Man's Original Virtue - pt7
anonymous
October 18 2010, 11:16:09 UTC
He picks up the false passport (Sebastian Moran) and then uses it to pick up the gun. He won’t be using his own, it seems. Moriarty thought that would be too much, more interesting to make them work for it, to make them see the little games he was playing around them.
The house opposite 221b is empty, has been for as long as John can remember. Moriarty handed him a key in the car, and he opens the door.
The only way he can get through this is by thinking of the orders one at a time. He’s not thinking ahead, he’s just following them in order. He has to go upstairs.
He takes each step with single-minded determination. He focuses on it to the exclusion of everything else. He is not thinking of Sherlock, he’s not thinking about what lies at the top of those stairs, he’s thinking about the step.
One foot in front of the other.
He reaches the top of the stairs and his heart sinks a little more. That means there’s one less order to go before... before that last one.
He finds the room at the front of the house. He steps in.
He crosses to the window. He can’t quite resist the look up. Sherlock is there, in the living room. His violin is caught under his chin and he is pacing as he resins the bow.
John looks down and opens the bag. He pulls the zip so slowly, hoping that Sherlock will go out or that he’ll get a call from Lestrade. Something should happen that will make him get out of there.
He puts the rifle together. It’s one of the newer, high tech things, specifically designed to kill and kill well.
Like John himself when it comes down to it.
The gun is assembled too soon John props it against the ledge and looks down the sight.
The crosshairs fall over Sherlock’s chest so very easily. He stops pacing even, begins to play his violin, so terribly still.
Keep moving John urges him, but Sherlock can’t hear his thoughts, no matter what strange ideas John might have had at some points in their friendship.
His finger is on the trigger.
He will draw this out. He will not go easily. He’s not just going to shoot the best friend he’s ever had, the greatest man he’s ever know (the most irritating, frustrating, brilliant person).
John is a fighter and he will not be anyone’s puppet.
He looks down the sight at Sherlock, eyes closed, listening to whatever music his violin is making today. Is this a classical day or a composition day, or is Sherlock making it caterwaul, like he does at three in the morning?
John’s finger begins to tighten on the trigger. He has to take the shot.
The fuzzy pain is beginning to gather above his eyes.
He must shoot.
He will not shoot.
He must shoot.
He will not kill Sherlock.
Sherlock. He fixes on the name. Afghanistan or Iraq, Dr Watson will be taking the room upstairs, insane chases over rooftops. Sherlock, who sometimes smiles at him like he’s not sure if he’s doing it right, who smiles at other people with all the self assurance of an effortless actor and conman. Sherlock who pouts whenever Mycroft comes round and Sherlock who once set fire to the rug just because he could.
John remembers Harry, four years ago now, saying ‘Leave me alone, John’ and ‘Get out and never talk to Clara again.’ Harry who had once said ‘I’m sorry’ and promised him that she would never make him do something he didn’t want to again. He remembers the argument: ‘I don’t care what you think’ and ‘just get lost’, when she hadn’t realised what she had said until the next morning and found him in the middle of bloody nowhere. He remembers her telling him, drunk off her face, to pour her another drink, and another, and another.
He had no choice... he had had to pour them, just like he has to pull the trigger.
No!
The one word shoots through him like the starting gun of the one hundred metres. He tears his hand from the trigger, tears his eye from the sight and then the pain swells up so large that he thinks that maybe he’s been shot again, in the head this time. This is what it feels like to die.
The house opposite 221b is empty, has been for as long as John can remember. Moriarty handed him a key in the car, and he opens the door.
The only way he can get through this is by thinking of the orders one at a time. He’s not thinking ahead, he’s just following them in order. He has to go upstairs.
He takes each step with single-minded determination. He focuses on it to the exclusion of everything else. He is not thinking of Sherlock, he’s not thinking about what lies at the top of those stairs, he’s thinking about the step.
One foot in front of the other.
He reaches the top of the stairs and his heart sinks a little more. That means there’s one less order to go before... before that last one.
He finds the room at the front of the house. He steps in.
He crosses to the window. He can’t quite resist the look up. Sherlock is there, in the living room. His violin is caught under his chin and he is pacing as he resins the bow.
John looks down and opens the bag. He pulls the zip so slowly, hoping that Sherlock will go out or that he’ll get a call from Lestrade. Something should happen that will make him get out of there.
He puts the rifle together. It’s one of the newer, high tech things, specifically designed to kill and kill well.
Like John himself when it comes down to it.
The gun is assembled too soon John props it against the ledge and looks down the sight.
The crosshairs fall over Sherlock’s chest so very easily. He stops pacing even, begins to play his violin, so terribly still.
Keep moving John urges him, but Sherlock can’t hear his thoughts, no matter what strange ideas John might have had at some points in their friendship.
His finger is on the trigger.
He will draw this out. He will not go easily. He’s not just going to shoot the best friend he’s ever had, the greatest man he’s ever know (the most irritating, frustrating, brilliant person).
John is a fighter and he will not be anyone’s puppet.
He looks down the sight at Sherlock, eyes closed, listening to whatever music his violin is making today. Is this a classical day or a composition day, or is Sherlock making it caterwaul, like he does at three in the morning?
John’s finger begins to tighten on the trigger. He has to take the shot.
The fuzzy pain is beginning to gather above his eyes.
He must shoot.
He will not shoot.
He must shoot.
He will not kill Sherlock.
Sherlock. He fixes on the name. Afghanistan or Iraq, Dr Watson will be taking the room upstairs, insane chases over rooftops. Sherlock, who sometimes smiles at him like he’s not sure if he’s doing it right, who smiles at other people with all the self assurance of an effortless actor and conman. Sherlock who pouts whenever Mycroft comes round and Sherlock who once set fire to the rug just because he could.
John remembers Harry, four years ago now, saying ‘Leave me alone, John’ and ‘Get out and never talk to Clara again.’ Harry who had once said ‘I’m sorry’ and promised him that she would never make him do something he didn’t want to again. He remembers the argument: ‘I don’t care what you think’ and ‘just get lost’, when she hadn’t realised what she had said until the next morning and found him in the middle of bloody nowhere. He remembers her telling him, drunk off her face, to pour her another drink, and another, and another.
He had no choice... he had had to pour them, just like he has to pull the trigger.
No!
The one word shoots through him like the starting gun of the one hundred metres. He tears his hand from the trigger, tears his eye from the sight and then the pain swells up so large that he thinks that maybe he’s been shot again, in the head this time. This is what it feels like to die.
But better him than Sherlock.
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