Fanfic - The Great Puzzle 2/3 [Sherlock BBC: John/Sherlock]
Chapter One - Part One
Chapter One - Part Two
Chapter Two - Part One
Mycroft looks disconcerted. Sherlock is quite chagrined to realise that he does not enjoy the expression one whit.
“I must say, I didn’t see this coming,” Mycroft says, a hint of petulance in his voice. He’s never been very good with ignorance, least of all when it’s his own.
“Neither did I,” Sherlock says dryly. He hasn’t let Mycroft read quite all of John’s journal - there are some things he’d rather his brother didn’t see. But the bulk of it, yes, the parts relevant to the investigation at hand. No doubt Mycroft has inferred John’s thoughts on Sherlock, but Sherlock will pretend that those thoughts are his to hold.
Mycroft picks up one of the many documents John has procured and reads it again. Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised if he has it memorised already.
“If he’s telling the truth,” Sherlock says.
“This is quite… important,” Mycroft finishes.
“Have you ever heard of this Moriarty, then?” Sherlock asks. He knows the answer even before Mycroft shakes his head, but it still comes as a surprise.
“It is extremely vexing,” Mycroft murmurs, a frown creasing his brow.
“If it’s true,” Sherlock says. “If he’s been found out.”
He doesn’t continue. Mycroft looks up at Sherlock, and then frowns again. “Oh, dear,” he says.
“What?” Sherlock asks belligerently.
“I always thought Dr Watson might be the making of you,” Mycroft says. He begins to gather all the papers together. “All right. Come on. We’ll need to speak to - Jefferson Hope, was it?”
Sherlock exhales quietly. Mycroft is speaking as if it’s a foregone conclusion. That casual air of control is something Sherlock will never, under pain of death, admit to being comforting.
“Wasn’t expecting you,” Hope says. He smiles up at Sherlock. “S’nice, though. Visitors. Haven’t had a one, you know.”
Sherlock sits down.
“They told me, there’ve been a few reporters wanting to talk to me,” Hope reports conversationally. “They wouldn’t let them in though.” He smiles again. “Think they’d write a book on me?”
“They wouldn’t know how to write it,” Sherlock says.
“Write what?” Hope asks, affecting an air of confusion. Then he widens his eyes and leans forward. “Oh - how I killed them, you mean? But everyone knows that now, don’t they?”
Sherlock’s lip twitches. “The fake gun was instrumental, I suppose.”
“Must’ve threatened them to take it.” Hope settles back in his chair comfortably.
“Quite,” Sherlock says. “Or threatened them to make the choice, at any rate.”
Hope’s eyes narrow.
“And you promised to take the other one, didn’t you?” Sherlock says.
Slowly, Hope’s smile fades. “You’re very clever, Mr Holmes,” he says.
“More than you,” Sherlock replies.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Hope says.
“And yet you’re the one in here.”
Hope shrugs. “Free meals and lodging,” he says. “I don’t reckon I’ll be here long, anyway.”
“No, you wouldn’t be,” Sherlock says. “You’re dying.” His eyes scan Hope’s face. He can’t be entirely certain, but he thinks that that is perhaps shock that Hope is trying to hide. “What is it, a tumour? An aneurysm?”
Hope presses his lips together.
“An aneurysm,” Sherlock says thoughtfully. “Mm. Probably in the brain.”
Silence falls. Sherlock’s perfectly happy to let it draw out as long as necessary. Eventually, Hope shrugs. “You’re very clever, Mr Holmes,” he repeats.
“Thank you,” Sherlock says, lips stretching in some semblance of a smile. “Does Moriarty think so too?”
Ah, Sherlock thinks, as Hope loses his composure for a second. Got you.
“I believe we should act on good faith, as regards the rest of the information,” Mycroft says presently.
Sherlock stares straight ahead.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft says.
Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He wants John to have been telling the truth, because that’s better than thinking he’s been playing Sherlock all this while. He doesn’t want John to have been telling the truth because -
“Sherlock,” Mycroft says. His voice is soft and gentle and utterly detestable. “We’ll find him.”
They don’t find him. They do, however, find the remnants of the failed plot. The target doesn’t even have the decency to be anyone important. All he has is a wife who both abhors him and is rich enough to take out a hit on him.
It makes sense, Sherlock thinks reluctantly. John couldn’t have had time to become truly trusted. Of course they would have sent him out on a milk run. But no, no. John had said he thought he’d be able to get Moriarty here. They’re missing something.
“What else,” he bites out. Edmund Walters flinches back slightly, but there’s hardly anywhere else to go in the hospital room.
“That’s all I remember,” he says pleadingly. “I woke up in the ambulance.”
Sherlock scowls at the bandage on Walters’ head. He hadn’t even been shot; the bullet had gone neatly over his shoulder, barely grazing him. He’d attempted to duck for cover and wound up knocking himself out on the table instead. Idiot.
How completely useless.
They return to chasing electronic trails, trying to locate the people involved in Moriarty’s operations. Some of Mycroft’s people have been hard at work locating and rounding them up. Sherlock has spread the word amongst his own acquaintances amongst the homeless, who’ve rallied remarkably well to lend an unconventional support to Mycroft’s army of computers and soldiers. And yet, while all this work goes on, Sherlock himself is at a loss for what to do. He’s not used to waiting, and that is precisely what is required of him now.
Also, Lestrade keeps asking him to help on cases. It’s distracting.
When Mycroft finally finds proof of Moriarty’s operations - proof that hasn’t come from John, at any rate - Sherlock can’t bring himself to feel anything. On the one hand, he now knows that at the very least, John has been telling the truth about this one thing. Has he been telling the truth about the others? No way to know and no reason to dwell on that now. On the other hand, he is now absolutely certain that John is in danger, in danger and out of Sherlock’s reach. How is he meant to protect John when the idiot won’t stay by his side?
When all this is over and done with, Sherlock decides, he will have to have a long conversation with John. Possibly he will have to suggest keeping John safely tucked away at home for the rest of his life.
“My sources suggest that some planned operations haven’t been carried out,” Mycroft tells Sherlock. “It’s possible that Dr Watson’s succeeded in accomplishing his stated goals.”
“He also stated he didn’t expect to get out alive,” Sherlock says.
“He has proven to be quite resourceful thus far,” Mycroft says, casting a glance over the documentation that John has procured. “Far more than I would have expected of him. Let us hope that his abilities sustain him somewhat longer.”
Sherlock has never put much stock in blind faith before. He wants to now, but he doesn’t know where to start.
Triple murder, his phone wheedles. Lots of forensic evidence, but still no idea who did it. Thoughts?
Sherlock deletes the message.
“I investigated Janus Cars and Apate Construction,” Sherlock tells Mycroft. “Liars, one and all. But the companies also do the jobs they actually claim to, alongside their other business.”
“Must be lucrative,” Mycroft says. “Or, no, rather - an expensive front must keep itself up.”
“Everything this Moriarty does appears to be self-sustaining,” Sherlock says. “What if even killing him isn’t enough?”
“Then we finish up,” Mycroft says. “But for now, have a look at this.”
Sherlock bends over the table, peering at the computer screen. “How did you -” he demands, reading the dossier of information Mycroft has compiled on Moriarty. James Luke Moriarty, born 25th October 1976 in Belfast, parents Brian Moriarty and Elizabeth Moriarty née Kelly. Both deceased, October 1980, December 1980. Moriarty sent to foster care, adopted by Williams family, Kai, Janine and sons Mark and Matthew -
“Matt Williams was one of Carl Powers’ friends,” Sherlock murmurs.
“Quite,” Mycroft says. “Moriarty adopted the surname Williams for most of his life. He also dropped the first name in childhood and used his middle name, which explains why the initial background checks on Carl Powers turned up nothing. With two sons called Mark and Matthew -”
“A Luke would fit right into the pattern,” Sherlock says. The family was only peripherally related to Carl Powers, and hadn’t been important enough for anyone to take a closer look at their children. No one had realised that one child had been adopted. Sherlock pauses. “And I thought our parents were cruel.”
Mycroft gives him a wry smile. Sherlock realises, to his utter dismay, that he just shared a joke with Mycroft. This whole business of working together is truly playing havoc with his neatly-ordered world. His phone beeps again. Where are you? Just popped round to yours with the pictures but you’re not here.
Busy. SH Sherlock texts back.
With what? Come on, I’ve got three families here looking for answers!
You are not such an imbecile that you cannot resolve one case without my assistance. SH, Sherlock sends, and then belatedly realises that the text could be taken as a compliment. Bugger. Nothing for it now. This, Sherlock decides, is all John’s fault. Making him cooperate with Mycroft, and accidentally compliment Lestrade. He’d never have done either if the situation hadn’t compelled it.
Thanks? Lestrade replies. Uh, could still do with you looking things over though. Let me know if you’ll have time?
The text reads nothing like Lestrade’s usual. Evidently, the accidental compliment has also thrown him off his stride. Good. Sherlock should hardly be the only one to suffer.
“Problem?” Mycroft asks.
“No,” Sherlock says. “Luke Williams.”
Mycroft gestures at the screen. “All the available data. It’s quite comprehensive, actually. I’ve had my assistant personally gather this information, and had it verified by three different experts in my employ. I’m fairly confident that this information has not been edited in any way after the fact.”
“He doesn’t have access at this level, at least,” Sherlock says.
“Precisely,” Mycroft says. “Now, that could work in our favour. As things go, it’s precious little we have over him, though.”
“We need more,” Sherlock says, reading the rest of the data. Willed a small amount of money by a relative, used the inheritance to move out once legal. Rented rooms in three different places, Piccolo Street, Reichenbach Estate, Endover Avenue, before buying a small flat on the outskirts of London. He’s gotten some glowing referrals from all his previous landlords, none of whom appear to have noticed any sociopathic or megalomaniac tendencies in him. Well, they can’t all be Mrs Hudson, of course. Any other houses? None, apparently. But the names are interesting.
“He’s using both James and Luke after the age of twenty-three,” Sherlock muses out loud. “Never goes back to Moriarty, though.”
“Presumably, he’s reserving that for his less-than-legal activities,” Mycroft says dryly.
“Mm, but - remember what John wrote?” Sherlock says. “One of the first entries. Something about there being a Jim in IT.”
Mycroft stiffens. “At Barts, wasn’t it?” His fingers fly over the keyboard, and he pulls up a list of personnel working at St Bartholomew’s. He has to do a little adroit hacking to get the full list, but eventually they’re scanning through the listed IT personnel. And there he is. James Williams, employed just ten days ago. His resume is completely innocuous, but it’s interesting that he’s chosen to use this name, however well he’s managed to dissociate it from the surname Moriarty. Sherlock’s positive that Moriarty has multiple identities, some law-abiding, some... not. But choosing to use this one in this place - well, it can’t possibly be anything but a direct challenge to Sherlock. Thumbing his nose at a man he knows to be unaware of the danger next to him. And Sherlock certainly would have been unaware, if not for John.
The picture is of possibly the most unassuming man he’s ever seen. Well-groomed, and dapper. Not the sort of person Sherlock would look twice at.
“Recent photograph. That will be useful,” Mycroft comments. “Hm. He hasn’t been in to work for the past three days.”
“Can you find him?” Sherlock asks.
“I’ll set Emily on it,” Mycroft says, and it indicates something of the state Sherlock is in, that he doesn’t realise at first that Mycroft is (of course) talking about his assistant, she of the perpetually-changing names. Then he nods and steps away from the computer, pacing over to the window. Mycroft is good enough to leave him be, recognising perhaps, that Sherlock is in no fit state to converse.
Sherlock’s mind turns to John, as it has so often done these past few days. He has an accursedly vivid imagination, and it is helpfully suggesting, in graphic detail, exactly what kind of condition he might find John in. If he ever finds him. If Moran hasn’t killed him in revenge. Second-in-command, John had said. Intelligent. Amoral. Ruthless. Sherlock has often proclaimed himself all of the above, but he cannot conceive of deliberately setting out to kill a person. And not even out of any sort of personal vendetta, but purely for the sake of profit. Oh, the crimes are interesting, they surely are. What Mycroft has managed to uncover so far - those crimes they are now certain was orchestrated by Moriarty - they were very clever indeed, and under other circumstances, Sherlock would have enjoyed himself thoroughly in the solving of them. But not now, not like this. Not when his mind keeps throwing up images of John dead.
“I thought,” Sherlock says, “that it typically took a certain amount of time to become...” He hesitates.
“Emotionally attached?” Mycroft asks mildly. Sherlock winces. “It can vary. And with people who feel intensely, I imagine that it would not take them very long at all.”
Intensely, Sherlock thinks, glaring at the window. That’s his problem, isn’t it? He feels too much, and all the wrong things, at all the wrong times. John’s always understood though, and been patient about explaining things, so very unlike everyone else Sherlock has ever encountered. Sherlock has taught himself not to care, to attack first, to be the bastard everyone knows him to be, because otherwise it is difficult when he inevitably gets something wrong. But now that he’s found John, he doesn’t want to let him go. He doesn’t want to give up the chance to learn. About himself, about John.
He wants more time with John, and he will not tolerate anyone getting in the way of that.
Edmund Walters owns a casino. Edmund Walters also believes that his survival is due to Sherlock’s detective work. The latter is probably why there is now a standing invitation in Sherlock’s e-mail to freely use the VIP lounge at the casino whenever he so desires.
“There are worse resources to have,” Mycroft says reflectively. “Certain clients, for instance -”
“It’s hardly important now,” Sherlock says. Mycroft runs his hands over his umbrella handle thoughtfully. “All right. What?”
“I find myself returning to the scene of Mr Walters’ attempted assassination,” Mycroft says. “Nothing about him suggests that he would be important enough for Moriarty himself to be there. Why then, would Dr Watson appear convinced that this would afford him the opportunity to kill Moriarty?”
Sherlock sinks back in his chair. It’s the same question he’s been asking himself for the past few days, and he still doesn’t have an answer. Why would Moriarty have come along on the operation? Walters had been shot at in his office at the casino. The attackers had been hiding in the building opposite. The glass windows of Walters’ office had afforded the perfect view of the back of his head. One shot had gone through the tempered glass and over Walters’ shoulder just as he was pulling out his chair. He’d ducked, struck his head and been promptly rendered insensible.
Walters’ security guards had immediately risked themselves to get him out of the danger zone. No shots had been fired at them. While being transported on a stretcher through the back corridors, another four shots had come through the window at the end, narrowly missing Walters and his security contingent. Of the latter four bullets, only one had been recovered, embedded in the far wall. Sniper, definitely. Possibly military-grade. Those four shots could conceivably have come from the same building, possibly the same room, that had served as a stake-out point for the would-be assassin. The second murder attempt would have required a great deal more talent and finesse than the first, however, given the difficult angle and additional distance. Walters’ security was of the opinion that that was the crucial factor which had preserved them. Sherlock was of the opinion that Walters’ security was comprised of idiots.
Blood spatter had been found near where the sole bullet had lodged. Clearly, someone had been hit. Yet there had been no outcry. Someone who oughtn’t to have been there, then. Sherlock hopes that it had been Moriarty. But there had been no body either. What had happened, exactly?
And none of this explains why Moriarty had been there.
Sherlock strongly suspects, based on the evidence available, that the sniper who’d taken the shot was none other than John himself. But there was also evidence that John had not been alone in the empty office opposite Walters’ casino. No signs of violence, but it is unlikely that a failed assassination would have been received lightly.
What would John and his mysterious accomplice have done? Report in at once, John’s voice tells him. Not just successes but failures too, must be immediately communicated to the commander. He would have contacted whoever was in charge of the operation. Moriarty? Perhaps. Or Moran, or Sullivan. Why, why would Moriarty want to head up this - oh. Oh!
Sherlock leaps across the table, provoking a startled flinch from Mycroft. He doesn’t pay any attention, though, as he scrambles for John’s journal and flips through the pages impatiently. What had the exact phrasing been? Something about the “security detail” and Moriarty. Ah, yes. I also happen to know that Moriarty will be nearby. That’s it, of course it is.
“Moriarty wasn’t there for the operation,” Sherlock announces. “Or at least, not solely. He might have wanted to be kept in the loop, but he was there for the casino.”
“Gambling?” Mycroft says in interest, coming over to look at the book. “What made you say -”
Sherlock points out the line, and says, “Nearby. Not necessarily for the operation. We jumped to conclusions.”
“Ah, of course.” Mycroft looks somewhat disgruntled at missing that. “In which case, possibly as a customer, possibly on another crime of some sort.”
“That they wanted Walters’ death as a cover for,” Sherlock says. “Either way, John must have purposely missed so that he’d be ordered to fall back to a back-up position -”
“How could they have known Walters would come down that route?” Mycroft demands, then swears under his breath. Sherlock doesn’t pay attention as Mycroft calls Emily and tells her to re-interview the security guards in Walters’ detail. At least one must have been bought, of course. That’s obvious. Moriarty must have created a back-up plan in case John failed. No, this must have been planned with the expectation that John would fail. John had been right. They can’t have trusted him - not because they’d suspected his foreknowledge, but because he’s simply too new. They would never have trusted a new operative with something of this magnitude. Moriarty has flown under the radar thus far precisely because those he hires are extremely adept at what they do. And because he has set up people to take the fall for him, people who don’t know anything and cannot betray him. That’s what John has been meant to be, all this while. Someone to take the blame.
Suddenly, the whole operation makes sense.
“I suspect,” Sherlock says slowly. “That Walters has probably been robbed.”
Sherlock’s right. The whole assassination had been nothing more than a diversion for Moriarty. Two birds with one stone, Sherlock thinks as he puts the pieces together. He lays the plan out in his head, step by step as it must have occurred. First, the request by the wife, to have her husband killed. Second, the decision that the attempted murder would be the perfect cover for a daring robbery. Third, telling the wife that they would carry out the assassination themselves. Fourth, placing a rookie in the position of assassin. If by some miracle he succeeded, they’d be able to collect from the wife. If, as was likely, he failed, the attempt would still cause the same chaos as if he’d succeeded.
Fifth, telling the rookie what his job was to be. Kill Walters in his office, they’d say. If anything goes wrong, a guard has been bought to ensure that they will go down this particular route in getting Walters out. A second attempt can then be made. They might even have sold the job as an initiation of sorts.
Sixth, planning the robbery itself. Drawing security one way with the assassination attempt and breaking into the vaults (how? - that must have been a plan and a half all on its own). Seventh, allowing the rookie to take the fall for the assassination, and the robbery when it was found out. Even if he told the cops he knew nothing of the robbery, they wouldn’t believe him. Even if they did, there was nothing to go on. Giving up the rookie was necessary as a further distraction for them to be able to escape the casino unnoticed. The shots could only have come from the building opposite and he’d be found out quickly enough. That would be the point when they could make their escape.
It’s really quite brilliant. Equally brilliant is the way it falls apart. Sherlock rather enjoys piecing that latter story together.
First, John had been chosen as the rookie sacrifice. Second, John had known all along who the real puppet-masters were. Third, John had an exceedingly strong moral code and incredible strength of will.
Fourth, John had investigated enough to know what the true goal of the operation was, and where Moriarty would be during each phase. Fifth, John had deliberately missed Walters, despite being more than capable of killing him if he was so inclined. In so doing, John had been “forced” to move to the backup plan. Sixth, John had clearly known that at some time during the second attempt, Moriarty would nearby as he orchestrated the removal of Walters’ wealth. Seventh, John had taken the opportunity that was presented to him.
Sherlock is uncertain about how Moriarty’s story continues. He is fairly certain now that the blood that had been found belongs to the criminal mastermind. Either he’d only been injured, or his body had been removed by someone else.
And he has no idea at all how John’s story continues.
Walters is distraught at his suddenly empty coffers. In all the excitement surrounding his attempted murder, and the subsequent temporary shut-down of his casino, no one had even noticed anything amiss until Emily had called to check. Sherlock gladly leaves one of Mycroft’s men to handle Walters’ questions, and ducks into the office Mycroft has commandeered.
“Safe?” he asks by way of greeting.
“It’s been swept,” Mycroft says. No bugs then, but that doesn’t rule out other things. Sherlock nods in acquiescence.
“What did you call about?” Sherlock asks.
“This,” Mycroft says. “I’m putting together a team now. I presume you want in on it, but you’re not going in with them. We’ll wait outside.”
Sherlock scans the document on Mycroft’s laptop even as Mycroft speaks. He bites his lip. The address is for a flat in Reichenbach Estate. Reichenbach Estate, where Moriarty had once lived. Too great a coincidence, surely. A glance through the other information procured reveals that the current owner, one Finn Wilson, is in fact a probable alias. There’s enough, Sherlock thinks as he goes through the document, to strongly suggest that the flat is now owned by Moriarty.
Sentiment? He’d thought Moriarty might consider himself above that sort of thing.
It hardly matters, though. The chain of owners the flat had passed through before arriving in Moriarty’s hands is unimportant. What is important is that it’s the nearest of the properties they’ve managed to locate thus far.
They might have gone to ground. Sherlock knows any number of ways to vanish into the city. But Moriarty would not have expected to be found out. He does not know that Sherlock knows him, knows his game. There’s no reason, in Moriarty’s mind, to make a complete escape.
So. Reichenbach it is, then.
“He has been remarkably well-concealed, all these years,” Mycroft comments idly.
Sherlock picks at the smooth leather seat. The streets are deceptively quiet.
“I would never have found him without already knowing he existed,” Mycroft continues. “And certainly it would have taken far longer than five days, if I didn’t have such a wonderfully accurate starting point.”
It hadn’t all been accurate. Enough, though. Sherlock scratches under the seam, trying to locate a weak spot.
“Given all I’ve discovered now, the organisation will be taken down quite swiftly,” Mycroft assures him.
Sherlock digs his nail viciously into the bloody seat. It stays perfectly, stubbornly undamaged.
“I might prevail upon you to help me scour the world of this little blight,” Mycroft says.
That, at least, Sherlock can respond to. “Fine,” he says.
Mycroft abruptly reaches a hand up to his Bluetooth earpiece. Sherlock watches him with sharp eyes. “Yes,” Mycroft says. “Ah. His name? I see. Any injuries? Yes, quite. Bring him out. Is anyone in need of medical attention? Yes, yes. Have you located anyone else? A physical description? Yes, and the condition - yes, of course. Has Emily seen him? Yes, do. Ah, I apologise - Clarissa, yes. Good evening, my dear. Status? Is it now? No, the Royal London, I should think. If you would be so good as to contact Dr Lawson and have him ready. Yes. Yes. Thank you.”
Mycroft turns and smiles faintly at Sherlock. “Your doctor was found inside. He’s injured, but alive and stable. We’ll meet him at the hospital, shall we?” He leans forward and gives the driver the directions without waiting for a response.
Sherlock closes his eyes and focuses on breathing.
“Good morning, John,” Sherlock says.
John blinks blearily at him. “Sh’k,” he says, then squeezes his eyes closed. “Shh-l’k,” he tries again.
“Hush,” Sherlock says, reaching out to press the call button. “You’ve been missing for six days, and unconscious for at least part of that, I’d wager. Yes, he’s awake. He needs some ice.”
John looks confused. Sherlock can see the moment when he starts to remember. “M-” he starts to say, so Sherlock puts his hand over John’s mouth.
“Hush,” he repeats himself. “You’ll hurt your throat.” He slides his hand down, feeling John’s lips quiescent against his palm. They’re dry, likely from the air-conditioning. John has stated on multiple occasions that he doesn’t deal well with the cold. Nights in the desert had been very cold indeed, John had told him once. Sherlock runs his thumb over John’s lips. Not quite in need of balm at the moment, but he’ll keep an eye on it.
John looks a lot more awake now. His brow’s furrowed. Pain, probably. The stab wounds to the abdomen had, one and all, gotten infected. The contusion to the head had worried doctors at first, but they’d swiftly realised that it was days old and hadn’t caused any problems. Most worrisome was the fact that he clearly hadn’t had anything to eat or drink in a few days. He’d been insensate not from the injury, but from dehydration when they found him.
The door opens, and Sherlock sits back. The nurse is efficient and quick, checking on John’s vitals, IV and dressings in rapid order. Then she demonstrates to Sherlock how he needs to hold the ice chips to John’s mouth, letting the cool liquid melt and trickle down slowly so as to avoid aggravating his system.
Sherlock manages to feed John three whole chips before John decides it’s enough to be going on. “All right then?” John asks. His voice is still hoarse, but it sounds much less painful than before.
“I am,” Sherlock says. “The same can’t be said of you.”
John smiles. Rueful, wry. “I knew what I was getting into.”
Sherlock frowns and pushes another ice chip against John’s mouth. “Was it worth it?”
John obediently opens his mouth and sucks in the chip. He hasn’t once looked away from Sherlock since he’d opened his eyes. “Mm-hmm.”
Chapter Three - Part One