Part 9. My life with Holmes. The end
hehhe)) finally!!! i made it))) heheh)) i finished this fic)) eahh))
I'm not happy with 2 last chaps - but it's my own fault - I needed to write=finished this fic long ago, before the season 2 - and now I was just going along with it..eahh
But now I can write sequels in this au))^___^
and now I finally can move to magic au with boys))
Title: My life with Holmes
Author: Lenap
Beta: librarianmum))) she put a lot in this chap!!!
Pairing: pre-slash Sherlock\ John, one-sided Moran\John
Rating: R for swearing
Status: 9\9
Warnings: AU!, spoilers to 1 season 3 episode and a bit of 1 episode of season 2
part 1
part 2
part 3
part 4
part 5
part 6
part 7
part 8
“I've disappointed you.” That was not a question, it was a statement. Impossible eyes closely watched his every move. John did not like it when his emotions were so meticulously and methodically studied and laid out; he didn’t like feeling as if he was on his regular appointment at the psychoanalyst, but somehow most of his conversations with Sherlock ended up like this.
“It's good. It's a good deduction.”
John did not like a lot about this current situation with Moriarty. He didn’t like not being able to do anything except watch helplessly as the detective and the criminal mastermind played their reckless game at the expense of other people’s lives.
“Maybe it's enough? Maybe it's time to stop all this? There are lives at stake. Sherlock! Actual human lives - ok, just so I know, do you care about that at all?”
Wall. A blank wall instead of an answer.
“Don't make people into heroes, John. They don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them.”
A sudden text tone from the pink phone made John shudder involuntarily.
“Excellent.” Sherlock picked up the expensive toy with a confident gesture and opened the message. The world's only consulting detective gracefully rose from his chair and straightened his jacket.
“Are you with me?”
“Of course,” sighed John. The game with Moriarty was on once more; in fact, he strongly suspected it had never stopped. Only now something has changed, and it had gone to a whole new level. The level of publicity and the direct threats…
If at first he had silently appreciated all the puzzles thrown in Sherlock’s direction, as time passed, he had grown disgusted and horrified. Anyone who knew the bored detective in person would have understood his meaning - it was perfectly logical… for him. But with each new message, his feelings of despair at the inevitability of a grim end grew stronger and stronger in John. Every instinct was screaming at him that this couldn’t end in anything but tragedy.
And he just knew that the confrontation with the Golem was only the beginning. The killer had fought so desperately because he had been driven into a corner. The most frightening and unpredictable aspect of their situation was that it could only be leading towards a meeting with the man who conducted everything that was happening around them. And they were slowly and steadily moving towards that meeting.
John didn’t believe that Sherlock did not care. He saw the clinging hands, sudden uncharacteristic movement as if Holmes was afraid that he did not have time, was afraid of being late. He saw it right before his own eyes and, of course, believed that Sherlock did have feelings even if he seemed incapable of acknowledging them.
John would never forget his feelings of panic and horror after realizing that the damn explosion featured on the news had occurred in the house opposite to theirs. In that house, where he sometimes looked into his neighbour’s window for cats. He would also never forget the feeling of relief at the sight of a completely uninjured Sherlock sitting in front of Mycroft. As if nothing had happened. As if there was no broken glass around, no fresh autumn breeze blowing into the flat through broken windows.
Each new puzzle, each new secret made them dance around the city, forgetting about food and sleep. Until they finally figured out the last and the most important one.
++**++
“You gave Mycroft that memory stick, right?”
“Yeah. He was over the moon. Threatened me with a knighthood… again.”
John’s mobile vibrated suddenly with an incoming message. Fully expecting that the message was from Mycroft, he was startled to see a different name.
Need you. Urgent. My flat. Bill.
“I won't be here for the tea. I'm going to Sarah's.” John shut the laptop and got up from the table. “We still have this risotto left in the fridge… And we need milk.”
“I'll get it.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Um, ok… and some beans then?” John decided to push his luck and received an affirmative nod. He hoped that during his absence Holmes would not inflict even greater damage to their flat, and seriously considered the option of staying over at Bill's if he was going to him anyway.
He caught a taxi and arrived at Murray's in less than 20 minutes. The first suspicion that something was wrong was the unlooked door. But still, if Bill was not feeling well, he could have just left it open, knowing that John was coming soon. John cautiously entered the dark corridor and listened to the silence. He heard nothing suspicious.
“Bill?”
When Bill didn’t respond, John pulled out his gun as quietly as possible and went to inspect the apartment. After stumbling over the hunched silhouette near the table in the dark kitchen he suspected the worst.
“Bill?” he called softly again. He thought he saw the silhouette stir a little, but there was no more movement. Watson flicked the switch and froze, stunned, when his eyes finally got used to the light.
“What the fuck?” John put his gun away and ran to his friend tied to a chair. Broken and bleeding nose, bleeding lips, bruises and abrasions. He tried to pull the tape from his mouth as gently as possible, to avoid making the cuts worse. Bill didn’t even respond to his ministrations, appearing to be heavily sedated.
“God! Who’s done this?”
“Me.”
He had been so stunned by Bill’s condition that he’d missed the man’s silent appearance behind him. A blow on the temple knocked him to the ground and he found himself glaring angrily at the face of a smiling Sebastian Moran.
“Sorry, doc. I had to cheat the older Holmes and his operatives. And our Bill refused to cooperate.”
“You have no idea how many times I’ve regretted saving your life,” muttered John, shaking his buzzing head to try to clear it. He hated himself for that thought, but it would be so much better if he had not helped him. Better for everyone who had suffered at the hands of this man.
Moran squatted down in front of him and grinned.
“But I appreciate it very much, doc. You so selflessly fought for my life although, even back then, you suspected that I wasn't the person everyone thought I was. Just like you, eh, doc?”
“Fuck off.”
“Tsk… How rude,” Moran's grin grew even larger. Pointing his gun at John's temple he pulled him by his arm from the floor. John could do nothing but obey. And now he had his hands tied behind his back, albeit without handcuffs. Moran took his gun and mobile and threw everything in one of the kitchen cabinets.
“Sit, doc. We have time. No more than 20 minutes, but still better than nothing.”
Moran pulled a chair out for him and made him sit in it, using force as he tried to resist, bracing himself over the table.
“Are you done burning holes in my head? I have immunity.”
“Then what will we do in the remaining time? Talk?” asked John. He didn’t particularly want to talk but at least it might give him a chance to learn something important. “Maybe about why I'm here?”
“It's needed. How were you shot?”
“As if you don't know how already.”
The question was unexpected and not very pleasant. It was nothing special, and John didn’t like talking about personal stuff but now he realised he might need to - anything to keep Moran talking. It might just save his life… or extend it, anyway.
“Talk, doc.”
“In a settlement twenty miles from the base there was an outbreak of dengue fever. At first, everything was as usual; we knew that there was no danger. Well we thought that we knew. I was shot in the shoulder and I was lucky. Do you remember Sgt Straun? He was killed instantly. Thanks to some locals I was not finished there and then. Others managed to escape, they returned half an hour later with back-up, but this time there was no Bill to help me. I managed to pick up the damn plague and spent more than two months in hospital.”
“Ahh… And then you were sent back home. Like something useless.” In Moran's voice he heard genuine anger. “Fools! If you were mine I wouldn’t have allowed that.”
Suddenly Moran reached out and touched John's pursed lips making him tilt his head in surprise, trying to get away from the insistent fingers. The sharp movement made everything around him blur.
“Don't be like that… You knew, always knew I'm sure. And you were too honest, too proper, too good… Still are… I was sure Bill was fucking you, but it turns out, you did not let even him. Obviously, only Holmes was good enough. And I would add - both Holmes, didn’t they, Johnny-boy?”
Of course, John had known about this unhealthy obsession. He had eyes in his head, and it was hard not to notice when someone was devouring him like he was a meal for a starving dog. John suspected the whole base had known about that crush. Moran was looking at him with an odd expression, as if trying and failing to understand something.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why wasn't I good enough?”
John closed his eyes. How could he explain that it was he, that he himself, was not good enough, not quite able to trust, not quite able to let someone into his life whether it was male or female? He was not a homophobe; after all, his sister was a lesbian and he was ok with that. More than ok. But Sherlock was in his life by pure accident, and it was only because of that coincidence that he was still around… or was it? He just didn’t know any more.
“Are you sure you want to know?”
Moran briefly pondered the idea.
“Probably not. It doesn't matter now.”
John sat still with his eyes closed when he felt the touch of cold metal to his cheek, then it slid down until the barrel of the gun stopped at his frantically beating heart.
“Always wanted to do this.”
The other man's lips were dry and hard. John had forgotten when he had last been kissed by someone so desperately, with so much need. Since returning home, apart from so far unsatisfying attempts with Sarah, he had not tried to get to know anybody. He was broken enough to be interesting to others, but not interested enough himself to do something about it.
And now this sudden kiss showed him what he was missing. Simple human touch, affection from another living being. Something… He remembered sensitive fingers on his face, running gently over his spine… a warm tongue on his neck…
“How about you show some enthusiasm here?” He was pulled forcibly back into the present. John didn’t want to - couldn’t - feel anything while being kissed by this cruel man, far from it.
John gathered his courage and looked at Moran's eyes, full of crazy excitement and delight in his impunity. The sick bastard was turned on by his control over the situation and permissiveness. And John just prayed that the finger on the trigger would not waver while Moran was waiting for his answer.
A phone call interrupted him, to John's relief. Moran replied without taking his keen eyes off him -“Yes?” - and, after a short pause, immediately turned his mobile off.
“We'll have to postpone our pleasant conversation for another time. The boss is waiting. Behave yourself. Otherwise the sniper, not as good as me, but still good, will have to remove our friend Bill here. I know you don't want this. Nor do I. After all it was our Billy who pulled bullets out of you once.”
With horror, John saw the quivering red dot on Bill's chest. Well, clearly he’d have to play by the proposed rules. Moran implied that this was not their last conversation, which seemed promising. He expected them to go down and into the street - that way he’d have a chance of being noticed by one of Mycroft's cameras - but instead they climbed to the roof of a neighbouring building and sat down in a small police patrol helicopter.
++**++
If only he could have known, could have foreseen the consequences of playing games with Moriarty, he would never have left Sherlock alone. He would never have gone running after receiving the message from Bill not explaining where he was heading. He would never have told him that he was going to Sarah. Of course, John would have gone anyway, even knowing that it was a trap, but maybe he would have been more prepared.
Sherlock didn’t like Murray, and John strongly suspected he was jealous, because Bill was the only person other than John's sister and Sherlock himself at whose first call he was ready to drop everything and rush across the city to provide help or rescue. The only difference was that Holmes's reason could be everything from a burning flat to not wanting to get up and walk to the kitchen for a pan or to make tea, whereas Bill never called him for nonsense.
If only he could have known, could have predicted that “Jim from IT”, Molly's new boyfriend, and James Moriarty, consulting criminal, had been one person all this time. But he could never have guessed, and now he was left with the realization that all this time he had been close to this man and had done nothing. He had been really naïve to assume that Jim, the madman who shot Bill in the leg, had just been living a double life the same as him, John Watson. And that he was not the dangerous criminal mastermind for whom the Holmes' brothers had been hunting.
What a fool he had turned out to be! Now he was paying for his own stupidity and ignorance with Bill's life, Sherlock’s life and even the lives of strangers.
“It was so nice of Sherlock to show such uncharacteristic care. Sending his lap dog out of harm’s way in order to meet the villain on his own,” Moriarty chuckled, nastily. “Although, judging by the surprise on your face, you don't actually know that he’s asked me on a date. Here, at midnight… Tsssk… A bit not good, hmm?”
John could only glare and grit his teeth impotently while he was strapped into a bomb vest at the swimming pool’s edge.
“What did Sherlock see in you - why did he choose you? What does Seb see in you? I simply don't understand.”
He had no answers to the questions of a madman. And if he had, he would not share them.
“You know, I’ve been watching you a long time, but I still don’t get it. Well, I think after tonight, it will be no longer relevant.”
He was dressed in a parka and given an ear microphone.
“Now almost everything is ready. It remains only to wait for the main protagonist,” Moriarty giggled again. No doubt he was amused by the whole situation. And he was clearly confident he would be the winner. This could only signify one thing - that his own chances or Sherlock's chances of success were getting closer to the critical point, in spite of Moran's words.
John was led into one of the dressing cubicles at the poolside and left to wait. He could hear perfectly well as the door was slammed back; he clearly heard the quiet confident steps that he would know anywhere now. He couldn’t understand why no one could hear his heart beating; it felt as if it would burst out of his chest any moment.
“Brought you a little getting to know you present… This is what it’s been for, isn’t it? All your little puzzles, making me dance. All to distract me from this.”
John came out of the locker room and stopped when he heard the command. Sherlock was some distance away, but turned at his footsteps, the memory stick held out in his hand.
“Evening.”
For the first time in their acquaintance, he saw the familiar tall figure halt in genuine surprise. The icy eyes glittered as they took in John’s figure, his coat currently covering the vest. John’s heart stuttered at the expression of… what? Hurt? Fear? He couldn’t tell, but if he had ever needed proof that Sherlock had feelings, he had it now.
They couldn’t take their eyes off each other. John struggled desperately to convey all he wanted to say to Sherlock - all the things he’d never said; had never admitted, even to himself. But he had to focus on the words Moriarty was feeding to him through the earpiece.
“This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?”
“John… What the hell…”
“Bet you never saw this coming.” - John pulled his hands from his pockets and opened his parka - he saw the sudden relief in Sherlock’s eyes as he realised; relief replaced almost immediately by fear. “What would you like me… to make him say… next?”
He sighed heavily, as he repeated the meaningless dribble being relayed to him.
“Stop it!” Sherlock shouted, turning around, frantically searching for the source.
“Nice touch this. The pool where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart.” He repeated the words as blankly, as unemotionally as possible.
“Who are you?”
“I gave you my number. I thought you might call.” The light, lilting Irish accent floated across the swimming pool towards them, and Sherlock took his eyes off John to seek the source.
John predicted that Moriarty would be a surprise for Sherlock, not because of his appearance - that much could have been expected - but because of who he was revealed to be.
“Is that a British army Browning L9A1 in your pocket? Or are you just pleased to see me?”
“Both.”
“Jim Moriarty. Hi.”
John felt a shiver of disgust at the voice. Words were falling like rocks striking the tiles and he could do nothing but wait. He waited and listened, counting the footsteps as the man approached; listening to the dialogue between the consulting detective and consulting criminal, and watching Sherlock, who was busy calculating the number of scenarios in his clever head even as he continued this little dance of danger with his counterpart.
“Sherlock, run!” He needed only one single chance. The only successful interweaving of circumstances. And he, without hesitation, took the opportunity to grab Moriarty, just as the man threw the memory stick in the water.
Now, while he had him as a shield from the sniper's bullets, he could play his cards. If only Holmes had seized the moment and left.
“You have rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson.”
He saw it himself. The red trembling dot on Sherlock's head.
“Gotcha!” Moriarty gave another of his insane giggles.
John could have broken the bastard's neck in a few seconds, but was now forced to let go and step back. He hated feeling so helpless. Moriarty just smugly shook himself and straightened his tie and suit.
“Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?
“Oh, let me guess. I get killed?” Sherlock tried to convey his boredom with the concept, keeping his gun steadily training on the man, even as his eyes flickered imperceptibly towards John once more.
“Kill you? No. Don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway… someday. I don’t wanna rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no. If you don't stop prying … I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you.” John swallowed back the nausea that rose in his throat at the chilling sound of those words.
“I've been reliably informed that I don't have one.” Sherlock replied, in slow, measured tones.
“But we both know that’s not quite true.” He flickered his eyes slyly in the direction of John, who was standing and clenching his hands in impotent rage.
“Well... I'd better be off. It was so nice to have had a proper chat.” And Moriarty turned and walked away as if nothing had happened, airily brushing off Sherlock’s threat to shoot him.
And they were left to deal with the fact that he was still alive. But at least John could take a deep breath, even if he was still in the heavy vest.
“Are you all right?” Sherlock seemed to suddenly remember the bomb and threw himself on his knees in front of John, as if making a marriage proposal. Perhaps it was in some sense. He fumbled frantically at the parka and vest, ripping them off and flinging them away. “Yes?”
“Yes-yes, I'm ok.” John struggled to catch his breath. “Sherlock! Sherlock!”
Sherlock had run after Moriarty, but immediately returned still clutching John’s gun.
“You ok?” John couldn’t help asking - the detective looked distracted and confused.
“Me? Yeah, yeah, I'm fine… That thing... that you did… that you offered to do was… good.”
“Well, I'm glad no one saw that.”
“Hmm?”
“You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.”
“They do little else.”
John could not help but respond to Sherlock’s smile. Just like in the early days of their acquaintance, when they stood, leaning their backs against the wall in the hallway at Baker Street after that mad chase through London. He remembered how alive he’d felt back then.
Now he felt more than just alive. Adrenaline mixed with fear, with the natural human fear for their lives, was making him think thoughts he would never normally think - it was making him experience emotions that he’d kept carefully buried for years. John Watson laughed and could not understand why he had never, even once, thought about kissing that irritating smirk right off the detective’s face.
He shook his head in disbelief at the direction his thoughts were taking and started to stand up, but froze when he saw the red dots appear on his chest. Surely not now…
“Sorry, boys! I'm so changeable!” Moriarty returned with a joyful clap of his hands. “It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.”
Sherlock caught John’s glance, and receiving a silent agreement. The two men gazed at each other for what could only be seconds, but in that moment, they were able to convey all that they wanted to each other.
John felt a strange calmness descend. It had been hard to nod, knowing instinctively what Sherlock had in mind, but he was willing to risk their lives and that of Bill’s to stop this madman. It was the right thing to do. He’d managed to say all that was necessary to Sherlock, and now only this remained… to watch the detective’s finger as it squeezed the trigger… to calculate the speed and trajectory of the bullet… to wonder, as his muscles tensed, if he would have the time and strength to throw himself into the water, taking Sherlock with him, even as the bomb went off.
“Probably my answer has crossed yours.” Sherlock turned, with his usual grace, and pointed his gun at the cast-aside vest of explosives, now situated directly between them and the criminal mastermind.
++**++
Everything in his life was associated with phone calls. With unexpected appointments, messages and again phone calls. If he hadn’t accidentally met Bill and agreed to work with him, he would never have met Sherlock, who had immediately dragged him along to Mycroft. There were a lot of "ifs", a lot of entanglements of random events, accompanied by messages and calls.
Here and now, the phone call reflected loudly from the tiled walls and chlorinated water. A stupid ring tone, some banal pop song. Just a call that saved their lives.
“If I make it to old age and if, one day, I write my memoirs, I'll name this epic opus "My life with Sherlock Holmes". How do you like the title?”
“Then people would definitely talk.”
“Let them talk.” John laughed with relief. He laughed and laughed, and found he couldn’t stop.
Sherlock pulled John up and pressed his forehead to the doctor’s temple, pulling him into strong hug… and this time, John didn’t resist.
The Game was on.
The End