
----
The next time they crossed paths the world had changed yet again. He made himself a body by the name of Alderan and lead a much more glamorous life; something befitting of a God. He was a Lord with a great stretch of land, servants always at hand; nothing was out of his grasp. He was known far and wide for the incredible parties he threw.
Of course he was.
The feasts, the balls, the purposeless festivities; everyone talked about Lord Alderan.
Lord Alderan; the man of plenty and of good health while the world fell to the plague.
He loved it.
Apollo visited him sometimes; now under the guise of Gawain, the blacksmith. He said he came for a familiar face. Dionysus thought he came for the wine. His wine was positively legendary. But perhaps he came for something else.
He decided he liked this; Apollo coming to him. Seeking him out. Wanting something from him. Wanting him.
Dionysus wanted, and would have him.
----
They met again in Italy, during a period of great discovery. It would go down in history; a time of unprecedented innovation and advancement. He was Lazzero then; a vintner of renown, and unsurprisingly so. Wine was his domain; of course any he touched would be the best the humans had ever tasted. Jacopo was his neighbour; a printer, his prey.
Jacopo came to him.
“What are you doing, Lazzero?” Jacopo asked, sitting heavily in the chair across the table, a glass of the infamous wine in his hand, though he did not drink.
“No, call me by my name. I want to hear you say it,” he whispered, leaning forward at the table.
“What are you doing, Dionysus. What do you want?”
He smiled to hear his name, leaning back with a contented sigh. “You.” The answer was simple, obvious, surely he could see.
Judging by the look on his face, clearly not.
“We are no longer on Olympus. We no longer perform our duties as if our very lives depend on them. We are free, Apollo. We are free to do as we choose. You come to me, seeking, wondering, bored. You want excitement. You want me. I want you. Be with me.”
Jacopo stood, smiling. “No, Dionysus. No, my friend. Not this time.”
Lazzero smiled in turn. “A shame. You and I could have such fun.”
----
It was a battlefield when they crossed next. The glories of battle never seemed to grow old. He revelled in it; the chaos, the madness. War was one of his favorite things to watch. He and Ares had always gotten along well in that respect. His name was Rousel, a colonel in the French Army. Jacques was his lieutenant. Rousel loved it; having him right there under his thumb, bending to his very order.
Jacques came to his tent one night during a lull in the battle. He had a wild look in his eyes that sent shivers of delight through Rousel’s crafted body. He sat on the edge of his cot, watching Jacques pace; energy thrumming through his being.
“You love this, don’t you?” he growled, fingers clenching over his knees. Jacques whirled on him, looking like a hungry beast.
“You love the disorder, the disarray; the tumult and turmoil. You love the lack of control. The risk. The thrill. The hunt.”
Jacques stepped toward him. “Yes, yes. All of it.”
Rousel grabbed Jacques by the front of his coat, yanking him down to his knees.
“You could have it, all of it, always. I could give it to you. The pleasure, the adventure, the abandon,” he murmured, their faces mere centimeters apart. “Give yourself to me. Be with me. Let me thrill you.”
Jacques looked overwhelmed; like a starved man with too many options. He wanted to give in. He wanted to say yes, yes, yes. He wanted to devour Rousel.
“No. No, Dionysus. I can’t,” he breathed, collecting himself as Rousel shivered at the use of his true name. Rousel thought Jacques’s breath tasted sweet on his lips. He wanted more of it.
“Why not?” he demanded, pulling Jacques closer. Their mouths were almost touching.
Jacques put his hands on Rousel’s shoulders, grabbing him roughly. “You know why.”
Jacques tore away, left the tent, his energy spent.
Rousel could still taste him on his lips.
----
It was hardly any time at all before they ran into each other again, and this time Apollo had the upper hand. Their path intersected again in an era of refinement; a time of social and sexual restraint. A challenge for Dionysus after decades of galavanting; anyone who knew him would attest that restraint was not one of his strong suits. Despite this, he still enjoyed himself. He was rather a fan of the dress, actually.
He was under the name Delwyn this time around. Apollo called himself James; a good solid name to Dionysus’s theatrics. That was always how it was, wasn’t it? Order and Disorder. Healing and Madness. The contrast between them, always existing, always at play.
Delwyn had a reputation of being quite the bachelor, spending most of his time at the local Gentleman’s Club, instead of pursuing anything deemed ‘useful’, like marriage or profession. He had no need of such things, but they did not need to know, so he let them think, assume and speculate. They were at least partially right on one count, really, but they did not need to know that either.
It was there at the Gentleman’s Club that James found Delwyn. He almost left, resisting the chase, resisting the temptation. But temptation was too great, it seemed, because he sat in the armchair beside Delwyn anyway.
They shared a bottle of brandy, sitting quietly with snifters in hand. Delwyn smiled over the edge of his glass as he sipped.
“I am so amused that you resist me when I seek you, and then you approach me here. It’s almost a comedy.”
James sat silently, swirling his brandy in its glass.
“Perhaps you mean to tell me that if I wait quietly my prey will come?”
James took a sip.
“Why won’t you give in to me? It would be so worthwhile,” Delwyn baited, taking a deep swallow. He loved the things humans had done with alcohol.
James sighed. “I miss it, you know. Life on Olympus. My chariot, my bow, the offerings, the power.”
Delwyn smiled in answer. “I know. I’m bored too.” He set his glass down and leaned over the arm of the chair. “But I know what could entertain you.”
“I’m sure you do,” James scoffed in answer.
“Such derision doesn’t suit you, my friend,” he remarked, sliding a finger around the rim of the snifter. He watched, pleased, as James’s eyes settled on his finger, watching its journey. He looked as though he wanted to swallow it. To taste the brandy from Delwyn’s flesh. Delwyn would let him, if he only asked.
“Why don’t you give yourself to me, Apollo,” he whispered softly, making the other man's eyes flick upward. “You know you want to.”
For a long moment they stared at one another, breathing in unison, the tension between them electrifying.
James broke it first. He swallowed down the last of his brandy and stood.
“Goodbye, Delwyn.”
The chase would continue.
----
His next stint would take him to the Americas. His timing couldn’t have been worse.
Alcohol was forbidden.
It had been outlawed; deemed something terrible. It wasn’t made, it wasn’t sold. He didn’t understand. How could his blessing to mankind be seen as something foul? He did have to commend the creativity of the slighted humans though; they had their ways of working around the law.
He called himself Virgil, and he ran a local speakeasy. He hardly had to do anything, really. The humans took care of it all. They made bathtub gin, and smuggled alcohol from Canada. They made beer and whiskey and moonshine in their homes. None of it was up to his usual standard, of course, but it was intoxicating and that was all he cared about, and he had to admire the determination.
The police never seemed to find his joint, either, much to his customer’s delight. Virgil’s was a safe place for them to come and drink and get beautifully sloshed. It was a place full of beautiful women and handsome men, but he constantly felt himself lacking in something.
Apollo hadn’t come.
He didn’t know where his friend had gone, only that they had not crossed paths since they had worn the names James and Delwyn. Perhaps he was off hunting with Artemis, or acting healer in some wasteland of a country, or even playing at war again to get his kicks. Virgil didn’t know, but he did know that their paths would cross again. He had no doubts. In fact, he was sure of it. He didn’t give up his prey so easily, despite what may be thought of him.
He was determined.
He was adamant.
As soon as he was bored with these humans and their illegal pleasures, he would take up his proverbial hunt again.
----
For the second time they met on battleground. It was the second World War; countries all over fighting and killing and generally trying to destroy each other. It was as it always was, the cycle of war and devastation, followed by peace and construction, only to spiral down again. Humans were a greedy kind, never happy with what they had, they always had to claim more. This time, Germany tried to claim the world.
He was a Frenchman by the name of Aldéric; a baker, trying to stay out of the war. He’d had his fill of battle, and he much preferred to watch this one from the sidelines and stir up trouble in other ways. Several German soldiers had already gotten laxative laced rolls with their purchases when they had the gall to invade his shop and demand goods.
Dionysus liked chaos and disorder, not savage destruction and ruthless killing. That wasn’t fun.
This whole war was a little much for his stomach; for any of the Gods he imagined, excepting Ares, though Aldéric hoped he had better tastes than that.
That was why when Apollo came crashing into his bakery, he was much less inclined to play around.
Apollo was a Russian by the name of Ivan, a writer, Aldéric thought, though it was hardly relevant to their encounter this time. They were not battling together, they were not working near one another, in fact they hadn’t crossed one another in quite some time. Aldéric thought Ivan had been avoiding him, and never before had he come with such urgency.
From the smell of it, he hadn’t used Mortal methods to get here. The air around him still cracked with the scents of power.
“Artemis is gone. My Oracle too. They’ve taken them. I’ve looked everywhere, asked everyone. No one knows anything. No one has heard anything.” The words spilled from him, his eyes wild.
He reached across the counter to grab Aldéric by the front of his apron. “You hear everything, you always do. Have you? Do you know where she is?” He was desperate; grasping at the proverbial straws.
Aldéric’s hands closed over Ivan’s. “No, my friend. This is the first I’ve heard.”
The fear seemed to choke Ivan and the color drained from his face.
“No,” Ivan whispered to himself, seeming lost.
Aldéric squeezed his hands tightly. “I’ll talk to Hermes. I’ll help you. Let me help you.”
“Please...Please.”
“Always.”
----
“They’ve crossed the line, Leon,” he addressed Hermes in his human skin. “They’ve taken one of our own. Artemis and the Oracle are missing.”
Leon met his eyes levelly, though a frown tugged at his lips. “I know, my friend. What do you expect me to do?”
“Help me. Help Ivan. Help us.”
Leon drummed his fingertips on the tabletop contemplatively. “I would love to, you know that. But we shouldn’t be tampering, and you two have done that enough.”
Aldéric slammed his fists on the table and stood. “Don’t you think we know that? When has that ever stopped you though? You like a little mischief, a little wickedness. They took his sister. Let us cause a little trouble.”
Leon was unaffected by the outburst. “I want to help, and I can. I can find the information you’re looking for. I need something from you first.”
“What do you need? Anything.” Aldéric spun on him, gripping the arms of the chair Leon sat in and leaning over him.
“A promise.”
----
Artemis and the Oracle were returned to Ivan safely two weeks after the fact. Leon and Aldéric had mysteriously disappeared, their personas abandoned; casualties of war. Their place among the humans had expired its use for the time.
Dionysus was indebted to Hermes for the information he provided; a small price to pay. The next time they came to walk the earth, his debt would be paid.
----
Artemis came to him some time later, aggrieved at the slaughter of her huntsmen. She was destroyed with guilt; this once-proud huntress drowning in her despair. She had neglected their safety to protect the Oracle, leaving them to fend for themselves against the horrific implements the humans carried.
Their screams still rang in her ears.
“Help me,” she pleaded of him. “Make it stop.”
He could. It would be so simple. He could wrap her in his spell; turn her suffering into ecstasy. He could weave his power into her and deaden her sorrows. He could make her his.
The benefits were easy to see; both for him, and for her.
“Come, my friend. Let me take away your pain.”
----
He set foot on earth again, wearing a new skin, a new name, and ready to pay his debt.
----
He called himself Sherlock, and he was a detective. A consulting detective at that, because he had a flair for the dramatic as always. It was something new he crafted himself as; in all the times he’d come to talk among the humans he had not once used the abilities of his Gods mind to even a fraction of its extent. The humans thought him brilliant, scarily so, but he laughed to himself. Of course he was brilliant.
It was in this form that he paid his debt to Hermes, or Mycroft, rather, as he was now. He was to serve the Messenger God in the guise of brothers. The Holmes’s. It had a nice ring to it, if Sherlock would admit.
He never would.
----
He met Apollo in the lab at St. Bartholomew’s. It was perfect really; he’d been brought there by a fellow named Mike Stamford. Apollo went by John now; a soldier, an army doctor. It was so fitting. With that all the things he loved were combined in one; the hunt, the ability to heal. He was looking for a flatmate; so was Sherlock. He would never say such a thing out loud, but in that moment Mike Stamford had been utterly brilliant.
He could see the recognition on John’s face when they met eyes; of course he knew immediately who he was dealing with. They had to play at strangerhood, however, with Mike still in the room, and so their typical exchange was reduced down to trivial conversation, to Sherlock ‘showing off’. He gave John his name and his address and swept out of the room, leaving the dazzled human and Sun God in his wake.
----
John came to the flat, to two-two-one-B, to Sherlock’s delight. They greeted each other, Sherlock insisted he be called by his first name. His landlady came to the door; Hestia in disguise. Now she called herself Mrs. Hudson. He had done her a few favors in their time, so she put him up, kept an eye on him. John was astounded to see her there; Sherlock smiled. Here was where they would stay, and John would stay, Sherlock knew he would because what else could he do?
He played his game carefully this time; he made no advances, only offers, standing back and letting John come to him. He had learned how to play the Hunter’s game well. It wasn’t enough to stalk the prey, you had to bait them too.
Besides, he had a wonderful card up his sleeve.
Mrs. Hudson sat John in a chair, offering him a cup of tea. “I kept your temple for you at Delphi,” she chuckled, “I can keep your flat for you. Just like old times, hmm?”
John was overwhelmed.
“Just remember, dears, I’m not your housekeeper.”
And she was gone.
----
“Why are we here, Sherlock,” John asked him bluntly.
“We’ve shared a temple, what’s wrong with sharing a flat?”
John sighed. “You know what I mean.”
Sherlock turned his icy eyes on his companion. They were the contrast, the balance. Order and Chaos. Individuality and Unity. Compulsion and Impulsiveness. Really, it only made sense if they were together. Yet John fought, he resisted. Sherlock did not know why.
“Many reasons, my friend. I hope you will understand in time.”
----
Thanatos came, to Sherlock’s delight, wearing the name Gregory. He had grown bored as well and came to join the God collective gathering on earth. It was only in good humour that he chose to head the Homicide Division of Scotland Yard. It was like he was playing a game with himself. His God-hand did the work, took the souls to Hades, he knew they died, while his Moral mind had no idea how or why they died. Sherlock could appreciate his method for staving off the boredom.
“Will you come?” he asked.
Oh, Sherlock did love to play. John couldn’t say no to being dragged along.
He still craved the thrill.
----
He should not have been surprised when Mycroft took John right from under his nose.
----
John entered the flat and Sherlock was lying on the couch. Three nicotine patches were stuck to his arm. They weren’t necessary, but it was a nice little buzz and he was one to indulge.
“Why are you here?” John demanded, looking entirely unamused after his Hermetic encounter.
Sherlock opened his eyes, meeting John’s gaze levelly. “A favour,” he said, and nothing more.
He wanted to confess; to say “I am Hermes’ slave for you. I traded myself for your sister, for you.” He wanted to tell him “I, Dionysus, gave myself to the Messenger for information on the Huntress. I wove my magic into her. I did all this for you.”
He kept quiet. He did not speak. The waiting game would prove more fruitful.
They continued their mortal play.
----
Artemis, now Harriet, was drinking herself into oblivion. A goddess swayed to his Dionysian ways supplied him with more power than each drink the humans took or each play they performed.
John hated it; he knew what Sherlock had done.
“She is not your vessel,” he said. Sherlock agreed.
“Why have you taken her?” John asked.
Sherlock shrugged. “She gave herself for your Oracle, for you, and she was suffering. She sought me for help as you did.” John did not seem convinced.
“You’ve turned her into a drunk.”
“I gave her what she asked for. You could save her as she saved your Oracle. I will unweave my spell for you.”
John rubbed his hands over his face. “What do you want in return?”
“You.”
----
John debated it. Sherlock couldn’t understand. He knew John wanted him, as he wanted John. They’d been doing this dance for ages, and yet he did not give in. He wanted the same thing, yet he resisted. It made no sense.
“Why?” he asked suddenly, pushing the book out of Sherlock’s hands.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Why, what?”
“Why do you want me?”
Sherlock smirked. “Obvious. Why won’t you let me have you?”
“You know why! You said it yourself!” He was angry; it made him stand straighter, it made him burn brighter.
“I obviously don’t know why. I’ve been pursuing you for centuries, and you resist me at every turn, and I clearly don’t---”
John whipped around to face him again. “The thrill of the hunt, Dionysus!” he roared, using Sherlock’s true name and the air blazed with the power of it. “The chase. You’ll get bored, you’ll dash off for more excitement. I’ve lost enough lovers, I’m not adding another to the list.”
Sherlock stood, grabbing John by the shoulders. “Apollo, you idiot,” he laughed. “Don’t you think I would have tired of the chase by now?”
John scoffed and pulled away.
“It is not the chase that I love. Let me prove that. Give yourself to me. Give in to the desire. I’ll free Artemis from my spell. Be with me. Please.”
John’s shoulders slumped, defeated. “Alright. Okay.”
----
Sherlock did as he promised and removed his influence from Harriet. It would take time for the effect to dissolve, but it would. They would see soon enough if her period of mourning was over. John was begrudgingly pleased; relieved he would have his sister back, perhaps even relieved he no longer had to fight himself, but still hating the circumstance and the uncertainty. Sherlock could cope with that; soon he would see there was no real coercion. Sherlock had merely given him a reason to give in to the urge he’d fought for centuries.
“Apollo,” he whispered, tasting the heated name on his lips. John shuddered to hear his name; the name that lit skies on fire. “Apollo, please. Stay, relax, drink with me.”
He offered his hand, palm up. John took it.
----
His hands smoothed over the sun-roughened skin Apollo wore; how fitting. He wondered if it tasted of the sun too.
John sighed at his touch, eyes drifting closed. He had wanted for so long and now he let himself have; John desired to give over, to indulge. Sherlock would give him that.
----
Sherlock and John drank, partaking of the finest wine Sherlock could procure. It was warm and red and sweet on the tongue; a flavour speaking of age and care. It was this wine that they shared in a kiss, smooth fluid passing from one mouth to another.
It was better than Ambrosia.
He pushed John back and dripped sweet wine from his own lips into John’s mouth to hear him sigh and whisper his name.
“Dionysus.”
The name was a hymn sung in silence.
----
The cabbie came to the door. Sherlock couldn’t resist playing the game. John warned him against it, but old habits died hard. Sherlock followed, wanting to hear from the clever cabbie himself how he had killed the woman in pink, and the answer was so beautifully simple.
Two pills. One choice.
He challenged Sherlock to a game. Sherlock laughed and took the pill. It wouldn’t matter which.
Apollo’s fury burned past his shoulder and pierced the cabbie in the form of a bullet. His death was quick. Sherlock turned to find John and saw him nowhere, but felt the fiery crackle on the air.
----
Lestrade put a blanket over his shoulders. Sherlock shrugged it off and Lestrade pulled it back on.
“You took it,” he said. Sherlock did not deny. “Poison is poison still,” he murmured, hiding the face of Thanatos deep beneath his tanned skin. Sherlock would not die. Death would not take him.
“I’m going home,” Sherlock said, and stood.
----
John appeared at his side, frowning. He would wait until they were home, until they were away from human ears under Hestia’s protection. Mycroft only delayed that wait.
“Remember your promise, brother dear,” he murmured to Sherlock, but the words did not escape John. Sherlock declined to answer his questioning gaze. Home instead, home would come first, then John could have his piece and Sherlock his peace.
----
Poison is poison still, Lestrade told him. He had not thought it would ail his body construct.
How wrong he was.
John was worried. So very worried.
“Apollo,” he whispered; the name a summons, a followers praise. Beckoned, he came, and Sherlock laid his hand upon his cheek. “Worry not. A body is only transport. I do not leave. Lay your hands on me.”
John touched his pale neck, feeling the thundering pulse there. It was Zeus’s rage in his veins, but Sherlock smiled. “Apollo, Apollo.” His call was worship; names were power.. “Drink of me.” John took up the wine bottle and brought it to where Sherlock lay by the ever-crackling fire; the hearth in Hestia’s home never chilled.
Sherlock watched in rapt fascination as John swallowed the sweet wine, his throat moving in the fire light. He wanted to taste that throat.
With a mouthful of wine John bowed his head, meeting their lips in a warm embrace. Wine dribbled down his tongue, filling Sherlock up in place of the poison.
“Speak to me, Apollo.”
John hummed, four notes. “Dionysus,” he sang. “Dionysus, son of Zeus, King of wine; of the vine. Hunter of the Sun.”
Sherlock sighed between John’s lips.
----
Mycroft simply couldn’t resist sticking his nose in.
“Glad to see you’re doing better, brother-mine,” Mycroft said. As much as Sherlock wanted to regret his promise to the mischief maker, he couldn’t bring himself to. He blinked wearily up from his chair at his brother in name.
“And what can I do for you, Mycroft?” Anthea stood next to Mycroft, clicking away on her blackberry; the messengers construct. Sherlock felt the urge to snatch the phone away, just to see what Mycroft would do.
Mycroft smiled.
“The greatest favour you could do me would be refrain from any more actions like your last stunt,” he said, his voice light and nonchalant. “It would be a shame if your time in this body was cut short and our deal was broken.”
John looked up from the paper at that, narrowing his eyes at the Holmes brothers. He knew. He understood.
“I make no promises I can’t keep, brother,” Sherlock told Mycroft. “But I’ll do my best. Now kindly leave if you have nothing else to request of me.”
Mycroft turned with a smile and faced John. “Do look after him, he worked so hard to look after you.”
John’s eyes burned into him.
----
John pounced.
“Why did you do it?” he asked, his hands clamped over Sherlock’s thin arms.
Sherlock smiled. “Obvious.”
John shook his head. “No. Say it. I want to hear you say it.” He leaned close, their mouths were almost touching, he held Sherlock so close yet so far.
“For you,” he breathed. “For you, Apollo.” John’s eyes flared with his name.
“Why?”
Sherlock laughed. “You asked for help. This was how to get it. A sacrifice.”
“You enslaved yourself to him.”
“A small price to pay.” Sherlock lunged forward against John’s grip, pushing his lover back, over, down to the floor. He held him there, pinned beneath his hands to the wood. The fire flickered hotly to his side, burning him as John’s eyes burned him. “I gave myself to him for you. To find and free the Huntress and protect the Hunter. A debt of service ‘til this flesh is cast away.”
John reached up, pulling at his shoulders. “You are a creature of madness.”
Sherlock bowed himself until his lips brushed John’s; a reminder. “It is not the chase that I love.”
He worshiped John, gave himself as a libation. His body; an offering.
----
Sunlight kissed the windows of two-two-one-B and vines crept up the sill to meet it. They grew everywhere, defying the laws of nature to drape across the mantle, wrap around the legs of chairs and curl in corners. Music seemed to play faintly on the air, complemented by the crackle and pop of the fire that never died. Their flat turned temple, the space imbued with the power born from their union.
It was a cycle of reparation and veneration; to worship and be worshiped in return. It strengthened them, fed them, returned the glory stolen from them with their losses.
What use were followers when one had this?
When they touched, the leaves on the vine unfurled. When their lips danced together the sun shone hotly through the window. When they gave of themselves the unseen drums kicked a primal beat just at the edge of hearing.
They lived. They thrived.
----
Mycroft frowned to see the evidence. Sherlock smirked to see his frown.
----
The game lead him to the criminal, Moriarty. He had sent the cabbie. He had blown up humans. He thought he was powerful, but he was playing with fire. Sherlock had been content to amuse him in his delusions of grandeur, but then he put John in a vest, and Sherlock was suddenly not amused any more.
He had just gotten John, just made him his, and this Moriarty wanted to take that. Moriarty wanted to ‘burn the heart’ out of him. It would be so easy to crush him, but John’s gaze warned Sherlock against it. If he did that, they would have to abandon these bodies anyway, not just have them stolen from them. If he did that, who knew what hell would break loose?
They kept their hand close to their chest, and it seemed the Fates were looking their way. Moriarty’s phone rang and he left. Sherlock would crush him another time.
----
Mycroft’s men came for him; the call to duty, he supposed. He had to go. He was bound to. That didn’t mean he was going to go easily.
They ended up taking him away in a sheet and nothing more. John would laugh to see it.
----
He loved being right.
John was moved to laughter to find him sitting in the same sheet he’d walked around in since the night before. Clothes were boring. Clothes were unnecessary when they were home, alone.
John looked at him with a particularly wicked gleam in his eyes. Sherlock knew what he thought. “Patience,” he whispered, laughing to have to caution patience. If Mycroft didn’t hurry up, he might not continue.
It seemed Mycroft got the idea.
“I have heard whispers of another old friend coming to play, brother-mine,” he informed Sherlock, appearing discomforted. Sherlock held back a laugh. “I’d like it if you would meet the new arrival.”
Sherlock sighed. “Must I?”
“I feel I’ve asked rather nicely. It would be rude not to give some welcoming, unless of course you’re uncomfortable.”
John and Sherlock exchanged a look. Sherlock was not the uncomfortable one in this equation. Not by a long shot. “Nonsense. We’ll go right along.”
----
Aphrodite had decided to join the fun.
And by ‘join the fun’, Sherlock rather meant the opposite. It was a tedious procedure to meet her, now calling herself Irene, but Mycroft wouldn’t face her himself. He was rather bored with the whole proceeding, and that included the fact that she stood skyclad while straddling his leg. He heaved a sigh, hoping John would return soon.
Irene seemed to be trying to get a rise out of him, but her antics were so beyond his span of attention he could hardly have cared. John seemed as equally unimpressed as he entered the room, taking in Irene in all her revealed glory and doing nothing more than raising an eyebrow.
Her game had failed. Sherlock offered her his coat to cover up.
“Lovely to see you, as always, Ms. Adler.” He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of her name. He was only here as a messenger of the Messenger. She curled her lips at him in what could hardly be considered a friendly smile.
“Now, don’t be so cold, Dionysus,” his name fell flat from her lips.
He blinked lazily at her, bored. “The name is Sherlock Holmes.”
“Oh, I’ve heard about you, Mr. Holmes. You and your brother. That’s why I’m here.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “And what ever could we do for you?”
“It’s not what you could do for me, but I, for you. I know of your bond, and I’m here to offer you a chance to break it.”
Sherlock truly looked at her. John leaned forward expectantly.
“Why?”
Irene grinned. “Because I want to spoil his fun.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. He loved a little chaos. “How?”
“I’ve got a plan, and a friend.”
----
John and Sherlock listened to Irene’s plan. John liked her ideas. Sherlock was not opposed.
It was beautifully simple.
A human; a simple, brilliant mortal who thought himself almighty would be the instrument of their plan. They would let him think himself powerful; let him think he had the control, that Sherlock was in the palm of his hand. The human who thought he could take John away; Moriarty. It was the beauty of mortals that they were so easy to convince of greatness.
This lovely little pawn would be given the tools to compromise Sherlock. He would be given the means to orchestrate his end.
Sherlock Holmes would fall, and a new being would rise from the ashes, and none would be the wiser.
----
They returned to two-two-one-B. They returned to their makeshift temple, where the vines grew and the sun shone and the music played; to where things were alive, and whole and theirs. The plan would be put in action, but there was no rush. He was in no hurry. This was her plan, her intent, what reason did he have to push on at full speed? None.
Days, weeks, months, years. What were they to a God?
The measurement of a body.
He had Apollo, that was all he cared for. He reached out and touched golden lips. John traced the tip of his finger with the tip of his tongue.
He would enjoy these bodies while they had them.
----
It was the purest worship when they laid together, their bed turned altar. Sherlock let himself become intoxicated on warm skin. He drank down the heady musk of John's body, indulged in the sweet feast of the flesh. John wrote poetry on the planes of Sherlock's form with his fingertips, hunting ecstasy in the curves and angles of his anatomy.
They made music in motion and danced together in its rhythm.
----
John picked up the newspaper, folding it to show the article declaring Sherlock Holmes a fake. Everything was going according to plan. Wherever he walked, people spared him questioning glances, wondering whether all his cases were lies. In part, they were, and lies with some truth to them were always more believable.
Moriarty was making use of the information given to him, and was inventing his own additions in a way that positively thrilled Sherlock. The wicked little beast was proving quite useful.
Irene’s plan was working perfectly.
----
Lestrade came, fixing a serious eye on Sherlock. “I know what you’re planning to do.”
Sherlock grinned at him. “I haven’t the slightest idea as to what you’re talking about.”
“Come now, Dionysus,” Lestrade sighed, “Don’t you think I know your tricks well enough by now?” There was truth to that. “Why do you want to do this?”
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at Lestrade. “You know what he’s like, Thanatos. He’s all great fun until he has you as one of his toys. I don’t like being his slave, I imagine you wouldn’t either.” A moment of silence passed between them and Sherlock smirked. “And so, it’s Ms. Adler’s plan. I’m bored of this life, my friend, but you know I like to go out with a bang.”
Lestrade chuckled gently, shaking his head.
“Well, if you must, I shall make it as quick and painless as possible.”
Sherlock smiled. “Thank you, my friend. I could not ask for more.”
He stood and they clasped forearms in a brotherly gesture and grinned at one another.
“It’s going to be a good show.”
----
John approached him with a bottle of fine wine. Tomorrow was the day.
“Drink with me,” John said and Sherlock offered him his hand, pulling him down to his side. It was the beginning of them and the end of them. John tasted the wine and Sherlock tasted his lips, drinking the sweet liquid from him. He would miss this sun-kissed skin, the warm slide of muscle, the soft dusting of golden hair.
He could only wonder what the next encounter would bring him and the idea thrilled him.
John leaned over him, pressing the lengths of their bodies together. “You know I will follow you.”
Sherlock ran his fingers down John’s throat. “Apollo,” he whispered and John shivered. “Apollo, you know I will find you.”
John captured Sherlock’s fingers between his lips, tasting the wine’s sweetness on his flesh. “You had better.”
----
The sun rose and John rose, extracting himself from the bed. Sherlock sighed at the emptiness beside him that came too soon. Today was the day Sherlock Holmes would be no more. Today was the day John Watson would cease. Today was the day Mycroft would lose his hand and Moriarty would win the game.
The sunrise was bitter sweet.
----
He dressed deliberately, taking his time; suit, coat, scarf, gloves. It was his final performance; he was putting on the costume one last time. Irene had informed him Moriarty would be waiting for him on the roof of St. Bart’s and that would be his stage. He walked out the doors of two-two-one-B for the last time, John following close behind.
It was time to raise the curtain.
----
He opened the door onto the roof of St. Bart’s, the crisp air and warm sun hitting his cheek. John was below, on the street, and Apollo was above and around him, and Sherlock smiled to see Moriarty sitting on the ledge, looking down over the edge. Sherlock knew what he was thinking; it was quite a ways down. A thrill passed through him. Moriarty stood and turned to face him and Sherlock’s grin widened.
“Let’s get on with this, shall we?” He offered his hand and watched Moriarty’s plan fall to pieces. He had expected Sherlock to be distressed, to be desperate, afraid, and instead he was laughing. Moriarty took his hand.
“You want me to jump, to end my life and bring Sherlock Holmes crashing down, and I will. I’ll jump, and I will die, and you’ll have won, except you made one mistake, one little mistake,” Moriarty raised an eyebrow, “You made the mistake of messing with the wrong man, because I am not playing your game, you’re playing mine, and you are nothing more than a pawn.”
Confusion spread over Moriarty’s face as Sherlock let Madness seep into him. “You see, James Moriarty, you think yourself a god,” Moriarty’s hand drifted to the gun strapped to his waist, pulling it free, “But I am a God,” Moriarty opened his mouth and slipped the gun inside, “And Gods don’t take kindly to your mockery.”
The gun fired and Moriarty was no more.
Sherlock turned and stepped up onto the ledge. He felt the sun and the wind and he saw John below. One hand stretched out, a silent promise that their paths would collide yet again. John answered in kind and watched as Sherlock spread his arms.
The wind whipped through his coat. The sun kissed his cheek. He let his body tip forward until nothing held him anymore and the wind sang in his ears. He fell. Sherlock Holmes reached his end. John went home and put a bullet in his brain. Apollo and Dionysus ran free.
It was on to the next adventure.