Fic: Witness Protection (3/?)
Title: Witness Protection
Author: missilemuse.
Part: 3/?
Wordcount: nearly 2470 for this part.
Rating: PG (may go up later)
Warnings: none.
Spoilers: only for season 1 as of now.
Disclaimer: Sherlock and John belong to ACD's grey cells, and each other in that order... Although the B.B.C. version receives full credit for inspiring me to put a pen to paper.
Summary: An AU, where John is Jim Moriarty's fiancé. He finds out about Jim's job and agrees to testify against him. He is put into protective custody as a result, under the alias Victor Trevor. Sherlock meets Victor, sparks fly!
Written for a truly unique prompt on the shkinkmeme; so credit for inspiration goes to the OP.
Author's notes: This was something I was working on before Reichenbach happened and temporarily derailed it. The story is now on the verge of completion and I will be posting one part weekly. My first real attempt at S/J, so please be gentle.
A special mention and a million thanks to my amazing new beta, lady_t_220 for her patience in going though the story, correcting my frankly disastrous punctuation and plugging plot-holes, which I hadn't even noticed. You're a gem.
Link to CHAPTER 1 :: CHAPTER 2
The cab stopped in front of a nice three storeyed building in Central London with a cafe out front, which was closed at this late hour. John offered to help Sherlock out of the cab but was waved off. John didn’t say a thing. He just waited patiently till Sherlock got out after paying and tottered one step unsteadily before John wordlessly grasped Sherlock's hand and hauled his arm over one shoulder as before.
“I’m fine," Sherlock snarled.
John replied in a deadpan voice. “Sprained ankle from your first-storey dive, which you ignored and used for running. For a genius, you suck at common sense.” Sherlock looked like he wanted to retort back, but all his breath was being used up to keep himself from visibly wincing at each step.
John managed to get the main door open using Sherlock’s key and get Sherlock halfway up the narrow flight of stairs before there was the sound of a door opening from above followed by someone rushing out to the landing.
Unfortunately, it had to be the second-to-last man in London that John had wanted to run into tonight. The stairs were partly in shadow, so John doubted his face was visible, but as soon as the man saw them he hurried down the last couple of steps and hauled Sherlock's other arm over his own shoulder, lightening John’s burden considerably.
“What happened?” Lestrade’s voice was fondly exasperated.
“I solved your case for you, as usual.” Sherlock's voice was laced with pain, yet he still somehow managed to sound imperious.
“And it didn’t occur to you that you might need help?”
“THIS…” he winced painfully, “…had nothing to do with the case. I was perfectly safe.”
By this time they had reached the landing and the light spilling from the room beyond was clearly illuminating John’s face. But Lestrade didn’t notice till Sherlock was safely deposited on the sofa and he turned to John, hand outstretched, in all likelihood to thank him.
When his eyes fell on John, all geniality drained from his face and his lips were drawn into a thin line. Admirably, he didn’t utter a single word, other than to casually turn to Sherlock and ask, “Who’s this?”
Sherlock had missed the previous gesture, as Lestrade’s back had been turned to him. “This is my friend…” both John and Lestrade did a double take at these words. “…Victor Trevor. Victor, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade.”
“Friend?” Lestrade’s eyes narrowed.
“Acquaintance…” John corrected hurriedly. “We just met.”
“I see." Lestrade’s face was still pensive.
Sherlock’s voice was cutting. “All you need to see, Lestrade, is the evidence.” He dug into his wallet and pulled out a fifty pound note. “Got it off Jeremiah Wilson in a friendly game of poker. The paper is the same that was stolen last month, but the note is definitely counterfeit. You will find the press in the cellar below Checkers. The cellar dates back to World War I and is not on any plans. I don’t think you should delay the arrests. They have an inkling that I’m close…but are unlikely to bin the operation on a hunch. They didn’t actually catch me today either. This definitely has nothing to do with HIM, as I previously thought. Overall it's a shoddy affair…”
“We can discuss the details later," Lestrade interrupted, eyes still on John. Sherlock noticed.
“Victor…” Sherlock’s voice was sharp. “If you want tea you can help yourself. There’s no milk, so you’ll have to take it black. Kitchen’s that way. You’ll find everything you need in the overhead cupboard with the black door.”
John was too relieved at having an opportunity to escape Lestrade’s accusing stare to feel offended at being practically ordered to make tea. He fled to the kitchen where all he could do was stand and stare for the first two minutes. The dining table could have been a reproduction of a mad scientist’s lab. There was a top-notch microscope, beakers, Erlenmeyer flasks filled with various coloured liquids and a retort filled with what suspiciously looked like blood at the centre of the mess.
Even a five minute conversation with Sherlock had given John a clue that he wasn’t completely normal. The appearance of the kitchen was just another piece falling into place. That John found the man’s obvious insanity and lack of pretence at hiding it to be soothing he suspected spoke more about his own mental state than Sherlock’s. John found a visually unblemished kettle and tea leaves, and busied himself with the familiar task.
By the time John made his way out again, Lestrade was gone and Sherlock was attempting to hop his way towards what must be the bathroom.
“Um, tea," John offered.
Sherlock frowned. “That was just to get you out of the room. Lestrade seemed to be unduly interested in you.”
“You thought so?” John said, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock huffed, glaring in annoyance when John shot out a hand to stop him leaving.
“What do you think you’re doing?" John asked. "Stay put and have your tea. Let me take a look at that ankle, then I’ll help you to the bathroom." At Sherlock's look of irritated dismay John shook his head. "No no, don’t give me that look. You’re not wasting a perfectly good cup of tea. Army doctor, remember? I’ve seen more stubborn sods than you.”
Sherlock had a very odd expression on his face as he sat back on the sofa, but accepted his cup of tea without protest.
John knelt in front of the sofa and gently took the swollen left foot in his hands, carefully flexing and extending it, judging the extent of damage. When he was done, he looked up to see Sherlock looking down at him with eyes that seemed too large for his face. That had John self-consciously clearing his throat before saying confidently, “It’s just sprained. If you have bandages, I can bind it up for you later. You should keep your weight off it for a couple of days and you’ll be fine.”
“Thank you, doctor." the voice was uncharacteristically gentle.
True to his word, John assisted him to the bath and left him there to clean up. Back alone in the living room, he finally dared to check his phone and found eleven missed calls, all from Lestrade.
Hearing the sound of the shower start, John decided to get it over with. He had had no desire to antagonise Lestrade. The Inspector had been his only ally at the Yard and one of the few people who hadn’t immediately slotted him into the ex-accomplice turned now-running-for-his-life category. Lestrade had ensured for him the best protection he could offer, short of actually taking him into custody.
John remembered how incredulous Sergeant Donovan’s voice had been in the interrogation room. “You expect us to believe that you had no idea that the man you were sleeping with for the last six months was a psychopathic bomber?”
Even John had known how far-fetched his story had sounded, but Lestrade had believed him.
Of course this little adventure did look a little as if John had thrown that goodwill and gratitude back in Lestrade's face…
John ducked out into the hall just to be on the safe side. Though Sherlock was shut in the bathroom he didn't want to be overheard. Still faintly marvelling at the absence of his limp, John dialled Lestrade.
“What the fuck are you doing, John?" Lestrade snapped. "No…most importantly, what are you doing in London with Sherlock bloody Holmes?”
“Detective Inspector, I …”
“You are the Yard’s responsibility, John. That makes you my responsibility. I cannot guarantee your safety if you do this. Maybe you don’t realise the kind of danger you're in."
Lestrade took a deep breath, obviously trying to calm his temper. "Look, I know you don't want to think badly of your fiancé. I know it's hard, But you have to accept that he has killed people, John. I've lost four good officers already. Civilians have died because of the things he has done and you are the last, best chance that we have of catching him. If you go running off, how many more lives do you think are going to be at risk?"
John didn't reply, head dropping in shame. Not only did he not have a reasonable explanation for his actions, but he knew Lestrade was right.
“Please tell me you've at least left Baker Street. It's probably the worst possible place you could be right now. Of all the people… Jesus, you find Sherlock Holmes to come home with." Lestrade sighed. "Stay away from him. If you are still there, make any excuse and leave. If you don’t, you might as well be distributing fliers with your name on it. It may already be too late, but leave anyway. Get to the Yard, if you have nowhere else to go…”
John snapped. He was tired…tired of this wraith-like existence, tired of trying to simulate a fear he did not feel. Oh he was damaged alright; full of self-loathing, disgust and betrayal. But fear simply wasn’t a part of the picture. He had taken whatever paltry information he had found to the authorities, not because he feared for his life, but because he recognised that he wasn’t the only victim. He hadn't much cared what happened to himself, but there were people who had been hurt far worse, and his conscience wouldn't let him deny them proper justice.
He wasn't quite sure what insinuation Lestrade was making; all he had grasped from the tirade was that being around Sherlock was insanely dangerous in more ways than one, but God help him, he craved it like oxygen right now.
“I’m very sorry, Inspector, but I had to do this. I will speak to you in the morning.” John offered in the most contrite voice he could muster though he suspected Lestrade wouldn't believe it for a moment. Regardless, he cut the call and shut off the phone. He knew that coming morning, there would be hell to pay. For some unknown reason, he felt it was worth it.
In the bathroom, Sherlock was standing below the shower, keeping his weight off the injured foot as he let his forehead touch the cool tile. The hot water felt good running down his back. Transport…It’s just transport, he reminded himself. Despite that, his heart thudded painfully against his ribs, as if it was somehow trying to escape.
This was not happening. He was a sociopath…he didn’t do feelings, or emotions, or people full stop! It was a bitter lesson that he had learned early on during his Uni years. People had never been able to just ignore him. But his complete lack of empathy had only inspired emotions like fear, distrust and hatred; at the very best, a grudging respect from someone like Lestrade. He had built up firewalls so that his intellect was free for access, while everything else was deemed unnecessary, and buried deep within his hard drive. He felt the safest within his virtual bubble, where people like Lestrade’s team didn’t matter; their words became white noise before they could reach him. If this meant that he could never be truly happy, it had also meant that he could not be hurt.
That had seemed to be enough, before.
He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, willing his heart to slow down. It ignored him in favour of fluttering at the thought of the first person ever who had genuinely cared with no ulterior motives. Victor had displayed the kind of altruism Sherlock had always scoffed at before. Maybe it had been the hands, he mused. The hands that had brought down an armed man; a soldier’s hands with a doctor’s touch. He hadn’t expected them to be so infinitely gentle. He had called Sherlock brilliant, with no sarcasm, with no expectation of favour, but as a simple statement of fact. The man looked broken, yet undefeated, and at the same time constantly tense, on edge, like a grenade with the pin removed. There was something dangerous about him.
Sherlock shuddered against the now-cold water. He hated Victor Trevor, hated him for reminding Sherlock, how painfully human he could still be.
***
Elsewhere in the city
Sebastian Moran was not pleased. He was fucking good at his job. This wasn’t optional; as the last man who had been in his place and made a mistake had been roasted alive in an electric crematorium (drowning someone in the Thames was too pedestrian for the Boss).
He wasn’t complaining; he loved the job. But on days like this, he wished he was bloody clairvoyant just so that he could prepare for Jim’s reaction.
He paused before the Control Room. There had been strict instructions left that HE was not to be disturbed for the next two hours. There'd been some big overseas client with a request to hack into NORAD. It was Christmas as far as Jim was concerned. But Moran knew he was making the right call as he opened the door and stepped in. If not, well, burning to a crisp within seconds was better than drowning at least.
Three oversized screens dominated the room, the area kept freezing cold for the sake of the Cray that stood off to one side. Moran shivered as Jim’s reptilian gaze settled on him, unblinking. He offered no explanations, just walked up to the desk and flung down the photographs face up. The pictures had time-stamps. He didn’t have to say a word.
Jim examined each of the five prints, gentle fingers caressing the face of the other man. Moran didn’t even know his name, except that he was some freakish pet project that had lasted six long months.
Others in the organisation hadn’t even know that much. He had known better than to comment on Jim’s frequent disappearances, their reduced workload, or the sudden appearance of what looked like a RING on his Boss’s finger. Jim’s obsession with Sherlock Holmes and their cat and mouse games he understood very well, but anything to do with the unknown stranger was always faintly unsettling.
Just as he was about to heave a sigh of relief, Jim began to laugh. Moran winced. The last time he had laughed like this was while playing that insane game with Holmes, and in the end had almost gotten himself blown up in a pool.
Jim stopped, blinking tears out of his eyes.
“Much better outcome than I anticipated," he smiled. "Do nothing. Just regular updates.” He smiled again, and this time the shiver that ran down Moran’s spine had nothing to do with the cold. “The pieces are in place. The game will be much more fun, this time around.”
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