Fic: Witness Protection (8/?)
Title: Witness Protection
Author: missilemuse.
Part: 8/?
Wordcount: ~2630 in this part. (~18,900 in all)
Rating: PG-13 (may go up later)
Warnings: for implied non-explicit non-con.
Spoilers: for dialogue from season 2.
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 :: CHAPTER 5 :: CHAPTER 6 :: CHAPTER 7
John woke suddenly with a gasp. He didn't remember dreaming and for a moment was unsure what had disturbed him. The plush canopy of the four-poster above him left him wrong-footed for a second before his memory re-asserted itself. The next thing he realised was that his right hand was awkwardly trapped below Sherlock’s side and the only reason why the circulation to it had remained intact was because the bed was unusually soft. He sighed as the events of the night before caught up with him, and leaned forward to press a soft kiss on the neck of the sleeping man.
Entwined as he was around Sherlock, he felt the tremor that passed through him as if it were his own. The detective was awake but unmoving.
A frisson of alarm coursed through him at the thought of the possible after-effects of the drug Sherlock had been given; a concern which dissolved when he felt slim, long fingers wrap gently around his own handcuffed wrists.
“There’s a camera on the wall behind you. If I don’t move for a bit, they may not realise that I’m awake,” came the whispered baritone. “I’m supposed to be out for at least another hour. Jim forgot to take my increased tolerance into account.”
The fingers around John's wrist gave a reassuring squeeze. “How are- Did they hurt you again? Talk to me, John.”
This was the first time Sherlock had called him by his real name. John suppressed a shiver as the soft baritone wrapped around the common syllables with an overwhelming intimacy, like a whispered caress.
This was the extent to which his wish had come true, John thought desperately. He could feel his heart beat a staccato rhythm against his ribs as he wished things could’ve been different. He had truly believed that first the war and then Jim had broken him beyond repair; that he would never be capable of trust, of love, of making a real connection to another human being ever again.
But then the man in his arms had literally dropped into his life and proved him wrong. He was brilliant, beautiful, complex and devastating at the same time. Sherlock had saved him, rescued him from the pit of apathy he had been trapped in. Even if he were to die today, he would die as John Watson, an ex-RAMC soldier; as much in control of his death as he had been of his life. He was no longer an empty husk of a man who would have shot himself in a pathetic bedsit with no one to mourn his passing.
If only he had met Sherlock first instead of Jim. He could have imagined himself spending the rest of his life with this man. An entire lifetime lost to the vagaries of chance. Now all he had were a few precious minutes and he decided he wouldn’t waste them in pointless regret.
Not that he regretted a thing. If Jim hadn’t met him, he would probably have never met Sherlock. If he had once believed that he would die fighting for Queen and Country then sacrificing himself while trying to protect a man like Sherlock Holmes would be no less an honour. His heart felt suddenly swollen with the intensity of his conviction.
John shifted his hands slowly, taking care that there was minimal movement at his shoulder as he entwined his fingers with Sherlock’s. He had to make these final moments count. “Sherlock, you are the most amazing person I have had the honour of knowing. You saved my life in more ways than you can imagine…”
Sherlock’s body stiffened in protest at these words. “John,” he tried to interrupt.
“No… don’t interrupt. Let me finish. I need to say this. Thank you for being you. For being so different and incredible; for giving me a reason to live,” (And die for, he added mentally). “I’m sorry but I couldn’t help it. I love you, Sherlock. I love you just as the mad genius you are. I hate the fact that it was Jim who made me realize it, but it is the truth and I needed you to know before-”
Whatever John had been about to say was cut off as the man trapped in the circle of his arms abruptly turned and warm lips collided with his. Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him like a vice. There was nothing sweet about this kiss. It was hungry, desperate, wanton; all teeth and tongue and it was all John could do to simply hold on to the grim reality of the situation as it seemed to slip away in the sudden onslaught of sensation. It was Sherlock who broke apart first, kissing a line down his jaw before grabbing John’s head between his own free hands.
“It’s not a goodbye, John. Don’t you forget that! I won’t let anything happen to you. Now, you need to tell me exactly what Jim said to you.”
John had been determined to not reveal the details of his arrangement. But Sherlock’s body was pressed fully against his own and the compelling eyes brooked no argument.
“He wanted me to-”
The muted electronic click of the door opening sounded loud in the silence. John pressed a feverish last kiss against Sherlock’s lips before the door swung open completely. “I love you, you mad git.”
The expression on Sherlock’s face was desolate as he recalled Jim’s mocking words- ‘primed to fall in love with you…The poor sod didn’t stand a chance’. But this could be the last time he would ever see the ex-soldier. Against all reason he whispered back, “So do I, whatever happens…”
***
“We have a problem.” Sebastian began without preamble as he entered the control room. “Check out south east camera 4.” Jim brought up the view. Someone was lounging casually against the far side of the road. The camera showed a familiar face with silver hair.
Jim smirked. “He can’t get inside without a warrant. And there is no evidence of any wrong-doing. He can stand there all day. It doesn’t matter.”
Sebastian didn’t feel so cavalier about the Detective Inspector. But he kept his doubts to himself as he whipped up the second image at the keyboard himself. “Holmes regained consciousness two hours earlier than expected. We removed John within five minutes of realizing it. But John may have tipped him off about the shooting.”
“You don’t know John Watson. He doesn’t share his-” Jim suddenly stopped talking, eyes glued to the monitor, still as a stone as Sherlock stuck his tongue down John’s throat. He had wanted this to happen. This was the plan. So why did he feel like someone had thrust a hot poker in his gut and was now twisting it slowly? He froze the video on the kiss, moving his hand carefully up towards the screen, as if permitting it to move faster would somehow shatter it.
“When?” He asked. Sebastian had never heard that particular tone in Jim’s voice.
“About an hour back. I have moved Watson back to his cell. They have eaten... Well, Watson has. Holmes barely touched his food.” Sebastian took a hesitant pause when he saw that Jim hadn’t taken his eyes off the screen. “Jim?”
Jim got off the chair and walked out of the Control room, his movements unhurried. He walked evenly up to his suite, where Sherlock had been imprisoned. Sebastian hastened to open the door, his sense of foreboding rising every second. Jim brushed past him to walk over to Sherlock, who made no move to defend himself as Jim released all his pent-up fury on him. A vicious right hook toppled the Detective to the floor until Jim hauled him up by his lapels , his face inches from Sherlock’s as he shook him.
“That was for touching things that don’t belong to you.”
Sherlock chuckled through bloody lips, a triumphant look in his eyes. Jim whirled to Sebastian. “Clean him up and get him to the Control Room. We have work to do.” Sherlock’s mocking laughter followed him all the way to the door.
Fifteen minutes later, a very different Jim Moriarty faced Sherlock across the console of the most sophisticated computing System he had ever laid eyes on. Jim’s purposeful glare was partially obscured by rimless glasses and the wild fury that Sherlock had briefly glimpsed had now seemingly vanished. Dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, Jim was all business as he carelessly indicated the monitor to one side which showed John enclosed in the same room as yesterday.
Sherlock’s clothing was wholly inadequate for the chilled room temperature. The split lip and the bruised cheekbone stung mercilessly in the cold air. They helped remind him that behind the façade of padded rooms and crystal chandeliers, Jim Moriarty was still only human.
“After this,” Sherlock said gesturing towards his swollen face, “Do you really expect me to believe that you would hurt John?”
Jim’s lips curved in an ugly sneer. “You are so naïve. The only thing it proves is that I don’t like sharing my toys. John Watson belongs to me. If I can’t have him, no one can.”
“If you are going to kill him anyway, I don’t see the point of our arrangement. You said you would let him go free if I did as you asked.”
Jim’s grin widened. “Yes I will. But the same doesn’t apply to you, my dear. Even if your task doesn’t get you killed, you will be a marked man for the rest of your life. You would never endanger John by going back to him. I'd welcome you to the Dark Side and all, but it's a bit cliche, don't you think?”
In spite of the sense of foreboding, Sherlock felt his curiosity rise. Jim’s voice had been a challenge. Whatever the job was, it would be interesting.
“So, Sherlock what do you think of this?” Jim said, tapping the screen right in front of Sherlock’s face. Sherlock scrolled through the data briefly.
Project H.O.U.N.D., highly classified; a gas which induced content-controlled hallucinations-the first step in suggestible mental manipulation. Experiments in primates and initial human testing showed increased paranoia and induced homicidal behaviour. Project abandoned.
A mutant Rhinovirus, sub-species unspecified, developed through genetic manipulation for a Biological Weapons Research programme. Case fatality rate of 100% across all primate species with all attempts at finding a cure unsuccessful. Project abandoned.
Project Alatheia was about the development of a powerful chemical truth serum, which had been approved for human testing after showing no detrimental effects on experimental primate subjects. I was then found to produce irreversible neurological damage in the first batch of human subjects (no names or numbers mentioned), it had been tried on. Project abandoned.
The information was in fragments, a tantalising peek into the research but with the vital data missing.
“Where did you get this?” Sherlock’s voice was a whisper, unable to keep the wonder out of it. Jim’s eyes were shining gleefully.
“It was an M.O.D. file I accidentally hacked into, while trying to get at some covert plans for a client. BORING! But you know how it is- sometimes, anything is better than nothing. Besides, I’ve got an organisation to run. It was like panning the river for stray gold and stumbling upon the mother-lode. But it was too heavily protected and I wasn’t prepared. I pulled off a fucking miracle when I got out and ensured that they couldn’t trace the intrusion back to me. And there was always the next time.”
“Let me guess, the next time you hacked into the system, the information wasn’t there.”
“It was as if it had never existed in the first place. I wasn’t kidding when I threw the Bruce-Partington Plans into the Pool, Sherlock. I know the M.O.D. System like the back of my hand. I wrote half of their programs, though they don’t know it yet.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because that information is the ransom for John Watson’s life and freedom. You are going to get the hard copy of those files for me.”
He was studying Sherlock calmly, while the detective repressed an involuntary shudder. With the geeky glasses and casual clothing, Jim Moriarty looked nothing like the man who had casually strapped bombs on people all over London in order to play a game. Sherlock could easily picture what Jim would do if he got his hands on the recipe to manufacture a common cold with the death rate of Ebola.
There was no way he would be instrumental in letting that happen. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John trapped in the clutches of this monster and swallowed his immediate reaction.
“Did you consider that after your failed attempt, those files may have already been destroyed so that someone like you couldn’t get to them?”
“That was the pretty picture they tried to paint, when I sent my feelers out. But with the kind of potential that research had in military application? With the kind of money they must have already spent? The Government would never do that. They would rather wait for someone like me to come along uninvited and run human trials for them. So I decided to oblige them and find exactly where they had secreted the information away. I had expected to trace it to one of the usual places, like Porton Down or Baskerville. Getting into those places would’ve been easy-peasy. But all my network discovered was that, as far as the M.O.D or the Secret Service knew, the data had been genuinely destroyed. It took a little tenacity, but I dug deeper. That’s when I found that I wasn’t dealing with someone ordinary. It was someone powerful, someone who had managed to make the data ‘disappear’ right under everybody’s nose. Someone who would dare to secure a file that isn’t even supposed to exist within a civilian residence. Mind you, knowing the exact place didn’t make the recovery any easier.”
“So my job is…burglary? Really, Jim? I thought you had minions for that sort of thing.”
“Of the last three professional burglars who attempted the feat- and I only deal with the best in the business- two were killed during the attempt and the third disappeared. And none of them even managed to locate the actual hiding place.”
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, intrigued.
Jim’s smile was positively predatory. “Exactly! So I decided that a different set of qualifications were required. Let’s just say, a more… fraternal touch.”
Sherlock's expression tightened, annoyance visible in every line of his body. "You want me to steal from Mycroft? I'm frankly insulted that you aren't aware my brother is so devoted to queen and country he would shoot me himself before letting anything that highly classified fall in your hands."
Jim wrinkled his nose. "Consider it a challenge," he said. "If you’re successful, John lives on as a free man. Of course it comes at the cost of your reputation because let’s face it- the Iceman would know it was you, though I'm sure I could always find a little space for you under my protection. You're going to need it when this is over." Jim pushed his glasses up his nose thoughtfully. "I'm giving you free reign on this, Sherlock. Anything you need to get the job done. Just be aware that I will be listening, and if I get the faintest notion that you've opened your pretty mouth to tell Big Brother anything at all, John Watson will live just long enough to really regret having met you."
Jim’s smile widened slowly, cruelty flashing sharply in the set of his mouth. “Set a thief to catch a thief. Or in this instance, a Holmes to outwit a Holmes. That’s your task, Sherlock; to outwit the only man you know is cleverer than you. Now tell me, are you still bored?”
Next Chapter