Sherlock (BBC) Fanfic - Survival - Chapter 13
Title: Survival (chapter 13)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: Sherlock, John, Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Moriarty (men.), Homeless Network, Col. Moran
Genre: Drama, hurt/comfort, angst, friendship - there will be a great deal of bromance (or pre-slash, you can in fact read this one either way)
Rating: T
Chapter Length: 3,980 words
Spoilers: End of series 2, “The Reichenbach Fall”
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs
Status: Incomplete
Summary: “Sherlock had never expected dismantling Moriarty’s empire would be anything less than gruelling; however, he also never anticipated just how desperately he would miss home.” Post-Reichenbach to reunion; Sherlock’s p.o.v.
Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12
A.N.: Hello again! As ever, thank you so very much for all the lovely feedback; I know I’ve said it before, but those kind words really do mean the world to me. Unfortunately I haven’t yet managed to reply to everyone, and I’m really sorry for that - please don’t think that I don’t appreciate you taking the time to review/comment, and don’t doubt that I’m doing my best to reply as quickly as I can, but my Dad had a stroke last week and so things have been very hectic here. He’s been very lucky (his speech and mobility are miraculously unaffected thanks to a blood clot in the back of his brain, of all things), but there have been a lot of hospital visits and even more worry. This does also mean that I might be slightly slow to update next week. I have most of the chapter written in a notebook thanks to the hours spent in the hospital café, but I’ve not quite typed it all up and edited it yet, so it will be getting to my betas late. Still, I will be doing everything I can to make sure it is as close to ‘on time’ as I can manage.
Anyway, enough of that. Thanks must, as ever, go to the wonderful betas I’m lucky enough to be working with: patchsassy, velveteenkitten, and infinityuphigh. They are fantastic at what they do, and incredibly generous with their time.
Cover by carolstime
ooo
SURVIVAL - CHAPTER 13
ooo
The wait is more difficult to endure than Sherlock would ever have hoped. After New York, he decided to quit smoking, aware that it had been the first step back ‘down the slippery slope,’ as Mycroft always referred to it; the cravings had faded significantly, but his current inactivity is making them increasingly difficult to ignore.
In every other city he has read the papers or watched the local news, solving all the little puzzles, in spite of how painfully simple and trite they are, to kill at least a couple of hours a day while unable to sleep or awaiting confirmation of receipt from Mycroft. He has had the vast majority of the required data available to him anyway, after observing key criminals for days on end and inevitably wandering by a few extra crime scenes (any professional is curious about the work of their peers - criminals are no different). Sherlock has always been very careful to avoid notice as much as possible during his investigations, often passing as ‘no more than a ghost,’ as Mrs. Hudson most likely would have put it. After the disasters of Barcelona, Coimbra and now Lucerne, he has only become more determined to perfect his ability to remain inconspicuous.
Here in Palermo, however, he is not following a mark, and he cannot seek out the information he would need in order to solve the vaguely interesting cases. It is almost as though he is back in the flat in Camden, knowing there must be so very many interesting crimes to examine and yet not being permitted, even by himself, to turn his mind to a single one.
He could take a look at the simpler bits and pieces, of course, but he refrains. If he starts to indulge it will become that much more difficult to stop where he knows he should; it is all too probable that he would find himself close to a crime scene or making subtle enquiries before he even noticed that he had encroached onto the Palermitani Mafia’s metaphorical territory. The fact that he would have no intention of taking his findings to the police is irrelevant. Even the most genial Mafioso would be unlikely to grant him the benefit of the doubt should Sherlock be spotted skulking around somewhere he shouldn’t. And they would definitely spot him - his entire purpose here is about making contact, about being seen and, hopefully, trusted.
As with any criminal or gang, the most efficient way to earn (and keep) Cosa Nostra’s trust is by ‘looking the other way,’ as it were; the representatives themselves made a point to mention their approval of the way Sherlock conducted himself during those twenty-one hours before their first pre-arranged meeting. The implication inherent in their comments was not subtle. If Sherlock wishes to remain in their good graces, he would do well to continue spending (wasting) his time in a similarly casual (oblivious) manner.
Regardless of what John is inclined to groan, Sherlock is perfectly capable of taking a hint.
The entire city is embroiled in the history of the Sicilian Mafia (Palermo was the first city with significant association with Cosa Nostra), beneath the earlier and more ‘acceptable’ history. Sherlock does his best to ignore it; the locals, at least, do not seem keen to publicise the association, which makes it slightly easier. He spends several extra hours sleeping, drinks an inordinate amount of coffee, and generally does his best to enjoy the city. Galleries and museums and gardens… By lunchtime on the third day of his visit, Sherlock feels capable of writing a three-volume guide to the city’s history and landmarks.
He deletes half of the information immediately. It is tempting to rid himself of all of it - if not for the second dinner being less than seven hours away, he would do so without hesitation; conversation will not skip straight to business matters, Sherlock knows that for certain. In fact, they may not discuss them at all tonight, so being able to talk about and show interest in the city the representatives know as home could yet prove advantageous.
ooo
It does. The restaurant is a small one, and so thoroughly hidden away that Sherlock doubts he would have arrived on time if a car had not been sent to pick him up from the hotel, but it is certainly not private enough for anyone to feel comfortable discussing business during serving hours. Regardless of the owner’s attempts to make them as comfortable as possible (reserved signs on all the adjacent tables, yet they remain semi-prepared and ultimately unused), the conversation remains light and amiable. If not for Sherlock’s decision to use ‘Signore’ when addressing one of his dining companions instead of lowering himself to using what he knows are third- and fourth-string aliases, it could almost be mistaken for a meal between friends.
They remain seated as the restaurant closes and the staff are dismissed, the last waitress delivering a tall bottle of rosolio, five crystal tumblers, a pitcher of ice cubes, a box of cigars, two silver lighters, and a set of keys (restaurant, front door) before she takes her leave. The owner follows a moment later. He offers a nod to the table at large as he pulls the door softly closed behind him, and Sherlock glimpses the very edge of a dark, ornate tattoo curling over his left shoulder.
There should be nothing but tense silence in his wake; instead, Sherlock is in the middle of a surprisingly passionate ‘conservation versus development’ debate, whilst Antonio and the most senior representative commiserate over the costs of their respective daughters’ recent weddings. Even as conversations draw to a close, the friendly atmosphere remains. Sherlock would have expected the fade into silence to feel vaguely oppressive, now that the subject of business looms, but he feels completely at ease.
Still, it would not do to become complacent, and he takes care to maintain a decent guard behind his smiling façade. Beside him, Antonio lights a cigar.
“Erik?” comes the call from his right. The youngest of Cosa Nostra’s representatives, ‘Ciro,’ is holding out the open box of cigars, smiling brightly at his momentary distraction.
Sherlock is very, very tempted to reach for one - they are obviously of extremely high quality, and the smoke Antonio is exhaling smells delicious. However, the whole point of his recent decision to quit again is that smoking has always been a significant trigger for him; indulging in the one vice never fails to draw him towards a second. It may have been over two months since his lapse in judgement back in New York, but Sherlock holds no illusions regarding the still-tenuous hold he has on his self-restraint and here, in the company at least three men who could very easily put him in contact with an excellent dealer, is not the place to test himself.
On the other hand, he is not ignorant of his position here, or of the possibility that a refusal could be construed as an insult. Negotiations such as this one are delicate affairs; during a similar dinner in New Cross, two years prior to meeting John, Sherlock’s polite refusal of a second helping of dessert resulted in a complete break-down of the fragile meeting, and Sherlock arrived on Lestrade’s doorstep ninety minutes later nursing a broken hand and multiple knife wounds. He has no intention of repeating his mistake, especially when the men here are carrying firearms rather than blades.
Sherlock has a job to do though, regardless of the risk to him personally. It is actually rather strange that he is hesitating to take a risk now, of all times. He has, after all, taken more than a few dangerous gambles in his life, a good portion of them recently. Faltering at the possibility of a risk, and one that is so unlikely to prove fatal at that (he has almost ten years of experience shooting up, after all), seems a little ridiculous.
He is above agonising over a single cigar, but that is exactly what he is doing.
Sherlock consoles himself with the fact that the issue is a little deeper than that; this is his potential safety versus a (mostly unnecessary) strike against Moria- No, not even against Moriarty himself, but against the Colonel. It is certainly not a decision he had expected to encounter tonight, and without the promise of answers or an edge of adrenaline and excitement fuelling him it is not an easy one.
The voice in his head that he has come to associate with John has been remarkably silent of late - out of odd coincidence or his subconscious’ recognition that the reminder of his friend has been unwanted, even Sherlock himself cannot say. It makes itself known now though, booming a firm, “Not worth it,” through every last millimetre of Sherlock’s brain.
Sherlock directs his attention back to the representative. The man’s smile has dimmed just enough to be a warning, and there is a slight heaviness to the air - he has been silent for a full twelve seconds. In this situation, that is far too long.
“Believe me when I say I mean no offense, Signore, but no thank you,” he tells him, forcing his voice to reflect the calm respect of his words. The tightness around ‘Ciro’s’ eyes does not diminish, and Sherlock is left with no choice but to elaborate. And to do so honestly - any hint of a lie or evasion, and he is likely to die where he sits. “Smoking, for me, never failed to lead to, ah, similar vices. As much as I don’t wish to insult you by refusing your kindness, I think I would rather be able to continue to do my job effectively.”
It is formal, and for a long moment Sherlock worries that perhaps it was too formal after such casual conversation barely three minutes ago. Antonio is tense beside him as well, a sharp reminder that Sherlock is not the only one at risk here.
‘Leandro,’ the most senior representative, makes an approving sound. “Good choice, I think.”
The tension disappears as quickly as a line being cut. Antonio lets out one low sigh before stomping on Sherlock’s left toes - the man knows what he is doing, clearly, and Sherlock is hard-pressed to refrain from wincing.
He smiles instead, making it as open and genuine as he can manage as he can. “Thank you.”
A round of rosolio is poured and enjoyed, and a couple of short jokes appreciated, before the question is finally asked.
It is, surprisingly, Antonio who asks it. “So, Erik, I’m sure we’re all eager to hear why you’ve had me go to so much trouble to set all this up.”
“If you don’t mind me interrupting such a pleasant evening with talk of business,” Sherlock quips, smirking. Business is the entire reason for their presence here, and they all know it; glancing around the table, Sherlock can see the same eager edge in every face.
At a nod from ‘Leandro,’ he takes the plunge. “I understand that you were previously approached by a gentleman regarding permission to run certain ventures of his through Sicily. A Signore Moriarty?”
“You understand correctly,” is the calm confirmation. The Mafiosi have small, knowing smiles on their faces, and each man’s shoulders are relaxed: the fact that their dealings with Moriarty are known to outside individuals is neither a surprise nor a concern.
Sherlock offers a nod, allowing his comprehension of the subtleties to show on his face, before continuing. “As I’m sure you’re aware, Signore Moriarty is dead and a former subordinate has taken the reins of his network - we know him as the Colonel, Colonnello.” He leans forward, taking a sip of his drink before resting his elbows on the table, left hand supporting his chin whilst the fingers of his right tap the melody of Funiculì, Funiculà against the dark wood. “My organisation, along with several others, does not approve of him or his leadership. Under his command, the network Signore Moriarty built from nothing has lost more than sixty percent of its worldwide hubs. He is sinking it with personal vendettas,” Sherlock hisses, allowing his contempt to be made obvious, “and we have collectively decided to expediate the process before he drags others down with him.”
Mycroft had been sceptical when Sherlock had suggested introducing himself as a representative of a rival network; it had been Antonio’s approval that eventually forced the elder Holmes to acquiesce. Introducing Sherlock as a government agent would, after all, have been ludicrous, and their options had been rather limited. When the Mafiosi slowly, one by one, nod their acceptance of the story, he is certain Antonio must feel as vindicated as Sherlock does himself.
“We have heard similar information from more than one quarter,” ‘Ciro’ tells them. “Over the last six months, our revenue from them has dropped by more than half.”
There is silence for a moment, before ‘Gianni’ asks, tone low, “What would you have Cosa Nostra do? We’re not inclined to go to war for you, Signore.”
“We don’t ask anything of the sort,” he is quick to insist, not allowing the unfavourable possibility to take root in any of the representatives’ minds. It is true that the sudden refusal of previous allowances could elicit some sort of violent response (the Colonel is a military man; war between gangs would not be beyond him), but Sherlock doubts it would come to that. The Colonel has previously displayed both well-used intelligence and patience, and the Holmes brothers have hope that he would recognise the folly of engaging the entire Sicilian Mafia whilst already trying and failing to deal with a well-equipped and well-informed outside force.
“It isn’t your issue,” he continues, “and none of us see any need for violence. The Colonel is, it would seem, busy enough. All we ask is that you no longer allow their operations to be run through your territory. You would be reimbursed, of course - by quite a generous amount, considering you’ll be losing all revenue from them soon either way.”
He leans back, lounging confidently against the wood of his chair, and takes a long, slow drag of rosolio to give the Mafiosi a couple of minutes to consider their response. Antonio appears similarly relaxed beside him, even sneaking a small smile Sherlock’s way as the other men debate through a series of facial twitches.
They have good reason to feel so confident. After only seventy-seven seconds of silent debate, all three representatives smile Sherlock’s way.
“We’ll pass on the recommendation,” ‘Ciro’ offers from his left. “There’re no guarantees, you understand, but we should have a decision for you within the week.”
“My plan would be to stay in Palermo until then, if that’s acceptable?”
“Absolutely! We’ll need you in town to make the payment,” ‘Leandro’ booms from across the table, the words running together into a full guffaw.
Antonio sits straighter, intent. “You think we’ll get a ‘yes’?”
“We wouldn’t waste our time putting forward the proposal if we didn’t,” ‘Gianni’ retorts. “It would reflect very poorly on us.”
“True, true,” ‘Leandro’ sighs, and downs his last two fingers of rosolio. “Such is the unfortunate life of a rep.”
After over a year of working under Mycroft, Sherlock can certainly relate to that. He raises his own glass, newly refilled, and knocks all four fingers of the syrupy alcohol back in one.
ooo
Sherlock gets the answer he is looking for three days later, delivered with a miniature bottle of rosolio by ‘Ciro.’ There is a small note tied around the delicate neck of the bottle, explaining that in Sicily the liqueur was traditionally given to house guests as a sign of good luck, and signed by all three representatives. It is unnecessary sentiment, but he is definitely appreciative of it.
The wait has been only slightly easier than the one before the second dinner with the Mafiosi, but it has been easier. Antonio took it upon himself to spend an entire day playing tour-guide to the local countryside, and Sherlock’s time in the city itself has been made infinitely more enjoyable now that shopkeepers and baristas are offering him biscotti instead of cigarettes (‘Gianni’ - has a younger brother with a drug habit, and an interfering nature). Combined with such immediate success, Sherlock has to admit that he has grown quite fond of Palermo. It is not London by any means, nor a rival for her, but it is pleasant, at least.
He makes the payment (gold bars, three-quarters of them bearing the stamp of the lesser-known British Reserve and the last five showing a medieval knight - Mycroft has accessed the Holmes family’s own reserves to meet the price) in person, first thing in the morning. He has a flight to prepare for, there being no further need for him to remain in Sicily, and ‘Ciro’ insists that he be returned to the hotel by their car when he explains that he cannot stay for lunch.
Syria was supposed to be his next job, but the entire operation was scrapped two days ago. The country is not safe for its own people anymore, never mind foreigners. There is no advantage to be gained from a mission there anyway; according to the most recent intelligence Mycroft has managed to, ah, acquire, nothing has been heard from the agents there in over two months. It is unlikely that they were killed (four men, all with enough well-placed contacts for them to flee the country), but they also certainly will not have been so foolish as to leave any clues as to their destination. Sending Sherlock to Damascus now would achieve nothing.
Instead, he is bound for Anchorage. The planning has been rushed, and he is not at all prepared for the near-frozen climate, but he will at least have company. Amerson will be meeting him at the Ted Stevens Anchorage International Airport; Sherlock did not get to know him particularly well during their three-week surveillance job together in Ankara, as they tended to simply pass one another as they traded shifts, but he remembers approving of how reasonable and sensible the shorter man proved to be. He has already sent Sherlock a message assuring him that he will bring a suitcase of thick trousers and jumpers for him, so they will be starting off on the right foot, if nothing else.
Sherlock is just considering the possibilities for a schedule as the car pulls up outside Hotel Porta Felice, and by the time he is inside and waiting for the lift he is no closer to a decision. There is a ten-hour time difference between here and Anchorage, and his total travel time is only twelve - he could find his mark tonight with a little effort, but he is not immune to the effects of jet lag. The last thing he wants is to miss anything because his thrice-damned ‘transport’ is failing him.
The lift arrives, little electric bell ringing, and promptly ejects the Colonel himself.
For a long second, neither man moves. It takes only a fraction of that for Sherlock to sweep his gaze over the larger man’s smart black suit and confirm that he is armed with at least one gun (loaded) and three knives. The Colonel’s eyes light with recognition a moment later, his jaw tightening.
The adrenaline hits, and hits hard.
“Signore Moran, your car is waiting outside to the left,” comes the smooth, polite voice of the blonde (dyed) receptionist as she steps up beside Sherlock, obviously eager to help well-paying guests. A beat, and then she is looking from one man to the other with far too much interest for Sherlock’s comfort. “Oh, you are acquainted with Signore Sigerson?”
“Not exactly,” Sherlock cuts in, before the idiot girl can reveal anything else. “We shared a mutual acquaintance.”
“How lovely!” she coos, and from the corner of his eye he can see her brunette colleague beginning to lean over the desk, hoping to hear a little better.
“Not really,” he deadpans. “He committed suicide last year.”
He cannot stay to enjoy her reaction. With one short, sharp nod towards the Colo- Mor- the Colonel (no confirmation, could be an alias) in order to keep up appearances, he steps around both of them and into the waiting lift. Sherlock’s room is on the third floor, but he presses for the second and hammers the ‘close doors’ button with his thumb. It is doubtful the Colonel would kill him here, where there are so many cameras and witnesses, but it is only when the lift is finally moving that he takes a breath.
When the doors open onto the second floor, Sherlock wastes no time. He moves down the corridor at a determined run, and hits the alternative stairs at the other end at a sprint of just over five and a half meters per second. The Colonel will not be following himself, of course (heading out to meet the Palermitani Mafia and cannot be late), but it is overwhelmingly likely that he has brought at least one assistant with him (increases credibility during negotiations). It would only take a text to send them after him in the Colonel’s stead; his tendency to err on the side of caution these days is not one he is inclined to abandon now. Not when to do so is to risk capture.
He does not slow his steps when he reaches the third floor, although he does take care to make them lighter, and as quiet as he can manage. When he is two doors away from his room Sherlock decelerates sharply, rushing to pull his key-card from his shirt pocket. He feels something catch and tear (watch against blazer lining), but he gets inside and closes the door softly behind him, immediately turning on the television before whirling back to press his ear against the wood.
It is a full one-hundred and forty-seven seconds before he hears footsteps, and an additional fifty-two for them to reach him and then fade away.
He does not sigh or waste time leaning, relieved, against the door. Nor does he bother to properly pack - everything of importance is in his satchel, and he has one small, smart holdall packed and waiting by the end of the bed in case of emergency. This definitely qualifies as such: it will not be long before ‘friendly’ enquiries are made at reception regarding Signore Moran’s acquaintance and where he may be found. Sherlock grabs it, knowing he will have to leave immediately, abandoning everything else; he is already mourning the loss of so many fine shirts.
At least, he intends to leave everything. He does not make it even four steps before he is striding back across the room to grab the small, unopened bottle of rosolio. Even if it ends up being confiscated at the airport, he cannot leave a symbol of Cosa Nostra’s kindness behind. Should they find out (almost an inevitability), the repercussions would not be at all pleasant.
Sherlock does not stop at the reception desk to check out; instead, he directs the taxi to the address Antonio gave him ‘just in case,’ and posts a cheque, his key-card, and a hastily-written note through the letterbox before continuing on to Palermo International. The scenario is actually quite nostalgic, being so similar to the many times he has left Lestrade the task of ‘clean up,’ as the detective once called it. He cannot help but smirk a little, remembering the way the older man would huff and grouse but still sometimes flash a grin his way - and, later, how John would offer a long-suffering sigh before marching after him.
He does not want the memories to be any sort of boon or comfort, but they are.
ooo
Thank you for reading! If you have the time and inclination, I would love to know what you thought - no flames please, but con-crit is more than welcome.
Continue to chapter 12...