Fic: Witness Protection (5/?)
Title: Witness Protection
Author: missilemuse.
Part: 5/?
Wordcount: ~2650 in this part. (~10,500 in all)
Rating: PG-13 (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 HERE; 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 :: CHAPTER 3 :: CHAPTER 4
104… His heart-rate was 104. It did not seem to realise that all John was doing was standing in front of a wall. There, Lestrade would be happy now. As of this moment, John was feeling nothing but a swooping terror in the pit of his stomach.
Sherlock was after Jim. Of course, he was after Jim; he is the world’s only Consulting Detective. John was just too thick to have caught on earlier. There was a sort of inevitability to it; a sort of sick symmetry. If not Sherlock, then who? And Of course, Jim! Lestrade had been right. This was so fucked up. What had he been thinking? Why the hell was his heart still racing? Who was he really afraid for?
John heard footsteps behind him and carefully wiped all expression from his face, before turning to face Sherlock. He usually didn’t have masochistic tendencies, but he had to know.
Sherlock still looked pensive and achingly beautiful as he passed John his mug. “Victor, about-”
John interrupted, before it could become too awkward. “Sherlock, do we really need to talk about it? It was just a kiss. I…I’m in a particularly bad place right now, and wasn’t thinking clearly. It’s been a long time since anyone’s given a damn about me and, you did…so I kissed you back. It doesn’t have to mean anything, right?”
WRONG! Sherlock wanted to scream. But years of well-honed defence mechanisms kicked in automatically. He was Sherlock Holmes. It had been a momentary weakness, nothing more. It had meant nothing to Victor. SO SHUT UP, his brain commanded. Sherlock locked his jaws into smiling tightly back. “Of course, it doesn’t have to mean anything, Victor. I apologise if I came on too strongly.”
They sipped their tea in silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts until John finally broke the silence. “What’s that case, you have up on the wall?”
Sherlock looked up at the wall distractedly and gave a wry grin. “That, Victor, is the puzzle of a lifetime. The case which, when solved, will be my crowning glory; and I wouldn’t be remiss in describing it as the work of a serious and powerful admirer.”
“An admirer?”
“A man who calls himself a consultant criminal. Brilliant actually!”
‘I’m an international Consultant, John, with a lot of demand. But I like working freelance. It allows me the space to be innovative. Individuals, Companies…anyone with interesting problems can hire me. I know it doesn’t sound terribly interesting to a soldier like you, but it’s pretty exciting!’
John shook his head to clear it. “You’ve met this man? Seen him?”
Sherlock looked disturbingly nostalgic. “Yes, twice… the last time was nearly half a year ago. You must have read about the two random London bombings at the time. One of which was right across the road. All his work, just to get my attention. After that, he disappeared. Lying low for the time being, probably planning his next elegant endeavour.”
He took a deep breath as if reliving the time. “But he’ll be back. I don’t know how to describe him, Victor. The best way would be to call him the ‘Perfect Opponent’, if there’s any such thing. With him and his games around, I’m never bored.”
John realised that he was shaking. The longing in Sherlock’s voice felt too much like a betrayal; too close on the heels of the first.
“People died…in that bombing. Do you care about it at all?”
Sherlock seemed to come back to the room on hearing his voice. There was a puzzled frown on his face, as if he had a problem comprehending the question. “No, I don’t. Not caring about them helped me prevent four more explosions. It’s a handicap, I can certainly live without.”
Mistaken… again! John's mind whispered. He had been about to vent his soul to this man, not ten minutes ago.
“Besides”, Sherlock was still speaking. “…I would be closer to catching him, if Lestrade would allow me access to the star witness he’s so worried about. But he constantly refuses.”
John found that his mouth was suddenly dry. “Star witness?” He croaked.
It was not Lestrade but John who had refused to talk to, or have contact with, any outsider. He'd spoken to no one apart from the Detective Inspector’s immediate team. He had had his own survival to think about. Now that he thought about it, he vaguely remembered Lestrade mentioning a specialist… but he had been so distraught at the time it had barely registered.
“That’s what Lestrade thinks he’s got.” Sherlock’s agitation was palpable. “He’s grossly mistaken, but in order to prove that, I need to speak to the man. I need to question him! But Lestrade’s an overprotective fool, who believes every fairy-tale spun to him.”
“Fairy-tale?” John was incredibly grateful, that his one-word responses were sufficient at the moment.
“Isn’t it evident? The man worked for a mastermind. He can’t be trusted!”
“Worked for?” John sputtered. “Is that what they told you?”
“They didn’t tell me anything. It’s transparent. He’s running for his life! I know they are worried about his safety, and it’s logical. But in this case, believing his every word is the demonstration of the highest form of stupidity.”
“How so?”
“The witness is obviously a plant! Why do you think he’s still alive? He’s either been trained and cut loose for misdirection, or subjected to intentional data exposure and allowed to run. He’s a pawn. Everything that he thinks he knows, all the information he has, is definitely either useless or harmful. He’s just using this man to play us. I, on the other hand, would know exactly what questions to ask. But the witness has Lestrade eating out of the palm of his hand!”
John was afraid to speak for the fear of the words that would leave his mouth, but he had to say it. “You already consider him an accomplice yet you haven’t even met him?”
Sherlock smirked. “I have met our Consulting Criminal. That’s enough! He wouldn’t make the mistake of trusting someone, let them run and still allow them to live… the man could be accused of any number of crimes, but he’s not an idiot.”
John’s head was swimming. It had been the half-year anniversary of their accidental airport meeting when Jim had proposed. When they had reached home- their home - they had kissed. They had both been more than a little drunk, high on the euphoria of being engaged. Jim’s hands had been all over him, as they had entered the house, breathless and exhilarated, ready to tear each other’s clothes off…
Then, there was the phone-call, and Jim had to leave. The laptop had just been sitting there on the desk, opened to his soon-to-be husband’s email-id. Mistake! Coincidence!
HE’S A PAWN!
John sat up abruptly. “I have to go.”
“What?” Sherlock was scrambling off his sofa. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” John managed. "It's nothing. I..." After making a show of checking his watch, John forced his eyes to stay on Sherlock’s face, committing the ethereal features to memory. Victor Trevor had kissed this man, not knowing that John Watson was already loathed and distrusted by him; not even given the benefit of doubt. And he still couldn’t bring himself to regret any of it. Sherlock Holmes had been the best encounter of his life. How could he regret something like that?
“I just remembered there's somewhere I'm supposed to be, that’s all. Do you have a card or something? In case I change my mind about asking for your help in the future?” (That’s right, John. Keep it professional.)
Sherlock tilted his head slightly, eyebrows drawing together as his expression shifted into one of vague suspicion.
“I have a website, called ‘The Science of Deduction’." he said. "My number’s on it.”
John held out his hand. “It was… different, meeting you, Sherlock. I’m glad I got a chance to know you, whatever happens.”
Sherlock was still mulling over this statement, as the front door shut behind Trevor.
John had already decided what he had to do during the train-ride back to Sussex. Jim had played him and he had behaved exactly as had been expected of him, by taking the ‘evidence’ to the police. Best case scenario was that his information would turn out to be useless, and he wouldn’t be eligible for protection any longer. Considering Jim, the worst case scenario was more likely, where the data would lead the investigating team into a pre-planned trap and the authorities, who were already on the fence about his complicity in Jim’s crimes, wouldn’t hesitate to lock him up and throw away the key.
As soon as John reached his bed-sit, he started packing, a process which took all of five minutes. When all his worldly possessions had been transferred to a back-pack, he dialled Lestrade.
“Before you say anything, this is important," John snapped. "You need to listen to me. There’s something wrong with the information I gave you. You need to show it to Sherlock. He’ll figure it out.”
“What!” Lestrade’s voice had a tinge of desperation. “What happened? Everything’s set to go for tomorrow. The cryptographers have deciphered the location of his bloody control room. The warrants are coming through right now. What the hell did you tell Sherlock?”
John took a deep breath. “Listen to me, Lestrade. You have to scrap the whole thing. The place is probably booby-trapped. May even be another bomb. Take the data to Sherlock!”
“But…”
“And do me a favour. Sherlock thinks that if he could have interrogated me, he could have recovered more information. Just…tell him that was impossible. I never knew the real Jim Moriarty. Hell, I never even had a photograph taken with the man. Just, don’t keep Sherlock out of this investigation. You can’t do it without him; take my word for it!”
“Where the hell are you, John?”
“…And Lestrade, I know that the program is meant for witnesses. My information’s useless, so I don’t deserve protection. I understand all that; it’s not your fault. I’m on my own now. I won’t come to you for help again. I’m sorry, Lestrade…Sorry for everything.”
“JOHN!”
John cut the call just like the night before, then shut off the phone and left it on the bed. He left the bedsit without looking back.
Back in Baker Street, Sherlock hadn’t moved from the sofa since John had left. Mrs. Hudson would call it moping, but he found that he was unable to do anything except run the previous night over and over again inside his head. He told himself that it was an essential process. Eventually he would get bored and then he could delete it. But unfortunately, even after multiple reruns, boredom was the last thing he was feeling.
So you’re Mr. Holmes…That’s brilliant!...You---look different!...You’re amazing!...skip…skip… I’m glad I got a chance to know you, whatever happens…
He skipped over the kiss, because he found that when he thought about it, his mind went blissfully blank for an interminable amount of time in an endorphin rush of the kind that even cocaine had been incapable of producing.
He was rudely interrupted from his reverie by a frantic ringing at the front door. He heard Mrs Hudson answer it, followed by footsteps running up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Lestrade! Good! A murder would be a welcome distraction right about now.
“Slow down, Lestrade," he drawled as the D.I. burst in through the door. When he got a good look at Lestrade’s face, however, he sat up in surprise. The last time he had seen an expression like that was years ago, when Sherlock had dared to turn up at a crime-scene drugged to the gills.
“Lestrade? What-”
“What did you say to Trevor, Sherlock? What did you possibly say, that convinced him to go suicidal on my watch?”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “So you did know him…I knew it! The way-”
“SHUT THE HELL UP!” Lestrade flung a flash drive into Sherlock’s lap, who sat stunned at the D.I.’s uncharacteristic outburst. “Here’s the new data from the Moriarty case.”
“I already told you; the data’s useless. I want access to the witness.”
“Then good luck finding him. After all, you drove him away!”
Sherlock paled as he joined the dots. His voice was a whisper at the realisation. “Victor was Moriarty’s man…”
“His real name is John Watson, and he was Moriarty’s fiancé.”
Sherlock had gripped the armrests of his chair to stop his hands from trembling, as he momentarily felt his vision blur. The traumatic break-up, the ex-fiancé whose unsavoury occupation he had so-cleverly deduced…Victor reaching out…Victor kissing him, about to tell him everything, when he had abruptly stopped. Why did he stop? Ah, yes…eyes on the board, on Jim’s mobile phone number in his own hand-writing…He’s an admirer…He’s a pawn, a scoundrel or a fool…Oh dear Lord! What had he done?
Sherlock shot to his feet abruptly, startling Lestrade. “Where is he?”
Lestrade’s anger had dissolved into confusion at Sherlock’s behaviour. “Jesus! Sherlock, you’re as white as a sheet. Maybe you should-" at Sherlock's withering glance he faltered. "OKAY, Fine…We provided him a bed-sit in Sussex. By the time I got someone to check it out, he was long gone. He ran. Called to tell me to get the data to you. Here…listen to it yourself; I recorded the call. It’s standard procedure…”
Sherlock heard on the speaker-phone as John spoke. ‘You can’t do it without him; take my word for it!’
He closed his eyes, involuntarily.
Lestrade was speaking as Sherlock forced himself to listen to the call again. “He won’t last a week with Moriarty on his heels. Of all the stupid things…”
“Why does he call Moriarty, Jim? Why does Victor…”
“John,” Lestrade corrected automatically.
“YES… Why does he call him Jim?”
“Because…that’s his name? That’s how he’s referred to him since the beginning.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened. “John knew him by his full name?”
“As far as we know. Why? Is it significant?”
“THINK, Lestrade… He could have been anyone. Why didn’t he use an alias?”
“What does it mean?”
Sherlock was already dialling his brother’s number. “It means John is in even greater danger than you previously thought! It could already be too late!”
Lestrade left soon after with instructions to follow up with all of John’s known relatives and contacts, to find out if he had reached out to anyone for help. Sherlock doubted the possibility of that happening. Victor- no, John- would never endanger anyone like that. Mycroft’s minions were pulling up relevant CCTV footage but it was slow work.
On the top of everything, Sherlock simply couldn’t silence a part of his mind which seemed to have developed a life of its own. The kiss had been real, then? It had meant something? Or John wouldn’t have withdrawn like that! Did he hate Sherlock now? And how did Sherlock feel about John being Moriarty’s ex? Did he feel any different in the light of this new information?
SHUT UP! Sherlock told his head, refocusing on the data being sent by his brother’s assistants. Less than ten minutes after Lestrade’s departure, a familiar tinny sound rang through the flat.
The pink phone.
A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck as he fished the iphone out of its drawer. There was a single message from a blocked number.
LOST AND FOUND
ONE SECOND-HAND EX-ARMY DOCTOR.
ADDRESS: BLACK TRAMWAY, 12.00 a.m. TONIGHT.
AND DARLING, DO COME ALONE! ;)
There was no photograph accompanying the message. It was an obvious trap with Victor -John- as the bait. It would be foolish to comply, and Sherlock Holmes was not a fool…
I’m glad that I got a chance to know you…whatever happens!
He never really had much of a choice.
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