The Enigma Variations. Chapter Twelve. Disciple.
Title: The Enigma Variations. Chapter Twelve/? Disciple.
Author: ghisainem70
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 6,500 this chapter, 47,500 thus far.
Warnings: Spoilers for Sherlock S2, especially Ep 3 The Reichenbach Fall. Reference to suicidal ideation, graphic sex, explicit violence, dub con, reference to sensory integration disorder
Disclaimer: I own nothing, All honours to Messrs Gatiss, Moffat, BBC, ACD et al.
Summary: Post-Reichenbach, John finds he still has one thing left to live for. A dark!John fic.
When the disciple is ready, the master appears.
- Buddhist maxim.
There was a time -
There was a place -
But there was fear inside.
A witty line to save my face,
The parachute of pride.
To cross a line, takes a tiny step
But will this spark
cause the bridge to burn?
My fear entwined with my regret -
A beated path of safe return.
There's a thing called love
That we all forget -
And it's a wasted love,
That we all regret.
You live your life just once -
So don't forget
about a thing called love
So here we are, all just the same -
And you will never know
My secret plan,
how close we came
To share another road.
Have I lost my only chance
To tell you how I feel inside?
Is it just me, I'd like to know?
Or are we all just a little blind?
You live your life just once -
So don't forget
about a thing called love.
Lyrics to Thing Called Love, (Listen below) all rights reserved Above & Beyond.
Drogheda, Ireland.
John secured the sole private room in the little hostel, nearly deserted off-season.
After it was clear that the ancient lift was going to take more than two seconds to open, John pulled Sherlock by the hand toward the staircase. Sherlock’s hand glowed and burned. It felt like being pinned, trapped. He stayed with the feeling. Sherlock followed behind John’s dark compact form as they climbed the four flights of ancient, narrow stairs. John fumbled with the little key and they entered. The tiny room was obviously part of the attic, with a steeply pitched wood-beamed ceiling. It was freezing. Wind blew through little chinks around the single grime-streaked window.
John didn’t look at Sherlock at all. Sherlock watched John cross to the window and stare out for a few moments, watchful as a wolf. John swiftly propped the single wooden chair under the doorhandle, kicked it to wedge it tight, and barred the door with the tiny hook. He watched too as John opened his laptop case and pulled out a gun, which he laid on the little bookshelf under the window, next to the single lamp. Next to the narrow bed. The room was so minute that there was almost no room for them both to stand.
Sherlock searched John’s expression for the warmth and joy of just minutes ago, on the train. But John’s face was closed to him now. He was unable to stop his brain from scanning John’s clothing for clues, signs. The dark suit and tie were very different to John’s old suit, which fit poorly and was of an unimpressive brownish tone. This suit was dark and impeccably tailored and had obviously been handmade by Mycroft’s own tailor in Saville Row. Sherlock considered the probability that this was the suit John had worn to his funeral, and felt a hopeless chill. He was a sociopath, it was true; but even he was aware he ought to feel guilty at this. And he did, so much so that the unfamiliar sensation made him feel sick. Sherlock looked away from the confusing suit and returned to scrutinizing John’s face, the face he had never thought to see again.
The dark brown contact lenses obscured John’s true gaze. This felt very wrong. He wanted to pin John down and remove them with his own fingertips. His fingers twitched, frustrated. Delicately, he admonished himself. He would do it very delicately. But this would not be permitted, he understood that much; and so, with a sigh, Sherlock mentally reviewed his index that keyed John’s volatile shifts in eye color to feelings. He had painstakingly (how appropriate, he thought, that this word was based on pain) taught himself to identify feelings - solely as they pertained to John Watson - and how they manifested in John’s face, his expression, his posture; and in this regard, shifts in eye color were invaluable.
It had been a long while since Sherlock had permitted himself to access this precious archive. A medium blue, especially when John’s eyes crinkled around the corners, meant happy, or adventurous. Lighter, when John was very tired or hurt or ill. The darkest blue was the color to watch out for - it meant anger. It meant danger. It also meant something else, but Sherlock had failed to specify precisely what in the index. Sometimes Sherlock tried to provoke it, but that was another lifetime ago. Now John’s artificially brown irises reminded Sherlock of the darkest color, and he felt a thrill that might have been apprehension, or . . . something else.
Sherlock wanted to take John’s hand again. Or for John to take his. For a sensation so new (running in handcuffs from the police didn’t count) he was bewildered at how much he wanted this because, of course, touch was something to shield himself from, always. They were standing so close, it should be easy if such a thing were even possible, but something in John’s posture, something coiled within, made him keep his hands at his sides. He backed up a little and his knees hit the edge of the bed and his head bumped the slanted beam of the ceiling and he fell back with a jolt. A finger of icy wind from the window chilled his face. He pulled his coat tighter.
The silence stretched out. It was nothing at all like the safe familiar silences used to be in 221b. But silence was better than the sound of the words that wanted to burst forth, useless words that wouldn’t matter because he was unforgivable.
Unpardonable was actually more precise, he decided.
Sometimes, even criminals were pardoned.
He could never be.
He bowed his head and awaited judgment.
* * *
London. One Hyde Park.
Lestrade rapped on the door of Moran’s flat in One Hyde Park. He had a proper warrant now.
“Scotland Yard, open up,” he said, showing his ID and the warrant at the peephole.
Mycroft opened the door. “Detective Inspector. I don’t need to see your warrant." With a regal sweep of the hand, he gestured for Lestrade to enter. Lestrade was too tired, actually, to register much surprise. After the events of the past few days, nothing could surprise him. He followed Mycroft into the vast flat with floor to ceiling windows, framing a priceless view of Hyde Park and the Serpentine.
“Your agency is digging in on this too, then? Champion,” he said easily. In his experience, one didn’t ask too many questions about Mycroft’s actions or motivations. And so he didn’t really expect an answer.
Mycroft looked curiously pained. “No, this is on my own authority. I did it - to help John. It seemed . . . the easiest thing to do. Under the circumstances.”
“Did what?”
“I’ve leased this flat. You’re welcome, of course, to search. I’ve already done my first sweep. It is clear.”
Lestrade thought about that. Suddenly he was very weary indeed. “Do you mind, actually, if I sit here a bit -- before I get started,” he said with as much nonchalance as he could when what he really wanted to do was curl up on one of these posh sofas and sleep for a week. Mycroft was eyeing him closely.
“Detective Inspector - “
“Lestrade will do. Hell, Greg will do.”
Mycroft looked momentarily confused by this. He hesitated. “Greg, then,” he said, as though the word had a foreign taste in his mouth, unexpected but not unpleasant. “Please make yourself comfortable. Anywhere, really. There are, ah, a number of rooms.”
Lestrade took his cue. He hadn’t a great deal of experience dealing directly with Mycroft Holmes, but he thought that the man looked uncharacteristically discomposed. Sad, even. Lestrade felt that somehow, he was intruding here, although he couldn’t imagine why.
“You want to be alone. Look, I didn’t mean to be trouble. Give me a minute and I’ll be right as rain. I can start in some of the other rooms,” he offered.
His mobile rang. He clocked the number and swore. It was his soon-to-be ex-wife. “I have to take this,” he said. When he picked up, she began a tirade of familiar complaints. Mycroft could hear her voice, both angry and mocking, from several feet away. He turned his back and ventured into the kitchen.
“I take it that dinner is permanently off. Right then. Listen, next time - just call my lawyer and spare me,” Lestrade said with aggravation as he rang off.
Mycroft reappeared, standing rather stiffly, bearing two coffees. Lestrade’s was strong, cream, one sugar. Precisely the way he liked it. He idly wondered whether this was a lucky guess on Mycroft’s part.
They sat on opposite sofas and looked out over Hyde Park at the carefree people walking there. The view was mesmerizing. After an awkward silence, Lestrade said, “I guess you heard that.”
Mycroft tried to look as though he hadn’t, and Lestrade might almost have believed him - except that he knew precisely how far his wife’s voice carried. Particularly when she was angry. And so, he gave Mycroft a skeptical look and Mycroft nodded.
“I’m - ah, terribly sorry,” Mycroft mumbled awkwardly, meeting his gaze and then immediately scrutinizing his coffee cup, which evidently had become rather fascinating. Lestrade was amazed. He had never experienced a show of sympathy from either Holmes brother. But Mycroft gave every appearance of being sincere. He momentarily bristled. Now he was feeling a little foolish.
“It’s nothing. It’s been coming. I tell you, though. I’m done with women,” he said with a great deal more bravado than he really felt. But in that moment, he meant it.
Mycroft didn’t say anything for a moment. “Quite,” he finally said, neutrally.
Lestrade chose not to interpret this in any particular manner. Although he was fairly certain - as certain as he could be about anything to do with the secretive Mycroft Holmes - that Mycroft himself was also finished with women - if he had ever, in fact, started.
The sipped their coffees quietly.
“Is this . . . ah - your undercover look?” Mycroft was regarded him with what might be curiousity as he gestured with a long, elegant hand toward Lestrade’s attire. He had almost forgotten that he wasn’t in his usual Yard suit and tie: long black leather coat, a few days’ worth of artful stubble and slicked back hair that was slowly rebelling. “You look -“
“--I know I’m a right mess. I need to get cleaned up. It’s been a long couple of days.” He rubbed his chin. It scratched.
Mycroft looked at him, almost speculatively. Lestrade looked right back. Mycroft broke away first. Whatever he was going to observe about Lestrade’s disreputable appearance he had apparently thought the better of.
His mobile rang again. “What? Wait there, right?" He looked up at Mycroft. “Someone’s shot Sebastian Moran. He’s dead.”
Mycroft was already heading for the door. “Where’s John?” Lestrade asked. Mycroft paused in his tracks. He seemed to be trying to formulate a response. “Bloody hell, Mycroft, where is John?” Lestrade was already certain he knew what had happened.
“Greg. I am going to state that I have no information, nor any ability to obtain any information, as to the whereabouts of John Watson. And I would respectfully advise you not to seek any.” Mycroft’s face was very composed. No one would ever suspect him of lying. No one except Lestrade, who knew better.
Lestrade nodded. It was going down like this. He could either turn a blind eye and let it go, or open a case against John Watson. Under the circumstances, knowing what Lestrade himself knew, any competent cop would consider John the prime suspect. Lestrade took a deep breath.
“Mycroft, if you tell me there is no information to be had, I’ll not second guess you. Looks like homicide division’ll be having themselves an unsolved. Man was bound to have plenty of enemies. Gambling cheat and all that. Rather awkward, though.”
“And why is that?”
“That rooftop. It’s right across from Kitty Reilly’s flat.”
“Ah,” Mycroft said. “May I give you a lift to the scene? Possibly there are aspects of this case that deserve further attention.”
Even though the circumstances were of the grimmest and they were both exhausted, they found themselves exchanging slight, weary smiles.
“Lead the way,” Lestrade said.
* * *
John folded his arms. This was ordinarily a warning sign that Sherlock had transgressed a moral boundary that John deemed important. Sherlock didn’t need this warning sign in this particular instance. He took a deep breath.
“John - “ he ventured bravely.
“Just tell me - were you ever coming back?” John interrupted, his voice tight. It cracked a little.
This was confusing, because he had expected John to begin his condemnation with a review of his elaborately staged suicide. But it was very obvious - as he had immediately deduced on the train - that whatever John’s true feelings were at this moment, they did not include being shocked. If ‘shocked’ was even the proper word - and Sherlock knew very well that it wasn’t but didn’t know a word that was strong enough - to see Sherlock alive on a train in Dublin.
But if he started with “No” . . . what would that mean?
He took another deep breath. There had been many lies. Sherlock knew that whatever happened, if this was the last time he ever spoke to John, he didn’t want to waste words, which were wasteful enough, on more lies.
“No,” he whispered. The word hung in the air between them. The enormity of it for so simple a word. Sherlock watched John absorb it, and even though he perceived that John had expected this answer, he saw that it caused him great pain. Might as well get it all out, get it over with. “I wasn’t. Ever coming back.”
John nodded, deceptively calm. “I always knew. That I would lose you. It was - - we were - too good to be true. I knew you’d get bored. With me. But I never dreamed I could lose you like . . . that. Nothing says goodbye quite like staging your own suicide.” His voice felt like drops of acid. “So you could start your new life. Leave all the boring, ordinary wreckage you made in London behind.”
“No - John, you have to believe me - Moriarty -“ He swallowed. Moriarty on the rooftop. Gunmen that would kill John, kill others he cared for - Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. Unless he jumped. “Moriarty was going to kill you, John. I had to do it.”
He stared at John. This had been the tiny flame that kept hope alive in that unexplored region which John had invaded. Because if John could be made to understand that everything had been about protecting him, perhaps they could find a way through this. But Sherlock didn’t know the way. John would have to lead the way.
But John was shaking his head, unmoved. His arms crossed even tighter.
“I know about the gunman. Sherlock. That day. It was Sebastian Moran. Moriarty ordered him to shoot me. If you didn’t jump,” he said slowly. “So yes, I understand, Sherlock, that Moriarty . . . . pushed you over the edge. You know. But the thing is - the thing is, you prepared. You had a plan. It was part of the game. And you kept me in the dark. You - “ He broke down now. He covered his eyes with one hand and a single wracked sob escaped from his chest. “You let me watch you fall,” he choked the words out over tears that he wouldn’t let come. “You let me - touch your body. In the street. You let me - bury you.”
“ - John, no,” he stammered even though it was true, every bit of it. “Not, not like that. I want to explain.”
Sherlock thought then that John might listen because he was dashing away what probably were tears, now, and he was quiet. Too quiet. But then John uncrossed his arms and his hands started moving in harsh gestures, trying to express the inexpressible. “You want - Sherlock. I find you here, a new life, and you - you said O’Neill’s ‘being watched.’ So you have - what - some sort, new - companion - too. My replacement,” he said sarcastically. “I’ve had to become a lot more observant. A great deal better at the Science of Deduction. Since you died.”
Now Sherlock felt something rising in his own chest. Moriarty took everything from him. And was still taking. John wasn’t going to listen. A red haze rose up and balled in his throat and blurred his vision.
“I did it for you. John. You think I wanted - this?” He gestured to his worn coat and shabby backpacker attire, his hair. To the space between the two of them. “I had to disappear - I had to get away from you, away from London. I had to hide. For a long time. I had to give up everything, John. It’s what I had to do.”
John was shaking now with actual rage, something that Sherlock had seldom seen. Mostly when John was angry he became quiet and still. This was different. He gripped Sherlock by the arm and although it felt dangerous, he absorbed it and tried to get to the other side of it. John would not hurt him. He trusted John. Still. He left his arm where it was and John didn’t let go.
“You should have told me. I would have done - anything - for you. Moriarty's game was more important. More important than - than us. You didn't want me to die - but you didn't think I was worth staying for. You didn’t think I was worth taking with you. No, only you, and Mycroft, and Moriarty are the - privileged ones. Your own private game. Ordinary, boring people need not apply,” John was breathless with his anger and it was like an animate thing that Sherlock devoutly wished would just swallow them both up, so he wouldn’t have to see it anymore.
“John - God, I’m aware that I'm - terrible - at this, I can't make you understand if you can't see that I didn't have a choice.”
“You DID have a choice. Sherlock. You chose. You could have chosen me. I'd lay down my life for you. You should know it.”
“I do know it. It’s why I couldn’t tell you. I can't have you . . .be dead. John, John, listen to me don’t you see - I was protecting you.”
“No, Sherlock. No - you don’t protect me. I. Protect. You. I’ve always protected you. I’ve killed for you. I’ll do it again. And I’m never going to stop until it’s over. I. Protect. You,” John was shouting now, and he was shaking Sherlock’s arm, pushing him back.
Sherlock couldn’t bear the claustrophobic feeling of emotion flowing through John’s fingers. Even through the protective layer of his coat, it was too much, too intense. He pulled back from John’s grasp and John let him, his shoulders slumping, and the cloud of anger vanished. He dropped to his knees before Sherlock, seated on the edge of the tiny bed. They stared at each other for a long minute, John still trembling with - the other emotion that Sherlock didn’t let himself identify. The one that he felt, too. So close together it was impossible to not see it, not to feel it. He bit his lips.
“You’ll never forgive me, John,” he said.
“No, I won’t,” John said, stern, implacable. “I’ll never forgive you. Never.”
Sherlock hung his head. “I knew that,” he said. “What - what happens now?” He felt unmoored, a battered ship going down in a storm, no hope of rescue.
“I won’t go back,” John said, “to the way things were.”
Of course not. He had betrayed John’s trust, even with intentions that had been . . . he had thought they had been good. He had been trying to do good. To be good. To be on the side of the angels, even if he wasn’t one. John had taught him that. Now even this felt as if it had been a trap laid especially for him by Jim Moriarty. He could hear Moriarty mocking him, this very moment. He closed his eyes to block it out.
“The way things were,” Sherlock said. The way things were - 221b, solving crimes, tearing through London streets, John making him feel amazing every time he told him he was amazing. Brilliant. And the quiet times where, if he held his breath and slowed his racing thoughts he could sense something else with them, between them, surrounding them. It surrounded them now.
“I swore that when I found you - I would tell you,” John said, very serious. Here was Sherlock’s sentence, about to be pronounced. “Sherlock - you see everything. You observe - everything. So I know that you know. What I feel.”
Sherlock leaned in closer to John. “Yes. John,” he said. “I know.” And he did. Time to stop this wilful blindness. To look at himself, look at John. And see the truth. “But . . . I think you should tell me.”
John was close enough that Sherlock could see the flush climb his neck and over his face, and he thought it was beautiful. He watched the play of emotion over John’s face, no longer dark and closed but rumpled and warm and determined and brilliant and true.
“Sherlock - Sherlock, I want -“ he took Sherlock’s hand again, and Sherlock was proud that there was no flinch, even though it felt hot and perilous. “I’m in love with you. I always have been,” he said, firm and steady. “But I can’t go back. To what we were - before. Not after - It was killing me inside. Because I know you never. . . ” He didn’t have the will to say the rest.
Sherlock looked down at their clasped hands. Love. He had always thought it a dangerous disadvantage. A chemical defect of the losing side. But it didn’t feel like that now. It seemed he had been wrong, after all. Insufficient data.
Which, of course, should have been obvious.
John was right. There was no going back. And this was another way, he realized, that Moriarty’s game had given him an unexpected and necessary gift.
After the fall, there was no going back.
(I imagine John Watson thinks love is a mystery to me - but the chemistry is incredibly simple, and very destructive.)
Sherlock slowly pulled John’s hand in his up to his cheek, where John had tried to touch him before. He closed his eyes and let the electricity crackle, flame burn. He had been wrong again.
The chemistry wasn’t simple at all.
Every elemental atom that comprised his body was rearranging, dancing, glowing, shimmering.
If this was destruction, he would let it take him apart.
“I don’t want to go back, either.” he heard himself saying.
* * *
By the time that Lestrade and Mycroft arrived at Kitty Reilly’s Islington flat, it was already surrounded by media trucks, bright spotlights, cameramen and clamouring journalists. Lestrade could see Reilly’s red hair in a cluster of microphones. She was holding a press conference on her own doorstep even as the doors closed on the van bearing away Moran’s body.
“I received a tip from a confidential source that Guy Ransome - his real name is Sebastian Moran - was a former Army sniper. He was under orders to assassinate me,” she announced. Lestrade had thought that the dramatic term, “assassinate,” was properly reserved for royalty and heads of state, but Kitty Reilly had never been to particular in her use of language.
“Why didn’t you contact the police for protection?” Shouted a reporter.
“My source warned me that I was being closely spied upon and that I could trust no one, not even the police, at risk of to my life.”
“Do you know why Moran was ordered to kill you?”
“Yes. Because I was about to publish the truth-- about Richard Brook. Moran was a hired killer - and I can reveal here, for the first time, that I have proof that Richard Brook was not, after all, who he claimed to be. Sherlock Holmes was telling the truth.”
There was a roar of shock at this, then a clamour of confused shouted questions.
“ Yes - I admit that now. I will be publishing my book in which I reveal how Richard Brook deceived everyone, even me. Richard Brook really is James Moriarty, chief of an underground organization of criminals. And a murderer. Moriarty ordered Moran to kill me. And it would have happened - if not for my informant. He saved my life.”
“Who is your informant?? Who killed Moran?”
“I won’t say. I protect my sources.”
But a Scotland Yard homicide detective - Lestrade recognized him as an adversary, with a pang - was trying to herd Reilly away from her audience. “You’ll tell us, Miss Reilly. You can hold your press conference later. The police have a few questions for you.”
“On one condition - I’ll only talk to Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Otherwise, see my lawyer, I won’t say another word.”
Mycroft and Lestrade exchanged knowing glances. They knew who had told Reilly to confide only in Lestrade. Mycroft gently propelled Lestrade forward and melted discreetly back into the crowd. Reilly waved to the sea of jealous colleagues, each wishing, they could be in her shoes, many of them probably suspecting she had stage managed the whole episode to boost her book. She allowed herself to be guided by Lestrade into a waiting police car, the homicide detective diving in with them.
“Lestrade - you’re in Vice - this isn’t your case,” he blustered. Now Lestrade recognized him, DI Hendricks, a recent hire from the Manchester force. He was eager to make an impression, and had been one of Lestrade’s loudest critics in the aftermath of Sherlock’s suicide.
“I think we can let Miss Reilly decide, under the circumstances, who she wants to talk to. Anyway, I’ve been following Moran - a gambling scheme. I took out a search warrant on his flat just yesterday. I think I may have a few ideas who would have been motivated to kill him.”
“You let Moran get away in that debacle at Crockford’s. You should have collared him then - this poor woman could have been killed. Next stop’s Traffic for you, mate,” he sneered.
Lestrade leaned back easily. To give himself room to wind it up if he decided to clock this bugger.
Kitty Reilly’s eyes were sparkling with the intoxicating thrill of being at the very center of one of the biggest crime stories of the decade, maybe ever.
She put a confiding hand on Lestrade’s arm. “Detective Inspector Lestrade,” she said archly, “I believe you and I are about to become great friends. I’ve got a lot to tell you- but I get inside access to your investigation.”
Going over his Superintendent’s head here was probably going to be the fatal nail in the coffin of his sinking career. “Miss Reilly,” he said, “Anything you need, you’ll get from me. But tell me - your informant - the one that you say shot Moran - you’re sure he escaped? Did Moran harm him?”
“He got away. So far as I could see, he was unharmed. Moran never saw it coming. Now, not another word until you and I are alone, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”
Hendricks and Lestrade exchanged a cool stare that promised that the hostilities were definitely just beginning as they pulled into the car park at New Scotland Yard.
* * *
It wasn't until early the next morning that Lestrade, never having gone home at all, remembered he still needed to effect his warrant and search Moran's flat at One Hyde Park. He was surprised to find Mycroft had returned here. He was vaguely aware that Mycroft Holmes had a rather grand townhouse in Belgravia.
"It doesn't much matter whether I go home or not," Mycroft said, mysteriously, seeing Lestrade's surprise.“Before you start, let me give you what I gave - to John." He held out his hand and proffered a flash drive. Lestrade took it and noticed now what he should have noticed before. His detective skills must be slipping.
“You met John here. Before. He’s gone for good, now. First Moran. Next'll be Moriarty.”
Mycroft’s jaw clenched and he took a deep breath. “You are correct.”
Lestrade was suddenly furious. The insinuations of DI Philips, his accelerated downfall at the Yard, relentless guilt over the death of Sherlock Holmes, deep fear for John Watson, his own exhaustion, all came crashing in on him.
“Why the hell didn’t you stop him! I know you can, you can do any bloody thing you’ve a mind to.” He was almost nose to nose with Mycroft, but Mycroft didn’t back down.
“You’re right. I could stop him. But it's only a matter of time, you see. I’m not willing to lock him up, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Believe me, I considered it.”
“He’s going to get himself killed! How are you going to live with that?”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth he regretted it. Mycroft’s steely composure barely slipped, but it was enough. “I don’t intend,” Mycroft said with great dignity, “for that to happen. I can't let that happen."
And Lestrade’s anger evaporated. They stood there, unsure what to do, what to say. Lestrade realized he had stumbled upon a secret that Mycroft had concealed for possibly as long as they had known John. And he thought also that Mycroft had to be astute enough to see what everyone could see. That nothing at all could ever come between John Watson and the memory of Sherlock Holmes.
“Look, Mycroft, I’m sorry,” Greg said, more gently. “That was out of line.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, Greg. I’m . . . fine,” Mycroft said in a way that made Greg certain that Mycroft knew exactly what he was thinking. How he did that was a mystery.
“Well, we’re not just going to let it happen. Are we? You do have a plan?” Then he realized that, of course, if Mycroft Holmes had a plan, probably the last person he would share it with was Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, recently demoted to the Vice Unit of Scotland Yard.
“As it happens, I do have a plan,” Mycroft said. “And the first part of the plan is to be absolutely certain that we’ve gotten everything that Moran may have left for us to find here.”
They worked together methodically and in silence. There wasn't a great deal more to be found. Mycroft thought he detected evidence that someone had hacked Moran's email. The entire system would be analyzed by his tech minions. Finally they were finished.
Mycroft was taking off his jacket, his waistcoat - Mycroft was the only man Lestrade knew that wore one, and he had to admit it suited him - rolling up his shirtsleeves. Lestrade realized he had never actually seen Mycroft out of the formality of his suit. His armor. Mycroft carefully took off his tie and unbuttoned his crisp shirt. He rubbed his face a little, obviously weary himself. Then he turned his head this way and that, apparently to stretch his neck, stiff maybe from . . . .Greg caught himself actually staring at Mycroft’s long, slender throat. He swallowed. Hard. Because something about that pale, exposed neck was inducing in him a warm but completely unexpected sensation.
In a moment there wasn’t going to be any hiding it, either.
Confused, he turned away, pretended to examine a piece of artwork while he tried to process his flood of feeling.
“Looks like you need some rest yourself,” he found himself saying when he was under control. “When did you last get some sleep?”
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” Mycroft said shortly.
“What did you say?” Lestrade flashed back to his days at uni. His best mate always used to say that during long nights, never wanting to stop the party. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead, come on,” he’d say. Colin.
“I didn’t mean anything by it. It is just a figure of speech.” Mycroft was studying him again. “Does it offend you?”
“It’s not that.” This was getting worse and worse. Why he was actually saying these things to Mycroft Holmes - aristocratic, haughty, secretive, and unreadable, he could not fathom. He put it down to long nights working alone at the Yard, and the fact that it had been a very long time since he had actually talked to any other human being about anything to do with his own life. His own feelings. And so, he let it out. “I had a . . . friend at uni. He - Colin - always used to say that.” He was actually flushing now under Mycroft’s speculative gaze.
“I see,” Mycroft said slowly. Lestrade wondered if he did see, and felt unaccountably exposed. He turned away and changed the subject.
“So. You have a plan, then?”
“As it happens, I do have a plan,” Mycroft said. "What do you know about gambling in other countries? For example, in Macau?"
* * *
John leaned into him, pulled Sherlock into his arms. He held him close for a long time, a few silent tears dampening the collar of Sherlock’s unfamiliar coat. He pressed the side of his face against Sherlock’s throat, where he could feel his pulse pounding. Elevated. Irresistible. He couldn’t help letting his lips brush gently against that very spot, his own pulse racing to catch up. This was such a transgression that he held himself back from pressing in harder, turning it into a kiss. Into more. And so, was prepared for the completely expected flinch as Sherlock shrank just slightly from his touch.
John immediately released Sherlock, feeling sick. It was true. Sherlock had never wanted this, had made that perfectly clear from the day they met. Nothing about the fall was going to change that. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I won’t -“
“No,” Sherlock said, “It isn’t you.” In fact, he was processing the feedback from his hypersensitive nerves, perceiving that in this instance, his reaction was habit, instinct. John’s arms around him felt strong and safe after his long exile. John’s mouth on his throat felt hot and dangerous, and completely different than anything he had felt up until this moment. It was like finding that he possessed a previously unknown sense, or perhaps it was just that his senses were becoming overwhelmed all at once.
As a child when the flood of perception, observation, endless details, sights and sounds, it all became Too Much, overload happened. Then, he sought the dark places in the house where it was quiet. Always, human touch was overwhelming, unpleasant, threatening. Dark rooms didn’t help for that; for that there were clothes and coats, gloves; keeping people at a careful distance. People generally wanted to keep their distance from him anyway. Sociopath. Freak.
“John, it’s not you - it’s never been you. I’ve always been like - this,” he said, fast before he lost the courage to spill it out in the face of John’s crushed expression. “It’s a . . . condition of the nervous system. I have been trying to. . . overcome it.”
John’s face transformed into a concentrated frown, then disintegrated into mixed pity and shame.
“God, Sherlock. I’m a doctor. I should have seen the signs. I’m so sorry - you don’t have to -“ John made a confused motion as his he wrestled with his impulse to hold Sherlock and the need to draw away, out of Sherlock’s personal space.
“John - “ How to explain? He had only very recently begun to accept that even at his age, his condition could change. He paused. This, he knew, was not the time or place to enter into the difficult and interesting topic that was Irene Adler.
Who also was Not Dead, after all.
Keeping this to himself a little while longer wasn’t exactly a lie. “John, I can’t go on like before, either. I want this,” he said, and he knew it was true. For that, he supposed he had to thank Irene. “I can show you,” he said, and he hoped he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. To think that he might have gone his whole life without this. Touching him. “Show you how. To touch me.”
John’s face radiated purpose, desire. Love. It always had, really. He had been a very great fool.
“Do you mean - there’s a way you like to be touched? And ways that you don’t?”
Sherlock nodded. “I think that if it is you, John, the latter is likely to diminish.” He flashed a rare smile, because he could trust John, and John was a doctor as well as a soldier. He was brave and he knew how to heal. “Shall we find out?”
He reached out and pulled John back into his arms, and thrust his fingers into John’s dark hair, which prickled his fingertips, and which he wanted to explore. It was dark and different and he was angry then that the first time he was able to touch John like this, his tempting russet-gold hair was masked, disguised, because they were both caught up in the game. He closed his eyes and guided John’s mouth back to his throat. John delicately brushed his lips against the skin there, pale and delicate over the veins, and he shivered. John paused and Sherlock could feel the warmth of his breath there. John had never been so close. No one had. The warmth of it filled him up after so much cold. How to explain? The light touch made him shiver and his skin prickled and fairly crawled with the buzzing of his nerves. This was familiar, this is what touching always felt like but because it was John, it was not entirely unpleasant. But there was something that John could do that would make it feel much, much better. He held himself still against the electric protestation of his twitching nerves.
“It is easier for me,” he whispered, “if you touch me . . .harder.”
“You’re sure?” John’s voice was dark with suppressed emotion, that Sherlock observed and catalogued and decided if it was the last thing he did, he would set it free.
“Yes. Harder.”
“Oh, God,” John gasped, and pressed harder, and when Sherlock murmured “yes, more, like that,” to let him know that it was fine, he pressed in harder still, and everything became infinitely better. His nerves still crackled and sang-- but the last thing he wanted now was to pull away. He tried to stop his hyperactive brain from cataloguing the feel of John’s strong arms around him, the feel of John’s body, taut, more sinewy than he had been, the feel of his warm skin against his neck, his lips pressing not gently, a hard burning kiss, his hair, the scent of him, a deep warm scent that he had never worn before - was it part of his disguise?- John was supposed to smell like he did in 221b - like clean soap and wool and tea and antiseptic from the clinic. This was strange, unexpected, musky, complex and deep. He drank it in, deliberately not closing himself off, no shielding, no flinching, and everything all at once was too much - touch and sight and smell and even the sound of John trying to stifle a moan against his neck - and it was this last assault on his senses, that sent him over the edge. Before he knew what was happening he had pushed John away, pulled him onto the bed, and was sitting with John pinned under him. John stared up at him, his breath coming in harsh pants now that he tried to slow.
“Oh my God, are you - are you all right? I’ll stop,” John said, and Sherlock observed - even here, now, always observing - that the tone of his voice, deeper, rougher, was an infallible sign that the last thing John wanted to do in this moment was stop. “We should stop,” John gasped.
“I want to try to kiss you,” Sherlock announced decisively.
As if he had the slightest idea how to do that.
To be continued . . .
(Wow, it's been twelve chapters! So much left to tell. Some commenty love from readers is so appreciated at this point in the proceedings from your devoted author. Thanks always to my faithful readers and commenters. Sherlock fandom is the best.)
Listen to Thing Called Love HERE
Chapter Eleven: Angels Fall: ( Read more... ) next: Chapter Thirteen: Proximate Pyrotechnics ( Read more... )
Author: ghisainem70
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 6,500 this chapter, 47,500 thus far.
Warnings: Spoilers for Sherlock S2, especially Ep 3 The Reichenbach Fall. Reference to suicidal ideation, graphic sex, explicit violence, dub con, reference to sensory integration disorder
Disclaimer: I own nothing, All honours to Messrs Gatiss, Moffat, BBC, ACD et al.
Summary: Post-Reichenbach, John finds he still has one thing left to live for. A dark!John fic.
When the disciple is ready, the master appears.
- Buddhist maxim.
There was a time -
There was a place -
But there was fear inside.
A witty line to save my face,
The parachute of pride.
To cross a line, takes a tiny step
But will this spark
cause the bridge to burn?
My fear entwined with my regret -
A beated path of safe return.
There's a thing called love
That we all forget -
And it's a wasted love,
That we all regret.
You live your life just once -
So don't forget
about a thing called love
So here we are, all just the same -
And you will never know
My secret plan,
how close we came
To share another road.
Have I lost my only chance
To tell you how I feel inside?
Is it just me, I'd like to know?
Or are we all just a little blind?
You live your life just once -
So don't forget
about a thing called love.
Lyrics to Thing Called Love, (Listen below) all rights reserved Above & Beyond.
Drogheda, Ireland.
John secured the sole private room in the little hostel, nearly deserted off-season.
After it was clear that the ancient lift was going to take more than two seconds to open, John pulled Sherlock by the hand toward the staircase. Sherlock’s hand glowed and burned. It felt like being pinned, trapped. He stayed with the feeling. Sherlock followed behind John’s dark compact form as they climbed the four flights of ancient, narrow stairs. John fumbled with the little key and they entered. The tiny room was obviously part of the attic, with a steeply pitched wood-beamed ceiling. It was freezing. Wind blew through little chinks around the single grime-streaked window.
John didn’t look at Sherlock at all. Sherlock watched John cross to the window and stare out for a few moments, watchful as a wolf. John swiftly propped the single wooden chair under the doorhandle, kicked it to wedge it tight, and barred the door with the tiny hook. He watched too as John opened his laptop case and pulled out a gun, which he laid on the little bookshelf under the window, next to the single lamp. Next to the narrow bed. The room was so minute that there was almost no room for them both to stand.
Sherlock searched John’s expression for the warmth and joy of just minutes ago, on the train. But John’s face was closed to him now. He was unable to stop his brain from scanning John’s clothing for clues, signs. The dark suit and tie were very different to John’s old suit, which fit poorly and was of an unimpressive brownish tone. This suit was dark and impeccably tailored and had obviously been handmade by Mycroft’s own tailor in Saville Row. Sherlock considered the probability that this was the suit John had worn to his funeral, and felt a hopeless chill. He was a sociopath, it was true; but even he was aware he ought to feel guilty at this. And he did, so much so that the unfamiliar sensation made him feel sick. Sherlock looked away from the confusing suit and returned to scrutinizing John’s face, the face he had never thought to see again.
The dark brown contact lenses obscured John’s true gaze. This felt very wrong. He wanted to pin John down and remove them with his own fingertips. His fingers twitched, frustrated. Delicately, he admonished himself. He would do it very delicately. But this would not be permitted, he understood that much; and so, with a sigh, Sherlock mentally reviewed his index that keyed John’s volatile shifts in eye color to feelings. He had painstakingly (how appropriate, he thought, that this word was based on pain) taught himself to identify feelings - solely as they pertained to John Watson - and how they manifested in John’s face, his expression, his posture; and in this regard, shifts in eye color were invaluable.
It had been a long while since Sherlock had permitted himself to access this precious archive. A medium blue, especially when John’s eyes crinkled around the corners, meant happy, or adventurous. Lighter, when John was very tired or hurt or ill. The darkest blue was the color to watch out for - it meant anger. It meant danger. It also meant something else, but Sherlock had failed to specify precisely what in the index. Sometimes Sherlock tried to provoke it, but that was another lifetime ago. Now John’s artificially brown irises reminded Sherlock of the darkest color, and he felt a thrill that might have been apprehension, or . . . something else.
Sherlock wanted to take John’s hand again. Or for John to take his. For a sensation so new (running in handcuffs from the police didn’t count) he was bewildered at how much he wanted this because, of course, touch was something to shield himself from, always. They were standing so close, it should be easy if such a thing were even possible, but something in John’s posture, something coiled within, made him keep his hands at his sides. He backed up a little and his knees hit the edge of the bed and his head bumped the slanted beam of the ceiling and he fell back with a jolt. A finger of icy wind from the window chilled his face. He pulled his coat tighter.
The silence stretched out. It was nothing at all like the safe familiar silences used to be in 221b. But silence was better than the sound of the words that wanted to burst forth, useless words that wouldn’t matter because he was unforgivable.
Unpardonable was actually more precise, he decided.
Sometimes, even criminals were pardoned.
He could never be.
He bowed his head and awaited judgment.
* * *
London. One Hyde Park.
Lestrade rapped on the door of Moran’s flat in One Hyde Park. He had a proper warrant now.
“Scotland Yard, open up,” he said, showing his ID and the warrant at the peephole.
Mycroft opened the door. “Detective Inspector. I don’t need to see your warrant." With a regal sweep of the hand, he gestured for Lestrade to enter. Lestrade was too tired, actually, to register much surprise. After the events of the past few days, nothing could surprise him. He followed Mycroft into the vast flat with floor to ceiling windows, framing a priceless view of Hyde Park and the Serpentine.
“Your agency is digging in on this too, then? Champion,” he said easily. In his experience, one didn’t ask too many questions about Mycroft’s actions or motivations. And so he didn’t really expect an answer.
Mycroft looked curiously pained. “No, this is on my own authority. I did it - to help John. It seemed . . . the easiest thing to do. Under the circumstances.”
“Did what?”
“I’ve leased this flat. You’re welcome, of course, to search. I’ve already done my first sweep. It is clear.”
Lestrade thought about that. Suddenly he was very weary indeed. “Do you mind, actually, if I sit here a bit -- before I get started,” he said with as much nonchalance as he could when what he really wanted to do was curl up on one of these posh sofas and sleep for a week. Mycroft was eyeing him closely.
“Detective Inspector - “
“Lestrade will do. Hell, Greg will do.”
Mycroft looked momentarily confused by this. He hesitated. “Greg, then,” he said, as though the word had a foreign taste in his mouth, unexpected but not unpleasant. “Please make yourself comfortable. Anywhere, really. There are, ah, a number of rooms.”
Lestrade took his cue. He hadn’t a great deal of experience dealing directly with Mycroft Holmes, but he thought that the man looked uncharacteristically discomposed. Sad, even. Lestrade felt that somehow, he was intruding here, although he couldn’t imagine why.
“You want to be alone. Look, I didn’t mean to be trouble. Give me a minute and I’ll be right as rain. I can start in some of the other rooms,” he offered.
His mobile rang. He clocked the number and swore. It was his soon-to-be ex-wife. “I have to take this,” he said. When he picked up, she began a tirade of familiar complaints. Mycroft could hear her voice, both angry and mocking, from several feet away. He turned his back and ventured into the kitchen.
“I take it that dinner is permanently off. Right then. Listen, next time - just call my lawyer and spare me,” Lestrade said with aggravation as he rang off.
Mycroft reappeared, standing rather stiffly, bearing two coffees. Lestrade’s was strong, cream, one sugar. Precisely the way he liked it. He idly wondered whether this was a lucky guess on Mycroft’s part.
They sat on opposite sofas and looked out over Hyde Park at the carefree people walking there. The view was mesmerizing. After an awkward silence, Lestrade said, “I guess you heard that.”
Mycroft tried to look as though he hadn’t, and Lestrade might almost have believed him - except that he knew precisely how far his wife’s voice carried. Particularly when she was angry. And so, he gave Mycroft a skeptical look and Mycroft nodded.
“I’m - ah, terribly sorry,” Mycroft mumbled awkwardly, meeting his gaze and then immediately scrutinizing his coffee cup, which evidently had become rather fascinating. Lestrade was amazed. He had never experienced a show of sympathy from either Holmes brother. But Mycroft gave every appearance of being sincere. He momentarily bristled. Now he was feeling a little foolish.
“It’s nothing. It’s been coming. I tell you, though. I’m done with women,” he said with a great deal more bravado than he really felt. But in that moment, he meant it.
Mycroft didn’t say anything for a moment. “Quite,” he finally said, neutrally.
Lestrade chose not to interpret this in any particular manner. Although he was fairly certain - as certain as he could be about anything to do with the secretive Mycroft Holmes - that Mycroft himself was also finished with women - if he had ever, in fact, started.
The sipped their coffees quietly.
“Is this . . . ah - your undercover look?” Mycroft was regarded him with what might be curiousity as he gestured with a long, elegant hand toward Lestrade’s attire. He had almost forgotten that he wasn’t in his usual Yard suit and tie: long black leather coat, a few days’ worth of artful stubble and slicked back hair that was slowly rebelling. “You look -“
“--I know I’m a right mess. I need to get cleaned up. It’s been a long couple of days.” He rubbed his chin. It scratched.
Mycroft looked at him, almost speculatively. Lestrade looked right back. Mycroft broke away first. Whatever he was going to observe about Lestrade’s disreputable appearance he had apparently thought the better of.
His mobile rang again. “What? Wait there, right?" He looked up at Mycroft. “Someone’s shot Sebastian Moran. He’s dead.”
Mycroft was already heading for the door. “Where’s John?” Lestrade asked. Mycroft paused in his tracks. He seemed to be trying to formulate a response. “Bloody hell, Mycroft, where is John?” Lestrade was already certain he knew what had happened.
“Greg. I am going to state that I have no information, nor any ability to obtain any information, as to the whereabouts of John Watson. And I would respectfully advise you not to seek any.” Mycroft’s face was very composed. No one would ever suspect him of lying. No one except Lestrade, who knew better.
Lestrade nodded. It was going down like this. He could either turn a blind eye and let it go, or open a case against John Watson. Under the circumstances, knowing what Lestrade himself knew, any competent cop would consider John the prime suspect. Lestrade took a deep breath.
“Mycroft, if you tell me there is no information to be had, I’ll not second guess you. Looks like homicide division’ll be having themselves an unsolved. Man was bound to have plenty of enemies. Gambling cheat and all that. Rather awkward, though.”
“And why is that?”
“That rooftop. It’s right across from Kitty Reilly’s flat.”
“Ah,” Mycroft said. “May I give you a lift to the scene? Possibly there are aspects of this case that deserve further attention.”
Even though the circumstances were of the grimmest and they were both exhausted, they found themselves exchanging slight, weary smiles.
“Lead the way,” Lestrade said.
* * *
John folded his arms. This was ordinarily a warning sign that Sherlock had transgressed a moral boundary that John deemed important. Sherlock didn’t need this warning sign in this particular instance. He took a deep breath.
“John - “ he ventured bravely.
“Just tell me - were you ever coming back?” John interrupted, his voice tight. It cracked a little.
This was confusing, because he had expected John to begin his condemnation with a review of his elaborately staged suicide. But it was very obvious - as he had immediately deduced on the train - that whatever John’s true feelings were at this moment, they did not include being shocked. If ‘shocked’ was even the proper word - and Sherlock knew very well that it wasn’t but didn’t know a word that was strong enough - to see Sherlock alive on a train in Dublin.
But if he started with “No” . . . what would that mean?
He took another deep breath. There had been many lies. Sherlock knew that whatever happened, if this was the last time he ever spoke to John, he didn’t want to waste words, which were wasteful enough, on more lies.
“No,” he whispered. The word hung in the air between them. The enormity of it for so simple a word. Sherlock watched John absorb it, and even though he perceived that John had expected this answer, he saw that it caused him great pain. Might as well get it all out, get it over with. “I wasn’t. Ever coming back.”
John nodded, deceptively calm. “I always knew. That I would lose you. It was - - we were - too good to be true. I knew you’d get bored. With me. But I never dreamed I could lose you like . . . that. Nothing says goodbye quite like staging your own suicide.” His voice felt like drops of acid. “So you could start your new life. Leave all the boring, ordinary wreckage you made in London behind.”
“No - John, you have to believe me - Moriarty -“ He swallowed. Moriarty on the rooftop. Gunmen that would kill John, kill others he cared for - Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. Unless he jumped. “Moriarty was going to kill you, John. I had to do it.”
He stared at John. This had been the tiny flame that kept hope alive in that unexplored region which John had invaded. Because if John could be made to understand that everything had been about protecting him, perhaps they could find a way through this. But Sherlock didn’t know the way. John would have to lead the way.
But John was shaking his head, unmoved. His arms crossed even tighter.
“I know about the gunman. Sherlock. That day. It was Sebastian Moran. Moriarty ordered him to shoot me. If you didn’t jump,” he said slowly. “So yes, I understand, Sherlock, that Moriarty . . . . pushed you over the edge. You know. But the thing is - the thing is, you prepared. You had a plan. It was part of the game. And you kept me in the dark. You - “ He broke down now. He covered his eyes with one hand and a single wracked sob escaped from his chest. “You let me watch you fall,” he choked the words out over tears that he wouldn’t let come. “You let me - touch your body. In the street. You let me - bury you.”
“ - John, no,” he stammered even though it was true, every bit of it. “Not, not like that. I want to explain.”
Sherlock thought then that John might listen because he was dashing away what probably were tears, now, and he was quiet. Too quiet. But then John uncrossed his arms and his hands started moving in harsh gestures, trying to express the inexpressible. “You want - Sherlock. I find you here, a new life, and you - you said O’Neill’s ‘being watched.’ So you have - what - some sort, new - companion - too. My replacement,” he said sarcastically. “I’ve had to become a lot more observant. A great deal better at the Science of Deduction. Since you died.”
Now Sherlock felt something rising in his own chest. Moriarty took everything from him. And was still taking. John wasn’t going to listen. A red haze rose up and balled in his throat and blurred his vision.
“I did it for you. John. You think I wanted - this?” He gestured to his worn coat and shabby backpacker attire, his hair. To the space between the two of them. “I had to disappear - I had to get away from you, away from London. I had to hide. For a long time. I had to give up everything, John. It’s what I had to do.”
John was shaking now with actual rage, something that Sherlock had seldom seen. Mostly when John was angry he became quiet and still. This was different. He gripped Sherlock by the arm and although it felt dangerous, he absorbed it and tried to get to the other side of it. John would not hurt him. He trusted John. Still. He left his arm where it was and John didn’t let go.
“You should have told me. I would have done - anything - for you. Moriarty's game was more important. More important than - than us. You didn't want me to die - but you didn't think I was worth staying for. You didn’t think I was worth taking with you. No, only you, and Mycroft, and Moriarty are the - privileged ones. Your own private game. Ordinary, boring people need not apply,” John was breathless with his anger and it was like an animate thing that Sherlock devoutly wished would just swallow them both up, so he wouldn’t have to see it anymore.
“John - God, I’m aware that I'm - terrible - at this, I can't make you understand if you can't see that I didn't have a choice.”
“You DID have a choice. Sherlock. You chose. You could have chosen me. I'd lay down my life for you. You should know it.”
“I do know it. It’s why I couldn’t tell you. I can't have you . . .be dead. John, John, listen to me don’t you see - I was protecting you.”
“No, Sherlock. No - you don’t protect me. I. Protect. You. I’ve always protected you. I’ve killed for you. I’ll do it again. And I’m never going to stop until it’s over. I. Protect. You,” John was shouting now, and he was shaking Sherlock’s arm, pushing him back.
Sherlock couldn’t bear the claustrophobic feeling of emotion flowing through John’s fingers. Even through the protective layer of his coat, it was too much, too intense. He pulled back from John’s grasp and John let him, his shoulders slumping, and the cloud of anger vanished. He dropped to his knees before Sherlock, seated on the edge of the tiny bed. They stared at each other for a long minute, John still trembling with - the other emotion that Sherlock didn’t let himself identify. The one that he felt, too. So close together it was impossible to not see it, not to feel it. He bit his lips.
“You’ll never forgive me, John,” he said.
“No, I won’t,” John said, stern, implacable. “I’ll never forgive you. Never.”
Sherlock hung his head. “I knew that,” he said. “What - what happens now?” He felt unmoored, a battered ship going down in a storm, no hope of rescue.
“I won’t go back,” John said, “to the way things were.”
Of course not. He had betrayed John’s trust, even with intentions that had been . . . he had thought they had been good. He had been trying to do good. To be good. To be on the side of the angels, even if he wasn’t one. John had taught him that. Now even this felt as if it had been a trap laid especially for him by Jim Moriarty. He could hear Moriarty mocking him, this very moment. He closed his eyes to block it out.
“The way things were,” Sherlock said. The way things were - 221b, solving crimes, tearing through London streets, John making him feel amazing every time he told him he was amazing. Brilliant. And the quiet times where, if he held his breath and slowed his racing thoughts he could sense something else with them, between them, surrounding them. It surrounded them now.
“I swore that when I found you - I would tell you,” John said, very serious. Here was Sherlock’s sentence, about to be pronounced. “Sherlock - you see everything. You observe - everything. So I know that you know. What I feel.”
Sherlock leaned in closer to John. “Yes. John,” he said. “I know.” And he did. Time to stop this wilful blindness. To look at himself, look at John. And see the truth. “But . . . I think you should tell me.”
John was close enough that Sherlock could see the flush climb his neck and over his face, and he thought it was beautiful. He watched the play of emotion over John’s face, no longer dark and closed but rumpled and warm and determined and brilliant and true.
“Sherlock - Sherlock, I want -“ he took Sherlock’s hand again, and Sherlock was proud that there was no flinch, even though it felt hot and perilous. “I’m in love with you. I always have been,” he said, firm and steady. “But I can’t go back. To what we were - before. Not after - It was killing me inside. Because I know you never. . . ” He didn’t have the will to say the rest.
Sherlock looked down at their clasped hands. Love. He had always thought it a dangerous disadvantage. A chemical defect of the losing side. But it didn’t feel like that now. It seemed he had been wrong, after all. Insufficient data.
Which, of course, should have been obvious.
John was right. There was no going back. And this was another way, he realized, that Moriarty’s game had given him an unexpected and necessary gift.
After the fall, there was no going back.
(I imagine John Watson thinks love is a mystery to me - but the chemistry is incredibly simple, and very destructive.)
Sherlock slowly pulled John’s hand in his up to his cheek, where John had tried to touch him before. He closed his eyes and let the electricity crackle, flame burn. He had been wrong again.
The chemistry wasn’t simple at all.
Every elemental atom that comprised his body was rearranging, dancing, glowing, shimmering.
If this was destruction, he would let it take him apart.
“I don’t want to go back, either.” he heard himself saying.
* * *
By the time that Lestrade and Mycroft arrived at Kitty Reilly’s Islington flat, it was already surrounded by media trucks, bright spotlights, cameramen and clamouring journalists. Lestrade could see Reilly’s red hair in a cluster of microphones. She was holding a press conference on her own doorstep even as the doors closed on the van bearing away Moran’s body.
“I received a tip from a confidential source that Guy Ransome - his real name is Sebastian Moran - was a former Army sniper. He was under orders to assassinate me,” she announced. Lestrade had thought that the dramatic term, “assassinate,” was properly reserved for royalty and heads of state, but Kitty Reilly had never been to particular in her use of language.
“Why didn’t you contact the police for protection?” Shouted a reporter.
“My source warned me that I was being closely spied upon and that I could trust no one, not even the police, at risk of to my life.”
“Do you know why Moran was ordered to kill you?”
“Yes. Because I was about to publish the truth-- about Richard Brook. Moran was a hired killer - and I can reveal here, for the first time, that I have proof that Richard Brook was not, after all, who he claimed to be. Sherlock Holmes was telling the truth.”
There was a roar of shock at this, then a clamour of confused shouted questions.
“ Yes - I admit that now. I will be publishing my book in which I reveal how Richard Brook deceived everyone, even me. Richard Brook really is James Moriarty, chief of an underground organization of criminals. And a murderer. Moriarty ordered Moran to kill me. And it would have happened - if not for my informant. He saved my life.”
“Who is your informant?? Who killed Moran?”
“I won’t say. I protect my sources.”
But a Scotland Yard homicide detective - Lestrade recognized him as an adversary, with a pang - was trying to herd Reilly away from her audience. “You’ll tell us, Miss Reilly. You can hold your press conference later. The police have a few questions for you.”
“On one condition - I’ll only talk to Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Otherwise, see my lawyer, I won’t say another word.”
Mycroft and Lestrade exchanged knowing glances. They knew who had told Reilly to confide only in Lestrade. Mycroft gently propelled Lestrade forward and melted discreetly back into the crowd. Reilly waved to the sea of jealous colleagues, each wishing, they could be in her shoes, many of them probably suspecting she had stage managed the whole episode to boost her book. She allowed herself to be guided by Lestrade into a waiting police car, the homicide detective diving in with them.
“Lestrade - you’re in Vice - this isn’t your case,” he blustered. Now Lestrade recognized him, DI Hendricks, a recent hire from the Manchester force. He was eager to make an impression, and had been one of Lestrade’s loudest critics in the aftermath of Sherlock’s suicide.
“I think we can let Miss Reilly decide, under the circumstances, who she wants to talk to. Anyway, I’ve been following Moran - a gambling scheme. I took out a search warrant on his flat just yesterday. I think I may have a few ideas who would have been motivated to kill him.”
“You let Moran get away in that debacle at Crockford’s. You should have collared him then - this poor woman could have been killed. Next stop’s Traffic for you, mate,” he sneered.
Lestrade leaned back easily. To give himself room to wind it up if he decided to clock this bugger.
Kitty Reilly’s eyes were sparkling with the intoxicating thrill of being at the very center of one of the biggest crime stories of the decade, maybe ever.
She put a confiding hand on Lestrade’s arm. “Detective Inspector Lestrade,” she said archly, “I believe you and I are about to become great friends. I’ve got a lot to tell you- but I get inside access to your investigation.”
Going over his Superintendent’s head here was probably going to be the fatal nail in the coffin of his sinking career. “Miss Reilly,” he said, “Anything you need, you’ll get from me. But tell me - your informant - the one that you say shot Moran - you’re sure he escaped? Did Moran harm him?”
“He got away. So far as I could see, he was unharmed. Moran never saw it coming. Now, not another word until you and I are alone, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”
Hendricks and Lestrade exchanged a cool stare that promised that the hostilities were definitely just beginning as they pulled into the car park at New Scotland Yard.
* * *
It wasn't until early the next morning that Lestrade, never having gone home at all, remembered he still needed to effect his warrant and search Moran's flat at One Hyde Park. He was surprised to find Mycroft had returned here. He was vaguely aware that Mycroft Holmes had a rather grand townhouse in Belgravia.
"It doesn't much matter whether I go home or not," Mycroft said, mysteriously, seeing Lestrade's surprise.“Before you start, let me give you what I gave - to John." He held out his hand and proffered a flash drive. Lestrade took it and noticed now what he should have noticed before. His detective skills must be slipping.
“You met John here. Before. He’s gone for good, now. First Moran. Next'll be Moriarty.”
Mycroft’s jaw clenched and he took a deep breath. “You are correct.”
Lestrade was suddenly furious. The insinuations of DI Philips, his accelerated downfall at the Yard, relentless guilt over the death of Sherlock Holmes, deep fear for John Watson, his own exhaustion, all came crashing in on him.
“Why the hell didn’t you stop him! I know you can, you can do any bloody thing you’ve a mind to.” He was almost nose to nose with Mycroft, but Mycroft didn’t back down.
“You’re right. I could stop him. But it's only a matter of time, you see. I’m not willing to lock him up, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Believe me, I considered it.”
“He’s going to get himself killed! How are you going to live with that?”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth he regretted it. Mycroft’s steely composure barely slipped, but it was enough. “I don’t intend,” Mycroft said with great dignity, “for that to happen. I can't let that happen."
And Lestrade’s anger evaporated. They stood there, unsure what to do, what to say. Lestrade realized he had stumbled upon a secret that Mycroft had concealed for possibly as long as they had known John. And he thought also that Mycroft had to be astute enough to see what everyone could see. That nothing at all could ever come between John Watson and the memory of Sherlock Holmes.
“Look, Mycroft, I’m sorry,” Greg said, more gently. “That was out of line.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, Greg. I’m . . . fine,” Mycroft said in a way that made Greg certain that Mycroft knew exactly what he was thinking. How he did that was a mystery.
“Well, we’re not just going to let it happen. Are we? You do have a plan?” Then he realized that, of course, if Mycroft Holmes had a plan, probably the last person he would share it with was Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, recently demoted to the Vice Unit of Scotland Yard.
“As it happens, I do have a plan,” Mycroft said. “And the first part of the plan is to be absolutely certain that we’ve gotten everything that Moran may have left for us to find here.”
They worked together methodically and in silence. There wasn't a great deal more to be found. Mycroft thought he detected evidence that someone had hacked Moran's email. The entire system would be analyzed by his tech minions. Finally they were finished.
Mycroft was taking off his jacket, his waistcoat - Mycroft was the only man Lestrade knew that wore one, and he had to admit it suited him - rolling up his shirtsleeves. Lestrade realized he had never actually seen Mycroft out of the formality of his suit. His armor. Mycroft carefully took off his tie and unbuttoned his crisp shirt. He rubbed his face a little, obviously weary himself. Then he turned his head this way and that, apparently to stretch his neck, stiff maybe from . . . .Greg caught himself actually staring at Mycroft’s long, slender throat. He swallowed. Hard. Because something about that pale, exposed neck was inducing in him a warm but completely unexpected sensation.
In a moment there wasn’t going to be any hiding it, either.
Confused, he turned away, pretended to examine a piece of artwork while he tried to process his flood of feeling.
“Looks like you need some rest yourself,” he found himself saying when he was under control. “When did you last get some sleep?”
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” Mycroft said shortly.
“What did you say?” Lestrade flashed back to his days at uni. His best mate always used to say that during long nights, never wanting to stop the party. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead, come on,” he’d say. Colin.
“I didn’t mean anything by it. It is just a figure of speech.” Mycroft was studying him again. “Does it offend you?”
“It’s not that.” This was getting worse and worse. Why he was actually saying these things to Mycroft Holmes - aristocratic, haughty, secretive, and unreadable, he could not fathom. He put it down to long nights working alone at the Yard, and the fact that it had been a very long time since he had actually talked to any other human being about anything to do with his own life. His own feelings. And so, he let it out. “I had a . . . friend at uni. He - Colin - always used to say that.” He was actually flushing now under Mycroft’s speculative gaze.
“I see,” Mycroft said slowly. Lestrade wondered if he did see, and felt unaccountably exposed. He turned away and changed the subject.
“So. You have a plan, then?”
“As it happens, I do have a plan,” Mycroft said. "What do you know about gambling in other countries? For example, in Macau?"
* * *
John leaned into him, pulled Sherlock into his arms. He held him close for a long time, a few silent tears dampening the collar of Sherlock’s unfamiliar coat. He pressed the side of his face against Sherlock’s throat, where he could feel his pulse pounding. Elevated. Irresistible. He couldn’t help letting his lips brush gently against that very spot, his own pulse racing to catch up. This was such a transgression that he held himself back from pressing in harder, turning it into a kiss. Into more. And so, was prepared for the completely expected flinch as Sherlock shrank just slightly from his touch.
John immediately released Sherlock, feeling sick. It was true. Sherlock had never wanted this, had made that perfectly clear from the day they met. Nothing about the fall was going to change that. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I won’t -“
“No,” Sherlock said, “It isn’t you.” In fact, he was processing the feedback from his hypersensitive nerves, perceiving that in this instance, his reaction was habit, instinct. John’s arms around him felt strong and safe after his long exile. John’s mouth on his throat felt hot and dangerous, and completely different than anything he had felt up until this moment. It was like finding that he possessed a previously unknown sense, or perhaps it was just that his senses were becoming overwhelmed all at once.
As a child when the flood of perception, observation, endless details, sights and sounds, it all became Too Much, overload happened. Then, he sought the dark places in the house where it was quiet. Always, human touch was overwhelming, unpleasant, threatening. Dark rooms didn’t help for that; for that there were clothes and coats, gloves; keeping people at a careful distance. People generally wanted to keep their distance from him anyway. Sociopath. Freak.
“John, it’s not you - it’s never been you. I’ve always been like - this,” he said, fast before he lost the courage to spill it out in the face of John’s crushed expression. “It’s a . . . condition of the nervous system. I have been trying to. . . overcome it.”
John’s face transformed into a concentrated frown, then disintegrated into mixed pity and shame.
“God, Sherlock. I’m a doctor. I should have seen the signs. I’m so sorry - you don’t have to -“ John made a confused motion as his he wrestled with his impulse to hold Sherlock and the need to draw away, out of Sherlock’s personal space.
“John - “ How to explain? He had only very recently begun to accept that even at his age, his condition could change. He paused. This, he knew, was not the time or place to enter into the difficult and interesting topic that was Irene Adler.
Who also was Not Dead, after all.
Keeping this to himself a little while longer wasn’t exactly a lie. “John, I can’t go on like before, either. I want this,” he said, and he knew it was true. For that, he supposed he had to thank Irene. “I can show you,” he said, and he hoped he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. To think that he might have gone his whole life without this. Touching him. “Show you how. To touch me.”
John’s face radiated purpose, desire. Love. It always had, really. He had been a very great fool.
“Do you mean - there’s a way you like to be touched? And ways that you don’t?”
Sherlock nodded. “I think that if it is you, John, the latter is likely to diminish.” He flashed a rare smile, because he could trust John, and John was a doctor as well as a soldier. He was brave and he knew how to heal. “Shall we find out?”
He reached out and pulled John back into his arms, and thrust his fingers into John’s dark hair, which prickled his fingertips, and which he wanted to explore. It was dark and different and he was angry then that the first time he was able to touch John like this, his tempting russet-gold hair was masked, disguised, because they were both caught up in the game. He closed his eyes and guided John’s mouth back to his throat. John delicately brushed his lips against the skin there, pale and delicate over the veins, and he shivered. John paused and Sherlock could feel the warmth of his breath there. John had never been so close. No one had. The warmth of it filled him up after so much cold. How to explain? The light touch made him shiver and his skin prickled and fairly crawled with the buzzing of his nerves. This was familiar, this is what touching always felt like but because it was John, it was not entirely unpleasant. But there was something that John could do that would make it feel much, much better. He held himself still against the electric protestation of his twitching nerves.
“It is easier for me,” he whispered, “if you touch me . . .harder.”
“You’re sure?” John’s voice was dark with suppressed emotion, that Sherlock observed and catalogued and decided if it was the last thing he did, he would set it free.
“Yes. Harder.”
“Oh, God,” John gasped, and pressed harder, and when Sherlock murmured “yes, more, like that,” to let him know that it was fine, he pressed in harder still, and everything became infinitely better. His nerves still crackled and sang-- but the last thing he wanted now was to pull away. He tried to stop his hyperactive brain from cataloguing the feel of John’s strong arms around him, the feel of John’s body, taut, more sinewy than he had been, the feel of his warm skin against his neck, his lips pressing not gently, a hard burning kiss, his hair, the scent of him, a deep warm scent that he had never worn before - was it part of his disguise?- John was supposed to smell like he did in 221b - like clean soap and wool and tea and antiseptic from the clinic. This was strange, unexpected, musky, complex and deep. He drank it in, deliberately not closing himself off, no shielding, no flinching, and everything all at once was too much - touch and sight and smell and even the sound of John trying to stifle a moan against his neck - and it was this last assault on his senses, that sent him over the edge. Before he knew what was happening he had pushed John away, pulled him onto the bed, and was sitting with John pinned under him. John stared up at him, his breath coming in harsh pants now that he tried to slow.
“Oh my God, are you - are you all right? I’ll stop,” John said, and Sherlock observed - even here, now, always observing - that the tone of his voice, deeper, rougher, was an infallible sign that the last thing John wanted to do in this moment was stop. “We should stop,” John gasped.
“I want to try to kiss you,” Sherlock announced decisively.
As if he had the slightest idea how to do that.
To be continued . . .
(Wow, it's been twelve chapters! So much left to tell. Some commenty love from readers is so appreciated at this point in the proceedings from your devoted author. Thanks always to my faithful readers and commenters. Sherlock fandom is the best.)
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Chapter Eleven: Angels Fall: ( Read more... ) next: Chapter Thirteen: Proximate Pyrotechnics ( Read more... )