Title: Burn The Heart Out Of You - Part Five: The Sound of Bells
Author: starjenni
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Pairings: Eventual Sherlock/John, and implied Sherlock/Moriarty if you read upside down and squint.
Warnings: Dark, dark happenings. SWEARING.
Rating: T
Spoilers: SPOILERS FOR THE LAST EPISODE. DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVE NOT WATCHED IT. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
Summary: Sherlock has not backed off. Moriarty follows through on his threat. How much of Sherlock must he destroy before Sherlock lets him go?
AN: I hope you enjoy. This chapter and I had an EPIC BATTLE but I think I won. Eventually. Thank you for all the lovely reviews I have received so far, you all give me the motivation to keep going!
*
Last Chapter: "Do you think he knows we're investigating him?" John asks instead, because he has no answers for the unsettling questions he has just thought up.
"Oh, I'm sure of it." Sherlock stands back from the wall, running his eyes over it all. "In fact, I'm expecting another warning at any moment."
And then Sherlock's phone rings.
The phone tells him that the caller is Lestrade. Sherlock answers at once.
"Is it Mycroft? Is he safe?"
"What?" says Lestrade's voice. "How would I know? That…Why are you - " He sighs; Sherlock can hardly hear him over the sudden pounding of his heart. "Look, we've got someone calling Scotland Yard, someone who says they want to speak to you."
Sherlock takes the pink phone out of his pocket, but it is silent. He frowns and looks up at John, who is waiting on the sidelines nervously.
"Be right there," he says and hangs up.
*
John can't help it. He sits next to Sherlock in the taxi and stares at him.
All this time he has been worrying about Sherlock, about what catching Moriarty would do to Sherlock, what it would cost him. If Sherlock had turned around to him yesterday and said that he was going to do what Moriarty wants and leave him alone, John would have been relieved, so relieved…
But now.
He has not considered other people. All those whom Moriarty has hurt or killed or used and abused. They must be answered. And what about those whom Moriarty will keep destroying, if he isn't stopped? He has to be stopped, of course he does. Even if it is at the price of Sherlock's entertainment.
Of course he does…
But then John looks at Sherlock and he thinks, this is not right. Sherlock is the only one who can do this, who can manage the great feat of bringing down Moriarty, and yet…at such a price. Baker Street and Mrs Hudson (home) has already gone, his brother is in danger, John is in danger, Moriarty is plaguing him at every moment, with impossible cases, with ridiculous taunts, steadily burning away at his very core, like he promised to do, and his eventual defeat will also lead to Sherlock's overthrow. Sherlock shouldn't have anything to do with this, not really, others should be stopping this…and yet the task is impossible without him.
John wonders, for the first time ever, if the world is using Sherlock. If he is using Sherlock.
Because if Sherlock turned around now, right now, and said that he should stop tracking Moriarty, John would dissuade him. It wouldn't be difficult, Sherlock is addicted after all, bound more tightly to Moriarty and to what he is than the strongest drug could achieve. And the deaths would stop.
But at the price of Sherlock.
How much does Sherlock matter? And to what, to whom? The end of almost all crime…is it worth Sherlock?
John has always thought he would answer a strong, firm no to this. But he finds that now, when it is happening, really happening, he has no answer to give himself.
He looks abruptly away, out of the window, and misses the quick flick of Sherlock's eyes to him, and then back.
*
Scotland Yard is buzzing, everyone is on edge, and as soon as Sherlock and John appear, half of them stand up. Lestrade is waiting impatiently by a large round table, a phone in his hand.
"He says he has a bomb rigged," Lestrade says, handing the phone to Sherlock. "Is he our bomber? From before? For god's sake, Sherlock, who is he and why does he want you?"
Sherlock gives Lestrade no answer. He puts the phone to his ear.
"I'm here," he says quietly.
"Hi!" says that voice, that voice, of course it would be that voice. Sherlock's blood runs to ice. Lestrade motions to him to put it on hands-free and he does so, trying to ignore the way his hands are shaking.
He puts the phone on the table. Almost everybody crowds around it; Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, nameless others, watching, listening, all with worried expressions. He can sense John's presence by his shoulder - warm, comforting; it is such a different feeling that he gets from the rest of them that for a moment his breath hitches in his throat.
"What do you want?" he says to the phone, to that hated creature inside it.
"I tried to find your brooooother," Moriarty sings carelessly. Sherlock's hands tighten on the table without him even realising it. "I failed though," Moriarty adds, as if it is some silly parlour game he has lost. "He really is very clever, isn't he?"
Sherlock's mouth twitches, and he can't help a little pride from showing through. "Cleverer than you, anyway."
"Indeed." Moriarty's voice has gone from warm to cold, so cold. "And yet still I hear that you are tracking me down…and succeeding this time. Now, now Sherlock. We can't have that."
Sherlock's eyes harden. "I'm not going to stop."
"No, of course you're not," says Moriarty. "That would be stupid! After so much fun has already been had! To leave the party just as its starting up - no no no, that's not Sherlock Holmes. No." He sniffs. "Anyway, I'm sure no one would want you to do it, you're being so useful and all."
John's heart sinks. Sherlock twitches a little, like he doesn't when he doesn't quite understand.
"What?" he says dangerously.
"You understand me perfectly," Moriarty responds, and his voice is a dark, soft, manipulative thing, and John has to quash the urge to pull the phone away, to hang up now. "No one wants you to stop, Sherlock, not really. Think of the crime that will be gone when I am caught. Think of what your investigating is doing for all those poor millions of people. They all want you to catch me, Sherlock, and they don't give a damn what you lose in the process. Even your little pet, there. None of them care."
John closes his eyes in brief agony, and when he opens them, Sherlock is staring at him, his face inscrutable but very pale. He has deduced it, of course he has, he knows that what Moriarty is saying is the truth, but John cannot tell what he thinks of it - does he understand? How can he? Does he? - and all he can do is hold Sherlock's gaze until Sherlock looks away.
"Why have you called me here?" Sherlock says to the phone, his voice as calm as if Moriarty has been talking about the weather. "Telling me this can't be the only reason." And then he pauses and adds quickly, snidely, as if he can't quite stop himself, "James."
There is a sudden silence on the other side of the line. And then, very quietly, Moriarty's disembodied voice says, "Don't. Call me that."
"Tell me what you want, James," Sherlock snaps.
"Stop calling me that."
"Sherlock," John interjects quickly, because Sherlock's eyes are flashing triumphantly, as if he has realised something, as if he is enjoying this peculiar but dangerous new torture; he looks like a child realising the power he has if he pulls the legs off an insect and John needs to stop this now, before it gets too out of control, before it gets too dangerous. (Not that this isn't too dangerous already, not that this hasn't been too dangerous from the very beginning - )
"Well, since I couldn't find your brother," Moriarty continues suddenly, light and bright once more, as if he has not previously dropped into darkness, "I thought I might try and target something else you love. Like London."
Lestrade flicks a quick glance at Sherlock; the rest of the group tense up.
"Which is why I thought the lovely Scotland Yard might want to listen in on this," Moriarty continues happily.
Donovan is glaring at Sherlock and saying "You fucking - " but Lestrade cuts in on her, raising his voice so that Moriarty can hear him. "Tell us what you have done."
Moriarty's voice becomes all at once brisk and business-like. "I am in the process, right now, in fact" - and suddenly the sounds of traffic and people and the screams of London rushing by echo through the phone - "of setting up a bomb in one of London's many crowded streets, big enough to blow up a sizeable amount. If Sherlock Holmes doesn't withdraw his nasty little feelers from my life within two hours, I will set it off. Do you understand?"
Everyone stands in silence, and Moriarty's voice breaks through before anyone can speak.
"Oh, this is brilliant. This is fantastic. Oh, you must all be so indecisive. Do you make your little bloodhound give up the chase or do you risk it? What's better, saving a few thousand people or catching Moriarty? The fear. The panic. Oh, it's Christmas!"
"Stop it," Sherlock retorts sharply.
"Two hours," Moriarty shoots back, suddenly cold, and the phone goes dead.
Everyone lets out the breath they haven't realised they have been holding. Sherlock bites his lip, his face very pale. The words oh it's Christmas revolve slowly around John's head, chiming far too closely to Sherlock's own expression of this when he had first met him. They are so alike, he thinks uneasily.
"This is ridiculous," Anderson finally snaps, breaking the silence. "Letting some madman blow up half of London so the freak here can get his kicks? I mean, what the hell?"
"Shut up," Lestrade fires back. He sighs, and takes a deep breath, leaning on the table and surveying Sherlock intensely. "Sherlock, just what are we dealing with here?"
Sherlock meets his eyes. He is no longer shaking, but the little colour he did have has drained out of him. "Moriarty," he says. "As far as I can see, he has had a hand in almost every major crime in London. He's…" He trails off, then leans across the table in an imitation of Lestrade, urgency pouring off him. "I'm so close," he says. "You have to believe me, I'm so close to finding him - "
"Sherlock - "
"You have to - "
"No, Sherlock, no! If he's targeting a main street, that's easily ten thousand people he's going to kill, I can't let you do this. In good conscience, I can't."
Sherlock's eyes darken. "You can't stop me," he says.
They hold gazes for a long moment, then Lestrade sighs again and leans back again. "No," he agrees. "I can't."
The people around him erupt. "You can't just let him - " shouts Donovan, but Lestrade rides above her.
"Just what the hell can I arrest him for? Trying to catch a criminal? Come on, Donovan, think!"
"He's a psychopath," Anderson shouts. "You know what he's like, he doesn't care how many thousands or millions or billions die - he'd do it himself if he could - "
"This is ridiculous," says Donovan, joining in. "This is stupid. He's not just going to - "
They all fall into a riot of shouting and over-shouting. Sherlock stands silently, very still, staring down at the phone on the table, and John watches them all.
"Lestrade," he says finally, not very loudly, but his voice appears to stop the squabbling. All eyes turn on him, except Sherlock's, and he swallows. "Moriarty is very dangerous…"
"Oh right, of course, because of course you would wantme to keep going," Sherlock suddenly snarls. John glances up to find Sherlock glaring at him with utter venom.
"What?" he hears himself say faintly.
"You," Sherlock retorts coldly. "You, all of you, everyone here - " he waves a hand around the room " - you all just want me to keep going. He was right - I'm just your glorified bloodhound, aren't I? Because only Sherlock Holmes can catch him, only Sherlock Holmes is crazy enough to be able to!"
Everyone falls silent again. John opens his mouth but there is nothing there, there is nothing he can say, because he has thought it, hasn't he, and it is the worst betrayal but he has -
Sherlock turns his back on him, faces Lestrade. "Tell me you recorded the call."
"Of course," says Lestrade.
Sherlock nods. "Play the bit where he makes the threat. More loudly."
It takes a moment (a moment in which Sherlock steadfastly does not look at John) to find the right section, and then they play it.
"If Sherlock Holmes doesn't - "
"No," orders Sherlock. "Back further."
The tape is rewound.
"…thought the lovely Scotland Yard…"
"Yes, yes," says Sherlock. "Turn it up and everyone be quiet."
The volume is wrenched up until Moriarty's voice is booming around the office. It is unnerving, as if Moriarty has somehow become a deity who can see through into their everything.
"I am in the process, right now, in fact…" (the rush of traffic) "…of setting up - "
"There! There!" exclaims Sherlock. "Did you hear it?"
He is greeted with blank looks and momentarily deflates. "I don't know how you manage through your daily lives without walking in front of buses and so forth, I really don't," he says resignedly, sounding so much like the old Sherlock that John feels his heart warm unexpectedly. "Play it again, and listen."
"I am in the process, right now, in fact…" (the rush of traffic again) "…of setting - "
"Yes!" Sherlock shouts. He whirls around to John, apparently forgetting everything else that has happened in his excitement. "Can you hear?" he asks.
John tries not to let his irritation show. "All I can hear," he says tightly. "Is Moriarty threatening you - "
"No," Sherlock interrupts. "No. Have you learnt nothing? Listen beyond that, listen behind the words. Play it again."
The tape plays. John listens hard. "I can hear traffic…" he says hesitantly.
"Yes, come on." Sherlock seems so enthusiastic that John listens extra hard. There are cars, people talking, footsteps, beeping, rustling, how can he possibly work out what -
He stops. And stares at Sherlock, eyes wide.
"Is that the sound of a bell?" he asks.
Sherlock's eyes light up, telling John he has got it.
"Not just any bell," he says. "The one o'clock bell of St Paul's Cathedral."
John stares at the clock over his shoulder. It is just gone ten past one. It is possible.
"Are you sure?" he asks, but that's a stupid question, because of course Sherlock is sure - Sherlock knows every piece of London, every alley, every corner, every traffic light crossing, every paving slab. Of course he knows the sounds of the different bells.
"You think the bomb is there?" Lestrade asks, cottoning on.
"I don't think, I know. Play the tape again."
They do, and Sherlock nods.
"It's got to be somewhere on Ludgate Hill, by the sound of it," he says. "Near the rail station - Lestrade, you have to evacuate the area, all of it, for miles."
Lestrade hesitates. "Sherlock, if that's all you've got to go on - "
"I'm certain," Sherlock insists. "You have to!"
"Yeah, or you could agree to end this, Sherlock," Lestrade argues. "And then there wouldn't be any bomb to go off at all!"
The flame that has suddenly been lit inside Sherlock momentarily dims. He takes a deep, long breath. "You know I can't," he says quietly. "I don't want to, none of you want me to, Lestrade please."
They lock eyes once more, and Lestrade is the one who breaks the gaze first, sighing. "All right," he says. He raises his voice. "Okay everyone, we've got two hours to evacuate - "
"Oh, you have to be kidding," says Anderson, and Donovan chips in with "ridiculous" and yet Lestrade shouts, "Two hours - now please!" and they all either rush or shuffle off to obey, running to desks and phones, and Sherlock and John are suddenly left alone with an empty table.
A silence falls between them that is not quite comfortable, Sherlock's previous accusation hanging in the air. John wants to apologise, or something, to say that of course he doesn't mean it, of course Sherlock is wrong, of course Sherlock is more important than catching Moriarty…but he can't, because he does mean it. Sherlock is the most important person in his world, but some things transcend that. Justice, duty, what is right…he hates it, hates the fact that he feels this, that they are in this situation, but he cannot lie about it. Moriarty's murders need to be answered.
"Coffee?" he puts forward tentatively.
Sherlock, who has been staring blankly at the table, clears his throat and says, "Please."
He doesn't look at John, but John thinks that is probably too much to expect.
He goes and makes coffee.
*
Scotland Yard may be a bunch of 'bumbling indecisive morons' according to Sherlock in one of his many and insulting rants, but when action needs to be taken, it is taken. They evacuate before the two hours are up, then sit around the phone, waiting, waiting, waiting.
The two hours end. The phone does not ring, but after about five minutes, Lestrade's does instead.
He answers, and talks for a long while with the person on the other end, while everyone sits or stands in suspended animation, terrified.
Eventually he hangs up.
"Bomb went off on Ludgate Hill," he says, to collective sighs of relief. "No one was hurt, place was entirely evacuated. Well done, boys."
People laugh and smile and applaud, John lets out a great whoosh of breath, Sherlock closes his eyes, and for a moment, for a great shining moment, everything is fine.
And then Lestrade's phone rings again.
Everyone freezes. Sherlock's eyes fly open.
Lestrade hesitates, then answers it again. "Lestrade here. Yes, I - what? Shit - how - that - all right, I'll be there as soon as possible. Yes."
He hangs up, and his fingers tremble on the buttons. Within five seconds he has gone utterly white.
"What is it?" Donovan croaks.
"Trafalgar Square," Lestrade says, in a voice with no emotion. "Bomb went off. They report - they report around seven thousand casualties."
A ball of nausea rolls unsettlingly around John's stomach, and he has to take a deep breath to force it back down. People moan and groan, and beside him, Sherlock has gone very, very still.
The phone on the table rings. Everyone stares at it. Sherlock is standing like an ivory statue, but the noise seems to wake him up, and he reaches forward and presses the hands free button.
"Oops!" Moriarty's voice crows around the room. "Did I forget to tell you about the other bomb? Naughty me!"
Sherlock says nothing.
"I knew you'd hear the bell, Sherlock," Moriarty tuts. "I'm not stupid. Did you really think you'd gotten away with it? Surely you know I'm better than that."
A muscle in Sherlock's cheek twitches, but he still doesn't speak.
"I hope you have fun cleaning up after me, Scotland Yard," Moriarty chirps. "You can blame Sherlock Holmes for this one. He should have left me alone, shouldn't you Sherlock? Seven thousand dead? But of course you don't care. Why should you? What are they compared to you?"
Still Sherlock says nothing.
"Better go," Moriarty says, with a sigh, as if he really doesn't want to. "Miss you, Sherlock. Oh, and John Watson?"
John doesn't want to speak, not to this man, not to this monster, not to this murderer, but he manages to force out a grunt.
"See you sooooooon, John," Moriarty sings, and then hangs up.
John's stomach lurches; he looks at Sherlock, but Sherlock is clearly miles away, his eyes are as empty as if he is a standing corpse.
"I can't believe it," bursts out Donovan suddenly. "I can't believe it, seven thousand dead and look! Look at him!" She points at the pale, motionless Sherlock. "He doesn't care! He just cares that he lost his silly stupid game! He's a bloody - "
"Donovan, shut up," orders Lestrade, but Sherlock is already stepping away from the table, turning on his heel, and walking very slowly, very quietly, very tentatively out of the room, barely lifting a hand to push open the door. John hesitates, uncertain about whether he should follow him or give him some time (and how much? How much time will sort this out?), but Lestrade says, suddenly, "John, we could really do with an extra doctor about."
John stops himself, and thinks instead about the people who will need his expertise, about those who are even more broken than Sherlock is now. He will be launching himself straight back into the war zone.
"Yeah," he says. "I mean, yes. Of course, of course I'll help."
Lestrade nods, and they fall into action, not the excited buzz of action that they had been in previously, but the action of those who have seen a disaster and now can do nothing but try to pick up the pieces.
Because doing anything else is unthinkable, and, perhaps this way, a few somethings may possibly be salvaged.