Above, Below (Through the Cracks) || Part Seven ||
//
Sherlock was frozen.
His body wouldn’t move as his mind attempted and failed to process what was happening. John was shouting, screaming at him to run but his legs wouldn’t move.
The nameless, faceless villain Sherlock had been chasing was Mycroft?
His pompous, fatuous, brilliant older brother was the one controlling Moriarty and Moran? He had been ordering the deaths of the leaders Below…. Had he known it was Sherlock’s death he was ordering?
“When you came bursting in, so dramatically, little brother, with your little guard dog I rather thought you’d finally worked it out. Imagine my surprise when I realised you came here to plead for sanctuary. Rather poor decision, that one, hmm?”
“Sherlock, stop listening to him and run,” John roared, breaking through the haze of shock and horror Mycroft’s words were holding him in.
Moriarty had hauled John into one of the wooden chairs in the corner of the office. There was a knife between his teeth, the identical partner to the one Moran had embedded in Sherlock’s shoulder just the day before. The one John had already escaped once that day.
John cried out in pain as Moriarty tied him to the chair, with a thin thread he pulled from inside his jacket. Sherlock knew it instantly as chain made by Hammersmith. John would never break free from it.
Moran was blocking the door, and even wounded, Sherlock doubted his ability to get past him. Not while Moran was grinning at Sherlock, clearly looking forward to any excuse to inflict further pain on him.
“You hurt him,” Moriarty hissed in John’s ear. “You shot my beloved. Twice,” he emphasised his displeasure at the number with two long, deep cuts down John’s neck.
“Sherlock,” John groaned, looking over his shoulder to meet Sherlock eyes. “I’ll be fine. Go. Now. Please,” he pleaded.
Moriarty dragged the knife across John’s already bruised cheek, blood welling in its wake.
Moriarty was going to kill John.
Sherlock couldn’t leave, even if he was able to.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock begged, turning to his brother. Hoping that somewhere, there was still a trace of the young boy Sherlock had once adored and idolised, who had doted on him in return. “Mycroft, please, make them stop.”
“I can’t do that, Sherlock, I’m afraid,” Mycroft said and he didn’t sound at all sorry. He didn’t care. He didn’t care that Moriarty was going to kill John, slowly and painfully, didn’t care that John’s life meant something, everything, to Sherlock.
“Why?” Sherlock demanded, pain and fury rising like bile from the very depths of his being as John bit back another cry and Moriarty cackled in gleeful pleasure.
“Because you didn’t help me, little brother,” Mycroft said and Sherlock was certain his knees would give out. How could this be his fault? Mycroft had everything, he always had.
Mycroft took a sip from the teacup on the edge of his desk and Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from shaking with rage, with disappointment, with fear.
He didn’t know what to do. He had not been so lost since he fell.
//
John tried to focus on his breathing, to keep each rise and fall of his chest steady and regular. It wasn’t easy. Even if he was trained for this, it had been a long time since he left Sandhurst and half a year since he was in combat.
The training came back, but not easily. Not when Moriarty was carving pieces into him and Sherlock wouldn’t do to the sensible thing and get the fuck out of there.
Whatever was holding John was solid and strong and there was no way he was getting out of it. If it had been a rope, he might have stood a chance, but not a chain with a lock. That was more Sherlock’s area and he was understandably distracted.
John bit back another groan of pain as Sherlock begged Mycroft to stop his torture. Moriarty was getting off on it and John would be buggered before he gave Moriarty any more sick, twisted pleasure than he was already getting from it.
Then he focused on Mycroft. Listened to what he was saying, the excuses he was trying to give to Sherlock for what he had done. What he was doing.
“You see, Sherlock, I had plans for you. Such big, important plans and just like when we were children you simply refused to do what was good for you. When I had you brought here all those years ago, I already knew about the Underside. I wanted to see if you would fall through, and when I saw you I knew. Of course, you always work to your own schedule, don’t you Sherlock? Not only did you take too long to fall, but even longer to get clean, despite the provisions I put in place for you. Yes, don’t look so shocked. Molly was put in place and do you know, for a time there she wouldn’t tell us anything about you, she was so taken with her poor, broken charge. Then you spurned her and it took time, too much time, for her to come out of hiding but she told us. All about you.”
//
“You used me?” Sherlock said, though he wasn’t sure how he managed to force the words out.
He had not thought it could get worse than learning that Mycroft had ordered the deaths of so many, that he would go to such lengths to be the most powerful man in London, Above and Below.
He had betrayed Sherlock.
His own, his only brother.
Mycroft smirked cruelly as Sherlock’s whole body trembled. “Did you never think it odd, little brother, that after you escaped from rehabilitation I never sent you back? You were going to help me take over the Underside, you were going to be rewarded, but you took too long. You hid yourself, and I was forced to look into other avenues for achieving my goal. I have never been a patient man.”
“Avenues such as ourselves,” Moriarty said proudly, and Sherlock watched as he traced the wound dripping blood down John’s cheek with the tip of his knife. John flinched and his nostrils flared, but he made no sound. “A satisfaction-guaranteed service and no pesky, sibling unreliability.”
Sherlock knew he did not need to ask if Mycroft had known it was Sherlock investigating the deaths when he sent Moriarty and Moran on his trail. It was written across Mycroft’s face, screamed out by his body language. Moriarty and Moran had not used Sherlock’s name when searching for him, whether they had not known it or merely been told not to didn’t matter. It had been the same end. Mycroft’s attempts to ensure that Sherlock did not discover that he was behind it all, that he was willing to kill his brother for control of the Below.
Mycroft, who sat on the other side of his desk with an impassive smile, watching as Sherlock’s world fell to pieces once again and John was tortured.
Sherlock dropped to his knees and vomited, a mixture of water and bile that burned the back of his throat.
He saw Moran’s feet move out of the corner of his eye and Mycroft snapped, “leave him.”
Sherlock took a moment to collect himself, to try and push down the rush of emotions warring inside him for dominance and allow himself a chance to think. It was up to him to end this. To stop Mycroft, Moriarty and Moran, and to save himself and John.
Then he saw it.
The gun. John’s gun.
It lay abandoned on the floor between himself and Moriarty. Moriarty was close, but Sherlock had the advantage as long as he had the element of surprise. Moran was behind him, even further from the weapon than Sherlock.
He faked another retch and lurched forward.
Moriarty’s eyes snapped to the gun.
Sherlock moved.
//
John’s heart pounded in his chest as Sherlock leapt across the carpet towards the gun. Moriarty dropped the knife, abandoned his torture of John and made a grab for it.
He was too slow off the mark. Sherlock had the gun. Held it in hands so steady they could have been John’s.
John wondered what Sherlock was going to do with it, now that he had it. There were three possible targets. Mycroft was the most obvious choice, being the one behind it all, but would Sherlock be able to point a gun in his brother’s face and mean it?
John wasn’t sure he wanted him to be able to.
Sherlock turned. Not to Mycroft, but to Moran and barely a second after the gun was in his hand it was aimed at Moran and Sherlock demanded in the coldest tone John had ever heard from his lips. “Don’t. Move.”
//
Moran froze.
Mycroft offered an attempt at pacification as he stood and moved around from behind his desk, “Sherlock.”
“I said, don’t move. That includes you, Mycroft,” Sherlock said and he stilled at the edge of Sherlock’s peripheral vision.
Moriarty hissed, a wild, animalistic sound. Sherlock turned again, keeping Moran in the gun’s sights and Mycroft in his own.
Then he saw Moriarty and it felt as though his heart had stopped.
His hands were carefully placed on John’s head and chin and he was grinning, furious and excited at once. Sherlock could see in John’s eyes that he understood. He was in the army, of course he understood.
One swift movement and careful application of pressure and John’s neck would be broken.
“Put the gun down,” Mycroft instructed. He used the same tones he had when Sherlock was a child and was throwing a tantrum, when he’d fallen and scraped his knee.
It might have meant something. Before.
“Let John go,” he ordered Moriarty.
“Put that down, or I’ll-”
“Less talking Moriarty,” Mycroft roared. “I have had enough of my brother causing a scene. Now would you two do your jobs and kill them both!”
It was enough for Sherlock’s attention to slip.
Moriarty threw his knife to Moran, who caught it and was instantly moving towards Sherlock. Moriarty licked his lips in anticipation and reached for John, who ducked and struggled as Moriarty went to snap his neck.
//
There was only a second to choose.
Only, there never had been any choice to begin with.
Sherlock pulled the trigger.
//
Mycroft hit the ground.
Everything stopped except for the blood pooling on the carpet and on what had been an impeccable three-piece suit.
Moriarty’s hands went lack, probably in shock, and John heaved a shuddering sigh of relief.
Sherlock’s hand was shaking and all the colour had dropped from his face. John struggled against his bonds. He needed to go to Sherlock. Right now.
Sherlock had just-.
Fuck.
Sherlock had just shot, killed, his brother. John had failed to save him from Mycroft, from the truth. He needed to get Moriarty and Moran out of the picture for good and take care of Sherlock. Give him whatever he needed.
//
Sherlock knew the moment the shock wore off from Moriarty and Moran. Moriarty was moving back towards John and Moran’s grip tightened around the knife, ready to strike.
“Stop,” Sherlock said and resented that his voice was shaking.
John was still in danger, he was still in danger and the only way for them both to get out alive was to reason with Moriarty and Moran. Not an easy task to begin with, even less so when they were both out for blood.
He moved the gun between the two of them, until they both took a step back from their intended targets.
“Good,” he said, getting himself more under control.
There was time to fall to pieces later, to give in to the emotional response demanding his attention. Once they were safe.
“Now, I imagine I am correct in assuming that you have not been fully paid for services rendered.”
Sherlock knew for a fact that most contracts undertaken by Moriarty and Moran were paid half up front, half upon completion. What Mycroft had employed them for would have come with a hefty fee and they liked being paid as much as they liked violence.
“No, we were supposed to get another payment once we’d given your big brother your head and his heart on a platter,” Moriarty sneered, with a nod towards John.
Anger flared, hot and bright in Sherlock’s chest and he swallowed it down. “I know both the location and the combination of the safe in this room. I will give you all the valuable contents, even if it is above the full rate my brother promised you. On the condition that it ends, that no more of the deaths ordered are carried out, including myself and John.”
Moriarty was clearly considering his options.
Sherlock pointed the gun at him and made the choice significantly easier. “Or I can shoot you both.”
//
“Love?” Moriarty said to Moran. John could see in his eyes he wanted blood, he wanted vengeance for the shooting in the tunnel.
Moran nodded.
They wanted to live more.
Sherlock was on the edge, he had just killed his brother and it wasn’t a great leap to believe he could kill two strangers who’d been hunting him for weeks.
“We’ll take the payment,” Moriarty said and it was a lie.
John knew it down to the very bottom of his bones that Moriarty was lying, that Moran approved. The deaths of the tribe leaders might stop, but John and Sherlock, no, that was personal.
Nothing was going to stop Moriarty and Moran killing them the moment they had the upper hand.
John said nothing, remained still as Sherlock ordered Moriarty to release John and the lock and chains were removed. John stood, heart still thumping behind his ribs and adrenaline flooding his system.
“Here,” John said, slipping the gun from Sherlock’s fingers as Sherlock rushed to his side, assessing the injuries that John could barely feel as anticipation made everything sharp and numb.
“I’m okay,” he said, stepping away from Sherlock.
Moriarty had moved to Moran’s side and was fussing with the bandages now soaked with fresh blood.
John looked at them both. Moriarty’s eyes flashed with realisation.
He pulled the trigger twice.
Moriarty, then Moran, hit the ground with heavy, dead thumps and bullet holes between their eyes. No chance of escape or recovery.
Moriarty and Moran were dead. He and Sherlock were safe.
It was just self-defence in advance.
The only regret John felt was that he hadn’t pulled the trigger for Mycroft too, and taken that responsibility away from Sherlock.
//
It took Sherlock’s brain a long moment to process what had just happened.
It was sluggish and slow and he had a suspicion that meant he was in shock. If there was ever a series of events worthy enough to put him into shock, he had just been through them.
Two shots, John’s face emotionless and strong, Moriarty and Moran’s dead eyes and blood and brain matter all over the wallpaper.
“Are you hurt?” John asked, abandoning the gun on the edge of Mycroft’s desk before he turned back to Sherlock.
John was covered in blood. There were cuts to his face and neck and collarbone. Yet his hands were searching over Sherlock’s body, with careful measured touches looking for any trace of harm, when it had been John who had suffered.
“I’m fine,” he said, his eyes drawn to the lifeless bodies of Moriarty and Moran.
“I had to,” John said softly. “They were only going to let us live while we had the advantage. They were going to kill us, it was the only way.”
“I know,” Sherlock replied, something terrible and unbearable clawing inside his chest. “I know,” he said again, voice shaking as he tried to swallow it down. To lock it away where he would never have to acknowledge that he understood.
He understood.
He had shot Mycroft.
Killed his brother.
Suddenly his face was wet. He barely felt it as his legs gave in and he hit the ground.
//
All he could see was Mycroft’s body. Lifeless eyes staring at him in accusation and stained in blood. There was blood everywhere.
Then John was next to him. He wrapped Sherlock in his arms and pulled him bodily to him, until Sherlock was practically in John’s lap, held tightly with his face buried in John’s blood-stained jumper.
He could feel his shoulders shaking, his chest heaving as it all exploded out of him. Everything he had pressed down and locked away inside since before the drugs.
It was impossible to breathe.
John held him tighter. He whispered, “I know,” into his hair. He was warm and solid and Sherlock clung to him, to the comfort. “You had to, I know you had to.”
John didn’t promise that it was going to be alright, did not promise that it would get better, all things that Sherlock could not believe. Not in the face of Mycroft’s horrific betrayal. Not with the weight of his brother’s death, his murder, on his shoulders and the sight of his body whenever he closed his eyes.
Instead, John kissed the crown of his head and promised something that Sherlock wanted to believe, needed to believe instead. “I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.”
//
John held Sherlock as he shook and trembled and sobbed out the pain and guilt and sorrow. He whispered careful promises against his skin and waited.
Then the room burst into life.
The door swung open with an almighty crash and four policemen charged into the room in full gear and stopped as soon as soon as they saw the sight before them.
There was a gun abandoned on the floor and three dead bodies, one shot to the chest, two expert shots to the head.
Their eyes didn’t even stop on John and Sherlock, curled up together on the floor of the office, amongst the sea of bodies and blood.
“Time to go,” John said softly as the police backed up and shouted orders into their radios and someone in the distance screamed. He didn’t want to test the protection that Below gave them, how unseen they would be if one of the officers tripped over them. How quickly they would forget two possible murder suspects.
Sherlock looked up, pale face still wet with tears and smears of blood from John’s jumper and wounds. It took a moment for recognition and then realisation to set in for the events unfolding around them.
He nodded slowly, “Yes, we should go.”
John pressed a careful kiss to his forehead before extracting himself from around Sherlock. He stood, and offered Sherlock his hand.
//
Sherlock took a deep breath, reached up and clutched John’s hand like the lifeline it was.
He followed as John led, vision blurry and eyes watery, but he trusted in John. Trusted in the warmth of his hand against his own and the steady beat of his pulse at his wrist until they were outside and the cool autumn air burned his cheeks.
// Part Eight //