Sherlock Fic: The Long Game 9/10 (Sherlock/John, 12+)
Well. Here we go, the final two chapters - which I'm posting in quick succession. I just managed it. This fic is going to be all posted before Series Two airs ... tomorrow night. :D
Title ~ The Long Game
Rating ~ 12+
Pairings ~ John/Sherlock
Summary ~ When Moriarty's plan to take out Sherlock and John in the swimming pool fails, John finds himself drawn into an even more complicated - and potentially deadly - game. (Continuation of The Great Game, with Chapter One starting exactly where the episode left off.)
Warnings ~ None.
Notes ~ Notes. I am indebted to ice_elf for all the encouragement she gave me when I was writing this, and for being the best beta anyone could ask for.
Disclaimer ~ Sherlock is the property of the BBC.
Masterlist
Chapter Nine
Sherlock stared at John’s limp body. He knew John was alive; his chest rose and fell with each shallow, irregular breath and his face was drawn into a frown, as though he could still feel the pain. Yet Sherlock’s heart fluttered against the inside of his ribcage like a small and very frightened animal. He was almost shocked at the intensity of the feeling.
Almost; he had felt like this before, the last time he had been face to face with Moriarty. Then, it had been a strange hybrid sensation, half way between fear at the sight of John’s blood and euphoria that his initial reading of the situation - of John as the enemy - had been wrong. Now, however, there was nothing to distract him from the twisting of his insides because his friend was hurt.
While his stomach roiled with panic, his mind, trained to be analytical and dispassionate, assessed the situation. He didn’t dare move from the chair to help John; there was still a sniper rifle trained on him, and both of them shot solved nothing. John had taken the bullet low in his torso, which meant that most of his internal organs could have been damaged, let alone a number of major blood vessels. It was hard to tell what the flow of blood was like; John’s hand pressed over the wound had hidden it from his sight before, and now it was on the far side of his body. From the way John’s hands had been shaking just before his collapse, it didn’t look good.
His heart rate sped up. He knew that the chances of a gunshot victim’s survival were dramatically improved quicker they received medical attention. Doctors called it the Golden Hour. Sherlock wondered how accurate that name was in practice. If the bleeding wasn’t bad, John might have an hour.
Or he might have minutes.
Sherlock’s insides did something unpleasant, and he dragged his eyes away. He focused on Moriarty, but John’s body was still in his peripheral vision. “Oh, very good,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Did you sit me here so I’d be distracted?”
“Is it working?” Moriarty said with a slow and easy smile. His eyes sparkled - not with hate or malice, but with genuine enjoyment. Reading the cues in the other man’s body language alone, Sherlock might have believed they were on a date.
“No,” he replied tightly, and it took every ounce of his willpower to keep his eyes locked on Moriarty’s and not to glance at John.
Moriarty leaned forward. “So make your opening move, Sexy.”
Sherlock properly looked at the chess set for the first time. It was ordinary: black and white pieces arranged on a board made of card. He was sitting in front of the white pieces.
That in itself was a statement of Moriarty’s confidence. Not that conceding the opening move meant much to a skilled player; Sherlock had played enough matches against Mycroft to know that. And there was no doubt that Moriarty would be good. He wouldn’t have made the challenge, otherwise. Still, Sherlock smiled to himself. He had been taught to play by Mycroft, who now played the biggest and most elaborate game of chess - with people, instead of pieces, and the world instead of a board. Moriarty might think he was good - but Sherlock was sure that he was better.
Then John shifted and let out a breath that caught on his vocal chords and produced a broken moan. Sherlock’s concentration shattered, his head snapping up to watch for the movement of his chest. Still there, and still sporadic enough to tighten the vice around his throat.
“Tick tock, Sherlock,” Moriarty murmured.
Though he hated to admit it, the other man was right. John was running out of time. At the back of Sherlock’s mind, the thought lurked that he might have run out already. Even if he got to the hospital with a pulse, there was only so much that surgeons and doctors could do. It might not be enough.
He looked back down at the board. He was absolutely certain that he could beat Moriarty. Logically, it was the sensible decision - the only decision that was right. Defeat Moriarty and put him behind bars, where he could no longer pose a threat to Sherlock and those close to him, not to mention the general populace. Sacrifice John to the greater good.
There, Sherlock faltered, his eyes dragged back to that frown line between John’s brows. He hated to think of himself showing weakness - having such a weakness - but even that couldn’t stop him from wanting to smooth that frown away, and the pain with it. With Moriarty behind bars, John would be safe, he thought. Safe, perhaps; but probably also dead.
Sherlock faced Moriarty. The other man was watching him with every sign of interest. “Well?” he prompted. “Have you come up with a little plan?”
He reached out without even glancing down and placed his index finger atop one of the chess pieces. His eyes were locked with Moriarty’s. There was no turning back now that he had touched a piece, but that didn’t matter. There was only one move he could make.
“Yes,” he said, his voice absolutely steady, and he toppled the white king with a single flick of his finger.
Chapter Ten
.
Title ~ The Long Game
Rating ~ 12+
Pairings ~ John/Sherlock
Summary ~ When Moriarty's plan to take out Sherlock and John in the swimming pool fails, John finds himself drawn into an even more complicated - and potentially deadly - game. (Continuation of The Great Game, with Chapter One starting exactly where the episode left off.)
Warnings ~ None.
Notes ~ Notes. I am indebted to ice_elf for all the encouragement she gave me when I was writing this, and for being the best beta anyone could ask for.
Disclaimer ~ Sherlock is the property of the BBC.
Masterlist
Chapter Nine
Sherlock stared at John’s limp body. He knew John was alive; his chest rose and fell with each shallow, irregular breath and his face was drawn into a frown, as though he could still feel the pain. Yet Sherlock’s heart fluttered against the inside of his ribcage like a small and very frightened animal. He was almost shocked at the intensity of the feeling.
Almost; he had felt like this before, the last time he had been face to face with Moriarty. Then, it had been a strange hybrid sensation, half way between fear at the sight of John’s blood and euphoria that his initial reading of the situation - of John as the enemy - had been wrong. Now, however, there was nothing to distract him from the twisting of his insides because his friend was hurt.
While his stomach roiled with panic, his mind, trained to be analytical and dispassionate, assessed the situation. He didn’t dare move from the chair to help John; there was still a sniper rifle trained on him, and both of them shot solved nothing. John had taken the bullet low in his torso, which meant that most of his internal organs could have been damaged, let alone a number of major blood vessels. It was hard to tell what the flow of blood was like; John’s hand pressed over the wound had hidden it from his sight before, and now it was on the far side of his body. From the way John’s hands had been shaking just before his collapse, it didn’t look good.
His heart rate sped up. He knew that the chances of a gunshot victim’s survival were dramatically improved quicker they received medical attention. Doctors called it the Golden Hour. Sherlock wondered how accurate that name was in practice. If the bleeding wasn’t bad, John might have an hour.
Or he might have minutes.
Sherlock’s insides did something unpleasant, and he dragged his eyes away. He focused on Moriarty, but John’s body was still in his peripheral vision. “Oh, very good,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Did you sit me here so I’d be distracted?”
“Is it working?” Moriarty said with a slow and easy smile. His eyes sparkled - not with hate or malice, but with genuine enjoyment. Reading the cues in the other man’s body language alone, Sherlock might have believed they were on a date.
“No,” he replied tightly, and it took every ounce of his willpower to keep his eyes locked on Moriarty’s and not to glance at John.
Moriarty leaned forward. “So make your opening move, Sexy.”
Sherlock properly looked at the chess set for the first time. It was ordinary: black and white pieces arranged on a board made of card. He was sitting in front of the white pieces.
That in itself was a statement of Moriarty’s confidence. Not that conceding the opening move meant much to a skilled player; Sherlock had played enough matches against Mycroft to know that. And there was no doubt that Moriarty would be good. He wouldn’t have made the challenge, otherwise. Still, Sherlock smiled to himself. He had been taught to play by Mycroft, who now played the biggest and most elaborate game of chess - with people, instead of pieces, and the world instead of a board. Moriarty might think he was good - but Sherlock was sure that he was better.
Then John shifted and let out a breath that caught on his vocal chords and produced a broken moan. Sherlock’s concentration shattered, his head snapping up to watch for the movement of his chest. Still there, and still sporadic enough to tighten the vice around his throat.
“Tick tock, Sherlock,” Moriarty murmured.
Though he hated to admit it, the other man was right. John was running out of time. At the back of Sherlock’s mind, the thought lurked that he might have run out already. Even if he got to the hospital with a pulse, there was only so much that surgeons and doctors could do. It might not be enough.
He looked back down at the board. He was absolutely certain that he could beat Moriarty. Logically, it was the sensible decision - the only decision that was right. Defeat Moriarty and put him behind bars, where he could no longer pose a threat to Sherlock and those close to him, not to mention the general populace. Sacrifice John to the greater good.
There, Sherlock faltered, his eyes dragged back to that frown line between John’s brows. He hated to think of himself showing weakness - having such a weakness - but even that couldn’t stop him from wanting to smooth that frown away, and the pain with it. With Moriarty behind bars, John would be safe, he thought. Safe, perhaps; but probably also dead.
Sherlock faced Moriarty. The other man was watching him with every sign of interest. “Well?” he prompted. “Have you come up with a little plan?”
He reached out without even glancing down and placed his index finger atop one of the chess pieces. His eyes were locked with Moriarty’s. There was no turning back now that he had touched a piece, but that didn’t matter. There was only one move he could make.
“Yes,” he said, his voice absolutely steady, and he toppled the white king with a single flick of his finger.
Chapter Ten
.