Sherlock fic: To Save A Life
Title: To Save A Life
Pairing/characters: Sherlock/Watson (kinda)
Rating: M
Words: 2,900
Summary: Prompt: Sherlock brings down Moriarty with the help of Mycroft, his agents and two snipers. It isn't until Sherlock's telling John about what happened that he realises John was one of those snipers. Full prompt here on sherlockbbc_fic.
Warning: Mentions of violence. Spoilers to 02x03
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine
A/N: This is set somewhere between Moriarty's trial in and Moriarty creeping around 221B in The Reichenbach Fall.
Sorry about the formatting... I cannot for the life of me get LJ formatting to work...
They say it’s playing God, pulling the trigger. It’s playing God to decide who lives and who dies. Breathe, just breathe. Count the seconds and watch the wind gauge. Don’t move; move and you’re dead. Move and all the camouflage in the world won’t save you.
The L115A3 long range rifle breathes with him, shifts with that expansion of his chest, then relaxes. He remembers this rifle well; not as well as the gun that he keeps in his bedside table, but well enough. They’ve been at war together. They’ve fought for England together. Afghanistan, London, there’s no difference when you walk beside a consulting detective.
He watches the wind gauge flutter, little scrap of cloth like a disheartened flag for a drowning cause. Breathe, just breathe. Trigger-hairs settle on the target’s chest. Cross your heart and hope to die.
Something’s wrong. Movement, men swarming like ants. Sunlight glints on metal and his consulting detective is facing an army. Multiple armed targets. The little scrap of cloth lowers, a flag to start the race. His world tips, hangs in the balance.
Opening fire. Breathe, just breathe. He has to stay calm, must stay calm. Count the seconds, the heartbeats in your ears. Little figures on the rooftop, knock them down to win the prize. Knock them down to save his life.
Three, two, one. Hold your breath. Squeeze the trigger, slowly, slowly. Gunshot. Recoil. Little target falls down.
Focus, chamber the next round. Pull the bolt and listen to the mechanics, listen to everything slot into place. 1,200 metres away, the figures on the rooftop stare at the blood spreading from the consulting criminal.
Re-sight, aim and breathe. Hold. Squeeze the trigger. The recoil slams into his clenched muscles but he can barely feel the pain. Another figure drops and two remain. Pull the bolt and listen to death prepare herself.
He aims again and his target falls. Next round. Pull the bolt and don’t think, try not to think. He’s alone, there’s no one else. Where’s second sniper, what happened? Mycroft’s plan has fallen apart and he tries not to think.
Last target standing, he raises his gun at the consulting detective. Breathe, just breathe. Watch the little cloth, flapping in the wind. Adjust, adapt, no room for error.
No time for error. Hold your breath. Press the trigger, slowly, slowly. No time for quick movements that jolt aim. Gunshot. Recoil. He’s staring through the scope at white skies.
There’s the mad scramble to find the target again, searching for the figures on the rooftop. Only one remains. Targets down. The consulting detective wins. His consulting detective wins.
John pulls away from the sights, lets the rifle clatter against the ground. Breathe, just breathe. Voices shout in his head, lost in static and the ringing in his ears. His heart pounds but his hands are steady as he rubs them against his knees.
Save a life, take a life. Only for Sherlock will John play God.
------------
The Holmes brothers come to an agreement and it’s rare that such a thing happens. Sherlock agrees to work with a team of agents to bring down Moriarty and Mycroft agrees not to kidnap his brother and lock him in a safe house.
It isn’t easy, of course. Sherlock manages to insult each of the four intelligence agents in quick succession and then Mycroft introduces them. Fortunately these are well trained agents, the best the government can give to stop a higher class of criminal from breaking into every secure facility they own. It’ll take a lot more than a few days of Sherlock to break them.
In the end it takes them all of three days to follow the threads and strings of Moriarty’s web. It spans the world, London at its centre. Sherlock guides them impatiently, doesn’t see the point in discovering what he already knows. Moriarty is real.
They build a plan, structured around two figures on a rooftop. Agents disguised will wait for the signal, for Sherlock’s signal. It shouldn’t be hard, a quick sting operation. Lure him with Sherlock’s presence and wait for the closest confession they can manage.
It’ll all go wrong of course. They prepare their trap and Mycroft studies the map. There are easy sightlines from the surrounding buildings, places for snipers to hide. Quietly he installs a back-up plan. He knows his brother. The snipers will be essential to saving Sherlock.
They can’t be too close though, Moriarty will have men himself scouring the surrounding buildings. He finds the perfect nest. They’ll be difficult shots, 1,200 metres at least. Mycroft thinks he knows a couple of soldiers for the job.
It won’t be easy to get Moriarty there but Sherlock says that he knows how. He’s all but silent and Mycroft knows his brother’s already on the rooftop. Quietly he prepares the snipers, tells them to be in their nests whenever Sherlock isn’t concealed by the walls of 221B Baker Street. It’s the only way to be certain.
There are thousands of CCTV cameras around London, mapping the city across the walls of Mycroft’s office. Thousands of angles covering London and he knows Sherlock can avoid every one. He can avoid every camera but there’s no way he can avoid the eyes of Mycroft’s snipers.
They contact him on the fifth day, voices coming through his ear-piece with the whistle of wind. He’s here, the target’s with him. Damn you, Sherlock.
Wait for my signal. He’s not far away, sliding down back streets and through alleys most Londoners will never see.
Something’s wrong. Multiple armed targets. They round the corner to little figures on the rooftop. They’ve run out of time.
Opening fire. Mycroft’s climbing out of the car when he hears the first gunshots.
Later that night he lies awake in bed, running through the battlefield with all its impossible angles, and wonders how Dr. John Watson was able to save his brother’s life.
------------
It works almost as well as Mycroft said it would. Sherlock’s surprised and he’s rarely surprised. There’s only one problem; he’s so very bored.
The agents aren’t incompetent and really it’s nice to have more intelligence than Anderson or Lestrade in the room, but even London’s finest could work faster than these straight-backed men and women. In days they run over every eventuality, each possible outcome, whilst he does the same in minutes.
Eventually he just lets the world fade out. It’s not hard, he’s done it so many times, shutting down the distractions until the only thing left is his heartbeat. His mind turns to Moriarty, turns to the question of the great game they’re playing. This shadowy duel of cat and mouse, Sherlock knows he can’t afford to lose.
The fifth day dawns and there’s no end in sight. He won’t sit there any longer, pondering upon uncertainties that even he can’t solve. Mycroft’s way hasn’t
worked and Sherlock can’t wait any longer.
He throws a goodbye to John, his faithful John, forever poised on the sidelines. This labyrinthine battle of wits; Sherlock can’t let those he cares about get tangled up in Moriarty’s web. As much as he wishes, pretends, shouts, they’re not there, it would be foolish of him to ignore those all too human emotions. Sherlock has friends.
John sends him a distant smile, a quiet goodbye before he returns to the newspaper. Sherlock hopes he doesn’t read the lonely hearts section. There’s a message there, encoded invitation for the world’s only consulting criminal. The rooftops of London are a perfect place for romance.
Sherlock leaves through the bathroom window.
Long ago he built a map in his head of all the cameras of London, all the eyes of Mycroft. It’s difficult to find a way through London without being seen. It’s almost impossible, takes Sherlock days. Carefully he plans his route and dashes along the streets and through buildings and behind trees. He garners strange looks but the thoughts of ordinary people have never concerned him.
It’s noon by the time he reaches the building the agents chose but clouds have covered the sky until soft sunlight glares white and blinding. Sherlock takes the stairs to the roof two at a time. Moriarty’s waiting for him when he pushes the door open. Wind whistles in his ears and he has to walk forward to hear the consulting criminal’s voice.
“Hello you.” Moriarty turns, eyes cold and small and fixed on Sherlock.
“You came.” Sherlock’s just a little but surprised, maybe just a little bit disappointed. Surely he knows about the agents and their plan.
“Of course.” Shiny white smile, teeth picked and paid for. “You weren’t going to bring those agents, your brother’s four little angels. They’re much too boring.”
For some reason he can’t pin down, Sherlock suddenly wishes he had. Perhaps it’s been too long since those days before killer cabbies and soldiers back from war. All he knows is the world feels so much bigger without Dr. John Watson at his side.
“You got to the jury.”
“Everyone’s got their pressure point. Even you.” The smile turns crooked, corners turned up in a smirk to confirm victory. “I owe you.”
“What?”
“I owe you a fall.” Moriarty leans out, looks down on the world, the ants passing by. “Don’t worry, falling’s just like flying, except there’s a more permanent destination.”
An electronic tone drops into the air, muffled by layers of clothing. Moriarty’s eyes roll but he pulls a phone out of his pocket. Buttons beep and fingers freeze. Cold eyes turn back to Sherlock. Moriarty’s gaze is disbelief and denial and somewhere in there is betrayal.
“You’re just like them.” There’s pain in his voice, the sound of hope lost. For a moment his face’s hidden, buried in the crook of his elbow. “You’re ordinary.” His face twists with the words. “You’re on the side of the angels.”
He presses a button, dials a number. Then there are men on the roof, sudden invasion and Sherlock doesn’t understand, can’t keep up. Men with guns but they’re not here to kill him. That would be too boring, too simple, too ordinary. Moriarty’s walking towards Sherlock and there’s a word on his lips. Sniper.
Mycroft. It’s Mycroft, it has to be. Sherlock should’ve known. There’s nothing the Holmes brothers know better than each other and sometimes, just sometimes, Sherlock’s predictable. There was a sniper on the roof. Was. Moriarty’s men won’t have left them standing. Sherlock looks at his fairytale villain, advancing with steady steps, and thinks that perhaps he’s going to die now.
Gunshot. Moriarty’s head snaps left, lurches to the side. Gravity takes over and he’s falling, falling. Blood splatters on the concrete and in a second their great game has ended.
Gunshot. The dazed henchmen drag their eyes to the second body. Blood pools on the ground and Sherlock’s searching the buildings around them. He knows Mycroft. Second sniper, guardian angel.
Gunshot. The men and their guns are waking up. The man and his gun, looking up from his fallen comrades. He’s lifting his weapon. It’s a gunslinger’s duel, played from afar.
Gunshot. Sherlock stands among the bodies and he thinks this is what it feels like to be the victor. Falling’s just like flying except there’s a more permanent destination.
------------
Mycroft explains the snipers to him in the back seat of the black car. Sherlock isn’t listening, already knows the plan. The Holmes brothers, they know each other well. Snipers on the roof, waiting for Sherlock to appear, waiting for him to ignore Mycroft’s plan.
One of the snipers was killed, Mycroft tells him. A soldier who fought in Iraq. He has no wife, no family, no one to mourn his passing. Sherlock thinks of John and wonder if he would mourn at his blogger’s funeral. He doesn’t like the answer.
“Over a thousand metres, you know.” Mycroft’s voice is steady, empty, but Sherlock knows his brother’s amazed. He also knows why. “Four shots in five seconds from one thousand two hundred metres. That takes a steady hand.”
“Clearly you chose well.”
They stop at 221B Baker Street and Sherlock doesn’t bother saying anything as he leaves. Mycroft isn’t expecting him to. It isn’t until he opens the door and Mrs. Hudson’s in the hall that he really processes it.
“Moriarty’s dead,” he says and drops a kiss on her cheek. “We killed him.”
“Oh that’s good, dear.” She smiles, gentle and warm. “He wasn’t a very nice man.”
“No.” He’s already climbing the stairs to apartment B. “No, he wasn’t.”
John’s sitting in his armchair when Sherlock walks in, staring at something on the mantelpiece. He doesn’t look up as the door closes. It’s a reasonable deduction Sherlock supposes. John thinks only he could’ve walked in. He doesn’t know how close Sherlock was to death and hour ago.
Dropping his coat on the hook, he sits in his armchair, turning to face John. Their eyes don’t meet and slowly Sherlock steeples his fingers before his face.
“We killed Moriarty.” John’s eyes snap to Sherlock, quick and sharp. His brow furrows into little lines of what Sherlock thinks must be confusion. “Mycroft had this plan, a trap with some agents of his.” He lets his eyes slide away, stare off into the distance.
“Oh but they were so boring! All their little minds working together and still they were so slow. So ordinary.” He pauses, remembering the words spoken from different lips, dead lips.
“I don’t know why Mycroft thought I could work with them, ridiculous idea. I went to the rooftop without them. Moriarty picked up my message just as expected.” John hasn’t moved, frozen in time, staring at Sherlock.
“It was working so well until his men found that sniper Mycroft had in place. Idiot, not hiding himself properly. Moriarty wasn’t going to kill me and that would be far too dull.” He’s distracted for a moment, caught up in trying to figure out Moriarty’s plan. I owe you a fall.
John shifts and Sherlock’s mind snaps back into 221B. There’s expectation on John’s face, the expression of someone waiting for a story to end.
“Mycroft had another sniper, a good one this time.” He admits it grudgingly but honestly. There’s no denying the skill it must have taken to kill those men - to save Sherlock’s life. “He was very good. He killed Moriarty, so there’s nothing to worry about anymore.”
John stands slowly, adjusts his sweater. For a moment his eyes meet Sherlock’s then he’s looking at the mantelpiece once more. He points a finger at the skull that was Sherlock’s companion for as long as he could remember. Until John took its place.
“You should really get rid of that.” Then he’s gone and Sherlock’s alone with his tales of victory and the distinct feeling that he missed something important.
------------
John can’t sleep. It’s not something unusual, or it wouldn’t be anyway. Except - except for as long as John has lived at 221B Baker Street his nights haven’t been plagued by nightmares. Except for as long as John has walked beside Sherlock, battles haven’t replayed across his eyelids.
This is new. He dreams of war, of conflict in foreign countries where his life means so little. He dreams of Afghanistan but now he sees the battlefield through a scope. The crosshairs mark soldiers. He pulls the trigger, picks them off.
He wakes in London and it’s two in the morning.
It isn’t until he rolls over that he realises there’s someone standing over him. Black silhouette, outlined by streetlamp light. Tall and thin, he knows that shape.
“Sherlock?”
“You were the sniper.” It’s not a question, or perhaps it is. It’s hard to tell with Sherlock when deductions and presumptions are said as certainty rather than possibility.
“How did you-”
“Your hand was steady. When you pointed to my skull your hand was steadier than I’ve ever seen and you used your left instead of your right, which you held tight against your body, suggesting an injury of some kind, perhaps from the recoil of a rifle. It wasn’t hard to surmise from there.”
There’s a pause that spreads between them, broken only by the sound of cars on the road beyond. John has nothing to say, thinks there’s nothing he should say.
“I should’ve known.” There’s a strange inflection in Sherlock’s voice. Regret perhaps, for misconstrued conclusions. “I told Mycroft that he chose well.”
There’s another pause and John feels distinctly uncomfortable, lying in the dark with his friend towering over him. Distantly he wishes this could’ve waited until morning but the thought’s quickly disregarded. This is Sherlock after all.
“That’s five.” Sherlock’s silent again, this time waiting for an answer, some reply.
“Five what, Sherlock?”
“Five people you’ve killed to protect me.”
“Yes, well,” he turns over, rolling away from the figure at his bedside. “Don’t expect me to be there all the time.”
For a moment he thinks Sherlock might stay there, watch him until John tells him to leave. Then the bed dips at his back. A slight body slides in next to his, spine against spine. John wants to protest, thinks he should, but he doesn’t. The body relaxes and he can feel images of war and death falling away from his fingers. No one playing god can feel this human.
Sherlock’s voice is quiet, almost not there. “Thank you, John.”