Sherlock (BBC) fic: Petulant Ghosts
Title: Petulant Ghosts
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 3,750 words
Notes: A coda to 1x03 - The Great Game, with a hint of romance. Beta thanks to the incomparable innie_darling.
Moriarty is dead. Long live Moriarty.
"There are precisely six ways in which this might end," Sherlock says, gun holding steady on the bomb.
John can think of only two. They get out alive or they don't. He's inclined to prefer the former. Ideally in one piece, naturally. The thing is though, that even having been up-close and personal with the bomb, he hasn't a clue what it will do to them at this distance should Sherlock shoot; when he was wearing it, he wasn't particularly concerned with the details (type of detonator, amount of explosive, type of explosive), just with getting the bloody thing off. He's experienced enough to supply himself a technicolour visual of the final result of what would have happened had it blown up while still snugly wrapped around his waist. Now that it's off, he can only guess at the angles and impacts, best case, worst case. But there's no point concentrating on those scenarios because that's out of his hands. Better to focus on Moriarty. And Sherlock. Block out the events he can't predict or affect, focus on those he can.
Be battle ready.
He listens and watches. Waits.
"Really?" Moriarty tilts his head to one side in an exaggerated expression of thought. "I can think of-ooh, seven. But six of those aren't going to happen." His smile is decidedly manic. "I might be a trifle fickle and changeable at times - it makes life interesting, you know, to avoid being too predictable - but I've made up my mind now. And once my mind is made up, things always go exactly to plan. I have a perfect record, you know. Not a single botched job. I'm rather proud of that," he drawls.
Of course he is. And of course he wants to claim he knows that little bit better than Sherlock. This whole setup is a competition. A game. Entertainment for a bored genius. Two, really.
The question is: how far will each go to win? John doesn't think Moriarty has limits. Not moral or ethical ones at any rate. He's proven that already. No obvious weakness (if humanity or compassion can be defined as a weakness - John suspects that two out of the three present would say it can) to exploit.
He's not so certain about Sherlock. He'd like to think he has his limits, but then Sherlock's disappointed him before. Moriarty was the cause of that, too.
Sherlock smiles back, teeth bared like a predator. "I think you'll find that if you factor in all the information, there are really only six. But then, maybe you don't have all the information."
The scent of chlorine is almost overpowering - the air is humid and heavy and it's making it hard to breathe. If they survive this - no, when they survive this, John edits his thoughts, because he has to have faith in Sherlock's abilities. He has to trust that of the two of them, Sherlock is the smarter, the more determined, that the will to live, the resolution to save both of them, will trump Moriarty's desire to kill them - when they survive, John is going to go swimming every chance he gets until he can get rid of the association between the acrid bleach scent and Moriarty's maddening sing-song taunts.
"Clever," Moriarty acknowledges, drawing the word out. "Trying to make me feel doubt. Pointless, of course, because I really am smarter than you. I know that's quite difficult for you to grasp, but for once in your life you've been bested." John wonders if Sherlock made some sort of silent protest with a twist of his mouth, because Moriarty continues, sounding almost serene. "I know because I surprised you. And you haven't surprised me once."
John considers a third possibility. That they stand here forever, Moriarty and Sherlock trading barbs on and on until they fade into petulant, arrogant ghosts. He thinks this is the worst possibility. He'd end up the silent shade between the two of them, fated to endure this forever.
He tries to breathe steadily. In and out. This isn't the first time he's had a target painted on him, just the most prolonged. And this time Sherlock's next to him, under the same threat. And now Sherlock's not just his incredibly annoying flatmate whom he's only known for weeks; somewhere between having that bomb strapped to him and grabbing Moriarty by the throat, his brain has slotted Sherlock into place as his closest, dearest friend, worth dying for.
"What do you think, John? Do you think your new friend-" Moriarty imbues the word with all sorts of lewd undertones "-is going to come through for you? Save your life like you tried to do for him so touchingly just now?"
John swallows. His throat is dry, and it's hard to concentrate on forming words with the dancing red dots on his chest. Three of them, though sometimes two overlap and look like one. He tries not to look at the matching set on Sherlock's chest. "I have the utmost confidence in Sherlock," he says, voice a little shakier and less certain than he'd like, but not bad, considering.
"Oh," Moriarty giggles. It's not a pleasant sound, and doesn't make John feel like laughing with him. "You're just adorable in your faith. Like a little puppy. You even follow him around like one, blundering along, nudging him with your wet nose if he doesn't pay you enough attention. Do you do tricks for treats? Roll over for belly-rubs?"
John doesn't answer. The rows of changing cubicles with their blue and red curtains remind him of the multicoloured row of beach huts at Paignton. He and Harry always wanted to have a beach hut, and one year their parents rented one. It was small and dark and smelled faintly musty and they didn't use it after the first morning of their holiday. Harry always used to spend all her time in the water anyway, barely willing to come out for lunch or to go back to the B&B in the evening. John always built forts, huge complicated designs with moats and battlements, that would be nothing more than formless piles of sand the next morning. It never deterred him though - each day, bigger and better.
Later, in Afghanistan, he was stationed in a fort that was laid out just like one of his sandcastles. Even the colour was right, the colour of Devon sand. He remembers his awed surprise, laughing to himself as he explored the place, wishing he'd had a phone and could sneak a picture back to Harry. It was one of the spells when Harry and he were speaking.
"You're very silent, little puppy. Surely you're not going into shock," Moriarty says.
He probably is. Losing focus. Sherlock may be in shock too. He's paler than usual. Unless that's the effect of the greenish light rippling off the water, leaching the colour out of him. His hand is still perfectly steady, though, and his voice too. "Faith is the preserve of idiots who need a crutch. John's confidence in me, however, simply speaks to his intellect."
That is probably the most flattering things Sherlock has ever said about him.
"Boring, boring." Moriarty starts to lift his hand and John - belief in Sherlock notwithstanding - thinks this is it. His final moment.
And then John's mobile beeps.
"Mind if I read the message?" he asks.
There's a hint of surprise, quickly hidden, on Moriarty's face, and a pause before he answers. "Of course," he shrugs. "A dying man's last wish. We must be civilised."
The message is brief, more curt than Lestrade's usual texts.
DUCK
John dives towards Sherlock. He means to pull him down to the floor, but the momentum takes them over the edge, into the pool. Before they hit the water, two shots ring out.
*
"Was that really necessary?" Sherlock asks, managing to sound petulant. He's treading water, curls stuck to his forehead, looking disconsolately at his mobile. It's dripping with water. John's mobile is probably dead too, but he really doesn't care, because Moriarty's dead and he and Sherlock are alive, and he couldn't have popped into the Carphone Warehouse and picked up a new model Sherlock if it had gone differently.
"I could have left you in the line of fire. If you'd rather I did that next time, just let me know." Because there will be a next time, John is certain of that. As long as he's around Sherlock - and being anywhere else doesn't seem like a viable option somehow - there will be crazy, ridiculous, dangerous days like today.
John hauls himself out of the pool. His shirt and trousers are sodden and weigh a ton and his shoes squelch unpleasantly and will probably never be the same again. He feels bloody marvellous.
"It's adrenaline," Sherlock says, as though to prove he can still read minds, that this little altercation with Moriarty is nothing to trouble him and hasn't thrown him off his game in the least.
*
"You took your time," Sherlock says, as Lestrade, Sally, and an officer John doesn't recall meeting before head towards them. John doesn't know if Mycroft got them here, or if Lestrade had a flash of brilliance all on his own, and he frankly doesn't care. Those two shots were a beautiful sound.
"You're welcome," Lestrade says. He's clearly used to Sherlock's very special brand of grateful.
"We saved the freak's life," Sally says. She doesn't sound thrilled. "So he can go on and murder - oh, sorry, solve a murder - another day."
"Thank you," John says, because whatever her attitude, he's alive, Sherlock's alive, and the adrenaline surge feels fantastic. He could kiss her. He doesn't, because he doesn't want a kick in the balls and he doesn't particularly like her, but still, right now, everyone's beautiful. Being alive is beautiful.
"I'm sure it's not in my job description," Sally says.
"Actually, it is," Lestrade says.
Sally mutters something under his breath. It sounds like this job sucks.
"What you clearly haven't processed is that you owe your last promotion to me," Sherlock says.
Sally sputters and looks at her boss.
"Do you honestly think you would have made the promotion without me boosting your team's number of crimes solved? You can't be that naïve," Sherlock says, eyes narrowed nastily. John wouldn't blame her if she kicked Sherlock in the balls. Or brought out some pepper spray.
Lestrade shrugs. "He has a point."
Sally makes a despairing noise and stomps off. John's glad she wasn't the one with the gun - he's not sure he'd have trusted her to aim just at Moriarty.
"Well, I suppose we should find you another orange blanket. Get you both checked out." Lestrade says, though he doesn't make any move towards the waiting ambulance that John can see through the double doors. There are two men in handcuffs being led past it - Lestrade must have got the whole team.
Sherlock shudders. "Absolutely not. I'm perfectly fine, John's perfectly fine - you are, aren't you?" he asks, and then turns back to Lestrade without waiting for John to so much as nod. "See, both fine," he says, and John would believe him if he just strode out of the building, hailed a taxi, and forgot John was even there. But Sherlock doesn't do that. He plucks at John's sleeve and waits for him to follow before heading outside, and even though he's not showing a single other sign of any sort of after-effect, that one unaccustomed act is enough to clue John in to the fact that Sherlock is capable of feeling shock like anyone else.
John hails the taxi, offers an extra tenner when the driver looks askance at their wet clothing, and doesn't try to make Sherlock talk on the journey home.
*
"So, that's one chapter of your life over. Moriarty is dead." John tucks into his chow mein. Large doses of normality are called for right now, so they picked up Chinese takeaway from Phoenix Palace, and now John is filling himself with noodles in an attempt to make himself feel less empty. Drained. Something. It's delayed shock, probably, so carbohydrates are as good a recourse as any. Tomorrow he'll obediently blog about the day - leaving out a few details, like the way he grabbed Moriarty to try to save Sherlock - but he thinks the noodles will do more for him. That and Sherlock's blasé attitude about the whole situation. He might have been temporarily slightly shaken - John might even get him to admit to that - but now he's doing a convincing impression of just another routine day at the office.
"Oh, no," Sherlock says, casual and offhand. "Moriarty isn't dead."
John blinks. "He looked pretty dead to me. And I'm actually fairly good at judging those kind of things," he says, as apparently Sherlock needs a reminder that John's a doctor. This wasn't his first dead body.
"Oh, he was dead, yes. Whatever his name was."
"But?" Obviously John is missing something. Because John checked the body. Saw the bullet holes. Felt the lack of pulse. And heard the part where he introduced himself as Jim Moriarty. Twice, in fact. Once with Sherlock present, in person, and earlier over the phone, just for John alone.
"That creature was just a puppet," Sherlock says. "Didn't you realise?"
"Should I have?" John drops a slice of mushroom on the floor. He's normally better with chopsticks than this.
Sherlock's expression says of course you should have. "The pauses. Didn't you notice the pauses?"
"Pauses?" John parrots helplessly, getting up to fetch a fork. Two, because maybe that will induce Sherlock to stop reliving and start eating.
Sherlock huffs in exasperation. "Yes, the pauses. The bloody obvious pauses before he spoke."
John raises his eyebrows, because that has to be Sherlock exaggerating. "Bloody obvious, were they?"
Sherlock sighs. "Very well, they weren't that obvious. And they weren't there at the start - obviously he'd been given a script for our introduction." Sherlock says it as though they were debutants together at a tea party. So very civilised. "But later on, once things went off script, he was listening to someone, repeating their words. He wore an earpiece."
"I didn't see one." The fork is much better than chopsticks.
"It was very small. Completely inside his ear. But it rendered him semi-deaf on one side, so he turned his other side fractionally towards us to make up for it. Which of course was pointless and wouldn't have made any appreciable difference to his hearing, but then the puppet had no great brain. He was a good actor, though, I'll give him that. It took me a while to catch on."
John ignores the details and runs with the pertinent point. "So, your nemesis is still out there."
"Yes," Sherlock says. "I'll fully understand if you want to leave, of course." He picks up his fork - success - and takes a mouthful of egg foo young, ignoring the rice. He chews thoughtfully. "Well, no, actually, I won't, but that seems to be the expected thing to say. I can't understand why anyone would run from excitement to a humdrum life, but that does seem to be the way of most people." He looks steadily at John. "You're not most people though."
Two compliments (or at least, what pass as compliments for Sherlock) in little more than an hour. This really is an extraordinary day.
"I'm not leaving," John says. Then thinks back to the pool, the smug, arrogant, playful man who called himself Jim Moriarty. Who spoke in John's ear and loved every minute of it. Who looked them both in the eye and was relishing the prospect of their deaths.
"But the guy at the pool, he wasn't crying or nervous or anything. Not like the people Moriarty used on the phone. So why? It doesn't make sense."
"He was hand-picked, and thrilled to be. He was one of Moriarty's fans." Sherlock imbues the word 'fans' with the utmost disdain.
John doesn't ask how Sherlock knows. "That's-" Scary. Sick. Horrific.
Sherlock seems to hear all the unspoken words. He nods. "That's Moriarty for you."
"We'll get him," John says. He feels the need to reassure Sherlock. He leans over and pats his shoulder awkwardly. "Or rather, you'll get him. I have the utmost confidence in you."
"Oh, yes, I will," Sherlock says, but for once John can hear just a fraction of self-doubt in the words. It's oddly wrong coming from Sherlock.
"You will," John says emphatically. The power of positive thought. Even if he can contribute little more, he can at least do that much.
"With your help," Sherlock says, unexpectedly. He flashes a brief grin, there and gone in under a second, but for that fraction of a second John felt the warmth of it all over.
He smiles back. A lingering smile, his. One that's meant to tell Sherlock he'll be here, whatever happens, whatever it takes. Sherlock's already engrossed in checking his texts and emails, tapping out rapid-fire replies to some, deleting others with a huff of impatience, but John knows he caught the smile and understood everything it said.
John's mobile bleeps. A text. From Sherlock, of course.
You forgot pudding. SH
Sherlock's way of saying glad you're staying, while simultaneously ensuring that John wonders why he does.
*
"So, why did you?" Sherlock asks. It's three days later, and the question is out of the blue. John's slicing onions and Sherlock's flipping through a pile of photographs of what appear to be vicious skin lacerations. John has absolutely no idea what the hell Sherlock is talking about, but then that's par for the course between them.
He racks his brain to consider the last couple of conversations they've held, but the question doesn't appear to belong with any of those. He has to give up and ask.
"Why did I what?" he asks.
Sherlock winces, the way he always does whenever John's grammar is less than elegant. He doesn't answer immediately. John gets the feeling he was supposed to have worked out exactly what Sherlock was referring to, and his failure is yet another disappointment. He can live with that. Attempting to live up to Sherlock's expectations would be a pointless effort.
"Why did you offer to sacrifice yourself to save me?" Sherlock says it in a neutral tone, as though it's a routine question, but when John scrapes the onions off the chopping board into the frying pan and looks up, Sherlock's staring at John as though he's trying to see everything inside his head.
Oh. That. John thought they weren't going to speak of that ever again.
The embarrassing thing is that he's pretty sure that he'd do it again in the same situation. He just can't bring himself to analyse why. He hasn't mentioned it to Ella or blogged about it, and he has no intention of ever doing either. He'd had no intention of thinking about it again, but every time he settles down to sleep his mind keeps betraying him and going back to it. And now Sherlock's bringing it up.
"Does it matter?" John tries, hopefully. Maybe the male code that prohibits forcing another guy to talk about his feelings will kick in. Except this is Sherlock, and he doesn't live by any of the normal codes.
"Of course it matters. Every action is relevant, every decision we make under pressure in particular."
"Well, sometimes we just do things. We don't think, we don't plan, we don't make decisions. We just act. Normal people, like me, that is." John smiles to take any possible sting out of his words, though he doesn't for one minute think that Sherlock would take any offense at that. He'd be more likely to be offended at being lumped in with the common masses.
"You might not be aware of the decision-making process, but it's there all the same."
"In that case, as presumably my subconscious made the decision, perhaps you should be the one to tell me what motivated me?" John suggests. And that's when two things happen. Two equally devastating things. John's motivations suddenly become frighteningly clear to him - he'll follow Sherlock anywhere, he'll do anything to save him, he can't live without him, bloody hell, he's in love with Sherlock. Sherlock, of all the contrary, maddening, crazy, wonderful people.
And John's phone rings. Number withheld.
John answers it - anything to avoid looking at Sherlock right now, and John doesn't give a damn if the onions burn, because Sherlock's not going to bother stirring them - he's going to sit and work out who's on the other end of the phone conversation, which John has no doubt he'll do, no matter how little John says. So John answers the phone, and the voice at the other end is unfamiliar, and the words are new, but John knows exactly who it is. And this time, he knows it isn't an actor - no rationale for his certainty, just a gut reaction. Hello, John, the voice says. I think it's about time we had a chat in person. Just the two of us. No one else needs to know, and then no one, well, no one else will get hurt. I'm sure you understand.
John understands.
He understands far more than Moriarty thinks he understands. He understands how he and Sherlock work together, he knows what a good team they make, and he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that the two of them are going to put an end to Jim Moriarty.
"I understand," he says, injecting just a hint of shammed fear into his voice and smiles at Sherlock as he hits 'end call' on his phone.
"We're going to get him," John says, and he knows Sherlock gets it all just from that one simple statement. There are advantages to being with a genius. "And then we're going out to dinner. On a date."
Sherlock merely tilts his head briefly in thought, not contradicting John on either of his proclamations, then nods his head and lets a grin take over his face. He looks giddy and excited, and John should be getting nervous but he's feeling pretty damn excited too.
Life with Sherlock will never be anything less than an adventure, a dangerous one, and the thing is, John's up for all of it.
Bring it on.
//
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 3,750 words
Notes: A coda to 1x03 - The Great Game, with a hint of romance. Beta thanks to the incomparable innie_darling.
Moriarty is dead. Long live Moriarty.
"There are precisely six ways in which this might end," Sherlock says, gun holding steady on the bomb.
John can think of only two. They get out alive or they don't. He's inclined to prefer the former. Ideally in one piece, naturally. The thing is though, that even having been up-close and personal with the bomb, he hasn't a clue what it will do to them at this distance should Sherlock shoot; when he was wearing it, he wasn't particularly concerned with the details (type of detonator, amount of explosive, type of explosive), just with getting the bloody thing off. He's experienced enough to supply himself a technicolour visual of the final result of what would have happened had it blown up while still snugly wrapped around his waist. Now that it's off, he can only guess at the angles and impacts, best case, worst case. But there's no point concentrating on those scenarios because that's out of his hands. Better to focus on Moriarty. And Sherlock. Block out the events he can't predict or affect, focus on those he can.
Be battle ready.
He listens and watches. Waits.
"Really?" Moriarty tilts his head to one side in an exaggerated expression of thought. "I can think of-ooh, seven. But six of those aren't going to happen." His smile is decidedly manic. "I might be a trifle fickle and changeable at times - it makes life interesting, you know, to avoid being too predictable - but I've made up my mind now. And once my mind is made up, things always go exactly to plan. I have a perfect record, you know. Not a single botched job. I'm rather proud of that," he drawls.
Of course he is. And of course he wants to claim he knows that little bit better than Sherlock. This whole setup is a competition. A game. Entertainment for a bored genius. Two, really.
The question is: how far will each go to win? John doesn't think Moriarty has limits. Not moral or ethical ones at any rate. He's proven that already. No obvious weakness (if humanity or compassion can be defined as a weakness - John suspects that two out of the three present would say it can) to exploit.
He's not so certain about Sherlock. He'd like to think he has his limits, but then Sherlock's disappointed him before. Moriarty was the cause of that, too.
Sherlock smiles back, teeth bared like a predator. "I think you'll find that if you factor in all the information, there are really only six. But then, maybe you don't have all the information."
The scent of chlorine is almost overpowering - the air is humid and heavy and it's making it hard to breathe. If they survive this - no, when they survive this, John edits his thoughts, because he has to have faith in Sherlock's abilities. He has to trust that of the two of them, Sherlock is the smarter, the more determined, that the will to live, the resolution to save both of them, will trump Moriarty's desire to kill them - when they survive, John is going to go swimming every chance he gets until he can get rid of the association between the acrid bleach scent and Moriarty's maddening sing-song taunts.
"Clever," Moriarty acknowledges, drawing the word out. "Trying to make me feel doubt. Pointless, of course, because I really am smarter than you. I know that's quite difficult for you to grasp, but for once in your life you've been bested." John wonders if Sherlock made some sort of silent protest with a twist of his mouth, because Moriarty continues, sounding almost serene. "I know because I surprised you. And you haven't surprised me once."
John considers a third possibility. That they stand here forever, Moriarty and Sherlock trading barbs on and on until they fade into petulant, arrogant ghosts. He thinks this is the worst possibility. He'd end up the silent shade between the two of them, fated to endure this forever.
He tries to breathe steadily. In and out. This isn't the first time he's had a target painted on him, just the most prolonged. And this time Sherlock's next to him, under the same threat. And now Sherlock's not just his incredibly annoying flatmate whom he's only known for weeks; somewhere between having that bomb strapped to him and grabbing Moriarty by the throat, his brain has slotted Sherlock into place as his closest, dearest friend, worth dying for.
"What do you think, John? Do you think your new friend-" Moriarty imbues the word with all sorts of lewd undertones "-is going to come through for you? Save your life like you tried to do for him so touchingly just now?"
John swallows. His throat is dry, and it's hard to concentrate on forming words with the dancing red dots on his chest. Three of them, though sometimes two overlap and look like one. He tries not to look at the matching set on Sherlock's chest. "I have the utmost confidence in Sherlock," he says, voice a little shakier and less certain than he'd like, but not bad, considering.
"Oh," Moriarty giggles. It's not a pleasant sound, and doesn't make John feel like laughing with him. "You're just adorable in your faith. Like a little puppy. You even follow him around like one, blundering along, nudging him with your wet nose if he doesn't pay you enough attention. Do you do tricks for treats? Roll over for belly-rubs?"
John doesn't answer. The rows of changing cubicles with their blue and red curtains remind him of the multicoloured row of beach huts at Paignton. He and Harry always wanted to have a beach hut, and one year their parents rented one. It was small and dark and smelled faintly musty and they didn't use it after the first morning of their holiday. Harry always used to spend all her time in the water anyway, barely willing to come out for lunch or to go back to the B&B in the evening. John always built forts, huge complicated designs with moats and battlements, that would be nothing more than formless piles of sand the next morning. It never deterred him though - each day, bigger and better.
Later, in Afghanistan, he was stationed in a fort that was laid out just like one of his sandcastles. Even the colour was right, the colour of Devon sand. He remembers his awed surprise, laughing to himself as he explored the place, wishing he'd had a phone and could sneak a picture back to Harry. It was one of the spells when Harry and he were speaking.
"You're very silent, little puppy. Surely you're not going into shock," Moriarty says.
He probably is. Losing focus. Sherlock may be in shock too. He's paler than usual. Unless that's the effect of the greenish light rippling off the water, leaching the colour out of him. His hand is still perfectly steady, though, and his voice too. "Faith is the preserve of idiots who need a crutch. John's confidence in me, however, simply speaks to his intellect."
That is probably the most flattering things Sherlock has ever said about him.
"Boring, boring." Moriarty starts to lift his hand and John - belief in Sherlock notwithstanding - thinks this is it. His final moment.
And then John's mobile beeps.
"Mind if I read the message?" he asks.
There's a hint of surprise, quickly hidden, on Moriarty's face, and a pause before he answers. "Of course," he shrugs. "A dying man's last wish. We must be civilised."
The message is brief, more curt than Lestrade's usual texts.
DUCK
John dives towards Sherlock. He means to pull him down to the floor, but the momentum takes them over the edge, into the pool. Before they hit the water, two shots ring out.
*
"Was that really necessary?" Sherlock asks, managing to sound petulant. He's treading water, curls stuck to his forehead, looking disconsolately at his mobile. It's dripping with water. John's mobile is probably dead too, but he really doesn't care, because Moriarty's dead and he and Sherlock are alive, and he couldn't have popped into the Carphone Warehouse and picked up a new model Sherlock if it had gone differently.
"I could have left you in the line of fire. If you'd rather I did that next time, just let me know." Because there will be a next time, John is certain of that. As long as he's around Sherlock - and being anywhere else doesn't seem like a viable option somehow - there will be crazy, ridiculous, dangerous days like today.
John hauls himself out of the pool. His shirt and trousers are sodden and weigh a ton and his shoes squelch unpleasantly and will probably never be the same again. He feels bloody marvellous.
"It's adrenaline," Sherlock says, as though to prove he can still read minds, that this little altercation with Moriarty is nothing to trouble him and hasn't thrown him off his game in the least.
*
"You took your time," Sherlock says, as Lestrade, Sally, and an officer John doesn't recall meeting before head towards them. John doesn't know if Mycroft got them here, or if Lestrade had a flash of brilliance all on his own, and he frankly doesn't care. Those two shots were a beautiful sound.
"You're welcome," Lestrade says. He's clearly used to Sherlock's very special brand of grateful.
"We saved the freak's life," Sally says. She doesn't sound thrilled. "So he can go on and murder - oh, sorry, solve a murder - another day."
"Thank you," John says, because whatever her attitude, he's alive, Sherlock's alive, and the adrenaline surge feels fantastic. He could kiss her. He doesn't, because he doesn't want a kick in the balls and he doesn't particularly like her, but still, right now, everyone's beautiful. Being alive is beautiful.
"I'm sure it's not in my job description," Sally says.
"Actually, it is," Lestrade says.
Sally mutters something under his breath. It sounds like this job sucks.
"What you clearly haven't processed is that you owe your last promotion to me," Sherlock says.
Sally sputters and looks at her boss.
"Do you honestly think you would have made the promotion without me boosting your team's number of crimes solved? You can't be that naïve," Sherlock says, eyes narrowed nastily. John wouldn't blame her if she kicked Sherlock in the balls. Or brought out some pepper spray.
Lestrade shrugs. "He has a point."
Sally makes a despairing noise and stomps off. John's glad she wasn't the one with the gun - he's not sure he'd have trusted her to aim just at Moriarty.
"Well, I suppose we should find you another orange blanket. Get you both checked out." Lestrade says, though he doesn't make any move towards the waiting ambulance that John can see through the double doors. There are two men in handcuffs being led past it - Lestrade must have got the whole team.
Sherlock shudders. "Absolutely not. I'm perfectly fine, John's perfectly fine - you are, aren't you?" he asks, and then turns back to Lestrade without waiting for John to so much as nod. "See, both fine," he says, and John would believe him if he just strode out of the building, hailed a taxi, and forgot John was even there. But Sherlock doesn't do that. He plucks at John's sleeve and waits for him to follow before heading outside, and even though he's not showing a single other sign of any sort of after-effect, that one unaccustomed act is enough to clue John in to the fact that Sherlock is capable of feeling shock like anyone else.
John hails the taxi, offers an extra tenner when the driver looks askance at their wet clothing, and doesn't try to make Sherlock talk on the journey home.
*
"So, that's one chapter of your life over. Moriarty is dead." John tucks into his chow mein. Large doses of normality are called for right now, so they picked up Chinese takeaway from Phoenix Palace, and now John is filling himself with noodles in an attempt to make himself feel less empty. Drained. Something. It's delayed shock, probably, so carbohydrates are as good a recourse as any. Tomorrow he'll obediently blog about the day - leaving out a few details, like the way he grabbed Moriarty to try to save Sherlock - but he thinks the noodles will do more for him. That and Sherlock's blasé attitude about the whole situation. He might have been temporarily slightly shaken - John might even get him to admit to that - but now he's doing a convincing impression of just another routine day at the office.
"Oh, no," Sherlock says, casual and offhand. "Moriarty isn't dead."
John blinks. "He looked pretty dead to me. And I'm actually fairly good at judging those kind of things," he says, as apparently Sherlock needs a reminder that John's a doctor. This wasn't his first dead body.
"Oh, he was dead, yes. Whatever his name was."
"But?" Obviously John is missing something. Because John checked the body. Saw the bullet holes. Felt the lack of pulse. And heard the part where he introduced himself as Jim Moriarty. Twice, in fact. Once with Sherlock present, in person, and earlier over the phone, just for John alone.
"That creature was just a puppet," Sherlock says. "Didn't you realise?"
"Should I have?" John drops a slice of mushroom on the floor. He's normally better with chopsticks than this.
Sherlock's expression says of course you should have. "The pauses. Didn't you notice the pauses?"
"Pauses?" John parrots helplessly, getting up to fetch a fork. Two, because maybe that will induce Sherlock to stop reliving and start eating.
Sherlock huffs in exasperation. "Yes, the pauses. The bloody obvious pauses before he spoke."
John raises his eyebrows, because that has to be Sherlock exaggerating. "Bloody obvious, were they?"
Sherlock sighs. "Very well, they weren't that obvious. And they weren't there at the start - obviously he'd been given a script for our introduction." Sherlock says it as though they were debutants together at a tea party. So very civilised. "But later on, once things went off script, he was listening to someone, repeating their words. He wore an earpiece."
"I didn't see one." The fork is much better than chopsticks.
"It was very small. Completely inside his ear. But it rendered him semi-deaf on one side, so he turned his other side fractionally towards us to make up for it. Which of course was pointless and wouldn't have made any appreciable difference to his hearing, but then the puppet had no great brain. He was a good actor, though, I'll give him that. It took me a while to catch on."
John ignores the details and runs with the pertinent point. "So, your nemesis is still out there."
"Yes," Sherlock says. "I'll fully understand if you want to leave, of course." He picks up his fork - success - and takes a mouthful of egg foo young, ignoring the rice. He chews thoughtfully. "Well, no, actually, I won't, but that seems to be the expected thing to say. I can't understand why anyone would run from excitement to a humdrum life, but that does seem to be the way of most people." He looks steadily at John. "You're not most people though."
Two compliments (or at least, what pass as compliments for Sherlock) in little more than an hour. This really is an extraordinary day.
"I'm not leaving," John says. Then thinks back to the pool, the smug, arrogant, playful man who called himself Jim Moriarty. Who spoke in John's ear and loved every minute of it. Who looked them both in the eye and was relishing the prospect of their deaths.
"But the guy at the pool, he wasn't crying or nervous or anything. Not like the people Moriarty used on the phone. So why? It doesn't make sense."
"He was hand-picked, and thrilled to be. He was one of Moriarty's fans." Sherlock imbues the word 'fans' with the utmost disdain.
John doesn't ask how Sherlock knows. "That's-" Scary. Sick. Horrific.
Sherlock seems to hear all the unspoken words. He nods. "That's Moriarty for you."
"We'll get him," John says. He feels the need to reassure Sherlock. He leans over and pats his shoulder awkwardly. "Or rather, you'll get him. I have the utmost confidence in you."
"Oh, yes, I will," Sherlock says, but for once John can hear just a fraction of self-doubt in the words. It's oddly wrong coming from Sherlock.
"You will," John says emphatically. The power of positive thought. Even if he can contribute little more, he can at least do that much.
"With your help," Sherlock says, unexpectedly. He flashes a brief grin, there and gone in under a second, but for that fraction of a second John felt the warmth of it all over.
He smiles back. A lingering smile, his. One that's meant to tell Sherlock he'll be here, whatever happens, whatever it takes. Sherlock's already engrossed in checking his texts and emails, tapping out rapid-fire replies to some, deleting others with a huff of impatience, but John knows he caught the smile and understood everything it said.
John's mobile bleeps. A text. From Sherlock, of course.
You forgot pudding. SH
Sherlock's way of saying glad you're staying, while simultaneously ensuring that John wonders why he does.
*
"So, why did you?" Sherlock asks. It's three days later, and the question is out of the blue. John's slicing onions and Sherlock's flipping through a pile of photographs of what appear to be vicious skin lacerations. John has absolutely no idea what the hell Sherlock is talking about, but then that's par for the course between them.
He racks his brain to consider the last couple of conversations they've held, but the question doesn't appear to belong with any of those. He has to give up and ask.
"Why did I what?" he asks.
Sherlock winces, the way he always does whenever John's grammar is less than elegant. He doesn't answer immediately. John gets the feeling he was supposed to have worked out exactly what Sherlock was referring to, and his failure is yet another disappointment. He can live with that. Attempting to live up to Sherlock's expectations would be a pointless effort.
"Why did you offer to sacrifice yourself to save me?" Sherlock says it in a neutral tone, as though it's a routine question, but when John scrapes the onions off the chopping board into the frying pan and looks up, Sherlock's staring at John as though he's trying to see everything inside his head.
Oh. That. John thought they weren't going to speak of that ever again.
The embarrassing thing is that he's pretty sure that he'd do it again in the same situation. He just can't bring himself to analyse why. He hasn't mentioned it to Ella or blogged about it, and he has no intention of ever doing either. He'd had no intention of thinking about it again, but every time he settles down to sleep his mind keeps betraying him and going back to it. And now Sherlock's bringing it up.
"Does it matter?" John tries, hopefully. Maybe the male code that prohibits forcing another guy to talk about his feelings will kick in. Except this is Sherlock, and he doesn't live by any of the normal codes.
"Of course it matters. Every action is relevant, every decision we make under pressure in particular."
"Well, sometimes we just do things. We don't think, we don't plan, we don't make decisions. We just act. Normal people, like me, that is." John smiles to take any possible sting out of his words, though he doesn't for one minute think that Sherlock would take any offense at that. He'd be more likely to be offended at being lumped in with the common masses.
"You might not be aware of the decision-making process, but it's there all the same."
"In that case, as presumably my subconscious made the decision, perhaps you should be the one to tell me what motivated me?" John suggests. And that's when two things happen. Two equally devastating things. John's motivations suddenly become frighteningly clear to him - he'll follow Sherlock anywhere, he'll do anything to save him, he can't live without him, bloody hell, he's in love with Sherlock. Sherlock, of all the contrary, maddening, crazy, wonderful people.
And John's phone rings. Number withheld.
John answers it - anything to avoid looking at Sherlock right now, and John doesn't give a damn if the onions burn, because Sherlock's not going to bother stirring them - he's going to sit and work out who's on the other end of the phone conversation, which John has no doubt he'll do, no matter how little John says. So John answers the phone, and the voice at the other end is unfamiliar, and the words are new, but John knows exactly who it is. And this time, he knows it isn't an actor - no rationale for his certainty, just a gut reaction. Hello, John, the voice says. I think it's about time we had a chat in person. Just the two of us. No one else needs to know, and then no one, well, no one else will get hurt. I'm sure you understand.
John understands.
He understands far more than Moriarty thinks he understands. He understands how he and Sherlock work together, he knows what a good team they make, and he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that the two of them are going to put an end to Jim Moriarty.
"I understand," he says, injecting just a hint of shammed fear into his voice and smiles at Sherlock as he hits 'end call' on his phone.
"We're going to get him," John says, and he knows Sherlock gets it all just from that one simple statement. There are advantages to being with a genius. "And then we're going out to dinner. On a date."
Sherlock merely tilts his head briefly in thought, not contradicting John on either of his proclamations, then nods his head and lets a grin take over his face. He looks giddy and excited, and John should be getting nervous but he's feeling pretty damn excited too.
Life with Sherlock will never be anything less than an adventure, a dangerous one, and the thing is, John's up for all of it.
Bring it on.
//