The walls of the abandoned schoolhouse were worn with neglect and in the process of crumbling away, stained at the corners a sickly black-green from asbestos and mold. Holmes was certain he'd be disgusted if he had the ability to feel anything at all. Instead, he walked past the disease ridden, paint chipped walls with no little amount of disinterest, grip loose and easy on the guns in each hand and eyes focused indifferently on the length of hallway ahead.
This particular group of the Resistance was responsible for a number of murdered officials and the illegal salvaging of the Museo D'Orsay's only remaining paintings, a collection that had been impressively hidden from the Council for decades. It had taken months of planning and infiltration before a window of opportunity had opened up, the timing finally falling in their favor in a way that could almost be considered too perfect. A surprising bout of good luck, or a trap. Either way, Sherlock Holmes hadn't become the highest ranking Grammaton Clericby chance; not one of the Sense Offenders would be making it out alive.
"This way," Lestrade motioned with the barrel of his gun, the slew of Enforcers filing into the other length of hallway supposedly leading to the Resistance's base. While Sherlock was more than capable of working alone-a fact he'd mentioned on countless occasions to his superiors-partners were deemed mandatory by the Tetragrammaton Council, and Greg Lestrade had been his for going on five years. A man unmatched at Gun Kata-with the exception of Sherlock himself-with an unprecedented knack for pinpointing plausible Resistance camps in the Nether. Many believed it was only a matter of time before he located the Underground itself, though Sherlock was not of a similar confidence. Sherlock saw everything, observed every detail, noticed, analyzed, and catalogued the smallest of possibilities in their government's flawless system, and Greg Lestrade being the end of the Resistance wasn't one of them. For obvious reasons.
It had started with an almost unnoticeable-to anyone other than Sherlock-hesitation on raids, Lestrade's grip tightening just so before pulling the trigger, his eyes and lips narrowing at the corners in what one might call a grimace whenever arrested Offenders cried out angry, ineloquent profanities or pleaded for their lives in the seconds before execution. Eventually, Sherlock noticed, Lestrade had stopped firing his gun all together, the man's trips to the Nether becoming almost nightly while his repossession of EC-10 items lessened to practically nonexistent. Of course, Sherlock wasn't quick to bring his partner's Sense Offense to light. Not out of any illegal notions of kindness or loyalty but rather a need for timing; when it would be the most beneficial for Sherlock Holmes and his career, Greg Lestrade would see execution for his crimes, just like the rest.
"Once again, Holmes," Lestrade whispered into the silence, his words punctuated by the click of the Enforcers' heels on the rotted wooden floorboards and the whispers of direction as they separated into various open doorways. "Your abilities outdo themselves." This was the fifth time in the last two weeks that Lestrade had tried to gauge the possibility of Sherlock's own Sense Offense, a mistake more than a few had made since Sherlock's initiation into the Grammaton Cleric. It was Sherlock's ability to fake emotion that made him such a valuable asset to the Council, his ability to convince even the most far gone Sense Offenders of his ability to feel. But it also caused many a debate over his "true nature," some even going so far as to imply he was neglecting his Prozium before cases. Sherlock had been the one to infiltrate the Resistance Group after Lestrade's pinpointing of their location, convincing them through disguise and no little amount of acting that he was recently off his injections, slowly gaining their trust as well as access to their base. Which was when he'd returned to the Cleric with his information and a plan for ambush, donning his uniform and heading out with Lestrade in tow that night.
"I do what I must," Sherlock replied simply, turning off the safety on both guns and walking assuredly towards where he knew the group to be, Lestrade following on his heels. The room was dim and quiet, lit only by the slivers of moonlight filtering in through the cracks in the ceiling, but even so, it was easy enough to see the display before them, Lestrade's hand offering its tell-tale grip of emotional response on the handle of his gun. Bound together in a line, blindfolded and gagged, were the ten men of the Resistance, on their knees with hands tied behind their backs, awaiting their fate and trembling under the fear of it. Sherlock would have rolled his eyes or grimaced, he mused. Maybe scoffed or pitied them, though he doubted he'd be that sort of man. Emotion was a burden. A curse. And one Sherlock Holmes had never and would never suffer from.
It wasn't until the Enforcers were surrounding the line of men that Lestrade seemed to finally locate a verbal response to the situation, the Cleric lowering his gun to his side. Sherlock noticed the safety was still on. "How long?" Lestrade asked through gritted teeth. Sherlock didn't even bother to look at him.
"For months," he replied. "You were hardly inconspicuous, Lestrade."
"Then why let me keep sending them away if you knew?" He sounded angry, Sherlock registered objectively, cataloguing the new inflections and raise of voice. It was almost strange to hear them in Lestrade's familiar, generally stoic tone. "Why keep on-?"
"Because you offered a means to an end," Sherlock cut him off, motioning to the Enforcers with a tilt of his head, a barrage of gunfire cracking into bursts of existence before fizzling off, an echo of sound and ten dead bodies lingering in their absence. "All of those Resistance groups you "sent away" were gathered, catalogued, and executed on record. Each trip you took to the Nether was our opportunity to collect the filth you left behind."
"You bastard," Lestrade practically seethed. It was something akin to fascinating. "I'd promised them… I'd promised them protection. I was supposed to… There were children in those groups, Holmes. Families! Does that mean nothing to you?" Lestrade made to raise his gun, but Sherlock was quicker. Three moves of the simplest Gun Kata form and he was incapacitated, the cold metal of a semi-automatic pressed firmly against his chest. Sherlock tilted his head in question.
"Why should it?"
Not one of the Sense Offenders would be making it out alive-a decision made by the Council hours before their departure, and one that would still stand. Without hesitation, Sherlock raised the barrel of his gun to rest between Lestrade's angry, frightened eyes and pulled the trigger.