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 3,600
Rating: Teen
Notes: I do not own Sherlock. Wow, we're actually on the second-to-last chapter! I've been working on this story for well over a year now; it's strange to finally be finishing it. To everyone who has given feedback/stuck with it, thanks a million, especially as I hadn't really written anything like it before so I was quite unsure how it was going to turn out.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
‘Well, you are a clever boy aren’t you?’ John and the speaker both raise their guns at the exact same moment, both braced to fire. One wears an expression of solid determination and the other, haughty amusement. John takes an automatic step back as she presses forward into the room, a smile curling across her face. Her features have lost all their frailty, so that the woman before them is almost completely unrecognisable as the one who answered the door.
John’s heart hammers against his ribs. Sherlock’s expression is blank. The woman’s is alight with success as her gaze flickers towards the detective. Without thinking, John takes one hand from the gun and plunges it into his pocket. His thumb flies blindly over the buttons of his mobile - dial someone, dial anyone -
Her eyes are back on him, and she shakes her head as though disappointed.
‘Put the gun down, doctor,’ she instructs. Her tone is exasperated more than demanding. Sherlock is frozen in place, watching with hawk-like intensity for the slightest weakness. His eyes are darting from her face to the gun, to John. John’s hand; in his pocket - his phone - distract her, don’t let her see; keep her attention away from John. He has to keep her attention away from John -
‘You hired Barney Stockdale,’ he says coolly. She barely glances at him.
‘I’m not going to ask again,’ she tells John, who doesn’t move. Part of Sherlock screams that the gun is really their only advantage here. The other part is silently begging John to stop being so stupidly stubborn and just put it down before he gets himself killed. Before Sherlock gets him killed - but he resists both. It takes a greater effort than he cares to admit to push the thoughts to the back of his mind. He forces himself not to think about that gun and John and the dream -
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Sherlock admonishes. Even he is surprised by how calm his voice comes out. Somewhere on the periphery of his mind pieces are sliding neatly together and in the midst of it a name rings out. Of course...
‘You think so?’ But her voice is less certain than before.
‘You would have done it already,’ Sherlock replies. John desperately hopes he’s managed to connect to someone who has picked up by now. He’s trying to figure out if he can shoot fast enough, accurately enough to do it now; just do it now, before she has a chance to do anything more.
‘Put. The gun down. Now. Put the gun down, doctor!’ Something almost like panic flashes in her eyes as she jabs her own weapon for emphasis. ‘I won’t hesitate to shoot you, you know - what do think all this has been for?’
‘You’re a coward,’ Sherlock accuses. John’s chest surges with frustration. Why, why now does he still have to aggravate everyone he meets? Why can’t he just once -
The woman shrugs carelessly and swings the gun around to face Sherlock. John’s heart clenches sickeningly and his grip relaxes immediately.
‘Do it,’ she commands, ‘or would you rather test who’s the faster shot?’
Sherlock looks at John, imploring him not to do as he’s been told, trying to reason with the irrational relief that washes over him when the barrel of her gun faces him instead. They have the advantage, if Sherlock just has a chance to put it to use. But John’s face tells Sherlock, and the woman, everything they need to know. John crouches slowly, never once taking his eyes off the face of the stupid, brilliant man before him, and places the gun on the floor.
‘Push it over here.’
He does, and she kicks it back into the room behind her. John swallows as her trigger finger twitches, automatically lurching slightly to protect Sherlock, but she simply smirks and nods at his pocket.
‘And now the phone, if you please. I’m not stupid. I’m sure whoever you’re calling has been very entertained by this but really now - throw it down on the floor.’
John hesitates. Bile rises in his throat at the sight of Sherlock frozen where he stands with a gun pointing directly at his heart; John weapon-less - though his hand remains completely steady. He’s breathing heavily, looking anywhere for an escape, an excuse to keep the call for a moment longer. Any time at all that will give whoever he’s managed to dial - Mycroft, hopefully, or Lestrade - a chance to find them. Just one more second...
‘How do I know you won’t shoot us anyway?’ he asks, playing for time.
‘You don’t. But do you really want to risk it?’
With a glance of desperate apology to Sherlock, John, moving as slowly as he can, pulls the phone from his pocket and tosses it to the floor. Quicker than he can blink the woman switches targets, buries a bullet in the carpet and shatters the phone to thousands of pieces before turning back to Sherlock. It all happens too fast for either to react on her momentary distraction.
‘I want to know what you know,’ she demands. Sherlock raises an eyebrow.
‘That would take an awfully long time to tell,’ he replies sardonically.
‘I need to know what you’ve worked out, so I know how much the police have discovered,’ she states, as though this will encourage him to tell her.
‘I wouldn’t assume those two are necessarily the same amount,’ Sherlock replies, while John curses him under his breath. Can’t he just swallow his pride for once? Tell the damn woman that whatever he’s worked out the police already know? Does he have to show off, even now?
‘So much the worse for you. I really don’t care which one of you I shoot first,’ she tells him sternly. ‘And I frankly don’t give a damn whether I kill you before you tell me or not, or how fast you die, so don’t be under any false illusions about procrastinating to save your skins. It would be useful to know what you know and what you have told your Scotland Yard friends, but by no means essential.’
‘If you actually planned on killing us, you would already have done it,’ says Sherlock.
‘Oh for goodness sake...’ she mutters impatiently, ‘you are incredibly tiresome, Sherlock Holmes. What on Earth do you think the last few weeks have been if not a plan to kill you?’
‘Oh I’ve no doubt you want me dead,’ Sherlock assures her, in a tone that is almost placating. ‘I just doubt your ability to actually kill me. For all your sons’ crimes, you’ve never in fact committed murder yourself, have you Isadora?’
John feels a surge of anger. Sherlock knew, he knew all this time; the stupid, arrogant, foolish, reckless idiot, he knew -
‘Oh very good. And how long have you known that?’
‘Since approximately ten seconds before opening that door. You really want to be more careful about where you keep your family photographs,’ Sherlock explains, with a pointed glance towards the box he was rifling through - seconds? - minutes? - hours? - before. John follows his gaze automatically. The woman - Isadora, John reminds himself with a rush of irritation at Sherlock - keeps her eyes on her target, though they flicker revealingly. John struggles to arrange his expression into the kind of bored indifference Sherlock’s shows.
‘Do go on,’ Isadora prompts, twitching the gun as though to remind them of its presence.
‘I must admit; I am impressed,’ Sherlock continues coolly. ‘One false identity must have been hard enough for you to keep track of, but two? Although fully advisable, I’m sure. Barney Stockdale and Howard Epps are definitely less conspicuous names than Remington and Andreas Klein. Especially given your late husband’s notoriety - in certain circles, of course. What did you do, downsize the organisation after he died, or are you just more careful than he was?’
Isadora doesn’t reply, but her eyes widen almost imperceptibly. John’s fists are clenched by his sides and he’s torn between asking what in the world they are talking about or playing along and pretending he too has known all the time. Clearly Sherlock knows a lot more than he has let on, and John fully intends to kill him if they get out of this alive. Deciding it would be more dangerous to break the spell Sherlock is weaving on their attacker, he remains silent.
‘Well if you’re going to shoot us, shoot us,’ Sherlock says impatiently, waving a hand to egg her on.
‘What makes you think I won’t?’ Isadora challenges. Sherlock rolls his eyes as though thoroughly bored by the whole situation. In reality a dozen different escape plans are running uncompleted through his mind and he isn’t half as confident as he is deliberately making out. She won’t shoot in cold blood, he knows that. He’s - well he’s almost sure of that, but how much else has he managed to get wrong on this case? But if either he or John move too suddenly…If he lunges to try and knock the gun from her hand - so simple from this angle, so easy - if she panics...
John is only half listening to the exchange. His ears are straining to pick up the sound of approaching car; a siren in the distance, a shout, anything Please, please let his call have got through...
‘You have never killed a person in your life. You’ve dabbled in petty crime for years but you’ve left all the bigger fish, so to speak, to Moriarty. You’ve trusted his presence to cover for you, which it has. You might even have taken pay from him on occasion. And then Howard Epps - or rather, Andreas Klein - outpaced your reach. And you covered for him. Again and again. You’re a mother, what else could you do?’
Sherlock’s voice is almost sympathetic. Isadora’s mask is crumbling but if anything the desperation that’s beneath it looks even more dangerous. Sherlock starts to speak more quickly, as though hoping to keep her so focused on his words that she forgets the weapon in her hands. ‘And then I came along and ruined it all, didn’t I? I was catching up with him. You couldn’t let that happen. So you got Barney - Remington - to do something. Cover it up. Silence me. Anything to protect your son, am I right? No matter what his crimes were. Remington put out the word that there was a price on my head. And there was no shortage of takers - that’s why the attempts were so clumsy and mismatched. That’s why it was so disconnected, because it wasn’t one person, it was as many as cared to try it. How much were you offering?’ He sounds genuinely interested, but shrugs as though it is of no importance when she doesn’t reply. ‘You thought the crash had worked. You figured even if I wasn’t dead then as long as I was out of the way it would do and everyone brushed it off as an accident. But then I woke up, and Remington had to come and check if it was true, didn’t he? Impressive disguise, by the way. Not quite impressive enough, but all the same.’
‘Shut up,’ Isadora commands shakily.
‘I thought you wanted me to talk?’
‘Sherlock -’ John begins.
‘It doesn’t matter what you know anyway -’
‘Doesn’t it?’
‘I’m still going to shoot you -’
‘No you aren’t. Your sons are murderers - yes, I know Remington was the one who killed the girl. Because it would be so much easier to cover up the death of a stranger, wouldn’t it? He had no motive to kill her, and anyway the explosion was meant to destroy any evidence. Was that a deliberate attempt to steer us in Moriarty’s direction? We should have known better of course, he’d never repeat himself like that. And Remington just couldn’t resist showing off could he? Throwing it in my face that I hadn’t noticed him at the hospital? Then Steve Dixie was the one who rigged the bomb and all he managed to do was collapse the building and you started to really panic then. But you still aren’t a killer, not really -’
‘Shut up, shut up!’
‘Sherlock, what are you -?’
‘You’re a coward. We’re both here; we’re both defenceless -’
‘I’ll shoot, I will shoot -’
‘Of course you won’t. Not even to protect your sons. You can’t, or you’d have done it months ago and none of this would have happened. You were too careful for your own good or you would at least have hired a decent assassin but oh no, we had to think it was Moriarty. And that meant everyone else had to as well. What better way than to just spread whispers and let fear do the rest? You couldn’t be connected with it so it had to come on the grapevine -’
‘SHUT UP!’ She wheels around before either of them can react, waving the gun frantically as her face crumples into lines of terrified desperation. Her wild eyes flicker between them, ‘you don’t know, you’ve no idea -! Don’t you dare, don’t you dare - you can’t; I can’t let you, you CAN’T!’
The gunshot and her scream merge into one sound.
Sherlock lurches forward, grabbing her wrist and squeezing, forcing it down until she releases the gun. It falls with a clatter to the floor as he twists her arms behind her back and secures them there with a plastic tie from his pocket. He pulls it so tightly it threatens to cut into her skin before he grabs for the abandoned gun and passes it automatically back to John, whose hand is slippery when he takes it -
He freezes in horror and looks around.
‘John -’
‘It’s nothing,’ John gasps, ‘honestly, Sherlock, I’m fine -’ but Sherlock has already turned his back on Isadora and is leading John to the threadbare sofa. There is panic in his face at the sight of the blood, which John dismisses even as he grimaces in pain. ‘Just my leg,’ he manages, gritting his teeth, ‘just grazed it, that’s all...’
Sherlock is inspecting the wound and sags with relief when he sees that John’s words are true; the bullet only skimmed his thigh.
‘It wasn’t supposed to be you,’ he says numbly, stripping off his scarf and pressing it to the gash to stem the flow of blood. He gives a half glance to Isadora, but she is sitting some feet away on the floor. She is staring at John as though she can’t believe what she’s seeing, blinking stupidly and shaking her head. Her mouth moves soundlessly around the words I didn’t, I didn’t - no choice...I didn’t...but all the venom has gone from her features. She looks quite lost, and Sherlock ignores her. ‘I didn’t mean for -’ he continues.
‘What do you mean supposed to be?’ John demands, pushing Sherlock’s hands away roughly and tying the scarf like a bandage around his own leg. He glares furiously at Sherlock’s frowning face.
‘Forget it,’ Sherlock mutters. He is abnormally acquiescent as he leans back and lets John tend to his own injury, holding himself stiff and uncertainly. ‘I’ll call Lestrade.’ He digs his mobile from his pocket as he stands up, not sure if the distance he puts between himself and John is deliberate or not.
00000
Ten minutes later John is sitting in the back of an ambulance while Lestrade, who was already halfway there, bundles Isadora Klein unresisting into the back of a police car. Sherlock brushes off the attempts of any of the police to question him. He allows a paramedic to drape an orange blanket around his shoulders only because it means they will let him stay in the ambulance with John.
‘What did you mean?’ John asks suddenly, clenching his fist against the pain as a paramedic cleans his leg wound.
‘What?’ Sherlock looks up, and John repeats the question tightly.
‘When you said it wasn’t supposed to be me. What did you mean?’
‘What do you think I meant?’ Sherlock snaps automatically, already feeling a prickling shame for his miscalculation and carefully avoiding looking either directly into John’s eyes or at his wound.
‘I think,’ John begins, and he isn’t shouting but his voice is as dangerous as it ever gets, ‘that you knew exactly what sort of danger we were getting into from the start and you deliberately provoked her into firing. Except you were planning on being the one who got hit, am I right?’
‘Your deductions, as usual, are completely misplaced,’ Sherlock replies sharply, though with less conviction than he would have liked.
‘Enlighten me then,’ John tells him. ‘What the Hell just happened there? And why didn’t you tell me any of that before we went in? And what the fuck were you doing going at all if you knew -’
‘First of all, you’re giving me far too much credit for prior knowledge,’ Sherlock interrupts. ‘You knew everything I did when we arrived. I only worked the rest out after we’d gone in and I saw the picture. I pointed it out to Lestrade; he’s probably taken it as evidence if you want to see it yourself.’
John rallies quickly after the rebuke, ‘Well once you’d worked it out what were you doing throwing it in her face? What was all that if not an attempt to goad her into firing? And why the Hell did you want her to -?’
‘I didn’t intend her to fire!’ Sherlock exclaims furiously, lurching to his feet and dropping the blanket. John stands as well, ignoring the stab of pain that rockets up his leg and glaring at Sherlock, barely noticing the protests of the attending paramedic. ‘Obviously I made a mistake!’
‘You what?’ John asks without thinking, the sudden catch in Sherlock’s voice throwing him off guard.
‘I said I made a mistake. I was wrong, John, and it got you shot. Are you happy? Is that what you wanted to hear?’ Sherlock’s voice is raised almost to a shout and he strides several paces away and back again in agitation. ‘I knew she wasn’t a killer and I knew she was already at her wits’ end trying to protect her sons, so I played to that desperation. I thought if I could bring her to the point where she either had to fire or had to concede that she wouldn’t be able to then she would give up. If she realised she wasn’t a murderer then she would collapse. Her whole plan would go down the drain and she would be defenceless. But I had to get her to the point where her need to fire directly came against the fact that she knew very well that she couldn’t. And if she did shoot,’ he pauses, his voice lowering again, ‘the gun was pointing at me. I calculated that, if she fired at all, it would most likely be a non-fatal shot anyway and it was directed at me. You weren’t supposed to be the one who got hit.’
‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’ John demands. He reluctantly allows himself to be tugged back down by the irate paramedic, trembling with fury. ‘Is it supposed to make me feel better that your entire escape plan hinged on getting yourself bloody well shot? That it would most likely be non-fatal? Do you actually have a single iota of self-preservation in you? How many times are you going to do this sort of thing? How many times do I have to watch you try and get yourself killed before you either actually succeed or accept that you’re wrong? How many times, Sherlock?’
‘You’re being ridiculous,’ Sherlock admonishes. ‘It was -’
‘The most stupid, mindless thing you’ve ever done? A suicide mission? Reckless? Thoughtless?’
‘A mistake,’ Sherlock concedes quietly. He doesn’t understand John’s anger. What did John expect? He was right, wasn’t he? At least about the fact that Isadora was never a killer; hadn’t she sunk to the floor in defeat just seeing what she had done? Isn’t she even now being driven away in a police car? Won’t her organisation be crumbling away as they speak? Haven’t they won?
‘That’s not the point,’ John says, and Sherlock has the distinct feeling John is answering his thoughts rather than his words.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Sherlock honestly, but John shakes his head tiredly.
‘You’re sorry I was shot -’
‘Of course I am -’
‘Not that you tried your damnedest to take the bullet yourself. What if you had been wrong?’
‘I was -’
‘Even more wrong,’
‘There aren’t degrees of wrongness John. I was either correct or I was incorrect.’
‘What if she had killed you?’ John presses, trying not to let those images play in his mind. The truth is that beneath his anger there is only pounding relief that it was him and not Sherlock, and he makes no effort to hide this from his expression.
‘She wouldn’t have.’
‘Do you know that? Are you sure? What if she had, Sherlock?’ He pauses, and waits very deliberately for Sherlock to meet his eyes, ‘where would that have left me?’ he asks softly.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sherlock repeats, and holds John’s gaze for several long seconds before the doctor replies.
‘You’d better be,’ he says firmly.
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 3,600
Rating: Teen
Notes: I do not own Sherlock. Wow, we're actually on the second-to-last chapter! I've been working on this story for well over a year now; it's strange to finally be finishing it. To everyone who has given feedback/stuck with it, thanks a million, especially as I hadn't really written anything like it before so I was quite unsure how it was going to turn out.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
‘Well, you are a clever boy aren’t you?’ John and the speaker both raise their guns at the exact same moment, both braced to fire. One wears an expression of solid determination and the other, haughty amusement. John takes an automatic step back as she presses forward into the room, a smile curling across her face. Her features have lost all their frailty, so that the woman before them is almost completely unrecognisable as the one who answered the door.
John’s heart hammers against his ribs. Sherlock’s expression is blank. The woman’s is alight with success as her gaze flickers towards the detective. Without thinking, John takes one hand from the gun and plunges it into his pocket. His thumb flies blindly over the buttons of his mobile - dial someone, dial anyone -
Her eyes are back on him, and she shakes her head as though disappointed.
‘Put the gun down, doctor,’ she instructs. Her tone is exasperated more than demanding. Sherlock is frozen in place, watching with hawk-like intensity for the slightest weakness. His eyes are darting from her face to the gun, to John. John’s hand; in his pocket - his phone - distract her, don’t let her see; keep her attention away from John. He has to keep her attention away from John -
‘You hired Barney Stockdale,’ he says coolly. She barely glances at him.
‘I’m not going to ask again,’ she tells John, who doesn’t move. Part of Sherlock screams that the gun is really their only advantage here. The other part is silently begging John to stop being so stupidly stubborn and just put it down before he gets himself killed. Before Sherlock gets him killed - but he resists both. It takes a greater effort than he cares to admit to push the thoughts to the back of his mind. He forces himself not to think about that gun and John and the dream -
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Sherlock admonishes. Even he is surprised by how calm his voice comes out. Somewhere on the periphery of his mind pieces are sliding neatly together and in the midst of it a name rings out. Of course...
‘You think so?’ But her voice is less certain than before.
‘You would have done it already,’ Sherlock replies. John desperately hopes he’s managed to connect to someone who has picked up by now. He’s trying to figure out if he can shoot fast enough, accurately enough to do it now; just do it now, before she has a chance to do anything more.
‘Put. The gun down. Now. Put the gun down, doctor!’ Something almost like panic flashes in her eyes as she jabs her own weapon for emphasis. ‘I won’t hesitate to shoot you, you know - what do think all this has been for?’
‘You’re a coward,’ Sherlock accuses. John’s chest surges with frustration. Why, why now does he still have to aggravate everyone he meets? Why can’t he just once -
The woman shrugs carelessly and swings the gun around to face Sherlock. John’s heart clenches sickeningly and his grip relaxes immediately.
‘Do it,’ she commands, ‘or would you rather test who’s the faster shot?’
Sherlock looks at John, imploring him not to do as he’s been told, trying to reason with the irrational relief that washes over him when the barrel of her gun faces him instead. They have the advantage, if Sherlock just has a chance to put it to use. But John’s face tells Sherlock, and the woman, everything they need to know. John crouches slowly, never once taking his eyes off the face of the stupid, brilliant man before him, and places the gun on the floor.
‘Push it over here.’
He does, and she kicks it back into the room behind her. John swallows as her trigger finger twitches, automatically lurching slightly to protect Sherlock, but she simply smirks and nods at his pocket.
‘And now the phone, if you please. I’m not stupid. I’m sure whoever you’re calling has been very entertained by this but really now - throw it down on the floor.’
John hesitates. Bile rises in his throat at the sight of Sherlock frozen where he stands with a gun pointing directly at his heart; John weapon-less - though his hand remains completely steady. He’s breathing heavily, looking anywhere for an escape, an excuse to keep the call for a moment longer. Any time at all that will give whoever he’s managed to dial - Mycroft, hopefully, or Lestrade - a chance to find them. Just one more second...
‘How do I know you won’t shoot us anyway?’ he asks, playing for time.
‘You don’t. But do you really want to risk it?’
With a glance of desperate apology to Sherlock, John, moving as slowly as he can, pulls the phone from his pocket and tosses it to the floor. Quicker than he can blink the woman switches targets, buries a bullet in the carpet and shatters the phone to thousands of pieces before turning back to Sherlock. It all happens too fast for either to react on her momentary distraction.
‘I want to know what you know,’ she demands. Sherlock raises an eyebrow.
‘That would take an awfully long time to tell,’ he replies sardonically.
‘I need to know what you’ve worked out, so I know how much the police have discovered,’ she states, as though this will encourage him to tell her.
‘I wouldn’t assume those two are necessarily the same amount,’ Sherlock replies, while John curses him under his breath. Can’t he just swallow his pride for once? Tell the damn woman that whatever he’s worked out the police already know? Does he have to show off, even now?
‘So much the worse for you. I really don’t care which one of you I shoot first,’ she tells him sternly. ‘And I frankly don’t give a damn whether I kill you before you tell me or not, or how fast you die, so don’t be under any false illusions about procrastinating to save your skins. It would be useful to know what you know and what you have told your Scotland Yard friends, but by no means essential.’
‘If you actually planned on killing us, you would already have done it,’ says Sherlock.
‘Oh for goodness sake...’ she mutters impatiently, ‘you are incredibly tiresome, Sherlock Holmes. What on Earth do you think the last few weeks have been if not a plan to kill you?’
‘Oh I’ve no doubt you want me dead,’ Sherlock assures her, in a tone that is almost placating. ‘I just doubt your ability to actually kill me. For all your sons’ crimes, you’ve never in fact committed murder yourself, have you Isadora?’
John feels a surge of anger. Sherlock knew, he knew all this time; the stupid, arrogant, foolish, reckless idiot, he knew -
‘Oh very good. And how long have you known that?’
‘Since approximately ten seconds before opening that door. You really want to be more careful about where you keep your family photographs,’ Sherlock explains, with a pointed glance towards the box he was rifling through - seconds? - minutes? - hours? - before. John follows his gaze automatically. The woman - Isadora, John reminds himself with a rush of irritation at Sherlock - keeps her eyes on her target, though they flicker revealingly. John struggles to arrange his expression into the kind of bored indifference Sherlock’s shows.
‘Do go on,’ Isadora prompts, twitching the gun as though to remind them of its presence.
‘I must admit; I am impressed,’ Sherlock continues coolly. ‘One false identity must have been hard enough for you to keep track of, but two? Although fully advisable, I’m sure. Barney Stockdale and Howard Epps are definitely less conspicuous names than Remington and Andreas Klein. Especially given your late husband’s notoriety - in certain circles, of course. What did you do, downsize the organisation after he died, or are you just more careful than he was?’
Isadora doesn’t reply, but her eyes widen almost imperceptibly. John’s fists are clenched by his sides and he’s torn between asking what in the world they are talking about or playing along and pretending he too has known all the time. Clearly Sherlock knows a lot more than he has let on, and John fully intends to kill him if they get out of this alive. Deciding it would be more dangerous to break the spell Sherlock is weaving on their attacker, he remains silent.
‘Well if you’re going to shoot us, shoot us,’ Sherlock says impatiently, waving a hand to egg her on.
‘What makes you think I won’t?’ Isadora challenges. Sherlock rolls his eyes as though thoroughly bored by the whole situation. In reality a dozen different escape plans are running uncompleted through his mind and he isn’t half as confident as he is deliberately making out. She won’t shoot in cold blood, he knows that. He’s - well he’s almost sure of that, but how much else has he managed to get wrong on this case? But if either he or John move too suddenly…If he lunges to try and knock the gun from her hand - so simple from this angle, so easy - if she panics...
John is only half listening to the exchange. His ears are straining to pick up the sound of approaching car; a siren in the distance, a shout, anything Please, please let his call have got through...
‘You have never killed a person in your life. You’ve dabbled in petty crime for years but you’ve left all the bigger fish, so to speak, to Moriarty. You’ve trusted his presence to cover for you, which it has. You might even have taken pay from him on occasion. And then Howard Epps - or rather, Andreas Klein - outpaced your reach. And you covered for him. Again and again. You’re a mother, what else could you do?’
Sherlock’s voice is almost sympathetic. Isadora’s mask is crumbling but if anything the desperation that’s beneath it looks even more dangerous. Sherlock starts to speak more quickly, as though hoping to keep her so focused on his words that she forgets the weapon in her hands. ‘And then I came along and ruined it all, didn’t I? I was catching up with him. You couldn’t let that happen. So you got Barney - Remington - to do something. Cover it up. Silence me. Anything to protect your son, am I right? No matter what his crimes were. Remington put out the word that there was a price on my head. And there was no shortage of takers - that’s why the attempts were so clumsy and mismatched. That’s why it was so disconnected, because it wasn’t one person, it was as many as cared to try it. How much were you offering?’ He sounds genuinely interested, but shrugs as though it is of no importance when she doesn’t reply. ‘You thought the crash had worked. You figured even if I wasn’t dead then as long as I was out of the way it would do and everyone brushed it off as an accident. But then I woke up, and Remington had to come and check if it was true, didn’t he? Impressive disguise, by the way. Not quite impressive enough, but all the same.’
‘Shut up,’ Isadora commands shakily.
‘I thought you wanted me to talk?’
‘Sherlock -’ John begins.
‘It doesn’t matter what you know anyway -’
‘Doesn’t it?’
‘I’m still going to shoot you -’
‘No you aren’t. Your sons are murderers - yes, I know Remington was the one who killed the girl. Because it would be so much easier to cover up the death of a stranger, wouldn’t it? He had no motive to kill her, and anyway the explosion was meant to destroy any evidence. Was that a deliberate attempt to steer us in Moriarty’s direction? We should have known better of course, he’d never repeat himself like that. And Remington just couldn’t resist showing off could he? Throwing it in my face that I hadn’t noticed him at the hospital? Then Steve Dixie was the one who rigged the bomb and all he managed to do was collapse the building and you started to really panic then. But you still aren’t a killer, not really -’
‘Shut up, shut up!’
‘Sherlock, what are you -?’
‘You’re a coward. We’re both here; we’re both defenceless -’
‘I’ll shoot, I will shoot -’
‘Of course you won’t. Not even to protect your sons. You can’t, or you’d have done it months ago and none of this would have happened. You were too careful for your own good or you would at least have hired a decent assassin but oh no, we had to think it was Moriarty. And that meant everyone else had to as well. What better way than to just spread whispers and let fear do the rest? You couldn’t be connected with it so it had to come on the grapevine -’
‘SHUT UP!’ She wheels around before either of them can react, waving the gun frantically as her face crumples into lines of terrified desperation. Her wild eyes flicker between them, ‘you don’t know, you’ve no idea -! Don’t you dare, don’t you dare - you can’t; I can’t let you, you CAN’T!’
The gunshot and her scream merge into one sound.
Sherlock lurches forward, grabbing her wrist and squeezing, forcing it down until she releases the gun. It falls with a clatter to the floor as he twists her arms behind her back and secures them there with a plastic tie from his pocket. He pulls it so tightly it threatens to cut into her skin before he grabs for the abandoned gun and passes it automatically back to John, whose hand is slippery when he takes it -
He freezes in horror and looks around.
‘John -’
‘It’s nothing,’ John gasps, ‘honestly, Sherlock, I’m fine -’ but Sherlock has already turned his back on Isadora and is leading John to the threadbare sofa. There is panic in his face at the sight of the blood, which John dismisses even as he grimaces in pain. ‘Just my leg,’ he manages, gritting his teeth, ‘just grazed it, that’s all...’
Sherlock is inspecting the wound and sags with relief when he sees that John’s words are true; the bullet only skimmed his thigh.
‘It wasn’t supposed to be you,’ he says numbly, stripping off his scarf and pressing it to the gash to stem the flow of blood. He gives a half glance to Isadora, but she is sitting some feet away on the floor. She is staring at John as though she can’t believe what she’s seeing, blinking stupidly and shaking her head. Her mouth moves soundlessly around the words I didn’t, I didn’t - no choice...I didn’t...but all the venom has gone from her features. She looks quite lost, and Sherlock ignores her. ‘I didn’t mean for -’ he continues.
‘What do you mean supposed to be?’ John demands, pushing Sherlock’s hands away roughly and tying the scarf like a bandage around his own leg. He glares furiously at Sherlock’s frowning face.
‘Forget it,’ Sherlock mutters. He is abnormally acquiescent as he leans back and lets John tend to his own injury, holding himself stiff and uncertainly. ‘I’ll call Lestrade.’ He digs his mobile from his pocket as he stands up, not sure if the distance he puts between himself and John is deliberate or not.
00000
Ten minutes later John is sitting in the back of an ambulance while Lestrade, who was already halfway there, bundles Isadora Klein unresisting into the back of a police car. Sherlock brushes off the attempts of any of the police to question him. He allows a paramedic to drape an orange blanket around his shoulders only because it means they will let him stay in the ambulance with John.
‘What did you mean?’ John asks suddenly, clenching his fist against the pain as a paramedic cleans his leg wound.
‘What?’ Sherlock looks up, and John repeats the question tightly.
‘When you said it wasn’t supposed to be me. What did you mean?’
‘What do you think I meant?’ Sherlock snaps automatically, already feeling a prickling shame for his miscalculation and carefully avoiding looking either directly into John’s eyes or at his wound.
‘I think,’ John begins, and he isn’t shouting but his voice is as dangerous as it ever gets, ‘that you knew exactly what sort of danger we were getting into from the start and you deliberately provoked her into firing. Except you were planning on being the one who got hit, am I right?’
‘Your deductions, as usual, are completely misplaced,’ Sherlock replies sharply, though with less conviction than he would have liked.
‘Enlighten me then,’ John tells him. ‘What the Hell just happened there? And why didn’t you tell me any of that before we went in? And what the fuck were you doing going at all if you knew -’
‘First of all, you’re giving me far too much credit for prior knowledge,’ Sherlock interrupts. ‘You knew everything I did when we arrived. I only worked the rest out after we’d gone in and I saw the picture. I pointed it out to Lestrade; he’s probably taken it as evidence if you want to see it yourself.’
John rallies quickly after the rebuke, ‘Well once you’d worked it out what were you doing throwing it in her face? What was all that if not an attempt to goad her into firing? And why the Hell did you want her to -?’
‘I didn’t intend her to fire!’ Sherlock exclaims furiously, lurching to his feet and dropping the blanket. John stands as well, ignoring the stab of pain that rockets up his leg and glaring at Sherlock, barely noticing the protests of the attending paramedic. ‘Obviously I made a mistake!’
‘You what?’ John asks without thinking, the sudden catch in Sherlock’s voice throwing him off guard.
‘I said I made a mistake. I was wrong, John, and it got you shot. Are you happy? Is that what you wanted to hear?’ Sherlock’s voice is raised almost to a shout and he strides several paces away and back again in agitation. ‘I knew she wasn’t a killer and I knew she was already at her wits’ end trying to protect her sons, so I played to that desperation. I thought if I could bring her to the point where she either had to fire or had to concede that she wouldn’t be able to then she would give up. If she realised she wasn’t a murderer then she would collapse. Her whole plan would go down the drain and she would be defenceless. But I had to get her to the point where her need to fire directly came against the fact that she knew very well that she couldn’t. And if she did shoot,’ he pauses, his voice lowering again, ‘the gun was pointing at me. I calculated that, if she fired at all, it would most likely be a non-fatal shot anyway and it was directed at me. You weren’t supposed to be the one who got hit.’
‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’ John demands. He reluctantly allows himself to be tugged back down by the irate paramedic, trembling with fury. ‘Is it supposed to make me feel better that your entire escape plan hinged on getting yourself bloody well shot? That it would most likely be non-fatal? Do you actually have a single iota of self-preservation in you? How many times are you going to do this sort of thing? How many times do I have to watch you try and get yourself killed before you either actually succeed or accept that you’re wrong? How many times, Sherlock?’
‘You’re being ridiculous,’ Sherlock admonishes. ‘It was -’
‘The most stupid, mindless thing you’ve ever done? A suicide mission? Reckless? Thoughtless?’
‘A mistake,’ Sherlock concedes quietly. He doesn’t understand John’s anger. What did John expect? He was right, wasn’t he? At least about the fact that Isadora was never a killer; hadn’t she sunk to the floor in defeat just seeing what she had done? Isn’t she even now being driven away in a police car? Won’t her organisation be crumbling away as they speak? Haven’t they won?
‘That’s not the point,’ John says, and Sherlock has the distinct feeling John is answering his thoughts rather than his words.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Sherlock honestly, but John shakes his head tiredly.
‘You’re sorry I was shot -’
‘Of course I am -’
‘Not that you tried your damnedest to take the bullet yourself. What if you had been wrong?’
‘I was -’
‘Even more wrong,’
‘There aren’t degrees of wrongness John. I was either correct or I was incorrect.’
‘What if she had killed you?’ John presses, trying not to let those images play in his mind. The truth is that beneath his anger there is only pounding relief that it was him and not Sherlock, and he makes no effort to hide this from his expression.
‘She wouldn’t have.’
‘Do you know that? Are you sure? What if she had, Sherlock?’ He pauses, and waits very deliberately for Sherlock to meet his eyes, ‘where would that have left me?’ he asks softly.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sherlock repeats, and holds John’s gaze for several long seconds before the doctor replies.
‘You’d better be,’ he says firmly.