sirenspull_logs | Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi

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Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi

Who: Sherlock Holmes and whoever else!
When: Around noon, Sunday the 20th
Where: The Church of Jonova
Summary: Sherlock wants answers about the outbreak of the mysterious flu, and he's hoping this curious healing mass will provide a few clues.
Warnings: None as of now.

The epidemic had begun barely a week before, and already nearly half the city seemed to be in its thrall. Clearly, this wasn't an ordinary sickness. Despite its flu-like symptoms, it wasn't the proper season for incubating those kinds of contagions. Other than being contagious, there didn't seem to be a common thread among those who contracted it, except most young children were healthy. That didn't make sense; illnesses victimized those with weak immune systems, typically the very young and the very old. If it didn't have to do with immune systems, there had to be something more to this. The rumors of SERO's involvement needed to be taken with a grain of salt-- AGI would jump at any opportunity to smear them, though this did have the earmarks of something engineered.

What Sherlock decided was worth investigating was the Church of Jonova's mass healing prayer service. It looked fairly innocuous, but to him, it was rife with suspicion. Why, if the church wished to do the island a service, was it asking to gather all the sick in one place without a quarantine? It was just asking for farther spread of the disease. Ignorance was a possibility, but Sherlock decided to go regardless. If anything, he could maybe get a few leads from talking to the afflicted. So far he seemed to be immune.

The church itself didn't impress him. Despite the numerous deities-- self professed or otherwise-- that were part of the Newcomer community, the native world of Siren's Port had just as much evidence of a higher power as at home. Namely, none. However, the crowds at the church were more compelling. How many people were so desperate for a cure that they turned to faith over medicine? Or how many, like him, were just looking for answers?

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"Sher—" When he hears the unmistakable sounds of his flatmate throwing up, he turns his head towards the bathroom. Oh, that doesn't sound good, he thinks as the lines of his face crease with concern. Effortlessly shifting back into doctor mode, he carves a path through all the mess in the living room, and raps his knuckles against the door.

It's more of a courtesy knock than anything else, because he reaches for the handle and shouts a warning out to Sherlock. "I'm coming in, okay?"

Even if he wanted to rebuff his friend, Sherlock is too busy heaving for breath to answer. The acid didn't help his sore throat in the least, and his muscles are sore. It causes him to clamber up to the sink in a gangly manner before he bothers to look at John. He just shakes his head.

"Don't need you to get it." He waves him off fervently.

John looks over his friend from the doorway, taking in the dark curls matted with sweat, the shocking discolour in his cheeks, and the pair of rheumy eyes glaring at him from the sink. If it was possible he had any doubts whether his friend had caught this illness or not, Sherlock had just sealed his own fate by saying that... and by a loud retch, too.

"I've been working at the hospital all week, Sherlock." John points out, striding across the bathroom and wraps his arms around him, hoisting the taller man up from the floor with a grunt. "Thiiiink there's a pretty good chance I won't come down with this thing."

Sherlock sags a bit in John's grasp before putting his feet properly on the ground and balancing himself on the sink counter.

"Can't stop now. Made a breakthrough at the church. Patient Zero's wedding was there--"

He continues to babble about the case and tries to free himself, but only manages to at least flush the toilet. Sherlock just shakes his head. He knows why it finally got to him.

"He's here, John."

"No, you need to be in bed... and don't even try to argue with your doctor." John warns him, his low voice a precursor to a thinning patience, steering the rambling detective out of the bathroom and towards his bedroom. "I've got enough upper body strength to put you into a lift and I will mention it in the next month's upda—"

He stops sharply when he feels his own stomach drop. He opens his mouth, seconds away from asking 'who', but he has a pretty good idea who Sherlock means. A certain entry on the network piqued his attention the other day, especially with some of the words thrown around – average, mediocrity, boring – and wets his lips in trepidation of the question he's about to ask him.

"... Moriarty?"

Sherlock continues to grumble incoherently until John gets him to his room. His bed suddenly looks like the promised land, and he collapses on it without delay. It doesn't distract him entirely. He needs to stay on top of the situation. All the suspicious money being pumped into that church, all from a pharmaceutical company-- Another pang that feels a knife is slowly creeping along his stomach lining keeps Sherlock from continuing that thought as he curls up on his mattress. No, there's something more pressing for him and John now.

"Yes. You saw that post, I know you did." He tries to sit up, and only manages to press his shoulders against the headboard. "He was at the church."

"Yeah, I saw it." The doctor confirms, leaning over to pull Sherlock out of the fetal position. He straightens his legs out on the bed, removing his shoes in the process, and then draws the blankets around his lithe frame. He presses his hand against his forehead and isn't surprised when he feels a raging inferno burn underneath his hand.

"Jesus, Sherlock... what happened?" Worry bleeds into his voice. It's probably not the best time for them to discuss the consulting criminal, but John can't help but feel this is an opportune moment to finally get some straight answers out of his friend.

Though he groans at being moved, Sherlock is quick to snatch the blanket around himself. John's hand is a cool moment of relief from the battling heat and cold inside him, but he still swears under his breath. He'd underestimated how quick this virus could move through the body; no wonder so many were dead in so short a time.

"For a minute, I didn't know him. But it's impossible not to recognize him in some way--" He pauses to cough, a horrible rattle from the depths of a his thoracic cavity. "His power from the Core. He can hide in plain sight."

This isn't like any influenza outbreak John has seen before and he's worked in central London during flu season. It's always possible Sherlock could have been incubating this strain for a few days, but the severity of the symptoms... something else must be going on here. Nothing is ever normal in the Port and he frowns to himself – he was fine when he left for work this morning, wasn't he?

When Sherlock starts to cough, it snaps him out of his reverie and reaches around his back, pressing his hand firmly between his shoulder blades. His fingers knead into his back in slow, circular motions, as he attempts to ease some of his friend's discomfort.

"So, he can... just walk around and we'll be none the wiser?" John murmurs once Sherlock settles down again, dropping his hand from his back and adjusting his pillows instead. "Right, that's wonderful. I love this place, sometimes."

Sherlock closes his eyes, which threatened to rattle out of his skull with the strength of the cough. John's hand is a comfort, but not much of one. Not with the fever seeming to creep into his brain. He knows it's the guilt manifesting-- the guilt over leaving everyone behind, the guilt of hurting John the most, and for falling to deep into the game before he realized he had things he could lose.

"I can't be sure. You have to truly observe to notice him. Like a disguise you can't unmask unless you know him well enough." Sherlock tries to laugh, but it just comes out as another cough. "At least... he doesn't know he's dead. And I won't tell him."

He settles back against the pillow, and at the mere thought of wanting to sleep for ten years his heart palpitates strangely.

"You know why I'm sick, then." Sherlock isn't asking for a medical diagnosis. Everyone knows about the guilt by now.

Guilt? John's been sceptical in regards to this rumour, of course. To him, it's almost been the same as patients googling their symptoms before coming into surgery, and then swearing blindly their diagnosis is correct. It's easier to focus on that, rather than question why this illness hasn't affected him yet.

Now Sherlock has been struck down, it's torn to the forefront of his mind. He plants himself at the foot of his bed and links his hands together, face contorting with melancholy thoughtfulness. John isn't going to reassure the detective he has nothing to feel guilty about – the doctor has a list longer than his arm what he should feel guilty about.

"Do you really believe that?"

"Normally, I wouldn't." He sighs and opens his eyes again, watching John think with rapt attention. They both know he's not one for superstition.

"But things are always different here. Technology is advanced, so naturally they have more sophisticated bio-engineering. Creating a virus that can attack the neurological as well as the physical is easily possible." Sherlock pauses to have another small coughing fit that rattles the bed.

"Guilt is just as much of a chemical reaction as any other emotion. Too much of an imbalance can send the body into chaos. I'm sure the nanotechnology company that makes continuous and generous donations to the Church of Jonova is well aware of that."

No, Sherlock's definitely not one for outlandish stories. It's not the first time they've crossed something like this either. The reports on what happened at Indiana were still fresh in John's mind, as were Stapleton's words about it: if they can imagine something like this happening, someone's probably already doing it. It seems particularly likely with what he's heard about SERO in his time here.

"Wait... hang on, why would they be pumping money into a church?"

This distraction from the trashing in his stomach helps Sherlock settle into bed. He flicks his fingers idly against each other.

"It's all from the CEO of the company. Seems to imply he owes the church a debt. All I was able to find before-- this was that he did a stint in prison here before rising to where he is now. I need to go back and look into it."

"Noooooo you don't." John retorts in quiet exasperation. He folds his arms across his chest and shakes his head. "You're in no condition to do anything right now... you're staying in bed until you get over this, okay?"

Sherlock shoots John a glare. This is important, he thinks, with his usual disregard for his own safety. Even so, the case did need to be solved if people wanted to prevent this from happening again, in the case of a cure ever being found.

But then again, he didn't need to collect the information himself to make his deductions. For a moment, Sherlock's feverish eyes light up.

"Then you can do it."

Naturally, John's unfazed by the petulant look he receives from his flatmate. He stares right back and dares Sherlock to challenge him on this. With what he's been told about Moriarty this evening, the sparks of worry have raged into an inferno, and keeping his friend safe has become one of his biggest priorities right now.

Bruce was right, he thinks resentfully and purses his lips together. He's scared of what might happen now that madman's been pulled back. Although the detective's next reaction isn't quite what he was expecting and John's thrown off-guard.

"Me?"

"I'm not hallucinating other people yet, John," Sherlock replies wryly. "And why not? You managed the Bruce-Partington plans nicely enough." He'd found the final conclusion, but that was the point here, too.

"Carrie can help you, if you need it. I need to test her skills since she's come back." Speaking of Bruce, Sherlock had been worried about her without even his guidance. She'd admitted to killing people; he could reconcile that if she was still able to discern things. "...She'll say yes."

It's then that Sherlock notices the tics of concern all over John. The stern doctor look had vanished completely. He furrows his brow, while clearing his throat a bit. It doesn't help.

"What's wrong?"

And those plans ended up at the bottom of a swimming pool, but... details. He isn't keen on opening that can of worms right now. He throws Sherlock a quizzical glance when he drops a name he doesn't recognize. Carrie? ... Is that Redbird? Probably -- there's not many people he trusts enough with something like this and she recently returned to the port.

"Nothing's wrong, I'm just thinking." John mumbles and stands up. He rubs the back of his neck, keen to avoid the issue bothering him. "If... you think I can do this, then I'm going to need to call work and tell them I can't make tomorrow's shift."

"They've got every doctor available on task, don't they? And it's obvious conventional medicine won't help with this."

Once John stands up, Sherlock sinks into his bed, allowing his legs to unfurl all the way to the edge. It's a relief on his sore muscles; it hadn't been an easy walk home once they seemed to turn to jelly.

"Thinking's a given. What you're thinking is less obvious." Sherlock keeps his eyes pointedly fixed on the ceiling. "Talking... is supposed to relieve symptoms. If you can talk, I suppose. About-- what's causing it."

"Yes, we're starting to realize that now."

Fatalities have been mounting up. He's been working with Doctor McCoy a few times -- which should be a dream come true despite the circumstances -- but John finds himself wiggling his hand again. He stares down at it for a moment, clenching it into a fist, and then rolls his shoulders back. Talking about what's causing this... right. They've been skirting around what happened in London for months.

"... surprised therapists aren't cashing in on this rumour."

"The church seems to have beat them to it." Sherlock scoffs. "Odd, for the more archaic of the two."

He notices John's tics that spring from nervousness and concern. Sherlock purses his lips and stares up at the ceiling again.

"I never... hated myself before."

"... Yeah, I've noticed that."

He wants to remark how Sherlock has a plethora of people who could hate him on his behalf, but it'll be detrimental to his condition right now. If he'd known his friend for a bit longer before their second case together, he might've punched Sebastian. Just another regret he has to live with.

Sherlock doesn't really blame him for not defending him then. It felt like an eternity ago, and they hadn't been through everything together yet. Still, he sighs. He still isn't keen on talking about this, but he doesn't want to cause John any more anguish by wasting away to nothing before him.

"Thinking that the whole game just put me in that stalemate-- I didn't care what happened to me."

He speaks slowly, and he doesn't look at John, either. His eyes have strayed from the ceiling to out the window. Every word is a slow calculation.

"But you, and Mrs. Hudson. And Lestrade. I hated myself for not thinking ahead enough that you'd all be dragged into it." He shakes his head. "But even when I tried to protect you, it wasn't enough."

Standing with his back pressed against the wall, John listens to the detective without saying a word. The slow cadence of his words makes him ache a little inside, and he stuffs his hands into his pockets. He's a picture of a man lost in thought and empty with complex grief.

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi

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