Fic: One Step at a Time (2/?)
Title: One Step at a Time
Author: Gillian Taylor
Character/Pairing: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Harry Watson, Greg Lestrade (Hints at Sherlock/John, so far)
Rating: PG-13
Warning: AU from Series 1
Spoilers: S1:The Great Game
Summary: One step at a time, that’s what he needs to remind himself. Eventually, he’ll have his revenge.
Disclaimer: Don't own them. I just like playing with them...a lot.
A/N: Thanks to nnwest for her encouragement and BRing. Apologies for the delay in this chapter - between my work and my beta's it's taken us a while to get this up here :)
Chapter 1: Requiem for a Holmes
Chapter 2: Rumours of My Demise
May 21, 2010:
Sherlock closes his eyes and simply breathes. In. Out. In. Out. The urge to leave, to let this reach its conclusion on Moriarty’s terms is strong. He should have been home by now. It should not have taken this long to flush out Moriarty’s organisation.
Home. John. He can’t let himself think of his friend. If he does, if he allows himself to linger on that thought, he doesn’t know if he can continue this charade. Yet, he must. Moriarty cannot be allowed to continue. This is the only way. Otherwise, Moriarty may try for John again. Anger, sharp and brilliant, pierces through him and he has to struggle to force himself to breathe calmly.
Emotions are useless. Pointless. They make his palms sweat, his heart beat just a little too fast, his attention span falter. He can’t afford to let them overwhelm him, yet they do. At the slightest hint of something that reminds him of John, they do.
He’s thought about trying to delete his memories of John, but he can’t go through with it. He’s tried pushing his memories of John into the smallest room of his mind palace, locked behind thick doors, but somehow they keep leaking out. It doesn’t matter what room he searches, John’s there. John is so intrinsically a part of his work; he can’t find the thread to separate them. Sherlock sighs, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. Pathetic.
Breathe, he commands himself. He needs to focus. He needs clarity. In. Count to seven. Release. Count to ten. In. Count to seven. Out. Count to ten. He opens his eyes and stares at the unassuming warehouse. This is where the clues have led him, to this warehouse in Moscow. This is where Moriarty’s people will strike next.
There. A scrape of a foot against concrete. Habitual shuffling, footsteps slightly uneven. One leg slightly longer than the other. The creak of leather, the soft clink of metal meeting metal. Two people are coming this way.
Sherlock crouches lower, using the shadows that surround the discarded boxes and bins to hide his presence.
“Are you sure?” a voice rough from too many cigarettes asks in thick Russian. The man pauses just under the light post. Tall. Weathered features, broken skin on his knuckles, scuffed and torn clothing. Muscle.
“Of course I am. The boss wouldn’t lie,” the other man replies, stopping just outside the pool of light. Impossible to deduce more than the probability of public schooling based on the accent.
“I thought the papers said he was dead.”
Sherlock blinks. Impossible. He’s been careful.
“The boss said there’ve been signs.”
Cigarette man snorts. “If this man’s as good as the boss says he is, there wouldn’t be any fecking signs. Could it be someone else? What about that man’s friend - the doctor?”
John. It’s a fight to remain still. He has the urge to reveal himself and demand to hear more. This is why emotions are a weakness. He curls his hands into fists, his nails biting into his skin.
“Maybe. Doesn’t matter, though. We’re not paid to worry about that. Leave it to the boss. Come on. We’ll have a coffee before our shift.”
Five minutes later, the men are safely inside the warehouse and Sherlock hasn’t moved. He hasn’t been careless. His movements have been the characterization of covert. Yet he has to consider that he might not have been as stealthy as he could have been. If anyone where able to deduce his continued existence, it would be Moriarty.
John’s in danger.
Sherlock glances at the warehouse and then looks away. He cannot continue this particular mission. Not after this discovery.
There’s nothing stopping Moriarty now.
***
May 30, 2010:
From the Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson:
As some of you know, I was in hospital for a few hours this morning. I’m okay, really I am. Nothing’s broken; I just have a few scratches. I didn’t see that bike messenger. I definitely saw that lorry. Anyway, sorry for not writing.
Comments (2):
Harry (Reply?)
Fuck this. I’m coming over.
John Watson (Reply?)
Harry, I’m fine. See? I’m ringing.
***
May 31, 2010:
“You son of a bitch,” Harry snarls and he has to actively force himself not to remind her that they have the same mother, thank you very much.
This is why he hasn’t been phoning. This is why he’s been actively avoiding her. He doesn’t want to have to deal with his sister. “Harry, I’m fine,” he repeats for what has to be the fifth time in as many minutes.
The stench of too much whiskey and gin wafts his way as she stops in front of him, poking his chest with a finger. “Yeah? And how am I supposed to know that? It’s like fucking Afghanistan all over again. The only way I’m going to know how you’re really doing is if I read it in some newspaper or if some stranger stops by to tell me you’re dead.”
John winces. “Harry...”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Don’t you ‘Harry’ me. You’re being a bloody wanker. I know Sherlock’s dead, all right? I know you’re hurting. But that doesn’t mean you get to cut yourself off from your family.” She turns away from him, folding her arms. From the subtle tremor in her shoulders, he thinks she might be crying. He feels like a complete cad. “I know you don’t like me. Don’t you say a fucking word right now, John Hamish Watson, I need to get this out, all right? You don’t like me. I know that. I drink too much, I’m a complete tosser, I can’t hold down a job to save my life and I drove off the best thing that ever happened to me. But please don’t do this to me. I can’t take another loss right now, okay?”
He sighs and rests his hands on her shoulders, frowning when he feels how thin she’s become. Her shoulders are as sharp as blades. She’s still lovely, though. Even drunk and upset, she’s beautiful. It’s not fair that she got the better genes of the two of them. “I’m sorry,” he offers.
She does sob this time and he turns her around and gathers her into his arms. “I love you,” he says and she shakes her head, burying her face against his shoulder.
“You love me because you have to,” she replies softly.
He never realised how truly screwed up his relationship was with his sister until now. He can’t really deny her comment, much as he wants to. “Harry, please.”
She pulls away from his embrace and looks at him, her mascara streaked from tears and lending her delicate features a dark, bruised look. Her eyes are bloodshot, but that tends to be typical when she’s had too much to drink. However, despite the drink, her gaze seems to be too sober for that. “How are you, really? Don’t give me that ‘fine’ crap.”
John pauses for a moment, considering. “I’m...surviving. Best I can.”
Harry visibly deflates and nods. “Good. Call me once in a while, okay? I can’t just learn about your life from your blog. Maybe we can...I don’t know, do lunch?”
The thought’s almost laughable, but she’s obviously trying. He knows if it weren’t for this situation, they’d be shouting at each other. They tend to love each other more from a distance. Yet, he can’t deny her this. If that’s what she wants, well, she’ll get it. He deliberately doesn’t scoff that this will work once, maybe twice, before it’s back to the way it was. “We can try that.”
Harry gives him a watery smile. “Good. Next Tuesday. Half noon. Carson’s Deli.” She’s already extracting herself from his arms and moving towards the door. She pauses before she leaves, turning her head enough so she can see his face. “Don’t forget, John. Please.”
“I won’t,” he promises.
After she pulls the door closed behind her, John leans his head against the cool wood and simply breathes. Dealing with Harry is always an emotional roller coaster. It could’ve been worse, much worse. He never knows what Harry he’s going to deal with - this version, at least, while drunk was relatively calm. He hates dealing with the angry drunk, the “sobbing her heart out” drunk, and the “blames the world” drunk.
John sighs and pushes off from the door, forcing thoughts of his sister from his mind. There’s a pile of papers waiting for his attention on the table. Some are case files that Lestrade’s dropped off for his review. Some are his own notes from going through newspapers and online forums. All of them are somehow - at least in his mind - tied to Moriarty.
It’s disheartening, really, to see just how many bastards have benefited from having Moriarty as their ‘fairy godmother’. He’s got his fingers everywhere, and it seems like no sooner has he taken care of one problem, another one pops up. He’s like a fucking hydra. You cut off one head and two more pop into place.
He sinks into one of the chairs and rubs his hand across his face. John can’t stop now. Sherlock wouldn’t stop now, and neither will he. He sighs and pulls a paper towards him, tracing links and identifying objectives. It’s slow, frustrating work, but he does manage to find his next target.
Tonight, he vows. Tonight he’ll track down one Mr James Bueller and stop him from killing his wife.
***
June 26, 2010:
Moriarty knows. It’s the only explanation. The last three sites he’s been to, there’ve been little notes. Taken alone, they’d be mysterious, perhaps mildly concerning, but nothing to worry about. Together they spell out a threat.
‘Poor puppy’ the first one reads, written with a barely legible scrawl on the wall of a warehouse in Paris.
‘So very alone.’ The second reads, this time spray-painted in bright yellow across a bin outside the Museo del América in Madrid.
The last one drives him back to London. ‘He misses you, S.’ It was carved into a bench in a small park in Milan. It’s a trap. It’s obviously a trap, but he doesn’t care. He’s had enough. Enough of the deception, enough of the chase, enough of being one step behind Moriarty.
If the man wants a confrontation - admittedly, it’s another confrontation, but that’s semantics - he’ll get one. Sherlock Holmes is going home.
***
July 1, 2010:
Exhaustion weighs heavily upon him, his eyes barely staying open as he collapses onto the couch. He’s starting to understand why Sherlock tended to sleep here rather than in his bed. It’s strangely comfortable, though there are still dents where someone far taller than he used to rest. If he breathes deeply, he can almost catch the barest whiff of smoke, chemicals and tea that characterised his friend.
John yawns and closes his eyes. It’s been a long day. Hell, it’s been a long week. No, it’s been a long several months since, well, since. Sometimes, he wishes it were all a dream. It feels like a dream, like at any moment he’s going to wake up and find out that these past few months didn’t happen and Sherlock will walk through the door and life is back to normal. Well, his version of normal.
He doesn’t work at the surgery any more. He hasn’t done since the pool. Apparently not showing up for several weeks after he was released from hospital is the equivalent of a resignation - who knew? Still, there are times he misses it. It’s a distraction, a reminder that there is life outside 221B. Sarah would only keep him on out of pity, of course. She’d re-hire him if he asked - he knows that, even though it’s a ridiculous thought. Who would want a locum doctor who isn’t reliable enough to come in when he says he will? He doesn’t even have the excuse of saying Sherlock’s responsible any more.
Admittedly, he doesn’t truly want to work there any more. It wasn’t safe for Sarah, the patients, the nurses or the other doctors. To be honest, it wasn’t safe for him either.
He’d lose himself there; become a shade of the man he was and he couldn’t abide that. He needs the chase - the game, as Sherlock called it. It’s a stop-gap measure, he knows that, but he tells himself he’ll be able to rest and let himself rejoin the rest of the human race once it’s finished.
It won’t be over until Moriarty and everyone he’s ever dealt with are either six feet under or in jail. He knows exactly which of those options he prefers. It’s hard, though. Sure, he’s done a bit. He’s found a few small time operatives. Those he’s turned over to Lestrade - no reason to sully his hands with them. He’s got bigger fish to go after once he’s dealt with the peripherals.
Tonight he was on a stakeout. Boring, perhaps, but he has this feeling it’ll bear fruit. He’s noticed that there’ve been a few more shipments going into a supposedly small-time imports and exports business near the docks. Coupling that with a hint from Mycroft’s files, he’s found his next target.
He won’t make a move just yet. He needs more data - he’s no Sherlock Holmes, so he can’t make a magical leap from the beginning to the end. He doesn’t know enough, not yet, to be certain he’s really on to something other than a gut feeling. Hence the stakeout.
Nothing happened, though. He decided to come home, get some sleep, and get back at it once he’s rested. He’ll miss things like this and that’s not something he can afford.
He’s about to drift off when something changes. He goes from half asleep to awake in an instant, his muscles tensing in preparation as the instincts drilled into him by the British Army come into play. There. The creaky stair, about three steps up from the ground floor. He misses it by instinct now, and only those who are unfamiliar with the stairwell tend to hit it.
He isn’t expecting anyone, and Mrs Hudson is visiting her sister this weekend. Lestrade would call before he stopped by. Mycroft tends to actively avoid the flat, preferring to pick him up somewhere along the street as he’s out and about. There’s no-one else who bothers to visit him since he’s become something of a recluse after Sherlock’s death.
John carefully uncurls himself from the couch and reaches for his gun. It’s right where he left it, discarded rather carelessly on the coffee table when he returned to the flat. Given the easy line of sight from the doorway to the couch, he stands and moves to one side, pressing himself against the wall.
His heart picks up speed and he carefully controls his breathing, trying to remain as silent as possible. For a moment, he has a flashback to hot sand, firefights and insurgents, but he shakes it off with a force of will. Here and now. Here and now, he reminds himself again.
He can practically sense the person - persons? He can’t tell - outside the door and he watches the doorknob twist one way, then the other in slow motion. It’s locked, but the lock is old and it won’t take much force to break in. The knob ceases its motion and now he can hear the person trying to open the door to the kitchen.
John slowly reaches into his pocket and pulls out his mobile, glancing down at the stubbornly dark screen. Damnit, he forgot to charge it again. There’s no help from that quarter and his laptop is across the room - too far for him to go if he wants to be prepared for the inevitable break in.
Fine.
He can do this.
The person’s now back at the front door, only this time he can hear them fumbling with the lock. He’s tempted to open the door, startle them perhaps into making a fatal mistake. They’re taking too damned long.
That’s when he hears it. A click and the door’s unlocked.
He cocks the gun.
The door opens, but no-one comes in. Surely they don’t realise he’s waiting for them. Right?
“I’d prefer to not be shot, to be honest,” Sherlock answers his unasked question. John barely manages to have the presence of mind to engage the safety on his gun before his knees give out on him.
Collapsing when you’re still dealing with injuries from the pool isn’t fun. To be frank, it bloody hurts. He thought the influx of pain would drive away the hallucination, but instead it only seems to enhance it.
“John?” Sherlock asks - but this isn’t possible. Sherlock’s - alive - dead. Isn’t he? He didn’t see the body, but he saw the - forged - post-mortem report. Mycroft - lies - told him Sherlock was dead. But that’s a very real weight causing the floorboards to creak. That’s a very real hand that wraps around the edge of the door. He knows those fingers; he knows that hand.
The apparition cautiously enters the room. Despite the unfamiliar clothing, it’s so very clearly Sherlock. A bit lankier than before, perhaps. He can’t help but diagnose malnutrition from his appearance. This isn’t possible. This isn’t fucking possible.
“You’re dead,” he says slowly, blinking his eyes. Is this some new form of PTSD? Isn’t it enough that he sometimes has flashbacks to Afghanistan, now he has to have flashbacks to Sherlock, too?
Sherlock waves his hand. “Obviously not. Think, John. Did you see my body? Did you perform the post-mortem yourself?”
John forces himself to his feet wincing as the motion sends a sharp jab of pain through his ankle.
His friend - hallucination? Can he still be his friend when he’s a ghost? - takes an aborted step towards him, stopping only when John moves his hand sharply. He doesn’t want to touch Sherlock just yet. He doesn’t want confirmation either that he’s mad or Sherlock’s a bastard for making him think he was dead just yet.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
“You’re in danger,” Sherlock says simply. “Moriarty is-“
Anger, sudden and brilliant floods him, driving away any lingering ache. “Moriarty. Of course it’s fucking Moriarty. It’s always Moriarty. Even when you’re dead, you’re still obsessed.”
Something in Sherlock’s face softens. “John...”
“No. Just no. I don’t want to hear it,” John says, turning away. Maybe if he doesn’t see the hallucination it’ll go away?
A hand - a warm, alive hand - rests on his shoulder. “John.”
His heart breaks - that’s got to be the source of this sensation and he thought that happened before, when he thought Sherlock was dead. “No. No, no, no. You can’t. It...”
“I meant to be back before you woke up,” Sherlock says quietly.
“It’s been three months,” John retorts, stiffening under the touch. “You fucking lied to me. Mycroft lied to me.”
“To protect you.”
John shrugs off the hand and turns, fury once again coursing through his veins and narrowing his eyes. “You bastard.”
“I think you will find that my parents were very much married,” Sherlock replies.
The punch isn’t telegraphed, isn’t something he even thought about before it happened. But damn is it satisfying to see Sherlock stumble back, hand lifted to his mouth where a bit of blood is starting to trickle free.
“Feel better?” Sherlock doesn’t seem surprised by the hit. Rather, he seems to have been expecting it.
“No, you wanker. You lied to me.”
“Yes, yes, I lied. You were - are - in danger. It was the most reliable method to ensure your safety. I failed to take into account that you would continue my work without me.” Sherlock waves his hand dismissively.
“Of course I did. Moriarty needs to be stopped,” John retorts.
“He does,” Sherlock agrees. “But you’ve been going about it wrong. You’re drawing attention to yourself. Moriarty’s noticed.”
Good. He knows he should probably be worried that Moriarty knows what he’s doing, but why bother? This is what he’s been on about for months. He always knew it’d come to this. He was pecking away at the small fish in Moriarty’s pond one by one until the bastard finally cottoned on. “That’s the ruddy point. You know what he called me right before you showed up at that pool? He called me a puppy, a loyal dog who followed his master wherever he led. He even called me that on my blog, and I don’t care. This dog’s got teeth and it’s about time he realised it.”
Sherlock’s wearing his ‘you’re an idiot, John’ expression. “Bravery. How droll. That won’t help you against him.”
John’s eyes narrow. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Hmm. You make a good show at it, true. John, he’s coming after you.”
“How do you know?”
“There were threats. Written words scattered across several countries,” Sherlock replies.
John sighs. “And what makes you think that wasn’t a trap?”
“It is a trap for me, which is why it’s brilliant.”
Of course it is. “So what now? You show up, reveal you’re alive, and then what? We kill Moriarty and go on with our lives?”
Now Sherlock grins. “Yes.”
To be continued...
x-posted to: dark_aegis and sherlockbbc
Author: Gillian Taylor
Character/Pairing: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Harry Watson, Greg Lestrade (Hints at Sherlock/John, so far)
Rating: PG-13
Warning: AU from Series 1
Spoilers: S1:The Great Game
Summary: One step at a time, that’s what he needs to remind himself. Eventually, he’ll have his revenge.
Disclaimer: Don't own them. I just like playing with them...a lot.
A/N: Thanks to nnwest for her encouragement and BRing. Apologies for the delay in this chapter - between my work and my beta's it's taken us a while to get this up here :)
Chapter 1: Requiem for a Holmes
Chapter 2: Rumours of My Demise
May 21, 2010:
Sherlock closes his eyes and simply breathes. In. Out. In. Out. The urge to leave, to let this reach its conclusion on Moriarty’s terms is strong. He should have been home by now. It should not have taken this long to flush out Moriarty’s organisation.
Home. John. He can’t let himself think of his friend. If he does, if he allows himself to linger on that thought, he doesn’t know if he can continue this charade. Yet, he must. Moriarty cannot be allowed to continue. This is the only way. Otherwise, Moriarty may try for John again. Anger, sharp and brilliant, pierces through him and he has to struggle to force himself to breathe calmly.
Emotions are useless. Pointless. They make his palms sweat, his heart beat just a little too fast, his attention span falter. He can’t afford to let them overwhelm him, yet they do. At the slightest hint of something that reminds him of John, they do.
He’s thought about trying to delete his memories of John, but he can’t go through with it. He’s tried pushing his memories of John into the smallest room of his mind palace, locked behind thick doors, but somehow they keep leaking out. It doesn’t matter what room he searches, John’s there. John is so intrinsically a part of his work; he can’t find the thread to separate them. Sherlock sighs, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. Pathetic.
Breathe, he commands himself. He needs to focus. He needs clarity. In. Count to seven. Release. Count to ten. In. Count to seven. Out. Count to ten. He opens his eyes and stares at the unassuming warehouse. This is where the clues have led him, to this warehouse in Moscow. This is where Moriarty’s people will strike next.
There. A scrape of a foot against concrete. Habitual shuffling, footsteps slightly uneven. One leg slightly longer than the other. The creak of leather, the soft clink of metal meeting metal. Two people are coming this way.
Sherlock crouches lower, using the shadows that surround the discarded boxes and bins to hide his presence.
“Are you sure?” a voice rough from too many cigarettes asks in thick Russian. The man pauses just under the light post. Tall. Weathered features, broken skin on his knuckles, scuffed and torn clothing. Muscle.
“Of course I am. The boss wouldn’t lie,” the other man replies, stopping just outside the pool of light. Impossible to deduce more than the probability of public schooling based on the accent.
“I thought the papers said he was dead.”
Sherlock blinks. Impossible. He’s been careful.
“The boss said there’ve been signs.”
Cigarette man snorts. “If this man’s as good as the boss says he is, there wouldn’t be any fecking signs. Could it be someone else? What about that man’s friend - the doctor?”
John. It’s a fight to remain still. He has the urge to reveal himself and demand to hear more. This is why emotions are a weakness. He curls his hands into fists, his nails biting into his skin.
“Maybe. Doesn’t matter, though. We’re not paid to worry about that. Leave it to the boss. Come on. We’ll have a coffee before our shift.”
Five minutes later, the men are safely inside the warehouse and Sherlock hasn’t moved. He hasn’t been careless. His movements have been the characterization of covert. Yet he has to consider that he might not have been as stealthy as he could have been. If anyone where able to deduce his continued existence, it would be Moriarty.
John’s in danger.
Sherlock glances at the warehouse and then looks away. He cannot continue this particular mission. Not after this discovery.
There’s nothing stopping Moriarty now.
***
May 30, 2010:
From the Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson:
As some of you know, I was in hospital for a few hours this morning. I’m okay, really I am. Nothing’s broken; I just have a few scratches. I didn’t see that bike messenger. I definitely saw that lorry. Anyway, sorry for not writing.
Comments (2):
Harry (Reply?)
Fuck this. I’m coming over.
John Watson (Reply?)
Harry, I’m fine. See? I’m ringing.
***
May 31, 2010:
“You son of a bitch,” Harry snarls and he has to actively force himself not to remind her that they have the same mother, thank you very much.
This is why he hasn’t been phoning. This is why he’s been actively avoiding her. He doesn’t want to have to deal with his sister. “Harry, I’m fine,” he repeats for what has to be the fifth time in as many minutes.
The stench of too much whiskey and gin wafts his way as she stops in front of him, poking his chest with a finger. “Yeah? And how am I supposed to know that? It’s like fucking Afghanistan all over again. The only way I’m going to know how you’re really doing is if I read it in some newspaper or if some stranger stops by to tell me you’re dead.”
John winces. “Harry...”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Don’t you ‘Harry’ me. You’re being a bloody wanker. I know Sherlock’s dead, all right? I know you’re hurting. But that doesn’t mean you get to cut yourself off from your family.” She turns away from him, folding her arms. From the subtle tremor in her shoulders, he thinks she might be crying. He feels like a complete cad. “I know you don’t like me. Don’t you say a fucking word right now, John Hamish Watson, I need to get this out, all right? You don’t like me. I know that. I drink too much, I’m a complete tosser, I can’t hold down a job to save my life and I drove off the best thing that ever happened to me. But please don’t do this to me. I can’t take another loss right now, okay?”
He sighs and rests his hands on her shoulders, frowning when he feels how thin she’s become. Her shoulders are as sharp as blades. She’s still lovely, though. Even drunk and upset, she’s beautiful. It’s not fair that she got the better genes of the two of them. “I’m sorry,” he offers.
She does sob this time and he turns her around and gathers her into his arms. “I love you,” he says and she shakes her head, burying her face against his shoulder.
“You love me because you have to,” she replies softly.
He never realised how truly screwed up his relationship was with his sister until now. He can’t really deny her comment, much as he wants to. “Harry, please.”
She pulls away from his embrace and looks at him, her mascara streaked from tears and lending her delicate features a dark, bruised look. Her eyes are bloodshot, but that tends to be typical when she’s had too much to drink. However, despite the drink, her gaze seems to be too sober for that. “How are you, really? Don’t give me that ‘fine’ crap.”
John pauses for a moment, considering. “I’m...surviving. Best I can.”
Harry visibly deflates and nods. “Good. Call me once in a while, okay? I can’t just learn about your life from your blog. Maybe we can...I don’t know, do lunch?”
The thought’s almost laughable, but she’s obviously trying. He knows if it weren’t for this situation, they’d be shouting at each other. They tend to love each other more from a distance. Yet, he can’t deny her this. If that’s what she wants, well, she’ll get it. He deliberately doesn’t scoff that this will work once, maybe twice, before it’s back to the way it was. “We can try that.”
Harry gives him a watery smile. “Good. Next Tuesday. Half noon. Carson’s Deli.” She’s already extracting herself from his arms and moving towards the door. She pauses before she leaves, turning her head enough so she can see his face. “Don’t forget, John. Please.”
“I won’t,” he promises.
After she pulls the door closed behind her, John leans his head against the cool wood and simply breathes. Dealing with Harry is always an emotional roller coaster. It could’ve been worse, much worse. He never knows what Harry he’s going to deal with - this version, at least, while drunk was relatively calm. He hates dealing with the angry drunk, the “sobbing her heart out” drunk, and the “blames the world” drunk.
John sighs and pushes off from the door, forcing thoughts of his sister from his mind. There’s a pile of papers waiting for his attention on the table. Some are case files that Lestrade’s dropped off for his review. Some are his own notes from going through newspapers and online forums. All of them are somehow - at least in his mind - tied to Moriarty.
It’s disheartening, really, to see just how many bastards have benefited from having Moriarty as their ‘fairy godmother’. He’s got his fingers everywhere, and it seems like no sooner has he taken care of one problem, another one pops up. He’s like a fucking hydra. You cut off one head and two more pop into place.
He sinks into one of the chairs and rubs his hand across his face. John can’t stop now. Sherlock wouldn’t stop now, and neither will he. He sighs and pulls a paper towards him, tracing links and identifying objectives. It’s slow, frustrating work, but he does manage to find his next target.
Tonight, he vows. Tonight he’ll track down one Mr James Bueller and stop him from killing his wife.
***
June 26, 2010:
Moriarty knows. It’s the only explanation. The last three sites he’s been to, there’ve been little notes. Taken alone, they’d be mysterious, perhaps mildly concerning, but nothing to worry about. Together they spell out a threat.
‘Poor puppy’ the first one reads, written with a barely legible scrawl on the wall of a warehouse in Paris.
‘So very alone.’ The second reads, this time spray-painted in bright yellow across a bin outside the Museo del América in Madrid.
The last one drives him back to London. ‘He misses you, S.’ It was carved into a bench in a small park in Milan. It’s a trap. It’s obviously a trap, but he doesn’t care. He’s had enough. Enough of the deception, enough of the chase, enough of being one step behind Moriarty.
If the man wants a confrontation - admittedly, it’s another confrontation, but that’s semantics - he’ll get one. Sherlock Holmes is going home.
***
July 1, 2010:
Exhaustion weighs heavily upon him, his eyes barely staying open as he collapses onto the couch. He’s starting to understand why Sherlock tended to sleep here rather than in his bed. It’s strangely comfortable, though there are still dents where someone far taller than he used to rest. If he breathes deeply, he can almost catch the barest whiff of smoke, chemicals and tea that characterised his friend.
John yawns and closes his eyes. It’s been a long day. Hell, it’s been a long week. No, it’s been a long several months since, well, since. Sometimes, he wishes it were all a dream. It feels like a dream, like at any moment he’s going to wake up and find out that these past few months didn’t happen and Sherlock will walk through the door and life is back to normal. Well, his version of normal.
He doesn’t work at the surgery any more. He hasn’t done since the pool. Apparently not showing up for several weeks after he was released from hospital is the equivalent of a resignation - who knew? Still, there are times he misses it. It’s a distraction, a reminder that there is life outside 221B. Sarah would only keep him on out of pity, of course. She’d re-hire him if he asked - he knows that, even though it’s a ridiculous thought. Who would want a locum doctor who isn’t reliable enough to come in when he says he will? He doesn’t even have the excuse of saying Sherlock’s responsible any more.
Admittedly, he doesn’t truly want to work there any more. It wasn’t safe for Sarah, the patients, the nurses or the other doctors. To be honest, it wasn’t safe for him either.
He’d lose himself there; become a shade of the man he was and he couldn’t abide that. He needs the chase - the game, as Sherlock called it. It’s a stop-gap measure, he knows that, but he tells himself he’ll be able to rest and let himself rejoin the rest of the human race once it’s finished.
It won’t be over until Moriarty and everyone he’s ever dealt with are either six feet under or in jail. He knows exactly which of those options he prefers. It’s hard, though. Sure, he’s done a bit. He’s found a few small time operatives. Those he’s turned over to Lestrade - no reason to sully his hands with them. He’s got bigger fish to go after once he’s dealt with the peripherals.
Tonight he was on a stakeout. Boring, perhaps, but he has this feeling it’ll bear fruit. He’s noticed that there’ve been a few more shipments going into a supposedly small-time imports and exports business near the docks. Coupling that with a hint from Mycroft’s files, he’s found his next target.
He won’t make a move just yet. He needs more data - he’s no Sherlock Holmes, so he can’t make a magical leap from the beginning to the end. He doesn’t know enough, not yet, to be certain he’s really on to something other than a gut feeling. Hence the stakeout.
Nothing happened, though. He decided to come home, get some sleep, and get back at it once he’s rested. He’ll miss things like this and that’s not something he can afford.
He’s about to drift off when something changes. He goes from half asleep to awake in an instant, his muscles tensing in preparation as the instincts drilled into him by the British Army come into play. There. The creaky stair, about three steps up from the ground floor. He misses it by instinct now, and only those who are unfamiliar with the stairwell tend to hit it.
He isn’t expecting anyone, and Mrs Hudson is visiting her sister this weekend. Lestrade would call before he stopped by. Mycroft tends to actively avoid the flat, preferring to pick him up somewhere along the street as he’s out and about. There’s no-one else who bothers to visit him since he’s become something of a recluse after Sherlock’s death.
John carefully uncurls himself from the couch and reaches for his gun. It’s right where he left it, discarded rather carelessly on the coffee table when he returned to the flat. Given the easy line of sight from the doorway to the couch, he stands and moves to one side, pressing himself against the wall.
His heart picks up speed and he carefully controls his breathing, trying to remain as silent as possible. For a moment, he has a flashback to hot sand, firefights and insurgents, but he shakes it off with a force of will. Here and now. Here and now, he reminds himself again.
He can practically sense the person - persons? He can’t tell - outside the door and he watches the doorknob twist one way, then the other in slow motion. It’s locked, but the lock is old and it won’t take much force to break in. The knob ceases its motion and now he can hear the person trying to open the door to the kitchen.
John slowly reaches into his pocket and pulls out his mobile, glancing down at the stubbornly dark screen. Damnit, he forgot to charge it again. There’s no help from that quarter and his laptop is across the room - too far for him to go if he wants to be prepared for the inevitable break in.
Fine.
He can do this.
The person’s now back at the front door, only this time he can hear them fumbling with the lock. He’s tempted to open the door, startle them perhaps into making a fatal mistake. They’re taking too damned long.
That’s when he hears it. A click and the door’s unlocked.
He cocks the gun.
The door opens, but no-one comes in. Surely they don’t realise he’s waiting for them. Right?
“I’d prefer to not be shot, to be honest,” Sherlock answers his unasked question. John barely manages to have the presence of mind to engage the safety on his gun before his knees give out on him.
Collapsing when you’re still dealing with injuries from the pool isn’t fun. To be frank, it bloody hurts. He thought the influx of pain would drive away the hallucination, but instead it only seems to enhance it.
“John?” Sherlock asks - but this isn’t possible. Sherlock’s - alive - dead. Isn’t he? He didn’t see the body, but he saw the - forged - post-mortem report. Mycroft - lies - told him Sherlock was dead. But that’s a very real weight causing the floorboards to creak. That’s a very real hand that wraps around the edge of the door. He knows those fingers; he knows that hand.
The apparition cautiously enters the room. Despite the unfamiliar clothing, it’s so very clearly Sherlock. A bit lankier than before, perhaps. He can’t help but diagnose malnutrition from his appearance. This isn’t possible. This isn’t fucking possible.
“You’re dead,” he says slowly, blinking his eyes. Is this some new form of PTSD? Isn’t it enough that he sometimes has flashbacks to Afghanistan, now he has to have flashbacks to Sherlock, too?
Sherlock waves his hand. “Obviously not. Think, John. Did you see my body? Did you perform the post-mortem yourself?”
John forces himself to his feet wincing as the motion sends a sharp jab of pain through his ankle.
His friend - hallucination? Can he still be his friend when he’s a ghost? - takes an aborted step towards him, stopping only when John moves his hand sharply. He doesn’t want to touch Sherlock just yet. He doesn’t want confirmation either that he’s mad or Sherlock’s a bastard for making him think he was dead just yet.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
“You’re in danger,” Sherlock says simply. “Moriarty is-“
Anger, sudden and brilliant floods him, driving away any lingering ache. “Moriarty. Of course it’s fucking Moriarty. It’s always Moriarty. Even when you’re dead, you’re still obsessed.”
Something in Sherlock’s face softens. “John...”
“No. Just no. I don’t want to hear it,” John says, turning away. Maybe if he doesn’t see the hallucination it’ll go away?
A hand - a warm, alive hand - rests on his shoulder. “John.”
His heart breaks - that’s got to be the source of this sensation and he thought that happened before, when he thought Sherlock was dead. “No. No, no, no. You can’t. It...”
“I meant to be back before you woke up,” Sherlock says quietly.
“It’s been three months,” John retorts, stiffening under the touch. “You fucking lied to me. Mycroft lied to me.”
“To protect you.”
John shrugs off the hand and turns, fury once again coursing through his veins and narrowing his eyes. “You bastard.”
“I think you will find that my parents were very much married,” Sherlock replies.
The punch isn’t telegraphed, isn’t something he even thought about before it happened. But damn is it satisfying to see Sherlock stumble back, hand lifted to his mouth where a bit of blood is starting to trickle free.
“Feel better?” Sherlock doesn’t seem surprised by the hit. Rather, he seems to have been expecting it.
“No, you wanker. You lied to me.”
“Yes, yes, I lied. You were - are - in danger. It was the most reliable method to ensure your safety. I failed to take into account that you would continue my work without me.” Sherlock waves his hand dismissively.
“Of course I did. Moriarty needs to be stopped,” John retorts.
“He does,” Sherlock agrees. “But you’ve been going about it wrong. You’re drawing attention to yourself. Moriarty’s noticed.”
Good. He knows he should probably be worried that Moriarty knows what he’s doing, but why bother? This is what he’s been on about for months. He always knew it’d come to this. He was pecking away at the small fish in Moriarty’s pond one by one until the bastard finally cottoned on. “That’s the ruddy point. You know what he called me right before you showed up at that pool? He called me a puppy, a loyal dog who followed his master wherever he led. He even called me that on my blog, and I don’t care. This dog’s got teeth and it’s about time he realised it.”
Sherlock’s wearing his ‘you’re an idiot, John’ expression. “Bravery. How droll. That won’t help you against him.”
John’s eyes narrow. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Hmm. You make a good show at it, true. John, he’s coming after you.”
“How do you know?”
“There were threats. Written words scattered across several countries,” Sherlock replies.
John sighs. “And what makes you think that wasn’t a trap?”
“It is a trap for me, which is why it’s brilliant.”
Of course it is. “So what now? You show up, reveal you’re alive, and then what? We kill Moriarty and go on with our lives?”
Now Sherlock grins. “Yes.”
To be continued...
x-posted to: dark_aegis and sherlockbbc