Fanfiction: Sherlock, BBC
Title: Fire Storm
Summary: "Do you regret it?" - A simple fall can change everything, but some things are always the same - and some are not quite what they seem. After all, no one said this would be easy. Sequel to my one shot 'Black Ice'.
Chapter Word Count: Approx 4,100
Rating: Teen
Notes: I do not own Sherlock. We are nearing the end now...only three chapters left after this one. Which was rather awkward to write...semi-consciousness is very hard to pull off, while making it make sense. With that in mind, an even bigger thank you than normal to my beta, prettybirdy979, who sits through my nonsense run-on sentences so you don't have to.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
It’s gone midnight by the time John concedes defeat. In danger of falling asleep on the sofa again as he squints with tired eyes at the endless stack of files, he announces that he is going to bed. Sherlock nods and offers him a cursory ‘goodnight’ but doesn’t follow. He alone seems able to stave off the call of sleep while he adds notes and arrows to the map that is rapidly becoming completely obscured by a combination of stickers and handwriting.
In truth, Sherlock is no closer to knowing precisely who is targeting them. However, he is at least consolidating the facts he does have at his disposal into one record. Once he is able to view all the evidence as a single entity, he hopes that patterns will begin to emerge from this jumbled mess. At the moment it’s so...disconnected. This bothers Sherlock more than he cares to admit. The crash he can take easily in his stride, though the - the inelegance, of such a method, niggles at him for reasons he can’t pin down. The collapse, though...why would someone who clearly has no compunction at murdering a presumably innocent teenager then balk at tackling Sherlock directly? It doesn’t fit.
He passes into early morning on a fiery rush of adrenalin that fuels his mind as much as his body, and the minutes trickle by without him noticing. He is much too intent on the work at hand to care about something as mundane as sleep...
Nevertheless, Sherlock’s eyes eventually begin to itch with tiredness. After the building collapse and the chase with Dixie, both so soon after being released from hospital, his body is making its exhaustion known. He rubs them irritably, refusing to succumb to such a boring and useless weakness. He applies himself with that much more effort to his task.
Two in the morning comes and goes...three...
Sherlock’s eyes slip closed - just for a moment - and he hears Moriarty’s voice hissing at him in the darkness...
Burn the heart out of you...
He snaps his eyes open again, frustrated with himself for giving in for even a second. He’s being ridiculous, of course. John will be fine...he’ll be fine; Sherlock is the one they are after...
But what if John gets caught in the crossfire?
John is more than capable of looking after himself, he won’t -
But he might, and the thought makes Sherlock cold with dread, he forces himself to concentrate - Epps’s first killing was...where again?
Tired...
No, keep working - Sherlock checks his watch absently, barely noticing the hands creeping towards four o’clock. He ignores the residual ache - the first time he has really noticed it - of his injuries from the crash. His leg throbs dully and his head hurts, but he pushes it away. It’s not important, it doesn’t matter...
A blurry image of John’s drawn, terrified face. Injured - John must be injured -
No - stay awake, this is stupid; you need to work.
Noticing something strange in the file he’s reading, he pulls a second one towards himself, blinking heavily...surely a coincidence?
But his eyelids are heavy, a different kind of exhaustion to the one he experienced after the crash but barely easier to resist...
No. It can’t be coincidence, there’s a third. It’s too much, they must be connected...but none of these are even suspected of being linked to Moriarty. Is his reach even further than they thought?
...Burn the heart out of you...
Stay awake...
Perhaps it’s someone else, some other organisation. Or maybe Sherlock’s fatigue is beginning to affect his judgement, and they aren’t really connected at all...
...might not happen to you - might be that doctor friend of yours...
Need to work, concentrate...and he knows Dixie was involved with this one, he’ll have to have a closer look there...yes, he needs to check...
But not right now. Just a moment - he’ll just close his eyes for a moment...
That’s what people DO!
They snap open again, but droop closed almost immediately. Muffled noises and indistinct shapes swirl oddly around him. He’s half conscious, struggling against the pull of sleep. He’s dreaming...no, no, he’s on the sofa, he can feel the sofa, and the paper on his lap...
The paper slips off, but Sherlock’s limp fingers make no move to retrieve it. Is that voice real, or imaginary? Is he waking or sleeping?
Waking, he thinks. He’s awake; he knows he’s awake, because he can hear the clock ticking. Now if he could only make his eyes open...
But the ticking is wrong. It’s too loud and it echoes, but this room is too small and cluttered for that...
He can hear the tap dripping...
But no, that’s not the tap. It is water though, sort of...lapping? Rhythmic, like waves, only without the rush and roar behind it, and that noise echoes too...somewhere he hears footsteps. Maybe John has woken up. Is it morning already? Except now they’ve faded, and the surroundings that were slowly solidifying around him have melted, reformed...
John’s face swims in front of him, so close, smiling softly...
The image changes; it jerks back as though pulled away and morphs again. Now Mycroft; stupid, interfering Mycroft...now Anderson, scowling and muttering. Now John again; laughing, now frowning, now shouting. Lestrade, Mrs Hudson; John again, Angelo, John, Mycroft, John...
...I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.
It’s his voice speaking now, but he doesn’t remember moving his lips. He’s still vaguely aware of being sat down, though he can’t seem to actually feel the sofa. Then Moriarty’s smirk - we both know that’s not quite true - and a chill, bone deep. It’s unfamiliar and disturbing, almost - almost like fear, almost like something more, like panic.
Stop his heart - he hears John’s voice, John but not John, very much not John, but he can’t see him, the dark pool is empty...
...Oh, let me guess, I get killed...so dull and boring and predictable he can’t even keep the exasperation from his voice...
Don’t want to be obvious...
Saving it up for something special...burn you...
...You think I’ve played this game just to kill you now? And Sherlock is impressed, and this - Moriarty, the puzzles, all of it, is so interesting, so fascinating. But John is here; John is in danger and his own violent reaction to that fact scares him as much as the knowledge itself...
If I wanted you dead, my dear, you already would be ...
There’s another noise behind him - a footstep, a voice, a breath - any, all, what does it matter? He turns weightlessly, seeming to drift more than step, and all he can see is faces, two faces. One has dark, glittering eyes and a serpent’s smirk. The other is stubborn and earnest and alive. And then there’s a gun, and Moriarty has the gun, and he’s pointing it, he’s pointing it at John. John is between them, Sherlock and his nemesis, and he could just duck, please just duck.
Moriarty is moving slowly, so slowly. He knows that John won’t move because that would leave Sherlock in the firing line but please, please - and Sherlock calls out, but now he can’t seem to take a step, he’s paralyzed. He’s stuck here, frozen to the spot and they’re too far away, and Moriarty is laughing...laughing...
0000
‘NO!’ Sherlock sits bolt upright, the shout escaping his lips as he jerks awake with the gunshot still ringing in his ears. Taking deep breaths and peering around the room frantically, reality begins to set in. The silence of the flat, altogether much more welcome than the silence of the pool, presses on his ears and calms him slowly. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees and puts his head in his hands, trying without avail to delete the images from his mind. They remain stubbornly, vividly pressed in front of his eyes whether he opens or closes them. The echoes of Moriarty’s voice; the gunshot, reverberating around his head...
‘Sherlock?’ John’s tentative, sleep-blurred voice calls, puzzled. Sherlock doesn’t reply, but relief - ridiculous, irrational relief, because it was a dream and John is fine - surges through him with such overwhelming power he feels weak with it.
‘Are you alright?’ John asks nervously, moving further into the room. Sherlock is sitting on the sofa, papers scattered around him, on the floor, on the table - some crumpled where he fell asleep on them. In the dim, grey dawn light, Sherlock’s figure looks tense as though ready for flight at a moment’s notice, and he is breathing heavily. He still doesn’t look up, even when John sinks onto the sofa beside him and lays a hand on his arm. ‘Sherlock?’
Still, there is no reply, but Sherlock’s breathing becomes more even, his muscles more relaxed, the instant John’s hand touches him. He’s okay, it’s okay, he’s okay...
‘Bad dream?’ John tries again.
‘John,’ Sherlock manages to say, slightly breathlessly. It’s the same sort of forced tone as when he first saw John at the pool. He finally looks up and takes in John’s face - he’s here, he’s here, he’s here...
‘You should go,’ Sherlock replies quietly, the words costing him exhausting effort.
‘If you mean back to bed, I agree,’ says John, knowing perfectly well what Sherlock meant. ‘Other than that - no, I shouldn’t.’ His voice is friendly enough, despite the early hour and impromptu wake-up call, but Sherlock doesn’t miss the underlying stubborn determination. It makes him smile, just a little, though he doesn’t know why, and the expression vanishes as quickly as it came. He forces himself to look at John.
‘You should,’ Sherlock repeats, sounding puzzled, ‘I should tell you to go.’
John frowns. Sherlock’s face, especially in the semi-darkness, looks thin and drawn. His eyes have dark shadows beneath them, but they themselves are as bright as ever. They have lost nothing, they miss nothing, and John knows that Sherlock knows, that he’s not going anywhere. ‘But you aren’t going to, are you?’ he says gently, somewhere between a question and a statement.
‘No,’ Sherlock’s voice is thoughtful. ‘You wouldn’t even if I told you to, would you?’
‘Not a chance.’
‘I thought so.’ He pauses, ‘it’s dangerous.’
‘You know, oddly enough, that had already crossed my mind,’ John replies lightly, teasing the tiniest of almost-smiles from Sherlock. ‘I thought I was the one meant to be reminding you of that.’
‘Selfish,’ Sherlock murmurs. John’s slight frown deepens,
‘What’s selfish?’
‘You are.’
John shakes his head, ‘you’ve lost me.’
‘If we were...’ Sherlock stops, thinks. He tries not to remember the frozen panic of the dream. John tries not to let the uncharacteristic hesitation get to him. ‘If your life was in danger, and the only way to save it was for you to endanger mine, would you do it?’
‘Of course not!’ John replies instantly, and Sherlock nods.
‘Selfish,’ he insists again.
‘I’m sorry, but how is that selfish?’ John asks, nonplussed. He assumes this has something to do with Sherlock’s dream. At least, the dream he is assuming Sherlock had, since no mention of one has actually been made - and he has had quite enough of the guesswork.
‘Because!’ Sherlock exclaims fiercely, jumping suddenly to his feet and pacing for a few moments before forcing his voice to steady again. There is a rushed urgency to it John has only ever really seen associated with the feverishly exited explanations of cases before. ‘If you had to sacrifice yourself to save me, you would do it?’
‘Yes,’ John replies, without having to think. Sherlock’s agitation grows.
‘People assume that doing something like that is selfless - but if you were killed in the attempt, it’s over for you then isn’t it? You haven’t got to live with guilt or grief or any of that nonsense, it’s just...finished. You’re out. And the other person is left behind to deal with everything. Selfish.’
‘In which case, I promise I won’t die trying to save you,’ John answers carefully, ‘as long as you promise not to put yourself in any situations where you’ll need it. Short of that, I can’t help, I’m afraid.’
Sherlock sighs, energy seeming to drain out of him as he does, ‘John...’
‘Forget it. We’ll carry on as we always have, and we’ll figure something out. It’s fine,’ John assures Sherlock, squeezing his hand reassuringly. The absurdity of it being him who is having to convince Sherlock of their safety is not lost on him, though he struggles not to let it unsettle him. ‘It’ll be fine.’
And even though really, Sherlock knows John is wrong - there is no way he can guarantee the safety of either of them, let alone himself…Somehow, with the doctor beside him, the warmth of his hand closed around Sherlock’s own cold fingers, he almost finds himself believing it.
000000
Sherlock is pacing. He has been pacing on and off for the past two hours, ever since he first texted Shinwell Johnson to demand an update, which still has not arrived.
Two minutes after sending the message, Sherlock was huffing moodily every few seconds when he checked for a reply that had yet to come. After five minutes he was getting dangerously impatient - after a hundred and five it’s all John can do to prevent him shooting something.
The map is still laid out on the table, dotted with its multi-coloured stickers. Various case files are scattered across the room, open, pages strewn haphazardly around with no apparent order to them. John knows better than to judge entirely by this appearance though. At first he had merely accepted there was a pattern he hadn’t picked up on, knowing Sherlock as he does. Now he sees that they are gathered roughly into vague groups - not based on the perpetrator or location, but on their potential for helpful clues. Those Sherlock has deemed useful are always to the forefront, closer to the map itself.
Sherlock is walking over this mess now, seeming not to notice the papers crease and shift under his feet.
‘Why isn’t he answering?’ he exclaims in frustration, for what must be at least the fiftieth time. ‘He knows how important -’ he stops abruptly at the sound of a soft tap on the door, leaping clean over the chair on his way to yank it open.
‘Only me!’ Mrs Hudson chimes unnecessarily, glancing across at John with a sympathetic look on her face. ‘There’s a man at the door for you dear -’
‘Send him up,’ Sherlock interrupts without bothering to ask after the man’s identity. Mrs Hudson looks again to John, this time for confirmation - he nods and she hurries away dutifully. She has taken to forewarning them of visitors since learning of the threat against them. It seems - thankfully, John thinks - that she trusts the doctor’s judgement over Sherlock’s when it comes to matters of safety. Not that any of them truly believe a potential assassin would do anything quite so risky (and, in Sherlock’s opinion, dull and obvious) as to walk right into the flat, after having revealed themselves to their landlady. Although John secretly thinks that even if they did try, they’d have a job getting past Mrs Hudson in the first place.
‘Where have you been?’ demands Sherlock by way of greeting when the small man shuffles in. He is a good couple of inches shorter than John, unshaven and loudly chewing gum with an expression of distinct distaste on his face. He eyes John with apparent suspicion; Sherlock gestures towards him impatiently, ‘John Watson,’ he says. John holds his hand out automatically, but the man ignores him.
‘Name doesn’t tell me who he is,’ he grunts, sliding his dark gaze back to Sherlock, slowly.
‘He’s with me,’ Sherlock replies shortly. John is reminded forcefully of his first introduction to Lestrade. He wonders vaguely just how many contacts Sherlock has built up over the years, and what - if anything - association with the Holmes brothers can fail to produce.
‘’Scuse precautions,’ Johnson apologises gruffly, no change in his expression except a slight raising of his eyebrows which John cannot read, ‘can’t be too careful, my line of work.’ He flops down onto the sofa, absently catching up a loose sheet of paper and peering at it quizzically for a moment. Sherlock surveys him harshly. ‘Any chance of a cuppa?’ he asks casually. Sherlock narrows his eyes, hands perched severely on his hips as he glares down at Johnson, who drops the paper. ‘Sorry, sorry...’ he waves his hands in a gesture of surrender, chewing his gum thoughtfully before speaking again.
‘Fella you’re after’s got a place round here,’ he jabs a stubby finger at the map, circling vaguely over an area about two miles wide, around the site of Sherlock’s confrontation with Steve Dixie.
‘Can you be a little more specific?’ Sherlock says, more of a command than a question, at the same time as John asks ‘did you actually see him?’ Sherlock spares John an approving glance before turning exasperatedly to their informant, who shrugs.
‘Can’t get too close can I?’ John can’t tell whose question this is an answer to and finds himself more than a little impressed with the - admittedly fragile - patience Sherlock is exhibiting. John himself is inches from physically shaking the information out of the little man. ‘I start being too obvious about sticking my nose in other people’s business, it’ll get cut off. I’ll blow my cover and be no use to anyone now will I? And I don’t care how much you’re paying me, it ain’t worth crossing certain...interested parties.’
Sherlock’s eyes blaze with sudden interest at Johnson’s tone. John can almost see his ears prick up in expectation. Sherlock moves forward and pushes the clutter aside to better see the map.
‘Which interested parties?’ he asks quietly, the urgency evident in his voice. John is very still, watching the pair carefully. He knows, and Sherlock knows, that there is only one person who could strike such apparent fear into Johnson’s voice. ‘Give me a name, Johnson. I need a name.’
‘I don’t know the name.’
‘Oh don’t be ridiculous, you wouldn’t -’
‘All I know is who might be involved, and frankly only an idiot’s gonna -’
‘I pay you to find information, not make excuses,’ Sherlock cuts him off irritably, ‘what exactly do you know?’ Johnson settles himself further into the sofa and picks at his fingernails, doing his utmost to feign complete indifference, though John can see that Sherlock’s persistence is unnerving him.
‘That bloke Dixie’s a hired man. Got some sorta hide out round where you tagged him to, far as I can tell. Been there a couple of times at least. Few others coming and going every so often. Big operation going on there, looks like, ’mount of visitors he’s getting anyway. Hefty price on your ’ead, and no shortage of takers and all. No names, but I got a few faces - saw him there few times -’ he points this time to a mug shot lying on top of an open case file.
‘Any specific building? Street?’ Sherlock presses,
‘Listen, I’m not risking my neck for the pittance you’re offerin’ when I could -’
‘So that’s everything?’
‘Well, I -’
‘Yes or no?’
Johnson pauses sullenly, ‘money’s involved. Lots of it. You’re getting too close to summat and they’re not happy - sounds like that thing with whatsit-Epps was the last straw for someone. Someone powerful, like. Everyone’s whispering and no one’s sure who’s doing what, it’s all gone quiet - but sorta loud too, if you know what I mean. Everyone knows and no one knows.’
‘I want facts, Johnson, not cryptic speculation,’ Sherlock replies, though John sees the flash of something between intrigue and - when Sherlock’s eyes flicker over to him - concern, even if Johnson misses it.
‘Not speculation,’ Johnson insists, ‘not exactly hard to find out you’ve stepped on a few toes in your time, is it? Spread all over, this, talk everywhere ’bout it. Nothin’ specific, like, just rumours you hear here and there, and a bloody lot of ’em, too. Don’t really know what’s at the head of it, but it ain’t hard to guess.’
Sherlock doesn’t reply straight away, looking thoughtful. A frown creases his features, which are fixed on the map - but not really seeing it.
Johnson has told him little or nothing he didn’t already know or suspect. Confirmation is always useful though, and in a way it is good to hear that these threats are part of something bigger. Organisations might in the long run be harder to tackle, but they are easier to track. It is simpler to unravel a chain of command than the motives of a desperate man acting alone.
‘Is that it?’ John asks, when Sherlock doesn’t speak up, hoping he hasn’t broken in on any profound train of thought. The look Johnson gives him is a shade below the grudging respect he shows to Sherlock, a shade above the expression he might wear if confronted with one of Sherlock’s more nauseating experiments.
‘Didn’t exactly give me much chance, did you? Day’s not gonna get you anything in this. I need more time than that if you expect me to find anything else.’
Sherlock takes a breath, as if to calm himself. ‘Well find something and report back to me as soon as you do. Literally the instant you discover anything, I want to know about it.’
‘I -’
‘Go.’
‘Now hang on, I been dragged up here to tell you this -’
‘You haven’t exactly told us much,’ John interjects, and is rewarded with a contemptuous glance.
‘I want paying,’ Johnson says. He stands in what looks like an attempt to appear more intimidating, though it fails miserably as Sherlock towers over him. Sherlock pauses, then moves to grab his wallet from the pile of detritus swept from the table. Pulling out a few notes, he hands them grudgingly to Johnson, who opens his mouth to complain.
‘You’ll get the rest when you finish the job.’
‘Now look -’
This time it’s John who steps forward, and their spy stumbles in his haste to move towards the door.
‘Gentlemen,’ he bows his head with a sickeningly false smile, hurrying out of the flat without taking his eyes off of John.
‘So it’s Moriarty, then,’ John says once they are alone again. He doesn’t even attempt to keep the note of trepidation out of his voice.
‘Quite possibly,’ Sherlock replies, infuriatingly calmly. His expression is distant, and he is frowning thoughtfully. From the jumble of pieces in his head, a jigsaw is beginning to form, but he is working from the inside out, rather than having a framework in place first. There’s too much margin for error.
‘Does that actually change anything?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Then why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?’
‘What? I don’t look like anything, John, I was thinking -’
‘What was that dream about?’
‘What are you talking about? What dream?’
‘You’ve been on edge all day -’
‘Well of course I have, in case it’s escaped your notice we are both currently under threat for our lives. I thought that was something normal people were supposed to worry about, according to you?’ Sherlock snaps, but John shakes his head.
‘Exactly. Normal people would, but we’re talking about you, aren’t we?’ This almost manages to tease a smile from Sherlock. John steps forwards, automatically slipping his hands into Sherlock’s, both of them seamlessly leaning so their foreheads touch gently. The action seems to calm Sherlock immeasurably. Tension he did not even know he was harbouring drains away and his mind is instantly much clearer. It is as though John has with his touch simply wiped away all the distractions that have been plaguing him since waking up.
‘You were shot,’ it’s almost a whisper, but John hears it as clearly as if Sherlock had shouted. He doesn’t need to ask what he is talking about. ‘Moriarty shot you.’
‘That’s not going to happen,’ John promises automatically. The soft noise Sherlock makes in response could be a laugh if not for the poorly veiled malice it contains. It frightens John - because it doesn’t frighten him.
‘I know,’ Sherlock replies dangerously, ‘he wouldn’t get the chance.’
‘Was it...was it at the pool?’ John ventures after a pause, because God knows how often he’s revisited that night in his dreams, and something in him is comforted by the thought that he is not alone.
‘Yes and no,’ Sherlock replies tonelessly, ‘we were at the pool, yes, and the general...situation, was the same. But it was different. He was holding the gun. And some of the things he said were -’
He stops, and a wide-eyed look of dawning realisation crosses his face. He leans back from John but doesn’t release his hands, standing straight and staring into the distance,
‘...different,’ he finishes breathlessly, ‘oh!’
‘What - what is it? You just worked something out didn’t you? Is it him, are you -?’
Sherlock’s face splits into a grin, ‘yes,’ he says, ‘I just worked something out.’
Summary: "Do you regret it?" - A simple fall can change everything, but some things are always the same - and some are not quite what they seem. After all, no one said this would be easy. Sequel to my one shot 'Black Ice'.
Chapter Word Count: Approx 4,100
Rating: Teen
Notes: I do not own Sherlock. We are nearing the end now...only three chapters left after this one. Which was rather awkward to write...semi-consciousness is very hard to pull off, while making it make sense. With that in mind, an even bigger thank you than normal to my beta, prettybirdy979, who sits through my nonsense run-on sentences so you don't have to.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
It’s gone midnight by the time John concedes defeat. In danger of falling asleep on the sofa again as he squints with tired eyes at the endless stack of files, he announces that he is going to bed. Sherlock nods and offers him a cursory ‘goodnight’ but doesn’t follow. He alone seems able to stave off the call of sleep while he adds notes and arrows to the map that is rapidly becoming completely obscured by a combination of stickers and handwriting.
In truth, Sherlock is no closer to knowing precisely who is targeting them. However, he is at least consolidating the facts he does have at his disposal into one record. Once he is able to view all the evidence as a single entity, he hopes that patterns will begin to emerge from this jumbled mess. At the moment it’s so...disconnected. This bothers Sherlock more than he cares to admit. The crash he can take easily in his stride, though the - the inelegance, of such a method, niggles at him for reasons he can’t pin down. The collapse, though...why would someone who clearly has no compunction at murdering a presumably innocent teenager then balk at tackling Sherlock directly? It doesn’t fit.
He passes into early morning on a fiery rush of adrenalin that fuels his mind as much as his body, and the minutes trickle by without him noticing. He is much too intent on the work at hand to care about something as mundane as sleep...
Nevertheless, Sherlock’s eyes eventually begin to itch with tiredness. After the building collapse and the chase with Dixie, both so soon after being released from hospital, his body is making its exhaustion known. He rubs them irritably, refusing to succumb to such a boring and useless weakness. He applies himself with that much more effort to his task.
Two in the morning comes and goes...three...
Sherlock’s eyes slip closed - just for a moment - and he hears Moriarty’s voice hissing at him in the darkness...
Burn the heart out of you...
He snaps his eyes open again, frustrated with himself for giving in for even a second. He’s being ridiculous, of course. John will be fine...he’ll be fine; Sherlock is the one they are after...
But what if John gets caught in the crossfire?
John is more than capable of looking after himself, he won’t -
But he might, and the thought makes Sherlock cold with dread, he forces himself to concentrate - Epps’s first killing was...where again?
Tired...
No, keep working - Sherlock checks his watch absently, barely noticing the hands creeping towards four o’clock. He ignores the residual ache - the first time he has really noticed it - of his injuries from the crash. His leg throbs dully and his head hurts, but he pushes it away. It’s not important, it doesn’t matter...
A blurry image of John’s drawn, terrified face. Injured - John must be injured -
No - stay awake, this is stupid; you need to work.
Noticing something strange in the file he’s reading, he pulls a second one towards himself, blinking heavily...surely a coincidence?
But his eyelids are heavy, a different kind of exhaustion to the one he experienced after the crash but barely easier to resist...
No. It can’t be coincidence, there’s a third. It’s too much, they must be connected...but none of these are even suspected of being linked to Moriarty. Is his reach even further than they thought?
...Burn the heart out of you...
Stay awake...
Perhaps it’s someone else, some other organisation. Or maybe Sherlock’s fatigue is beginning to affect his judgement, and they aren’t really connected at all...
...might not happen to you - might be that doctor friend of yours...
Need to work, concentrate...and he knows Dixie was involved with this one, he’ll have to have a closer look there...yes, he needs to check...
But not right now. Just a moment - he’ll just close his eyes for a moment...
That’s what people DO!
They snap open again, but droop closed almost immediately. Muffled noises and indistinct shapes swirl oddly around him. He’s half conscious, struggling against the pull of sleep. He’s dreaming...no, no, he’s on the sofa, he can feel the sofa, and the paper on his lap...
The paper slips off, but Sherlock’s limp fingers make no move to retrieve it. Is that voice real, or imaginary? Is he waking or sleeping?
Waking, he thinks. He’s awake; he knows he’s awake, because he can hear the clock ticking. Now if he could only make his eyes open...
But the ticking is wrong. It’s too loud and it echoes, but this room is too small and cluttered for that...
He can hear the tap dripping...
But no, that’s not the tap. It is water though, sort of...lapping? Rhythmic, like waves, only without the rush and roar behind it, and that noise echoes too...somewhere he hears footsteps. Maybe John has woken up. Is it morning already? Except now they’ve faded, and the surroundings that were slowly solidifying around him have melted, reformed...
John’s face swims in front of him, so close, smiling softly...
The image changes; it jerks back as though pulled away and morphs again. Now Mycroft; stupid, interfering Mycroft...now Anderson, scowling and muttering. Now John again; laughing, now frowning, now shouting. Lestrade, Mrs Hudson; John again, Angelo, John, Mycroft, John...
...I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.
It’s his voice speaking now, but he doesn’t remember moving his lips. He’s still vaguely aware of being sat down, though he can’t seem to actually feel the sofa. Then Moriarty’s smirk - we both know that’s not quite true - and a chill, bone deep. It’s unfamiliar and disturbing, almost - almost like fear, almost like something more, like panic.
Stop his heart - he hears John’s voice, John but not John, very much not John, but he can’t see him, the dark pool is empty...
...Oh, let me guess, I get killed...so dull and boring and predictable he can’t even keep the exasperation from his voice...
Don’t want to be obvious...
Saving it up for something special...burn you...
...You think I’ve played this game just to kill you now? And Sherlock is impressed, and this - Moriarty, the puzzles, all of it, is so interesting, so fascinating. But John is here; John is in danger and his own violent reaction to that fact scares him as much as the knowledge itself...
If I wanted you dead, my dear, you already would be ...
There’s another noise behind him - a footstep, a voice, a breath - any, all, what does it matter? He turns weightlessly, seeming to drift more than step, and all he can see is faces, two faces. One has dark, glittering eyes and a serpent’s smirk. The other is stubborn and earnest and alive. And then there’s a gun, and Moriarty has the gun, and he’s pointing it, he’s pointing it at John. John is between them, Sherlock and his nemesis, and he could just duck, please just duck.
Moriarty is moving slowly, so slowly. He knows that John won’t move because that would leave Sherlock in the firing line but please, please - and Sherlock calls out, but now he can’t seem to take a step, he’s paralyzed. He’s stuck here, frozen to the spot and they’re too far away, and Moriarty is laughing...laughing...
0000
‘NO!’ Sherlock sits bolt upright, the shout escaping his lips as he jerks awake with the gunshot still ringing in his ears. Taking deep breaths and peering around the room frantically, reality begins to set in. The silence of the flat, altogether much more welcome than the silence of the pool, presses on his ears and calms him slowly. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees and puts his head in his hands, trying without avail to delete the images from his mind. They remain stubbornly, vividly pressed in front of his eyes whether he opens or closes them. The echoes of Moriarty’s voice; the gunshot, reverberating around his head...
‘Sherlock?’ John’s tentative, sleep-blurred voice calls, puzzled. Sherlock doesn’t reply, but relief - ridiculous, irrational relief, because it was a dream and John is fine - surges through him with such overwhelming power he feels weak with it.
‘Are you alright?’ John asks nervously, moving further into the room. Sherlock is sitting on the sofa, papers scattered around him, on the floor, on the table - some crumpled where he fell asleep on them. In the dim, grey dawn light, Sherlock’s figure looks tense as though ready for flight at a moment’s notice, and he is breathing heavily. He still doesn’t look up, even when John sinks onto the sofa beside him and lays a hand on his arm. ‘Sherlock?’
Still, there is no reply, but Sherlock’s breathing becomes more even, his muscles more relaxed, the instant John’s hand touches him. He’s okay, it’s okay, he’s okay...
‘Bad dream?’ John tries again.
‘John,’ Sherlock manages to say, slightly breathlessly. It’s the same sort of forced tone as when he first saw John at the pool. He finally looks up and takes in John’s face - he’s here, he’s here, he’s here...
‘You should go,’ Sherlock replies quietly, the words costing him exhausting effort.
‘If you mean back to bed, I agree,’ says John, knowing perfectly well what Sherlock meant. ‘Other than that - no, I shouldn’t.’ His voice is friendly enough, despite the early hour and impromptu wake-up call, but Sherlock doesn’t miss the underlying stubborn determination. It makes him smile, just a little, though he doesn’t know why, and the expression vanishes as quickly as it came. He forces himself to look at John.
‘You should,’ Sherlock repeats, sounding puzzled, ‘I should tell you to go.’
John frowns. Sherlock’s face, especially in the semi-darkness, looks thin and drawn. His eyes have dark shadows beneath them, but they themselves are as bright as ever. They have lost nothing, they miss nothing, and John knows that Sherlock knows, that he’s not going anywhere. ‘But you aren’t going to, are you?’ he says gently, somewhere between a question and a statement.
‘No,’ Sherlock’s voice is thoughtful. ‘You wouldn’t even if I told you to, would you?’
‘Not a chance.’
‘I thought so.’ He pauses, ‘it’s dangerous.’
‘You know, oddly enough, that had already crossed my mind,’ John replies lightly, teasing the tiniest of almost-smiles from Sherlock. ‘I thought I was the one meant to be reminding you of that.’
‘Selfish,’ Sherlock murmurs. John’s slight frown deepens,
‘What’s selfish?’
‘You are.’
John shakes his head, ‘you’ve lost me.’
‘If we were...’ Sherlock stops, thinks. He tries not to remember the frozen panic of the dream. John tries not to let the uncharacteristic hesitation get to him. ‘If your life was in danger, and the only way to save it was for you to endanger mine, would you do it?’
‘Of course not!’ John replies instantly, and Sherlock nods.
‘Selfish,’ he insists again.
‘I’m sorry, but how is that selfish?’ John asks, nonplussed. He assumes this has something to do with Sherlock’s dream. At least, the dream he is assuming Sherlock had, since no mention of one has actually been made - and he has had quite enough of the guesswork.
‘Because!’ Sherlock exclaims fiercely, jumping suddenly to his feet and pacing for a few moments before forcing his voice to steady again. There is a rushed urgency to it John has only ever really seen associated with the feverishly exited explanations of cases before. ‘If you had to sacrifice yourself to save me, you would do it?’
‘Yes,’ John replies, without having to think. Sherlock’s agitation grows.
‘People assume that doing something like that is selfless - but if you were killed in the attempt, it’s over for you then isn’t it? You haven’t got to live with guilt or grief or any of that nonsense, it’s just...finished. You’re out. And the other person is left behind to deal with everything. Selfish.’
‘In which case, I promise I won’t die trying to save you,’ John answers carefully, ‘as long as you promise not to put yourself in any situations where you’ll need it. Short of that, I can’t help, I’m afraid.’
Sherlock sighs, energy seeming to drain out of him as he does, ‘John...’
‘Forget it. We’ll carry on as we always have, and we’ll figure something out. It’s fine,’ John assures Sherlock, squeezing his hand reassuringly. The absurdity of it being him who is having to convince Sherlock of their safety is not lost on him, though he struggles not to let it unsettle him. ‘It’ll be fine.’
And even though really, Sherlock knows John is wrong - there is no way he can guarantee the safety of either of them, let alone himself…Somehow, with the doctor beside him, the warmth of his hand closed around Sherlock’s own cold fingers, he almost finds himself believing it.
000000
Sherlock is pacing. He has been pacing on and off for the past two hours, ever since he first texted Shinwell Johnson to demand an update, which still has not arrived.
Two minutes after sending the message, Sherlock was huffing moodily every few seconds when he checked for a reply that had yet to come. After five minutes he was getting dangerously impatient - after a hundred and five it’s all John can do to prevent him shooting something.
The map is still laid out on the table, dotted with its multi-coloured stickers. Various case files are scattered across the room, open, pages strewn haphazardly around with no apparent order to them. John knows better than to judge entirely by this appearance though. At first he had merely accepted there was a pattern he hadn’t picked up on, knowing Sherlock as he does. Now he sees that they are gathered roughly into vague groups - not based on the perpetrator or location, but on their potential for helpful clues. Those Sherlock has deemed useful are always to the forefront, closer to the map itself.
Sherlock is walking over this mess now, seeming not to notice the papers crease and shift under his feet.
‘Why isn’t he answering?’ he exclaims in frustration, for what must be at least the fiftieth time. ‘He knows how important -’ he stops abruptly at the sound of a soft tap on the door, leaping clean over the chair on his way to yank it open.
‘Only me!’ Mrs Hudson chimes unnecessarily, glancing across at John with a sympathetic look on her face. ‘There’s a man at the door for you dear -’
‘Send him up,’ Sherlock interrupts without bothering to ask after the man’s identity. Mrs Hudson looks again to John, this time for confirmation - he nods and she hurries away dutifully. She has taken to forewarning them of visitors since learning of the threat against them. It seems - thankfully, John thinks - that she trusts the doctor’s judgement over Sherlock’s when it comes to matters of safety. Not that any of them truly believe a potential assassin would do anything quite so risky (and, in Sherlock’s opinion, dull and obvious) as to walk right into the flat, after having revealed themselves to their landlady. Although John secretly thinks that even if they did try, they’d have a job getting past Mrs Hudson in the first place.
‘Where have you been?’ demands Sherlock by way of greeting when the small man shuffles in. He is a good couple of inches shorter than John, unshaven and loudly chewing gum with an expression of distinct distaste on his face. He eyes John with apparent suspicion; Sherlock gestures towards him impatiently, ‘John Watson,’ he says. John holds his hand out automatically, but the man ignores him.
‘Name doesn’t tell me who he is,’ he grunts, sliding his dark gaze back to Sherlock, slowly.
‘He’s with me,’ Sherlock replies shortly. John is reminded forcefully of his first introduction to Lestrade. He wonders vaguely just how many contacts Sherlock has built up over the years, and what - if anything - association with the Holmes brothers can fail to produce.
‘’Scuse precautions,’ Johnson apologises gruffly, no change in his expression except a slight raising of his eyebrows which John cannot read, ‘can’t be too careful, my line of work.’ He flops down onto the sofa, absently catching up a loose sheet of paper and peering at it quizzically for a moment. Sherlock surveys him harshly. ‘Any chance of a cuppa?’ he asks casually. Sherlock narrows his eyes, hands perched severely on his hips as he glares down at Johnson, who drops the paper. ‘Sorry, sorry...’ he waves his hands in a gesture of surrender, chewing his gum thoughtfully before speaking again.
‘Fella you’re after’s got a place round here,’ he jabs a stubby finger at the map, circling vaguely over an area about two miles wide, around the site of Sherlock’s confrontation with Steve Dixie.
‘Can you be a little more specific?’ Sherlock says, more of a command than a question, at the same time as John asks ‘did you actually see him?’ Sherlock spares John an approving glance before turning exasperatedly to their informant, who shrugs.
‘Can’t get too close can I?’ John can’t tell whose question this is an answer to and finds himself more than a little impressed with the - admittedly fragile - patience Sherlock is exhibiting. John himself is inches from physically shaking the information out of the little man. ‘I start being too obvious about sticking my nose in other people’s business, it’ll get cut off. I’ll blow my cover and be no use to anyone now will I? And I don’t care how much you’re paying me, it ain’t worth crossing certain...interested parties.’
Sherlock’s eyes blaze with sudden interest at Johnson’s tone. John can almost see his ears prick up in expectation. Sherlock moves forward and pushes the clutter aside to better see the map.
‘Which interested parties?’ he asks quietly, the urgency evident in his voice. John is very still, watching the pair carefully. He knows, and Sherlock knows, that there is only one person who could strike such apparent fear into Johnson’s voice. ‘Give me a name, Johnson. I need a name.’
‘I don’t know the name.’
‘Oh don’t be ridiculous, you wouldn’t -’
‘All I know is who might be involved, and frankly only an idiot’s gonna -’
‘I pay you to find information, not make excuses,’ Sherlock cuts him off irritably, ‘what exactly do you know?’ Johnson settles himself further into the sofa and picks at his fingernails, doing his utmost to feign complete indifference, though John can see that Sherlock’s persistence is unnerving him.
‘That bloke Dixie’s a hired man. Got some sorta hide out round where you tagged him to, far as I can tell. Been there a couple of times at least. Few others coming and going every so often. Big operation going on there, looks like, ’mount of visitors he’s getting anyway. Hefty price on your ’ead, and no shortage of takers and all. No names, but I got a few faces - saw him there few times -’ he points this time to a mug shot lying on top of an open case file.
‘Any specific building? Street?’ Sherlock presses,
‘Listen, I’m not risking my neck for the pittance you’re offerin’ when I could -’
‘So that’s everything?’
‘Well, I -’
‘Yes or no?’
Johnson pauses sullenly, ‘money’s involved. Lots of it. You’re getting too close to summat and they’re not happy - sounds like that thing with whatsit-Epps was the last straw for someone. Someone powerful, like. Everyone’s whispering and no one’s sure who’s doing what, it’s all gone quiet - but sorta loud too, if you know what I mean. Everyone knows and no one knows.’
‘I want facts, Johnson, not cryptic speculation,’ Sherlock replies, though John sees the flash of something between intrigue and - when Sherlock’s eyes flicker over to him - concern, even if Johnson misses it.
‘Not speculation,’ Johnson insists, ‘not exactly hard to find out you’ve stepped on a few toes in your time, is it? Spread all over, this, talk everywhere ’bout it. Nothin’ specific, like, just rumours you hear here and there, and a bloody lot of ’em, too. Don’t really know what’s at the head of it, but it ain’t hard to guess.’
Sherlock doesn’t reply straight away, looking thoughtful. A frown creases his features, which are fixed on the map - but not really seeing it.
Johnson has told him little or nothing he didn’t already know or suspect. Confirmation is always useful though, and in a way it is good to hear that these threats are part of something bigger. Organisations might in the long run be harder to tackle, but they are easier to track. It is simpler to unravel a chain of command than the motives of a desperate man acting alone.
‘Is that it?’ John asks, when Sherlock doesn’t speak up, hoping he hasn’t broken in on any profound train of thought. The look Johnson gives him is a shade below the grudging respect he shows to Sherlock, a shade above the expression he might wear if confronted with one of Sherlock’s more nauseating experiments.
‘Didn’t exactly give me much chance, did you? Day’s not gonna get you anything in this. I need more time than that if you expect me to find anything else.’
Sherlock takes a breath, as if to calm himself. ‘Well find something and report back to me as soon as you do. Literally the instant you discover anything, I want to know about it.’
‘I -’
‘Go.’
‘Now hang on, I been dragged up here to tell you this -’
‘You haven’t exactly told us much,’ John interjects, and is rewarded with a contemptuous glance.
‘I want paying,’ Johnson says. He stands in what looks like an attempt to appear more intimidating, though it fails miserably as Sherlock towers over him. Sherlock pauses, then moves to grab his wallet from the pile of detritus swept from the table. Pulling out a few notes, he hands them grudgingly to Johnson, who opens his mouth to complain.
‘You’ll get the rest when you finish the job.’
‘Now look -’
This time it’s John who steps forward, and their spy stumbles in his haste to move towards the door.
‘Gentlemen,’ he bows his head with a sickeningly false smile, hurrying out of the flat without taking his eyes off of John.
‘So it’s Moriarty, then,’ John says once they are alone again. He doesn’t even attempt to keep the note of trepidation out of his voice.
‘Quite possibly,’ Sherlock replies, infuriatingly calmly. His expression is distant, and he is frowning thoughtfully. From the jumble of pieces in his head, a jigsaw is beginning to form, but he is working from the inside out, rather than having a framework in place first. There’s too much margin for error.
‘Does that actually change anything?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Then why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?’
‘What? I don’t look like anything, John, I was thinking -’
‘What was that dream about?’
‘What are you talking about? What dream?’
‘You’ve been on edge all day -’
‘Well of course I have, in case it’s escaped your notice we are both currently under threat for our lives. I thought that was something normal people were supposed to worry about, according to you?’ Sherlock snaps, but John shakes his head.
‘Exactly. Normal people would, but we’re talking about you, aren’t we?’ This almost manages to tease a smile from Sherlock. John steps forwards, automatically slipping his hands into Sherlock’s, both of them seamlessly leaning so their foreheads touch gently. The action seems to calm Sherlock immeasurably. Tension he did not even know he was harbouring drains away and his mind is instantly much clearer. It is as though John has with his touch simply wiped away all the distractions that have been plaguing him since waking up.
‘You were shot,’ it’s almost a whisper, but John hears it as clearly as if Sherlock had shouted. He doesn’t need to ask what he is talking about. ‘Moriarty shot you.’
‘That’s not going to happen,’ John promises automatically. The soft noise Sherlock makes in response could be a laugh if not for the poorly veiled malice it contains. It frightens John - because it doesn’t frighten him.
‘I know,’ Sherlock replies dangerously, ‘he wouldn’t get the chance.’
‘Was it...was it at the pool?’ John ventures after a pause, because God knows how often he’s revisited that night in his dreams, and something in him is comforted by the thought that he is not alone.
‘Yes and no,’ Sherlock replies tonelessly, ‘we were at the pool, yes, and the general...situation, was the same. But it was different. He was holding the gun. And some of the things he said were -’
He stops, and a wide-eyed look of dawning realisation crosses his face. He leans back from John but doesn’t release his hands, standing straight and staring into the distance,
‘...different,’ he finishes breathlessly, ‘oh!’
‘What - what is it? You just worked something out didn’t you? Is it him, are you -?’
Sherlock’s face splits into a grin, ‘yes,’ he says, ‘I just worked something out.’