Sleepless
part elevenJohn didn't have a nice suit or tie to wear for the occasion but the cold collar around his throat was ornament enough as far as he was concerned. Even if they were sitting down with the influential forces that governed their clustered civilization, Chapman was an arsehole John had never cared much for and wasn't likely to find greater favor in now. But he was happy for Sherlock, more happy for him than he was pleased to see their case progressing. He had focus again and an outlet for his curse-like talents. Getting to see Chapman was the best thing to have happened for him, all things considered. They'd slept and woke up rested for once and had days without terse exchanges. John's chest practically swelled with good feelings all around as he walked beside his partner in steps they'd longed to share again.
Sherlock was impeccably dressed as always, this time in a dark, unpatterened grey. The man still felt the shirts were too baggy and found reasons to complain about belts or even pants, but John thought he looked smart and certainly carried the image of a detective still, even if his suits were no longer tailored to his lines and gentle curves. He looked boxy instead of lithe but he was still arguably a man of taste and breeding to be taken seriously and not to be looked down upon. Not like John. John looked comfortable. It was sort of their good cop/bad cop mechanic. Sherlock brought severity and whit where John supplied empathy and understanding. Sherlock never had to bring himself down to anyone's level but the subject of inquiry did not have to feel overwhelmed and guarded while John was there to soothe their fears that they were dealing with an uncompromising man. They'd always made an excellent team.
Maybe it was the youthful energy that had filled in the aches of his joints. Maybe it was a reaction to plain and simple cabin fever. But he was proud of them. It made him giddy. He was on a case again with his best friend, being escorted by armed guards to see the political elite, full of the warnings of danger, and both of them foolhardy enough not to bat an eye. John was rather in love with them as a concept almost as much as he was in love with Sherlock. They were amazing and easily the dumbest people he knew. And he wouldn't change a god damn thing. Except, realistically, the collar.
The room they were lead to was larger than he expected. Bigger than Mycroft's. John wasn't so certain, given the other man's concerns, that that wasn't a conscious choice. More than just a simple excess in space, though, was the very notable absence of cameras. The whole Ark was covered in them as a safety measure but Chapman seemed to have found his own immunity from surveillance. Or so he probably thought. John wouldn't have been surprised in the least if there happened to be something hidden in a ceiling tile that operated to give Mycroft some small assurance the man hadn't cracked and was dancing in a pink tutu to Lady Marmalade. Not that they all weren't a little crazy. John had a hard time imagining anyone could be considered completely sane after living in a small box underground for two years, forsaking the light of the sun or the blue of the day for absolute security. Mycroft was one thing--a man adapted to the shadows--but even after only six or seven months, John could feel the edge of anxiety that silently screamed for the open air that was all but a promise for those like him, those considered to be immune. He wanted to rub his face in grass and smell the earth and wind. Surely that wasn't just him. Surely everyone felt that way. In John's mind, Sherlock was making angels in the tall grass just to finally feel stretched and unwound.
Chapman certainly looked wound and compacted in the space behind his desk, his eyes darting in an uneasy fashion at the guards that either stood to flank him or served as escort to Sherlock and John himself. Four armed members of the military seemed rather excessive given their circumstances. Who did he think was going to attack him? Coupled with the lack of security cameras, John could not help but shake the uneasy feeling that paranoia had made its home here and that perhaps Mycroft had been right about the lack of quality information the man possessed. Sherlock's hesitation beside him seemed to signal his agreement, his better mind out-seeing what John could detect with observations far more clever than his own. Still, they couldn't just stand around forever waiting for their host to do more than sweat and pale with worry.
"Mr. Chapman," John said, starting to extend a hand then thinking better of it as other hands fell to frame holsters. He forced a smile, trying to project a sense of ease. "Thank you for seeing us."
Chapman's screws seemed to tighten further as his neck shrank under bristled shoulders. "Yes, uh... well. Yes. Sorry about the, uh... Better safe than sorry."
"I suppose. Though I'd like to point out that we're not a threat to you. We're just here to talk." This was John's forte: the calming of the client, the placating of the frightened witness. It didn't generally happen under threat of retaliation but they were adaptab-... stubborn. So he supposed it didn't really change anything.
"Mm. Yes. Uh... Yes." Chapman stood up from behind his desk but made no move to cross around it. It was a private little barricade, a heavy wooden obstacle to give his soldiers more time to act. So long as he was willing to speak, it didn't matter where he stood. His level of fear was far more unnerving than empowering, though. What on earth had him this riled up? Overall, he didn't seem all that concerned with John. He looked him over only briefly before staring instead at Sherlock. Even John hadn't missed the way he swallowed thickly, Adam's apple bobbing heavily into the V of his unbuttoned shirt collar. "Well," he said. "Sherlock Holmes. The Sherlock Holmes. I always pictured you as older, but, uh--Hm. So, tell me, are you happy to be alive?"
It was an odd question but it sent unease down John's spine like a thick syrup.
Sherlock's left brow arched. "I think most people are appreciative of their continued survival."
"So you're happy that you're a detriment to mankind?"
John was beginning to understand the fear despite the presence of security if he was going to start with questions like those. John had half a mind to march up closer and explain a few things about the existence of survivors and what he thought qualified someone as a 'detriment to mankind'. Sherlock had a much cooler head than him on the subject. John wasn't a survivor, though--he was a byproduct of the byproduct. He was a witness. And no one who had ever witnessed someone survive from the disease would ever mock their strength and right to life.
Sherlock was always a scientist long before he rose to the rank of champion or hero. So he didn't bristle or scoff, he didn't even roll his eyes. John took care of those while Sherlock simply maintained a composure that proved himself to be far above the limits of humanity Mr. Chapman had bestowed on him. "I believe there is hope to reverse this. Which is why I'm here," he explained, taking a step forward only to be pulled back in line by the firm hand of one of their escorts.
Mr. Chapman shook his head. "You're here to beg for your life."
"I'm here to ask for your assistance in narrowing down the culprit behind the manufacturing of the disease in the first place." Sherlock was maintaining his careful cool much more gracefully than John had expected. He pulled his arm from the soldier's grasp and gave Chapman a glare of accusation but kept a tight lip over his usually venom-tipped fangs. They weren't criminals but they were certainly being treated like them. "If we find who made this, we can hold them accountable and force the release of all information related to the protein. It would give our scientists the chance to reverse this. We're not pushing any initiative, we just want the opportunity to do what it is we do--follow leads and investigate crimes. I'm sure an ambitious man like yourself would enjoy the opportunity to be a hero. The man who championed thousands of survivors and helped cure the entire world. All we need is answers and information, both of which you can give us."
"No."
Sherlock faltered slightly, eyes blinking in rapid succession. "Sorry?"
"I have no interest in the salvation of you and the rest of the abominations. You say that this disease was manufactured? I know exactly what you're doing. You think you can point the finger at the Americans to try and save your own skins," the politician ranted.
His misstep hadn't gone unnoticed. The Americans? What did they have to do with anything? Even if Chapman had no intentions of sharing information with them, his sloppy speech made it rather evident they could still come away from this with more than they had before.
Chapman continued. "This is all part of your brother's plan to undermine me. Well too bad. It doesn't matter what sort of propaganda you and he have tried to put together. I know the truth. And nothing you can do will change my mind."
Sherlock seemed even more cautious, the game plan having been changed to placating rather than inquiring, allowing the foolish man to feed them information through his own bias and paranoia than through questions. "I'm only interested in finding the truth--nothing more," he said, hands open to show he meant no harm as much as to disguise their intentions now tucked within his sleeves.
"Well, maybe if you're lucky, the Americans will be more interested in entertaining your theories than I am."
"I'd welcome the chance for a discussion."
Chapman chuckled, the sound nasally and unkind. John didn't like it. It was a sinister sound that did not even try to mask its intentions. John surveyed the guards that stood like box corners around them to see if his own soldier eyes could detect some impending motion that would cue the need to make haste. They stood like statues, though--as unmoved by Chapman's laughter as Chapman was by their request.
The politician smiled thinly as he let his fingers draw against the desk. "Your family has a very bad habit of not knowing your place. There isn't going to be a discussion. I'll hand you over and from that point on, you're none of my concern."
"Hand me over?" Sherlock's brows fell, his eyes sharpening to silver as their gaze pierced through the heavy air.
"It's very simple," Chapman said. "They want you, and I want Mycroft Holmes knocked down a few pegs. If the American's refuse to work with him, the World Congress will have no choice but to compromise and recognize me as the sole governing representative of this great nation."
Sherlock scoffed. "Power through obstinacy. You really believe they hold that level of leverage? Sounds more like ego than endowment."
"If you think I care what a Holmes thinks on the matter, you are quite mistaken. You're not here to argue, you're here to be detained. The Americans have a battle ship anchored a few miles out. They are sending a helicopter to collect you and anything else the British government feels inclined to offer up. As far as anyone needs know, our intentions are purely to collaborate in a centralized location with all our knowledge and samples related to this disease."
"While in reality we're to be executed?"
"I don't care what they do with you or the rest of the abominations." Chapman's full fear and hate were in force, disguised and tempered by nothing. He was a coward acting in the best interest of the coward. He turned John's stomach as he stood there behind his desk, hiding behind four armed men. "I wouldn't be surprised if there happened to be a little accident en route. No one to blame. These things happen in an unstable world."
Sherlock all but growled. "Getting rid of me doesn't get rid of the thousands of other people like me. All it does is destroy the evidence. Only myself and the other test subjects have comprehensive medical records still on file from before we became infected. You hand us over to the Americans, all that happens is that the opportunity to find out what happened is delayed--possibly to the point that medical options are no longer available. You would be sentencing every other survivor to death."
Chapman shrugged, a small smile still caught against his thin lips. "They should have died like everyone else did in the first place. None of you count as human anymore as far as I'm concerned."
"We won't go quietly," John promised, his hands clenched in firsts at his sides as he almost regretted wishing that such things would come to blows. It was two armed soldiers a piece. If he got the jump on the first, he could get his gun and Sherlock's hand-to-hand skill wasn't to be mocked. They weren't bad odds, honestly. And with diplomacy at an end, he'd much rather those odds than the ones Chapman was offering.
The politician visibly flinched at John's words, his eyes growing wide for just a moment before his hand clawed at the drawer to his desk. "Then you won't be going at all," he said, glancing down in the now open drawer before jabbing at something unseen. There wasn't even time to be curious. John felt the needle prick beneath his collar and froze in place, trying to rule out the normal pinch of skin that sometimes happened even as he began to feel his limbs grow heavy. "You all saw it," Chapman insisted. "He charged at the desk. I was defending myself."
Sherlock looked confused, the words not at all matching with reality. He looked down at John only moments before John grabbed hold of his arm, his legs giving way as he felt himself being hastened to the floor by gravity. And he knew. John could see through a haze the exact moment when Sherlock realized what had happened, what was happening, and the fright in his eyes was unyielding. John didn't have a voice to speak with, everything feeling heavy and unnatural as he finally crashed to the ground, the sounds of Sherlock struggling barely audible above the rush of John's own pulse through his ears. He could see blurs of motion and hear unfocused sounds of shouting but other than the cold that rushed from his toes to his fingertips, there was nothing distinguishable except for regrets.
And then, at the last, there really was nothing. Nothing but the cold, the darkness, and John.