sirenspull_logs | 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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"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.

Sherlock finally looks at John, but he only dissolves into another round of haggard coughing. Once he's able to wheeze out of it, his hand rests at the corner of his mouth. He looks away again.

"I should... never have involved you in any of this." He hates this. He hates the nausea climbing back, he hates being forced to talk about the feelings he normally swallows deep down within himself, and most of all, he hates thinking John would probably be better off without him as a friend.

"Don't give me that." John snaps quietly, his voice strained as he bristles with emotion. It's not as intense as the incident in the hallway last month, but it carries the same weight as back then. All this... it still hurts and he anxiously wets his lips.

"You didn't involve me in anything. I chose to be there -- just like I'm here right now."

"Even if I could give you the plague," Sherlock retorts, though not disdainfully. It isn't really a plague, per se, but that isn't the point. John's loyalty is a perplexing, illogical thing, but it gratifies Sherlock immensely. Without his friend, he wonders if he ever would have even survived that first case together. Definitely not the ones after.

John's words put him into deep thought, and only once he's there does he realize the fever chills have lessened, as has his nausea. There was definitely still the sensation of a knife in his throat, but he felt slightly better.

"...Check my temperature again."

"You've got to admit, I've put up with a lot worse from you." John quips wryly, the corner of his lip curling up into a sad smile, pushing himself away from the wall. Crashing his dates with his girlfriends and using him in his experiments name just a few of the grievances that have tested his inexhaustible patience.

Neither of them would fare any better alone; not with Sherlock's disregard for his own well-being and his fear of being completely alone again. He presses his hand against his friend's forehead. He inclines his head to the side in thinly veiled amazement at the difference talking seems to have accomplished.

"That's... incredible." He breathes out, "But you're still feeling a bit warm."

"A bit," Sherlock echoes sarcastically. Even if he feels a little better, the illness still hit him like a freight train. He sinks under the covers some more, again avoiding John's eyes. They're always so earnest-- the opposite of his.

"He's still here again. We have to brace ourselves. The game won't be the same this time." His gaze does flit toward John again for a minute. "I'm sorry." It's the phrase he's wanted to repeat a thousand times every day since they've arrived again, but just never comes out.

Game. Mouth puckered in disapproval, John looks away to the side. It's not the word he would use to describe this situation. Moriarty has left nothing but a trail of destruction, misery and death in his wake, and has shaken the foundations of everyone they know back in London. John doesn't even want to imagine what he'll do here.

"... Right, it's..." His voice catches and he clears his throat. John rarely instigates physical reassurance but, in this case, he lifts his hand and pats Sherlock on the leg. "... okay! I'm actually not that angry anymore."

It's a force of habit, more than anything. Sherlock knows it stopped being a game quite a while ago, but that's all he'll ever be able to call what Moriarty spins around him. That's what those webs are to him; nothing but games. Sherlock looks up when John pats his leg, a bit of surprise on his face.

"Oh." Hearing that eases him a little bit more, but the general exhaustion of his body's internal struggles is starting to take over. "That's... good." He sighs as his eyelids start to droop. "Glad. Then."

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi

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