Sherlock Fic: Assistance (3/3), R
Title: Assistance (3/3)
Author: dak
Word Count: 19,960
Rating: R
Warnings: physical and mental abuse, vaguely implied dub-con. minor character death
Summary: AU. Slavery exists in the modern world. John belongs to Moriarty, that is until events beyond his control thrust him into the life of the world's only consulting detective.
A/N: For culf , as so many things are. She requested this prompt. I didn't mean for it to get this long. She owes me two fics in return. Dearest flatmate, I'm waiting...
Part 1 Part 2
Sherlock had found them a good stake-out location across the street from Downes’s house. They waited in an abandoned flat on the ground floor, watching the street in both directions from the window. Now that night was falling, it was easier for them to hide but harder for them to see.
It was a quiet area, thought. Not much activity and any movement would attract attention.
They had been there for a few hours, and Sherlock appreciated that John was keeping quiet, allowing him to think. The silence, however, couldn’t last forever.
“Feel like I’m on patrol,” John whispered, eyes never wavering from the window.
“Did you often go on patrol in Afghanistan?” Sherlock asked, remaining focussed on his own view.
“Every now and then, if they needed a medic. You’d think they’d’ve sent me out more. I mean, who cares if a slave gets killed, right?”
“Then why didn’t they?”
“Thought it was because the men didn’t want me there. At first,” John said. Sherlock could see him twisting his cane back and forth. “Thought they wouldn’t want their lives left in a slave’s care.”
“But that wasn’t the case.”
“It was Bill,” John replied with a sad laugh. “Bill requested that I not be sent out. Said he didn’t want me getting hurt. I told him he just didn’t want to lose his investment. I remember he smiled at that and said, ‘No. No, John. It’s not that.’”
John turned his head away for a moment then turned back to the window. Sherlock decided not to continue the conversation. After another ten minutes of silence, John spoke again.
“Do you think we should’ve told DI Lestrade where we were going?”
“I think even he could figure that out.”
“Right. But, do you think we’ll need back up? I mean, what if more than Downes shows up? What if it’s all three of them? What if...”
“Moriarty won’t be here,” Sherlock answered the unasked question.
“But if he’s involved...”
“Oh he’s much too clever for that. I believe he told you the truth, when he said he was in construction. But it’s not buildings, no. I believe he constructs crimes for others too stupid or inexperienced to do it themselves.”
“You mean...like a consulting criminal?”
“Ingenious, isn’t it? And who better to stop a consulting criminal than a...”
“Consulting detective.” John finished for him. They shared a brief smile then returned to their watch.
“Still think we should have back-up,” John said. Sherlock didn’t answer.
Half an hour later, the wait was over.
A bald man in a black, military-style jacket came walking up the street carrying a plastic Tesco carry bag. Sherlock was out of the flat like a shot, hearing John following behind.
As Downes walked up to the front door, searching for his keys, Sherlock came up behind and landed a single blow to the back of his head. Downes went down, dropping his keys and the carry bag.
“Get the keys,” Sherlock ordered, grabbing the unconscious man under the shoulders and hauling him up to the door. John did as he was told and quickly had the door unlocked. Together, they hauled Downes inside the building and locked the door behind them.
“Find a chair,” Sherlock said.
“There’s one here,” John answered from the small kitchen to their left. They carried Downes into the room and hoisted him onto a wooden chair. “We need something to tie him up.”
Sherlock pulled a pair of police issue handcuffs from his coat pocket.
“How did you...”
“I pickpocket Lestrade when he’s annoying.”
“You’re insane.” John shook his head and helped cuff Downes’s hands around the back of the chair.
“Now, we just need him to wake up,” Sherlock said, standing in front of the restrained body.
“Where did you learn to hit like that?” John asked, standing beside him.
“I was given martial arts instruction as a child. Missing something?”
“What?”
“Your cane, John.”
Sherlock watched as John suddenly realised his hands were empty.
“Oh. Bugger. I must have left it...”
“How does your leg feel?”
“I...not bad, actually.”
“I did you tell you, John, at that party - it’s psychosomatic. Now, you’re a doctor. How do we wake him up?” Sherlock checked his watch. “We have only a half hour before my insufferable brother arrives and attempts to take control of the situation.”
*
Mycroft Holmes was a bit unnerving, John thought. Standing just behind Sherlock, John made sure to avert his gaze from the tall man with the umbrella. There was something about him that made John very conscious of his own status.
A group of darkly clad men - Mycroft’s lackeys, Sherlock had said - had loaded Downes into a van. Now, Mycroft was thanking Sherlock for his involvement, informing him that Her Majesty’s government would take it from here.
Sherlock was arguing that the case wasn’t finished and damn Mycroft if he thought he would keep him out of it now. John had at first been confused. If Sherlock hadn’t wanted Mycroft here, why had he told his brother where they were?
But, after watching the elder Holmes, John had the distinct feeling that Sherlock hadn’t told him anything. Mycroft Holmes had simply known.
“Terrorism is a serious matter, Sherlock,” he droned. “And it must be dealt with by the proper authorities. I will, however, permit you to read the finished report, if you’d like. Dr. Watson, is it?”
John barely lifted his head.
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve done my brother a great service. Thank you.”
“Yes, sir,” John nodded, still looking at the ground.
“And the state of his flat is remarkable. I had completely forgotten what the floor even looked like. Well done.”
John wanted to ask how he knew what the flat looked like, since he’d never seen him in it, then thought better of it.
“Thank you, sir,” he said.
“I’m afraid I must be off.”
“Pity,” Sherlock snorted.
“Do let me know how you’re getting on, Sherlock. You know how I worry.” With that, Mycroft Holmes disappeared into a black car and was gone.
“So, that’s your mysterious brother?” John asked.
“Please don’t remind me that we’re related,” Sherlock said, heading back towards Downes’s house.
“Aren’t we going home?”
“There’s bound to be something Mycroft’s men missed. There always is.”
“But, didn’t he just tell you to stay out of it?”
“Is there a reason you’re under the impression I actually listen to my brother?”
“Fair enough.” John looked across the street at the empty building they’d used for their stake-out. “I’m just going to grab my cane. Be right back.”
Sherlock waved him off and slipped back into the house. John crossed the street. It was amazing. His leg was barely hurting at all. Maybe Sherlock had been right. Maybe it was psychosomatic. He found his way back to the front room and saw the cane lying on the floor by the window.
As he reached down to grab it, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Sherlock...”
When John turned round, he saw the face in the darkness and froze.
“Hello, pet.”
*
Upstairs, all was quiet. The rooms on the top floors were filthy, even by Sherlock’s standards. Mould coated the ceiling and walls. Bin bags filled with rubbish were stacked in every corner. A layer of grease seemed to cover everything. Downes was using the two upper floors as his own, personal dumping ground.
Excellent, Sherlock thought. People always left the most interesting things in the rubbish. Sherlock grabbed the nearest bag, tore it open and started sorting through it. No doubt he would track down the rest of the gang before Mycroft.
Sherlock was so engrossed in examining the discarded receipts, food waste and empty beer bottles that he didn’t realise John had yet to return. He was going through a third bag when his phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket and read the text message.
Missing something?
It was from a blocked number. Before he could deduce who sent it, another text came through.
It’s not nice to steal other people’s things.
Sherlock stilled. Moriarty. Finally, direct contact. It was thrilling, but at the same time, Sherlock realised what the texts referred to.
“John,” he whispered.
Sherlock left the rubbish and ran down the stairs. When he opened the front door, his step faltered. John’s cane was lying across the front step.
There was another text.
St. Georges swimming pool. Two hours. Bye!
Sherlock quickly searched for the pool. There was only one St. Georges swimming pool in London. It was in Wapping. He shoved the phone back into his pocket. Two hours and he would know exactly where Moriarty was.
And John, too.
*
When John started to come round, he immediately knew something was wrong. He was sitting in a chair but not tied up. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision, but that only made his head throb.
“Welcome back, Johnny-boy.”
John’s breath caught in his throat. Even though it was difficult to see, he knew exactly who belonged to that voice.
“What? No smile? Didn’t you miss me, darling?”
John kept silent. A hand grabbed his hair and yanked his head and neck backward.
“Be a good boy and say hello.”
“Hello.” His voice was slurred.
“That’s more like it.” Moriarty released him.
John didn’t know what to do. Apologise for running? Say Sherlock had kidnapped him? Say he hadn’t meant to leave him? He didn’t know what excuse could possibly extend his life. His vision had cleared enough that he could see Moriarty smile.
“Oh, there will plenty of time for that later. Right now, we have to get dressed.”
Moran emerged from the shadow carrying - John tried to focus - what looked like a vest.
“We have a very important date.” Moriarty giggled.
Moran came closer. The vest was covered in wires.
*
The clear water glistened, reflecting unnatural blue throughout the empty pool house. Sherlock slowly paced the edge of the water, darting his eyes in every direction, waiting for his host to arrive.
Even with a quick return to Baker Street, the cab had dropped him at the pool exactly on time. Any moment now, he would finally meet this Moriarty.
Behind him, a door creaked open then clicked shut. Sherlock spun round.
“John.”
There was his missing doctor, paler than he’d been earlier this evening, darker circles under his eyes, hands hiding in the pockets of an absurdly large parka which Sherlock had never seen before.
“Evening,” John said.
“Are you alright? Has he done...”
“You shouldn’t play with things that aren’t yours,” John interrupted. But his voice was stilted, wrong.
“John?”
“It’s not nice to steal. Didn’t your mummy teach you anything? Now look what’s happened...You’ve ruined him. You made him feel...” John flinched. “...feel human. He’ll be impossible to retrain.” John removed his hands from the pockets and unzipped the parka.
Now Sherlock saw why John was so nervous - he was strapped into a semtex-covered vest.
Sherlock glanced around the pool, looking for any sign of the monster behind this. He reached behind him and pulled the handgun from his waistband. He saw John’s eyes go wide but motioned for him to remain calm.
“He’ll...” John started then stopped, briefly closing his eyes as he struggled to say Moriarty’s words. “He’ll have to be...put down.”
“Why don’t we discuss the matter in person?” Sherlock shouted. “Or are you too much of a coward?”
There was silence then, from the far back corner of the room, a door swung open and shut.
“I’m not a coward,” an Irish voice called. Into the eerie blue light stepped a dark-haired man in a tailored suit - the same man Sherlock had seen at the party the night he met John. “I just prefer to observe. The way you two exchange glances...” Moriarty clasped his hands together and cooed. “It’s just so adorable.” He came up behind John, looked him up and down then continued towards Sherlock.
Sherlock held the gun steady, but Moriarty did not care. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t fire.
“I really must thank you for taking such good care of him. I knew I’d left Johnny in capable hands but, still, your track record with the slave class is, shall we say, pitiful.”
Sherlock let the words sink in before answering.
“You left him on my doorstep.”
“Well not me. A friend. But yes alright. It was my idea.”
“Why?”
“To meet you, of course!”
“My phone number’s on the website. You could’ve just called.”
Moriarty grinned and stretched his neck side to side.
“That wouldn’t have been nearly enough fun. No. You see, Sherlock Holmes, you’ve been a thorn in my side for too long now. Disrupting my plans. Getting in my way. You have no idea how many problems you’ve caused me. No, no. I knew I had to meet you face to face. I just needed a suitable method. When I saw my dear John speaking to you at the party, well, it was too good an opportunity to pass up.” He turned to John. “Wouldn’t you say, pet?”
John could only look at Sherlock. Sherlock could only stare back.
“After the cabbie, gun trafficking seems a little boring for you,” Sherlock said, trying to get Moriarty’s attention away from John.
“Bread and butter. Not all my clients can be interesting. Still, seemed like the perfect case to get you involved in. Did you like the sniper at the docks? I thought it was fun. How convenient Johnny was there at just the right time. So obedient, isn’t it? Look - John, stay.” Moriarty took a step closer to Sherlock. “Now, what do you think he’d do if I tried to kill you. Right now.”
On the floor in front of John, a dot of red light appeared. It travelled across the floor to Sherlock’s feet, trailed up his leg, his chest and, though he could no longer see it, Sherlock knew it had come to rest in the centre of his forehead.
He didn’t want to watch John’s reaction, but he saw the man stutter forward then stop. He didn’t want to look in John’s eyes, but he saw the pain therein. John shouldn’t feel pain over him.
“I wouldn’t expect him to do anything,” Sherlock said. “I’ve never ordered him to save my life.”
“But you want him to. And it’s breaking your heart that he’s not, isn’t it?”
“I’ve been reliably informed that I don’t have one.”
“Now we both know that’s not quite true.” Moriarty smiled and took a step back. “But, Sherlock, since I’m such a nice guy, I’m going to give you a choice.” He walked back to John and pulled the parka open further. “Johnny-boy here is on a timer.”
Sherlock now saw a small digital screen at the bottom centre of the vest. The display read 00:00. Moriarty pressed a small button. The screen changed to 01:00, and a second later 00:59, 00:58, 00:57...
“Now, you can either follow me outside, track me down tonight...”
...00:54, 00:53...
“...or you can save the little dog.”
...00:51, 00:50...
“I leave it up to you. Just so you know, I walk out that door, you won’t be seeing me again for a very long time. As for this one...”
...00:45, 00:44...
“You can always get a new one.”
...00:42, 00:41...
Moriarty slowly walked backwards to the nearest exit. The red light trailed back down Sherlock’s body and followed Moriarty before disappearing completely.
...00:34, 00:33...
“I’m waiting, Sherlock,” he called, walking out the door.
...00:30, 00:29...
“Catch you later,” Sherlock replied.
“No you won’t!” The voice shouted back.
Sherlock dropped the gun and rushed to John’s side, ripping the parka off him.
“Are you alright? John, are you alright?”
John could barely mumble a yes, which immediately told Sherlock the answer was no.
...00:20, 00:19...
The vest had straps across its back, keeping it tied to John. John’s hand was shaking, his bad leg trembling. He kept threatening to fall over.
...00:15, 00:14...
“Dammit! Hold still, John.”
Sherlock tore at the straps.
...00:12, 00:11, 00:10...
He released the last one.
...00:09, 00:08, 00:07...
John was half out of the bomb vest.
...00:06, 00:05, 00:04...
The vest was entirely in Sherlock’s hands. He tossed it into the water then threw himself against John, sending them both to the floor. He covered John, waiting to bear the brunt of the explosion.
He held his breath and waited. And waited. And nothing happened.
Sherlock lifted his head and looked towards the pool. He could see the vest resting on the bottom, beneath the water. He waited a few seconds more then got to his feet. John remained on the floor, obviously dazed.
The bomb had been a fake. Sherlock ran out the door, even though he knew Moriarty was gone.
*
John breathed in. John breathed out. John breathed in. John breathed out.
He was alone. He was in shock. He thought about calling for help. He thought he would only start laughing. He didn’t want to laugh.
Someone came back. John looked up. It was Sherlock. Sherlock came back. He was speaking to John. John could only nod. Sherlock looked worried. He walked away.
That’s when John saw the dot. There was a red dot on Sherlock’s back. Sherlock didn’t see. Sherlock couldn’t see. John looked for the source of the dot.
There on the first floor. A shadow. It moved. It was going to kill Sherlock. John looked down. There was a gun near his hand. John knew how to shoot. Bill had taught him how to shoot.
John remembered what Moriarty had told him to do. John had disobeyed. Now John had to kill.
The shadow stilled. The dot was steady. If he didn’t kill Sherlock, the shadow would.
Either way, Sherlock was going to die.
John couldn’t remember what happened next. Suddenly there was a gun in his hand and there was a body floating face down in the pool.
John was standing by the pool side, arm still out and aimed. The gun was warm.
“Good shot.”
John turned. Sherlock was smiling.
“Must have been,” John replied. Then he, too, was smiling.
*
Half an hour later, Sherlock and John were wrapped in orange blankets, sitting on the back of an ambulance. Lestrade said the blankets were for shock. Sherlock had argued that he wasn’t in shock. He didn’t need a blanket. John had taken his arm and told him that, in his opinion as a doctor, Sherlock needed the blanket. He’d obeyed.
Now they continued to sit on the ambulance watching Mycroft discuss something with Lestrade.
“They’re going to reassign me,” John said. “I’m not supposed to shoot anyone. They’ll send me to a factory or a mine. Work me till I die.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It was self-defence.”
“Doesn’t matter,” John said. “I’m a slave. I don’t get due process. I don’t get a trial.”
“I won’t allow it. You’re much too useful to be relegated to factory labour.”
“Thanks. I think.”
Sherlock hesitated. He couldn’t find the words to accurately describe what he was feeling.
“John, that thing you did...that was...good.”
“I’d do it again,” John nodded. “Never liked Moran anyway.”
Finally, Lestrade walked towards them. Sherlock saw Mycroft heading for his black town car. Sherlock stood and shrugged off the blanket.
“He’s not being removed from my possession. He was acting in my defence. I would certainly be dead now if it weren’t for him and no doubt the sniper would’ve shot him, too, after dealing with me.”
“Sherlock...” Lestrade held up his hands.
“Absolutely not. You’re not taking him to...”
“Sherlock! You’re right.”
“Of course I am. Why?”
Lestrade ran a hand through his hair then continued speaking.
“This incident is being classified as terrorist activity and is, therefore, out of our jurisdiction. The government over there says he’ll be taking care of everything from here on out. For some reason, I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
With that, Lestrade walked away, leaving john and Sherlock alone. Sherlock saw Mycroft leaning on his umbrella, smiling.
“Should we go and thank him?” John asked, rising to stand behind Sherlock.
“And inflate his insufferable ego even more? No, I’d rather not.” Sherlock turned to John. “I’d prefer it if we went home.”
*
John had kept his orange blanket. He thought Sherlock would make some comment, but his master said nothing. Back at Baker Street, John made tea without needing to be asked, and the two men sat in the living room, watching the flames flickering in the fireplace.
“So,” John broke the silence. “I...are you...that is...will I...”
“I need an assistant,” Sherlock interrupted. “I work better with one, but nearly every one I can find is utterly useless. Except you.”
“So, I’m staying?” John felt lighter.
“Mrs. Hudson has some extra pieces of furniture she said we could have. We’ll move them up to your room tomorrow. And I’ll send you out with my card. You can get additional clothes, anything else you might need. You’ve been wearing the same two jumpers day after day.”
“I like jumpers.”
They both smiled.
“John...about your freedom...”
John shut his eyes. He felt his hand begin to shake.
“I’m not...I can’t think about that right now. It’s been too long. I’m...I’m not ready, Sherlock.”
There was no response from Sherlock, but he did hear the man rise from his chair, walk away briefly, then return.
“Just so you’re aware,” Sherlock started. John heard a string being plucked. “It’s yours whenever you want it.”
He began playing a soft melody. John kept his eyes closed and focussed on the music. It was beautiful.
He didn’t think about the pool. He didn’t think about Moriarty, how he was still out there somewhere. He didn’t think about his past.
Instead, as he felt the heat of the fire on his face and listened to the gentle notes Sherlock coaxed from the delicate instrument, John thought about his future. He thought about how he actually had a future.
Warmth filled him from inside and out. He couldn’t say he was happy, yet, but he had a feeling that one day, yes, one day, he could be.
Author: dak
Word Count: 19,960
Rating: R
Warnings: physical and mental abuse, vaguely implied dub-con. minor character death
Summary: AU. Slavery exists in the modern world. John belongs to Moriarty, that is until events beyond his control thrust him into the life of the world's only consulting detective.
A/N: For culf , as so many things are. She requested this prompt. I didn't mean for it to get this long. She owes me two fics in return. Dearest flatmate, I'm waiting...
Part 1 Part 2
Sherlock had found them a good stake-out location across the street from Downes’s house. They waited in an abandoned flat on the ground floor, watching the street in both directions from the window. Now that night was falling, it was easier for them to hide but harder for them to see.
It was a quiet area, thought. Not much activity and any movement would attract attention.
They had been there for a few hours, and Sherlock appreciated that John was keeping quiet, allowing him to think. The silence, however, couldn’t last forever.
“Feel like I’m on patrol,” John whispered, eyes never wavering from the window.
“Did you often go on patrol in Afghanistan?” Sherlock asked, remaining focussed on his own view.
“Every now and then, if they needed a medic. You’d think they’d’ve sent me out more. I mean, who cares if a slave gets killed, right?”
“Then why didn’t they?”
“Thought it was because the men didn’t want me there. At first,” John said. Sherlock could see him twisting his cane back and forth. “Thought they wouldn’t want their lives left in a slave’s care.”
“But that wasn’t the case.”
“It was Bill,” John replied with a sad laugh. “Bill requested that I not be sent out. Said he didn’t want me getting hurt. I told him he just didn’t want to lose his investment. I remember he smiled at that and said, ‘No. No, John. It’s not that.’”
John turned his head away for a moment then turned back to the window. Sherlock decided not to continue the conversation. After another ten minutes of silence, John spoke again.
“Do you think we should’ve told DI Lestrade where we were going?”
“I think even he could figure that out.”
“Right. But, do you think we’ll need back up? I mean, what if more than Downes shows up? What if it’s all three of them? What if...”
“Moriarty won’t be here,” Sherlock answered the unasked question.
“But if he’s involved...”
“Oh he’s much too clever for that. I believe he told you the truth, when he said he was in construction. But it’s not buildings, no. I believe he constructs crimes for others too stupid or inexperienced to do it themselves.”
“You mean...like a consulting criminal?”
“Ingenious, isn’t it? And who better to stop a consulting criminal than a...”
“Consulting detective.” John finished for him. They shared a brief smile then returned to their watch.
“Still think we should have back-up,” John said. Sherlock didn’t answer.
Half an hour later, the wait was over.
A bald man in a black, military-style jacket came walking up the street carrying a plastic Tesco carry bag. Sherlock was out of the flat like a shot, hearing John following behind.
As Downes walked up to the front door, searching for his keys, Sherlock came up behind and landed a single blow to the back of his head. Downes went down, dropping his keys and the carry bag.
“Get the keys,” Sherlock ordered, grabbing the unconscious man under the shoulders and hauling him up to the door. John did as he was told and quickly had the door unlocked. Together, they hauled Downes inside the building and locked the door behind them.
“Find a chair,” Sherlock said.
“There’s one here,” John answered from the small kitchen to their left. They carried Downes into the room and hoisted him onto a wooden chair. “We need something to tie him up.”
Sherlock pulled a pair of police issue handcuffs from his coat pocket.
“How did you...”
“I pickpocket Lestrade when he’s annoying.”
“You’re insane.” John shook his head and helped cuff Downes’s hands around the back of the chair.
“Now, we just need him to wake up,” Sherlock said, standing in front of the restrained body.
“Where did you learn to hit like that?” John asked, standing beside him.
“I was given martial arts instruction as a child. Missing something?”
“What?”
“Your cane, John.”
Sherlock watched as John suddenly realised his hands were empty.
“Oh. Bugger. I must have left it...”
“How does your leg feel?”
“I...not bad, actually.”
“I did you tell you, John, at that party - it’s psychosomatic. Now, you’re a doctor. How do we wake him up?” Sherlock checked his watch. “We have only a half hour before my insufferable brother arrives and attempts to take control of the situation.”
*
Mycroft Holmes was a bit unnerving, John thought. Standing just behind Sherlock, John made sure to avert his gaze from the tall man with the umbrella. There was something about him that made John very conscious of his own status.
A group of darkly clad men - Mycroft’s lackeys, Sherlock had said - had loaded Downes into a van. Now, Mycroft was thanking Sherlock for his involvement, informing him that Her Majesty’s government would take it from here.
Sherlock was arguing that the case wasn’t finished and damn Mycroft if he thought he would keep him out of it now. John had at first been confused. If Sherlock hadn’t wanted Mycroft here, why had he told his brother where they were?
But, after watching the elder Holmes, John had the distinct feeling that Sherlock hadn’t told him anything. Mycroft Holmes had simply known.
“Terrorism is a serious matter, Sherlock,” he droned. “And it must be dealt with by the proper authorities. I will, however, permit you to read the finished report, if you’d like. Dr. Watson, is it?”
John barely lifted his head.
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve done my brother a great service. Thank you.”
“Yes, sir,” John nodded, still looking at the ground.
“And the state of his flat is remarkable. I had completely forgotten what the floor even looked like. Well done.”
John wanted to ask how he knew what the flat looked like, since he’d never seen him in it, then thought better of it.
“Thank you, sir,” he said.
“I’m afraid I must be off.”
“Pity,” Sherlock snorted.
“Do let me know how you’re getting on, Sherlock. You know how I worry.” With that, Mycroft Holmes disappeared into a black car and was gone.
“So, that’s your mysterious brother?” John asked.
“Please don’t remind me that we’re related,” Sherlock said, heading back towards Downes’s house.
“Aren’t we going home?”
“There’s bound to be something Mycroft’s men missed. There always is.”
“But, didn’t he just tell you to stay out of it?”
“Is there a reason you’re under the impression I actually listen to my brother?”
“Fair enough.” John looked across the street at the empty building they’d used for their stake-out. “I’m just going to grab my cane. Be right back.”
Sherlock waved him off and slipped back into the house. John crossed the street. It was amazing. His leg was barely hurting at all. Maybe Sherlock had been right. Maybe it was psychosomatic. He found his way back to the front room and saw the cane lying on the floor by the window.
As he reached down to grab it, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Sherlock...”
When John turned round, he saw the face in the darkness and froze.
“Hello, pet.”
*
Upstairs, all was quiet. The rooms on the top floors were filthy, even by Sherlock’s standards. Mould coated the ceiling and walls. Bin bags filled with rubbish were stacked in every corner. A layer of grease seemed to cover everything. Downes was using the two upper floors as his own, personal dumping ground.
Excellent, Sherlock thought. People always left the most interesting things in the rubbish. Sherlock grabbed the nearest bag, tore it open and started sorting through it. No doubt he would track down the rest of the gang before Mycroft.
Sherlock was so engrossed in examining the discarded receipts, food waste and empty beer bottles that he didn’t realise John had yet to return. He was going through a third bag when his phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket and read the text message.
Missing something?
It was from a blocked number. Before he could deduce who sent it, another text came through.
It’s not nice to steal other people’s things.
Sherlock stilled. Moriarty. Finally, direct contact. It was thrilling, but at the same time, Sherlock realised what the texts referred to.
“John,” he whispered.
Sherlock left the rubbish and ran down the stairs. When he opened the front door, his step faltered. John’s cane was lying across the front step.
There was another text.
St. Georges swimming pool. Two hours. Bye!
Sherlock quickly searched for the pool. There was only one St. Georges swimming pool in London. It was in Wapping. He shoved the phone back into his pocket. Two hours and he would know exactly where Moriarty was.
And John, too.
*
When John started to come round, he immediately knew something was wrong. He was sitting in a chair but not tied up. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision, but that only made his head throb.
“Welcome back, Johnny-boy.”
John’s breath caught in his throat. Even though it was difficult to see, he knew exactly who belonged to that voice.
“What? No smile? Didn’t you miss me, darling?”
John kept silent. A hand grabbed his hair and yanked his head and neck backward.
“Be a good boy and say hello.”
“Hello.” His voice was slurred.
“That’s more like it.” Moriarty released him.
John didn’t know what to do. Apologise for running? Say Sherlock had kidnapped him? Say he hadn’t meant to leave him? He didn’t know what excuse could possibly extend his life. His vision had cleared enough that he could see Moriarty smile.
“Oh, there will plenty of time for that later. Right now, we have to get dressed.”
Moran emerged from the shadow carrying - John tried to focus - what looked like a vest.
“We have a very important date.” Moriarty giggled.
Moran came closer. The vest was covered in wires.
*
The clear water glistened, reflecting unnatural blue throughout the empty pool house. Sherlock slowly paced the edge of the water, darting his eyes in every direction, waiting for his host to arrive.
Even with a quick return to Baker Street, the cab had dropped him at the pool exactly on time. Any moment now, he would finally meet this Moriarty.
Behind him, a door creaked open then clicked shut. Sherlock spun round.
“John.”
There was his missing doctor, paler than he’d been earlier this evening, darker circles under his eyes, hands hiding in the pockets of an absurdly large parka which Sherlock had never seen before.
“Evening,” John said.
“Are you alright? Has he done...”
“You shouldn’t play with things that aren’t yours,” John interrupted. But his voice was stilted, wrong.
“John?”
“It’s not nice to steal. Didn’t your mummy teach you anything? Now look what’s happened...You’ve ruined him. You made him feel...” John flinched. “...feel human. He’ll be impossible to retrain.” John removed his hands from the pockets and unzipped the parka.
Now Sherlock saw why John was so nervous - he was strapped into a semtex-covered vest.
Sherlock glanced around the pool, looking for any sign of the monster behind this. He reached behind him and pulled the handgun from his waistband. He saw John’s eyes go wide but motioned for him to remain calm.
“He’ll...” John started then stopped, briefly closing his eyes as he struggled to say Moriarty’s words. “He’ll have to be...put down.”
“Why don’t we discuss the matter in person?” Sherlock shouted. “Or are you too much of a coward?”
There was silence then, from the far back corner of the room, a door swung open and shut.
“I’m not a coward,” an Irish voice called. Into the eerie blue light stepped a dark-haired man in a tailored suit - the same man Sherlock had seen at the party the night he met John. “I just prefer to observe. The way you two exchange glances...” Moriarty clasped his hands together and cooed. “It’s just so adorable.” He came up behind John, looked him up and down then continued towards Sherlock.
Sherlock held the gun steady, but Moriarty did not care. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t fire.
“I really must thank you for taking such good care of him. I knew I’d left Johnny in capable hands but, still, your track record with the slave class is, shall we say, pitiful.”
Sherlock let the words sink in before answering.
“You left him on my doorstep.”
“Well not me. A friend. But yes alright. It was my idea.”
“Why?”
“To meet you, of course!”
“My phone number’s on the website. You could’ve just called.”
Moriarty grinned and stretched his neck side to side.
“That wouldn’t have been nearly enough fun. No. You see, Sherlock Holmes, you’ve been a thorn in my side for too long now. Disrupting my plans. Getting in my way. You have no idea how many problems you’ve caused me. No, no. I knew I had to meet you face to face. I just needed a suitable method. When I saw my dear John speaking to you at the party, well, it was too good an opportunity to pass up.” He turned to John. “Wouldn’t you say, pet?”
John could only look at Sherlock. Sherlock could only stare back.
“After the cabbie, gun trafficking seems a little boring for you,” Sherlock said, trying to get Moriarty’s attention away from John.
“Bread and butter. Not all my clients can be interesting. Still, seemed like the perfect case to get you involved in. Did you like the sniper at the docks? I thought it was fun. How convenient Johnny was there at just the right time. So obedient, isn’t it? Look - John, stay.” Moriarty took a step closer to Sherlock. “Now, what do you think he’d do if I tried to kill you. Right now.”
On the floor in front of John, a dot of red light appeared. It travelled across the floor to Sherlock’s feet, trailed up his leg, his chest and, though he could no longer see it, Sherlock knew it had come to rest in the centre of his forehead.
He didn’t want to watch John’s reaction, but he saw the man stutter forward then stop. He didn’t want to look in John’s eyes, but he saw the pain therein. John shouldn’t feel pain over him.
“I wouldn’t expect him to do anything,” Sherlock said. “I’ve never ordered him to save my life.”
“But you want him to. And it’s breaking your heart that he’s not, isn’t it?”
“I’ve been reliably informed that I don’t have one.”
“Now we both know that’s not quite true.” Moriarty smiled and took a step back. “But, Sherlock, since I’m such a nice guy, I’m going to give you a choice.” He walked back to John and pulled the parka open further. “Johnny-boy here is on a timer.”
Sherlock now saw a small digital screen at the bottom centre of the vest. The display read 00:00. Moriarty pressed a small button. The screen changed to 01:00, and a second later 00:59, 00:58, 00:57...
“Now, you can either follow me outside, track me down tonight...”
...00:54, 00:53...
“...or you can save the little dog.”
...00:51, 00:50...
“I leave it up to you. Just so you know, I walk out that door, you won’t be seeing me again for a very long time. As for this one...”
...00:45, 00:44...
“You can always get a new one.”
...00:42, 00:41...
Moriarty slowly walked backwards to the nearest exit. The red light trailed back down Sherlock’s body and followed Moriarty before disappearing completely.
...00:34, 00:33...
“I’m waiting, Sherlock,” he called, walking out the door.
...00:30, 00:29...
“Catch you later,” Sherlock replied.
“No you won’t!” The voice shouted back.
Sherlock dropped the gun and rushed to John’s side, ripping the parka off him.
“Are you alright? John, are you alright?”
John could barely mumble a yes, which immediately told Sherlock the answer was no.
...00:20, 00:19...
The vest had straps across its back, keeping it tied to John. John’s hand was shaking, his bad leg trembling. He kept threatening to fall over.
...00:15, 00:14...
“Dammit! Hold still, John.”
Sherlock tore at the straps.
...00:12, 00:11, 00:10...
He released the last one.
...00:09, 00:08, 00:07...
John was half out of the bomb vest.
...00:06, 00:05, 00:04...
The vest was entirely in Sherlock’s hands. He tossed it into the water then threw himself against John, sending them both to the floor. He covered John, waiting to bear the brunt of the explosion.
He held his breath and waited. And waited. And nothing happened.
Sherlock lifted his head and looked towards the pool. He could see the vest resting on the bottom, beneath the water. He waited a few seconds more then got to his feet. John remained on the floor, obviously dazed.
The bomb had been a fake. Sherlock ran out the door, even though he knew Moriarty was gone.
*
John breathed in. John breathed out. John breathed in. John breathed out.
He was alone. He was in shock. He thought about calling for help. He thought he would only start laughing. He didn’t want to laugh.
Someone came back. John looked up. It was Sherlock. Sherlock came back. He was speaking to John. John could only nod. Sherlock looked worried. He walked away.
That’s when John saw the dot. There was a red dot on Sherlock’s back. Sherlock didn’t see. Sherlock couldn’t see. John looked for the source of the dot.
There on the first floor. A shadow. It moved. It was going to kill Sherlock. John looked down. There was a gun near his hand. John knew how to shoot. Bill had taught him how to shoot.
John remembered what Moriarty had told him to do. John had disobeyed. Now John had to kill.
The shadow stilled. The dot was steady. If he didn’t kill Sherlock, the shadow would.
Either way, Sherlock was going to die.
John couldn’t remember what happened next. Suddenly there was a gun in his hand and there was a body floating face down in the pool.
John was standing by the pool side, arm still out and aimed. The gun was warm.
“Good shot.”
John turned. Sherlock was smiling.
“Must have been,” John replied. Then he, too, was smiling.
*
Half an hour later, Sherlock and John were wrapped in orange blankets, sitting on the back of an ambulance. Lestrade said the blankets were for shock. Sherlock had argued that he wasn’t in shock. He didn’t need a blanket. John had taken his arm and told him that, in his opinion as a doctor, Sherlock needed the blanket. He’d obeyed.
Now they continued to sit on the ambulance watching Mycroft discuss something with Lestrade.
“They’re going to reassign me,” John said. “I’m not supposed to shoot anyone. They’ll send me to a factory or a mine. Work me till I die.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It was self-defence.”
“Doesn’t matter,” John said. “I’m a slave. I don’t get due process. I don’t get a trial.”
“I won’t allow it. You’re much too useful to be relegated to factory labour.”
“Thanks. I think.”
Sherlock hesitated. He couldn’t find the words to accurately describe what he was feeling.
“John, that thing you did...that was...good.”
“I’d do it again,” John nodded. “Never liked Moran anyway.”
Finally, Lestrade walked towards them. Sherlock saw Mycroft heading for his black town car. Sherlock stood and shrugged off the blanket.
“He’s not being removed from my possession. He was acting in my defence. I would certainly be dead now if it weren’t for him and no doubt the sniper would’ve shot him, too, after dealing with me.”
“Sherlock...” Lestrade held up his hands.
“Absolutely not. You’re not taking him to...”
“Sherlock! You’re right.”
“Of course I am. Why?”
Lestrade ran a hand through his hair then continued speaking.
“This incident is being classified as terrorist activity and is, therefore, out of our jurisdiction. The government over there says he’ll be taking care of everything from here on out. For some reason, I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
With that, Lestrade walked away, leaving john and Sherlock alone. Sherlock saw Mycroft leaning on his umbrella, smiling.
“Should we go and thank him?” John asked, rising to stand behind Sherlock.
“And inflate his insufferable ego even more? No, I’d rather not.” Sherlock turned to John. “I’d prefer it if we went home.”
*
John had kept his orange blanket. He thought Sherlock would make some comment, but his master said nothing. Back at Baker Street, John made tea without needing to be asked, and the two men sat in the living room, watching the flames flickering in the fireplace.
“So,” John broke the silence. “I...are you...that is...will I...”
“I need an assistant,” Sherlock interrupted. “I work better with one, but nearly every one I can find is utterly useless. Except you.”
“So, I’m staying?” John felt lighter.
“Mrs. Hudson has some extra pieces of furniture she said we could have. We’ll move them up to your room tomorrow. And I’ll send you out with my card. You can get additional clothes, anything else you might need. You’ve been wearing the same two jumpers day after day.”
“I like jumpers.”
They both smiled.
“John...about your freedom...”
John shut his eyes. He felt his hand begin to shake.
“I’m not...I can’t think about that right now. It’s been too long. I’m...I’m not ready, Sherlock.”
There was no response from Sherlock, but he did hear the man rise from his chair, walk away briefly, then return.
“Just so you’re aware,” Sherlock started. John heard a string being plucked. “It’s yours whenever you want it.”
He began playing a soft melody. John kept his eyes closed and focussed on the music. It was beautiful.
He didn’t think about the pool. He didn’t think about Moriarty, how he was still out there somewhere. He didn’t think about his past.
Instead, as he felt the heat of the fire on his face and listened to the gentle notes Sherlock coaxed from the delicate instrument, John thought about his future. He thought about how he actually had a future.
Warmth filled him from inside and out. He couldn’t say he was happy, yet, but he had a feeling that one day, yes, one day, he could be.