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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"Do you suspect I'm worried about you?" Irene asks, recalling the last conversation that took place between them in this bed. She can't keep the growing smirk hidden at her play on words. Her lips barely part, flashing a sliver of her teeth.

But unfortunately, that was the current extent of her information. Although Sherlock's additional details filled in a few of the gaps and answered most of her own questions. She would have to inquire further about this Ragusa, Inc. another day. Her business wasn't quite finished here, however.

"Of course not," Sherlock replies calmly. He knows what she's referring to, but he doesn't show that. The way he looks at her merely says I know. A few birds that ventured out of wherever they hid at night began to sing outside the window, relishing the new sunlight. Sherlock struggles to sit up and lift the shade again.

"You know he's here."

Her mouth tightens. The smirk fades. At least his mind is as sharp as ever; or perhaps it's obvious what is at the forefront of their minds. Funny how even with a practically biblical plague Jim Moriarty is still the bigger force to be reckoned with. She wonders how aware Sherlock is of his obsession -- a psychotic obsession.

"I do," she remarks, reaching over him to move his hand away and let the shade stay closed. She wants his attention and no one else's at the moment. "I imagine he's going to get in touch with me again. I hope you're not planning to underestimate him."

Sherlock frowns when Irene stops him, but he holds on to her hand. A momentarily steady pulse for an equally serious conversation. He leans back onto his bed, not thinking to let go. He doesn't like the idea of her meeting with him, of anyone meeting with him.

"Karachi was just a hiccup in your relationship, then?" It's not an entirely resentful statement. Sherlock knows it's just as hard to get out of Jim's web as it is to enter it. His chuckle, however, is entirely bitter.

"I have lost the ability to ever underestimate Jim Moriarty."

For a moment she lifts an eyebrow, almost as if saying, don't be like that. But she doesn't move her hand either. "I'm positive he'd still like nothing more than to have my head, and mount it on his wall. But this is a new playing field. He can't rule me out just yet."

But her most valuable asset to him is Sherlock, which she refrains from saying. Does it need to be said? Probably not. He sounds very much aware of what Jim Moriarty wants.

"I take it I've still missed quite a lot." Irene sometimes forgets Karachi wasn't only days away for him when she arrived. So much could have happened in the time she missed. He never did tell her -- not that it took huge leaps in logic to guess. She knew Moriarty had deadly games in store for Sherlock, no details of course, but nothing that would end well for Sherlock if he wasn't careful.

"Hm." All the pawns in place. He knows it makes sense. Any attempt she makes to get into Moriarty's thought process is probably about as successful as his. But Moriarty wouldn't make a gamble on her sentiments. At best, he'd work to use them against her and Sherlock.

"You have. He called it an IOU." Talking about this again pained him, but again the symptoms of the flu started to lift, and he was able to sit up without things spinning.

"And I know something about him that he doesn't. He's dead."

It felt good to say, even if he had just seen him the other day, without a hole through the back of his head. Sherlock has to stop himself from repeating it.

Irene pulls herself up when he does, sitting higher with an attentive stare. She knew that was exactly what Moriarty would do, unless she played along. Of course, she's hoping it use that expectation against him.

"Are you certain? Was it you who killed him?" It might be an obvious question to him, but she has to know. She knows how easy it is for one to fake their own death, and Jim could do it with a snap of his fingers, if he wanted. She remains still, body tensed, until he answers.

Edited 2012-06-29 04:59 (UTC)

"No." There's a shade of something like regret in that confession. There would be time for that later, though. Sherlock's brows furrow when he notices Irene so rapt at attention. Under any other circumstance he would have gloated to have her at an advantage. He had, in the past. But now isn't the time. He could be cruel, but not when it came to this.

"He did it himself. And it's particularly difficult to fake a bullet to the head right in front of me, I promise you."

Normally she might rejoice at the news, but Irene keeps herself steeled. It matters more that he's alive here. Even so, Sherlock must have done something, or said something, to make Moriarty reach that point in the game. Not reassuring. It still wasn't something she would have expected, and apparently Sherlock hadn't either.

"Well, it seems this city must have found a way. We're back where we started." She sighs through her nose, still refusing to lower her gaze. "He's not going to stop, you know."

It's the closest she will ever get to making him promise her he will stay alive. The implication is there, whether he grasps it or not.

One step forward off a roof, and several steps sprawling backwards. It's a bitter truth that Sherlock simply scoffs at. His composure remains grim, even swaddled in sheets and pathetic as he looked at the moment.

"I know." He also knows what Irene means, and as is so often the case with her, he isn't sure how that makes him feel. Either way, he has no plans on dying here.

"I won't either."

"Good." Irene accepts that answer, with a crack in her steely mask as she allows a subtle smirk to slip through. So much confidence and cleverness even when he looks so miserable and weak -- and not the kind she finds attractive. It really isn't his best look.

"But there's still one more thing," she adds. "I did tell you that you would enjoy both of what I have to offer." Her tone suggests dinner, but her hand (gently gripping this whole time) turns over to cover his. All the while she holds steady eye contact with a quiet concentration.

The sensations should be gradual for him, muscles relaxing, head clearing, as the flu-like symptoms start to dissipate. And something else to take its place. Maybe some color back in those cheeks. Light doses of physical pleasure and comfort to temporarily cure all that nausea and pain. If Sherlock thought he knew the extent of her power over people, then he was in for another surprise.

But then she drops her gaze and pulls away. It stops.

Sherlock had inferred from her tone already that it would just be more teasing, but the sensations the run through him when she looks him in the eye are unnaturally accelerated. Everything that felt stuffed up in him seems to drain into nothing, and all the aches dissipate.

"What--"

Without preparation for this, Sherlock shudders visibly and sinks down into the bed. His muscles were so loose, he couldn't do anything else. Once Irene's gaze leaves him, he understands.

"...Found your power, then." As if her seeing him in this state isn't embarrassing enough. He's suddenly reminded of how their first encounter ended.

Oh, that was gorgeous. Irene seems even more pleased with the results than anticipated, not being able to hold back a grin, tongue playfully pushing against her teeth. There was something about his weakness when she was the one causing it. At least the effects had to feel better this time; and no use denying with a reaction like that.

"You should see what it can really do," she replies with a flick of her eyebrows. "I could make your mind go so blank that you would forget your own name. Or have you screaming in agony."

And she wouldn't even have to touch him -- even though she just had. Maybe an error he'll make in the future. It was fun to think about. She tilts her head, pouting her lips in thought. Then she lifts her hand again and lightly brushes her nails against his forehead, moving some of his thick curls to the side. "But I think you're in enough pain, dear."

Sherlock can't help but curl up his lip at her mocking look, but he doesn't try to ruin the relaxation in any other muscles just yet. Still, he remains defiant, trying to shift upwards a bit against his pillow.

"My mind hasn't been blank since the moment I was born." Pleasure centers or none, he's confident not even she could stop the constant buzz and thrum of his brain. It simply isn't possible. "But I'm sure your clients appreciate the opportunity."

His words are harsh, but his eyes softly close under Irene's touch. He's not positive of the source of that power yet-- touch is an obvious possibility, but eye contact also seemed to play into it.

"I've had worse."

Irene resists rolling her eyes, looking down at him instead with incredulity. She would take that as a personal challenge, but then again, he was practically offering it to her as one.

"There's always a first for everything," she counters, tone slightly laced with innuendo. But she's absolutely serious. She had the pleasure of claiming such things, especially as the one woman who beat him. His defiance was only all the more encouraging.

"I know," she says, leaning her weight on her free hand and dipping down to press her lips to his forehead. She lets his curls fall back down as she soon draws back. "Just refrain from sulking, it's not an attractive look."

Surprisingly, most of all to himself, Sherlock seems to now be used to Irene's small tokens of affection. He feels a bit of heat rise in his neck, but he stays calm. Ever defiant, he burrows deeper into his sheets.

"I'll do my best to maintain my poise when I get the flu in the future," he grumbles. "And are you always going to be making bedside visits like this?"

Sherlock feels like this has become a sort of meeting place, which is odd. And as he feels sleep starting to claim him again, he wonders if it's a good idea to always let her leave without a watchful eye.

"I don't know," Irene muses, pretending to think about the question. Her lips curve up briefly. "Would you like me to?"

Silence filters in. Her eyes remain fixed to Sherlock's with a steady and penetrating look, determined to keep their shared gaze before sleep completely grabs hold of him. It strengths to communicate something, almost the opposite of her tone moments ago -- something immense, something terrible, like it was looming over them. He should understand (they spoke better without words).

She isn't certain how long they stay like that, but she is the one who breaks the connection, wordlessly sliding away and putting her feet back into her shoes near the side of the bed. She clears her throat, reverting back to her previous question, "Careful though, you wouldn't want to get addicted."

Sherlock looks up at her, and his frown softens with veiled concern. It doesn't take much to know what she's thinking. Irene Adler enjoys a bit of danger, but she doesn't want to play with Jim Moriarty anymore. Escaping him, however, is not as simple as gaining the desire. He wants to tell her not to meet with him, but that could even be more dangerous than accepting his invitation.

But he'll protect her. It's weak and it's sentiment, but Sherlock knows he will. And if Irene's anywhere near as good as she always seems to be, she'll know, too. He sits up a bit again when he feels her weight ease off the mattress.

"I'm familiar with addictions. Easier to kick than you'd imagine."

Which is, of course, a bluff.

Irene knows. She bet her life on that fact once, and she would continue to do so as long as they remained here. Sentiment, as much as she would disagree, was also a valuable strength in this case. But the stakes were very high and it could easily cost the game; they had to be careful — all of them. His mirrored gaze told her he understood the warning.

"There are no patches for me, unfortunately," she notes, voice not betraying any of their earlier shared thoughts as she checks her phone. She taps on the keypad briefly before pocketing it again. Then her hand rests on the door knob, pausing one more. "Feel better, Mr. Holmes."

There's no chance for a retort. The Woman is already gone.

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Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi

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what am i writing anymore

BEAUTY

/dead cat