All the King's Men (5/5)
Title: All the King’s Men (5/5)
Author: hope_tang
Rating: PG-15
Spoiler Warning: The Reichenbach Fall
[Part V Warnings (will contain spoilers; click to open)]
Part V Warnings: on-screen violence/attempted murder of a major character; extremely vague threats of torture (not from Sean, surprisingly); potential harm done to author by her readers…
Summary: All Sergeant Sean Pritchard wanted was the chance to complete his assignment: kill Inspector Greg Lestrade. Lady Luck (and Scotland Yard) had other ideas…
Disclaimer: Other than being a fan, I have nothing to do with Sherlock. I’m not even British…
Betas: I would be utterly lost without my awesome beta team: powdered_opium, and bluewillowtree.
Author’s Note: Please see Part I for General Warnings.
Part I: This is an idiotic plan.
Part II: In the Boss’ organization, knowledge is power and wealth, but it comes with a price.
Part III: With all the little revolts, Sean would be far more useful moving from country to country, enforcing the Boss’ rule, than he is stuck at a desk with paperwork and ‘colleagues,’ pretending to be a bloody copper.
Part IV: After all those years of working with her, staying under the radar, it’s laughingly easy to kill Sally Donovan.
~
“Boss? I think I found something you need to see.”
Sean knows the two of them are alone in the abandoned tenement. Beckett and Preston left long ago to contact the stiff’s next-of-kin and the SOCO techs have disappeared from the scene. He’s done a quick walk of the perimeter. Besides the steady rainfall and a flock of pigeons, there is not a soul in sight. Not that Lestrade has noticed. After all, he trusts his new second-in-command to watch his back. The exhausted detective inspector looks up from his phone.
A skirmish between rival smuggling rings in their borough has escalated into a turf war. With the bodies falling at all hours and all over the place, the CID’s limited resources are strained. Each senior DS is running a separate investigation to keep up with the surge in cases, with the junior staff all promoted to support positions beyond their usual duties. Then, there’s the dark cloud that hangs over the Yard: the mystery of Donovan’s attacker.
It’s been a week since Sean tried to kill Donovan-the key word being ‘tried’. Thanks to those drunken tourists, he didn’t manage to slit her throat. He nicked her jugular instead, and slashed her forearm to the bone. Still, he might succeed. The harpy hasn’t woken up yet; sepsis infection and blood loss have kept her out and silent. The longer she is in critical care, the more likely she’ll kick the bucket, but Lady Luck has been a bitch lately. Sean is done with playing the odds. He’s taking his chance as soon as he sees it.
Like right now.
“What is it?” the older man asks, slipping his mobile into his trench coat. Sean gestures behind him, towards the stairs.
“I’m not sure,” he replies, injecting uncertainty into his voice. “I know the techs went through-”
“Yeah, yeah,” interrupts Lestrade brusquely before he catches himself with a sigh. “Yeah. Right. Sorry.” He scrubs his face with his hands and then looks at Sean apologetically. “Lead on.”
With a faux nervous nod, Sean turns around and heads for the stairs. Lestrade follows without hesitation. It gets a bit tricky on the rickety steps, but they make it into the dimly lit basement. Turning on his torch, Sean focuses the light to a cluttered area of the space. He leads Lestrade to stand right underneath a grimy window that lets in some of the murky outside light.
“What am I looking for here?”
“Here, stand where I am, Boss. You’ll see it.” Pointing randomly at the ground, Sean steps back and slips his right hand into his pocket. His fingers curl around his switchblade. Lestrade moves into place and bends down a bit to inspect the pile of debris. Finally, after two years at this bloody fucking job, playing copper and pushing paperwork, Sean can finally do his real work. He drops his torch and moves.
Lestrade gasps breathlessly as the knife goes in his back-once, twice with a twist near the spine. His knees buckle. His hand scrambles for his baton, his mobile, anything.
Sean is younger, faster. The baton clatters to the ground, useless. He slams his knee between the older man’s legs. Lestrade grunts and tries to turn around. His phone begins to ring.
“Oh no, you don’t,” says Sean with a low chuckle. He reaches around. The knife plunges in low and then high-the gut and the lungs, messy and painful enough without having to deal with the blood spray. Lestrade convulses in Sean’s chokehold. He lets his target fall to his knees, still struggling to fight. He adjusts his grip and rests his blade against Lestrade’s fluttering pulse.
“By the way,” Sean leans down and delivers a message from the grave in the dying man’s ear, “Moriarty says Hi.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
The slick-snick slide of metal on metal is Sean’s only warning of company before Kapur charges him. Why he didn’t hear the man come down the stairs, he has no clue. That doesn’t matter. He doesn’t leave witnesses behind.
Sean shoves Lestrade down and away. He turns to face the new target with bared teeth. He sidesteps Kapur’s baton, countering it with a jab at the man’s unprotected stomach. His knife skids across a stab vest. Well, fucking shit. He ducks a left hook to the jaw and rugby tackles the other DS. A window shatters above them.
A steel grip on his ankle sends him to the ground. He kicks out, foot connecting with bone. Kapur’s baton slams into his face, momentarily stunning him. Sean brings up his switchblade to slash at the other man’s femoral artery.
Hands grab and forcibly wrench his wrist, forcing him to drop the weapon. It falls to the ground. Someone puts a knee in the small of his back. His former colleague twists out of his reach and runs towards Lestrade’s motionless body. Someone else nearly dislocates his other shoulder. What the bloody fuck? is the only thought he has before he hears the distinctive click of a gun safety and feels the push of a gun barrel at the nape of his neck. Sean is forced to stay face down in the dirt as he is handcuffed. Around him, the basement explodes into organised chaos.
“I need paramedics at my location now!” He notes it’s the first time he has ever heard Kapur panic. “You hang in there, Boss. We’re going to get you to the hospital. Just keep on breathing.”
“Sergeant Kapur, an ambulance is already on its way,” a calmer voice replies. “Let me take a look here. I’m the team medic. You can trust me.”
“It’s going to be okay. Just keep on breathing for me. Come on, come on.” Kapur keeps up a steady stream of trite assurances and outright begging, barely pausing for breath himself. Sean hears a muttered curse and then a snarled, “You fucking bastard.”
He assumes that the last phrase is directed at him as he is yanked roughly to his feet. Before someone throws a black hood over his head, Sean sees the distinctive outfits of his captors. MI-5 and 6. The Iceman?
Completely blind, he is half-carried, half-dragged up the staircase and out of the building. He doesn’t make it easy for the officers, but he holds back in his struggles. It’s all about the right moment. The rain on his shoulders tells him they’re outside. He hears the snick of van doors opening and makes his move. He shoves his entire weight into one man’s ribs, throwing the other off balance. His captors let go. Before he can bolt, an unexpected hand between his shoulder blades shoves him forward. He falls into the van face-first.
Immediately, someone straddles him, crushing the air out of his lungs. Rope digs deeply into his neck. His shirt is rucked up and his trousers undone. The world fades into darkness with the jab of a syringe.
~
Sean wakes up in an empty warehouse, hands and legs cuffed to a sturdy chair. He has been stripped and redressed in paper-thin scrubs. He prods the inside of his mouth with his tongue. He doesn’t have a cyanide pill hidden in his teeth or anything, but he can’t tell if the horrible taste in his mouth is from the drugs or someone poking around. He tests his restraints for any give. None.
It’s not exactly shoddy work, but it’s a bit…unusual for the Secret Service, even in this day and age. He was expecting something significantly more…secure when he woke up, not this. He looks around, and as far as he can tell, he is alone. Where are the guards? Or the cameras? Sean squints up at the rafters, wondering if he would be able to spot the devices.
A door opens and closes directly behind him, the sound echoing through the room. His interrogator stays firmly in Sean’s blind spot as he approaches. The young man isn’t fazed by the manoeuvre. It’s a power game, and if there’s a skill Sean has learned in the Boss’ employ, it’s about how to survive power games. He listens carefully to the unhurried stride. The other man is confident, focused. The footsteps stop.
He waits.
Sean isn’t sure how much time has passed before his visitor speaks in a low baritone.
“Hello, Mr Pritchard.”
The man’s drawl sounds similar to the Boss on a good day, when he is charming and witty, luring in the unwary before the fatal blow. It’s not the accent itself, which is incredibly bland, but the smoothness, the…posh arrogance of someone who is used to being the smartest man in the room. There is a clatter of a tray being set down. Sean bites back a laugh. If torture is what his interrogator has in mind, he is going to be sorely disappointed.
“I would say it’s a pleasure to meet you,” the voice continues, walking in the shadows to Sean’s right, “but I’ve been told that lying is a bit Not Good.”
With a dramatic flourish, the man steps into the fading daylight. Sean clenches his jaw as he stares at a dead man who looks remarkably alive and well for having killed himself two years ago.
“Ah.” A look of pleasure flashes in the other man’s eyes, like a hungry cat spotting a mouse. Suddenly, Sean wishes he did have a cyanide pill. He’s read the reports; he’s heard the gossip. “You know who I am.”
Sherlock Holmes’ fleeting smirk is sharp and predatory.
“I believe you have some information for me.”
~
Epilogue
Author: hope_tang
Rating: PG-15
Spoiler Warning: The Reichenbach Fall
[Part V Warnings (will contain spoilers; click to open)]
Part V Warnings: on-screen violence/attempted murder of a major character; extremely vague threats of torture (not from Sean, surprisingly); potential harm done to author by her readers…
Summary: All Sergeant Sean Pritchard wanted was the chance to complete his assignment: kill Inspector Greg Lestrade. Lady Luck (and Scotland Yard) had other ideas…
Disclaimer: Other than being a fan, I have nothing to do with Sherlock. I’m not even British…
Betas: I would be utterly lost without my awesome beta team: powdered_opium, and bluewillowtree.
Author’s Note: Please see Part I for General Warnings.
Part I: This is an idiotic plan.
Part II: In the Boss’ organization, knowledge is power and wealth, but it comes with a price.
Part III: With all the little revolts, Sean would be far more useful moving from country to country, enforcing the Boss’ rule, than he is stuck at a desk with paperwork and ‘colleagues,’ pretending to be a bloody copper.
Part IV: After all those years of working with her, staying under the radar, it’s laughingly easy to kill Sally Donovan.
~
“Boss? I think I found something you need to see.”
Sean knows the two of them are alone in the abandoned tenement. Beckett and Preston left long ago to contact the stiff’s next-of-kin and the SOCO techs have disappeared from the scene. He’s done a quick walk of the perimeter. Besides the steady rainfall and a flock of pigeons, there is not a soul in sight. Not that Lestrade has noticed. After all, he trusts his new second-in-command to watch his back. The exhausted detective inspector looks up from his phone.
A skirmish between rival smuggling rings in their borough has escalated into a turf war. With the bodies falling at all hours and all over the place, the CID’s limited resources are strained. Each senior DS is running a separate investigation to keep up with the surge in cases, with the junior staff all promoted to support positions beyond their usual duties. Then, there’s the dark cloud that hangs over the Yard: the mystery of Donovan’s attacker.
It’s been a week since Sean tried to kill Donovan-the key word being ‘tried’. Thanks to those drunken tourists, he didn’t manage to slit her throat. He nicked her jugular instead, and slashed her forearm to the bone. Still, he might succeed. The harpy hasn’t woken up yet; sepsis infection and blood loss have kept her out and silent. The longer she is in critical care, the more likely she’ll kick the bucket, but Lady Luck has been a bitch lately. Sean is done with playing the odds. He’s taking his chance as soon as he sees it.
Like right now.
“What is it?” the older man asks, slipping his mobile into his trench coat. Sean gestures behind him, towards the stairs.
“I’m not sure,” he replies, injecting uncertainty into his voice. “I know the techs went through-”
“Yeah, yeah,” interrupts Lestrade brusquely before he catches himself with a sigh. “Yeah. Right. Sorry.” He scrubs his face with his hands and then looks at Sean apologetically. “Lead on.”
With a faux nervous nod, Sean turns around and heads for the stairs. Lestrade follows without hesitation. It gets a bit tricky on the rickety steps, but they make it into the dimly lit basement. Turning on his torch, Sean focuses the light to a cluttered area of the space. He leads Lestrade to stand right underneath a grimy window that lets in some of the murky outside light.
“What am I looking for here?”
“Here, stand where I am, Boss. You’ll see it.” Pointing randomly at the ground, Sean steps back and slips his right hand into his pocket. His fingers curl around his switchblade. Lestrade moves into place and bends down a bit to inspect the pile of debris. Finally, after two years at this bloody fucking job, playing copper and pushing paperwork, Sean can finally do his real work. He drops his torch and moves.
Lestrade gasps breathlessly as the knife goes in his back-once, twice with a twist near the spine. His knees buckle. His hand scrambles for his baton, his mobile, anything.
Sean is younger, faster. The baton clatters to the ground, useless. He slams his knee between the older man’s legs. Lestrade grunts and tries to turn around. His phone begins to ring.
“Oh no, you don’t,” says Sean with a low chuckle. He reaches around. The knife plunges in low and then high-the gut and the lungs, messy and painful enough without having to deal with the blood spray. Lestrade convulses in Sean’s chokehold. He lets his target fall to his knees, still struggling to fight. He adjusts his grip and rests his blade against Lestrade’s fluttering pulse.
“By the way,” Sean leans down and delivers a message from the grave in the dying man’s ear, “Moriarty says Hi.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
The slick-snick slide of metal on metal is Sean’s only warning of company before Kapur charges him. Why he didn’t hear the man come down the stairs, he has no clue. That doesn’t matter. He doesn’t leave witnesses behind.
Sean shoves Lestrade down and away. He turns to face the new target with bared teeth. He sidesteps Kapur’s baton, countering it with a jab at the man’s unprotected stomach. His knife skids across a stab vest. Well, fucking shit. He ducks a left hook to the jaw and rugby tackles the other DS. A window shatters above them.
A steel grip on his ankle sends him to the ground. He kicks out, foot connecting with bone. Kapur’s baton slams into his face, momentarily stunning him. Sean brings up his switchblade to slash at the other man’s femoral artery.
Hands grab and forcibly wrench his wrist, forcing him to drop the weapon. It falls to the ground. Someone puts a knee in the small of his back. His former colleague twists out of his reach and runs towards Lestrade’s motionless body. Someone else nearly dislocates his other shoulder. What the bloody fuck? is the only thought he has before he hears the distinctive click of a gun safety and feels the push of a gun barrel at the nape of his neck. Sean is forced to stay face down in the dirt as he is handcuffed. Around him, the basement explodes into organised chaos.
“I need paramedics at my location now!” He notes it’s the first time he has ever heard Kapur panic. “You hang in there, Boss. We’re going to get you to the hospital. Just keep on breathing.”
“Sergeant Kapur, an ambulance is already on its way,” a calmer voice replies. “Let me take a look here. I’m the team medic. You can trust me.”
“It’s going to be okay. Just keep on breathing for me. Come on, come on.” Kapur keeps up a steady stream of trite assurances and outright begging, barely pausing for breath himself. Sean hears a muttered curse and then a snarled, “You fucking bastard.”
He assumes that the last phrase is directed at him as he is yanked roughly to his feet. Before someone throws a black hood over his head, Sean sees the distinctive outfits of his captors. MI-5 and 6. The Iceman?
Completely blind, he is half-carried, half-dragged up the staircase and out of the building. He doesn’t make it easy for the officers, but he holds back in his struggles. It’s all about the right moment. The rain on his shoulders tells him they’re outside. He hears the snick of van doors opening and makes his move. He shoves his entire weight into one man’s ribs, throwing the other off balance. His captors let go. Before he can bolt, an unexpected hand between his shoulder blades shoves him forward. He falls into the van face-first.
Immediately, someone straddles him, crushing the air out of his lungs. Rope digs deeply into his neck. His shirt is rucked up and his trousers undone. The world fades into darkness with the jab of a syringe.
~
Sean wakes up in an empty warehouse, hands and legs cuffed to a sturdy chair. He has been stripped and redressed in paper-thin scrubs. He prods the inside of his mouth with his tongue. He doesn’t have a cyanide pill hidden in his teeth or anything, but he can’t tell if the horrible taste in his mouth is from the drugs or someone poking around. He tests his restraints for any give. None.
It’s not exactly shoddy work, but it’s a bit…unusual for the Secret Service, even in this day and age. He was expecting something significantly more…secure when he woke up, not this. He looks around, and as far as he can tell, he is alone. Where are the guards? Or the cameras? Sean squints up at the rafters, wondering if he would be able to spot the devices.
A door opens and closes directly behind him, the sound echoing through the room. His interrogator stays firmly in Sean’s blind spot as he approaches. The young man isn’t fazed by the manoeuvre. It’s a power game, and if there’s a skill Sean has learned in the Boss’ employ, it’s about how to survive power games. He listens carefully to the unhurried stride. The other man is confident, focused. The footsteps stop.
He waits.
Sean isn’t sure how much time has passed before his visitor speaks in a low baritone.
“Hello, Mr Pritchard.”
The man’s drawl sounds similar to the Boss on a good day, when he is charming and witty, luring in the unwary before the fatal blow. It’s not the accent itself, which is incredibly bland, but the smoothness, the…posh arrogance of someone who is used to being the smartest man in the room. There is a clatter of a tray being set down. Sean bites back a laugh. If torture is what his interrogator has in mind, he is going to be sorely disappointed.
“I would say it’s a pleasure to meet you,” the voice continues, walking in the shadows to Sean’s right, “but I’ve been told that lying is a bit Not Good.”
With a dramatic flourish, the man steps into the fading daylight. Sean clenches his jaw as he stares at a dead man who looks remarkably alive and well for having killed himself two years ago.
“Ah.” A look of pleasure flashes in the other man’s eyes, like a hungry cat spotting a mouse. Suddenly, Sean wishes he did have a cyanide pill. He’s read the reports; he’s heard the gossip. “You know who I am.”
Sherlock Holmes’ fleeting smirk is sharp and predatory.
“I believe you have some information for me.”
~
Epilogue