Sherlock (BBC) Fanfic - Survival - Chapter 16
Title: Survival
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: 3,756 words
Spoilers: End of series 2, “The Reichenbach Fall”
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs
Beta: patchsassy - thank you so very much!
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, via 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 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15
A.N.: I am so, so sorry, everyone. I know this has been a huge wait; all I can say is that I’ve had very good reasons for my disappearance and I’m really, genuinely sorry for leaving you for so long. My Dad injured his back, as I think I may have mentioned, but then I started a new job, my Grandad was diagnosed with cancer in his kidneys, my sister and I both had slight breakdowns, my Grandma developed a heart condition, my Mum managed to have pneumonia, and my Dad had a second stroke (not to mention Christmas, etc).
Anyway, I’m just very sorry. However! I am back, and I have 2 more chapters almost sorted. I’ll try to post every 2 to 3 weeks from now on until this behemoth is finally completed. We are, thankfully, edging towards an end (almost?) and with at least 1 chapter as a buffer I should be able to keep updates regular. I’m sure that some readers will have moved on from this scribble of mine, but to all those who have messaged me and new readers who have commented and reviewed to ask for more, thank you ever so much for all the encouragement and support, and I will do everything I can to ensure that the remaining chapters go up on time. I’ll be trying to reply to everyone personally in the next couple of days, but until then, all I can say is a big thank you.
I’m sure I’ve kept you waiting long enough without babbling on here, though. So, without further ado, here we go.
Cover by carolstime
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SURVIVAL - CHAPTER 16
ooo
Sherlock should dive behind one of the police cars - they are the closest and most effective cover, for the time being. Instead, he dashes for one of the trees lining Theresienstraße, ducking down beside a bench in order to make the distance without being shot. With Vogt taken care of, Sherlock is the highest priority target; it is only by virtue of the D.I.’s more loyal officers and their excellent reflexes that Moran’s lackey has, as of yet, failed to eliminate him. The man is obviously a professional, and despite being overwhelmingly outnumbered he is achieving some level of success. The bullet meant for Sherlock may have missed, thumping through wood rather than fragile human flesh, but three of his former colleagues have not been so lucky. One is dead, while the other two are leaning against the front wing of the closest car, both attempting to dissuade the D.I. from trying to get to them.
It has been barely a minute, but Sherlock can already hear sirens amid the shouting and gunfire, which is so close to the city centre that it is no surprise that other patrols are already on their way. This should be good news, and in terms of capturing the gunman it is certainly a boon, but Sherlock cannot afford to be here when they arrive. He is carrying fake identification, is unlikely to be able to answer all their questions - despite there being an obvious link between Vogt, the gunman, and himself - and all it will take is one telephone call for the German authorities to discover that there is no Interpol agent named Sigerson. Sherlock will be detained at the very least, and the situation could quickly evolve into an international incident. No, regardless of the risk, Sherlock has to move immediately.
Just as he begins to slide his left foot forward, there is a scream from behind him. The boy who had tacked Vogt to the ground earlier, who had been so awed by what he had unwittingly involved himself in that he waited for over an hour to shake ‘Sigerson’s’ hand, is lying on the edge of the grass that stretches out in front of the Pinakothek with a bloody hole torn through his stomach (damage to multiple organs, heavy blood loss: he will be dead within the next three-hundred seconds). Sherlock’s own abdomen spasms painfully in strange sympathy - it is likely that the gunman mistook the boy for him in the chaos. For a moment, it is overwhelmingly tempting to remain where he is, tucked safely out of the line of fire. The sirens are getting louder though, and there is no more time.
Sherlock masters himself, readying his stance and tensing the muscles in his thighs. He chances a glance around the tree-trunk to check the location of Moran’s mole, ducks back, and then breaks cover just as an explosion rips through the air. Memories of Lucerne assail him, urging him to turn and check for additional danger and threatening to slow him down, but he refuses to look and manages to maintain his speed. There is a sculpture two-hundred meters away; Sherlock focuses on the solid, concrete base and sprints for it, ignoring the gunfire and shouting he is trying to leave behind. Five paces away, he dives, crawling the last couple of meters to safety.
It was a short run, but a hard one nonetheless. Sherlock is working for every breath, all too aware that he can only pause for a moment. The line of trees between the road and the vast lawn of the Alte Pinakothek is fully between him and the chaos now, but it is mid-November and they have long been stripped bare. The branches and trunks will certainly impede a shot, but they are no visual shield. He chances another glance at the road, a longer one to both gauge the situation and satisfy his curiosity. The gunman is truly pinned now, the Schupo covering all the angles of escape, and two police cars squeal to a stop as Sherlock watches - the back-up officers immediately exit the vehicles and take up tactical positions, trying to expand and complete the perimeter steadily being formed.
What really has his attention, however, is the burning shell of one of the police cars. A lucky shot must have punctured either the engine or the fuel tank, igniting the petrol - it is clear that the initial blast was impressive. Sherlock had heard it, had felt the wash of heat, but it is still a shock to see the damage. It is the one the two injured officers had been leaning against, and Sherlock can see them lying flat on the ground - neither appears to be moving, but at this distance he cannot confirm whether they are dead or merely unconscious.
There is a third man lying by the dislodged rear wheel. The D.I. had ignored his subordinates’ demands to remain where he was, determined to provide them with some level of defence, and the lapse in judgement has cost him his life. Even at this distance, Sherlock can see the burns, the bloody head-wound, and the glass scattered around him - he had been about to take a shot of his own when the car blew up, the rear windscreen shattering and the shards driving into his skull.
Sherlock cannot help but think of Lestrade, of the risks the idiot man has been known to take for the imbeciles placed under his command, and feels a little sick.
There is a shouted curse. Another of the Schupo has been hit, although this time it is more annoying than life-threatening, if his yelling is anything to go by. Sherlock has to move again.
He takes off towards the Pinakothek, zigzagging his way across the grass to present a more difficult target. Once he reaches the building itself, he runs around to the right, keeping close to the impressive structure and hoping the slight shadows cast by the high walls will provide a little camouflage. When he hits the street again, he peels away, feet pounding against the pavement as he tries to gain as much distance as possible. He cuts across to the right again behind the Glyptothek, sprinting over the lawn to Luisenstraße. There is a U-Bahn station just down the road, he is sure of it: he just has to hope that the trains are still running.
They aren’t. Königsplatz station is closed, the staff apologising to disgruntled passengers as they wave them out away. The taxis, on the other hand, are plentiful - the drivers moving to capitalise on the closure and disruption. One is idling barely ten meters ahead of him, the prior passenger only just moving away, and Sherlock waves for it to wait.
The drive takes fifteen minutes, and Sherlock manages to persuade the man to wait whilst he fetches his bags. He leaves behind the paperwork he had unpacked last night; it is all relating to Vogt and the Munich office, and is of no use to him now. Besides, he gave his hotel address and room number to both the initial Schupo officer and the now-deceased D.I., so it will not be long before the authorities come to investigate. The evidence will be put to good use - there may no longer be a case to be had against Vogt, but there are a handful of other names mentioned that, after today’s shoot-out, Sherlock is sure the German authorities will be eager to follow up.
He leaves his room with his smallest bag and his satchel, and goes back to the impatiently waiting taxi without checking out. Signposting his recent locations is not generally good conduct, but having worked alongside cretins like Anderson he knows that there can never be too many neon signs to help the authorities in the right direction.
ooo
Sherlock arrives in Dresden over five hours later, having switched taxis in Regensburg in an attempt to make it more difficult for him to be tracked. Ideally, he would have liked to have made at least one more switch (Selb or Hof - close enough to the border to suggest that he fled into the Czech Republic), but it was far too likely that the police outside Munich would have received both his description and orders to apprehend him immediately by the time he reached either city. As it is, he makes sure to introduce himself as Robert Clarke to both his drivers. He does, at least, still have a spare bank card and UK driver’s licence under that identity with him, tucked away in the side pocket of his satchel.
He had meant to give them to Mycroft before leaving Vienna, but between the tactical discussions and more personal arguments, it had slipped his mind. He is glad of it now, despite them being a potential liability.
Dresden is, luckily, a city where Sherlock’s local knowledge and contacts outstrip Mycroft’s by a vast margin; the flat being used by the back-up for all three of the teams currently active in Germany is one Sherlock knows well. It is on the third floor of a complex on Metzer Straße, just across the Elbe from the Semperoper, and belongs to a musician Sherlock knew during his three-month stint living and busking in Dresden immediately after university. It had been an admittedly ill-advised (and, indeed, ill-fortuned) attempt to escape his family’s various interferences in his professional life; still, it had been enough for a threat - Mummy had insisted that Father and Mycroft leave him to make his own decisions, determined to keep him in England at the very least.
He has the cabbie drop him off outside the Herkuleskule, paying a decent tip on top of the seven-hundred euro fare. He makes a show of entering the club as if in a hurry, only to leave through the side-entrance a moment later. Kabarett holds little interest for him, being so focused on politics; it is better than the usual inane jokes and trite dance acts found in French Cabaret, but Sherlock has little interest in politics aside from the potential it holds as criminal motive and he does not find himself regretting having to leave so quickly.
The walk to Metzer Straße is a cold one. As expected, considering the cities are of almost equal latitude, there is little difference between Dresden and London’s mid-November climates, and Sherlock finds himself missing his scarf. The one bought for him is stuffed carelessly at the bottom of his suitcase: it is a scratchy, flimsy thing, and not a patch on his cashmere one. By the time he reaches the flat he is bitterly cold, not to mention in a truly foul mood. The day has not been kind.
However, it redeems itself a little now. Picking the lock would have been easy - he has done it before - but would also have resulted in an exceptionally unfriendly welcome, most likely with some form of violence involved. Sherlock knocks on the door instead, although he does not restrain himself from tapping his foot impatiently when it takes almost a minute for it to be answered. When it does finally swing back to reveal a tired-looking Douglas, his complaints about being left to stand in the freezing corridor die on his tongue.
A beat, and then he is being hauled in by the arm. “Fuck’s sake, lad,” Douglas growls, “don’t just stand there.”
“I was under the impression that Baines was running this one,” Sherlock offers once the door is firmly closed.
“Yeah, well, the bloody idiot went and got his girl pregnant, so I’m stuck here instead,” the older man huffs.
It is clear from the detritus still littering the flat that Douglas has not stepped outside since his arrival three days ago; however, he is dressed in a smart jumper and slacks, which Sherlock knows the older man would only choose to wear if he either expected company or intended to go out. During their time cooped up in the Brussels flat, it was always Douglas who spent his off-hours lounging in ratty shorts and soft t-shirts. The conclusion is an easy one to reach.
“You knew I was coming.”
He receives a nod as confirmation, before being herded none-too-gently towards the sofa. “The Boss Man got a call from Munich - awkward questions, so don’t be surprised if he rips you a new one when you call in - so he notified me,” Douglas explains. “Told me ‘Sigerson’ would be showing up soon. I’d just got myse- ”
“You have only ever known me as ‘Clarke,’” Sherlock cuts in coldly. “If you were told to expect ‘Sigerson,’ only to find me at your door, it would’ve been cause for concern. You would’ve reacted,” he finishes, stepping closer to Douglas to better study the tell-tale lines around his eyes and mouth. Irritation and disquiet burn in his stomach, and bile tickles the back of his throat. Douglas, like Amerson, is not quite what one would call a ‘friend,’ but Sherlock will not relish being forced to kill him if his rapidly-mounting suspicions are proven correct.
“You really think we’re all stupid enough to fall for it, Holmes?” Douglas smirks. For a split-second Sherlock cannot help being surprised, but he masters it quickly and readies himself for the worst, fingers closing around the pen in his left pocket (metal nib: can be used as a weapon if enough force is applied, especially if he aims for the eyes). “I’m one of the most senior officers in this little organisation, in charge of the final assessments of all new recruits, you twassock.”
“How da- ” he tries; Douglas continues to speak over him, barely having to raise his voice to drown out the younger man.
“Even if I didn’t recognise your face, I’d know the name from the personnel reviews. ‘Sides, I’m trained to see through disguises - like dye-jobs and fake glasses,” he snickers. “You’re good, lad, but not that good.”
The last time Sherlock had felt so nonplussed had been during the tritely-named ‘Blind Banker’ case, when John had pinpointed The Lucky Cat as the shop they were looking for using Lukis’ diary after Sherlock had rattled through his own - frankly quite excellent - findings. It must show, because Douglas is grinning. It is without malice though, oddly enough, and formed more of indulgent fondness than amusement at his expense.
“You knew all along then,” he says, and it is not a question.
Douglas answers it anyway. “Yeah. Not sure whether Vicker’s figured it out yet, but Whykes knows too, after the Boss Man made such a fuss over you after that bloody bomb.”
Sherlock would argue that his brother’s reaction to events in Lucerne could hardly be construed as ‘fussing’ (which he is undeniably grateful for); by the standards of the over-emotional masses it would probably be referred to as cold. Still, this is Mycroft - the very fact that he was rushed back to the UK at the earliest possible convenience speaks volumes, before even considering the fact that he visited Sherlock personally. Certainly, none of Mycroft’s employees would have received such attention, making it quite obvious that ‘Robert Clarke’ was more than another simple chess-piece.
Combined with his observational and deductive skills, how obviously personal the mission is to him, and the death of Sherlock Holmes occurring so soon before ‘Clarke’ suddenly appeared within their ranks… Well, in hindsight it does appear rather obvious. For a moment, Sherlock wonders if Amerson ever managed to figure him out as well, but an unpleasant thought quickly occurs to him.
“You seemed quite content to work with me,” Sherlock begins, finding himself to be embarrassingly hesitant to ask the question now blaring in his head. “I would’ve expected to be treated with a degree of disgust if you knew - the media weren’t exactly singing my praises by the end.”
“Not really, lad,” the bigger man tells him, and that fondness becomes more obvious by the breath. Sherlock does his best not to allow his discomfort to show. “We knew ‘Richard Brook’ was full of shite - we’d caught the bugger, remember. We knew who Moriarty was.” Douglas shrugs. “I’d not really got any reason to hate you aside from the arrogant rep you’d got. And you haven’t really been shovin’ that in my face.”
Sherlock replies with a non-committal hum; he had been doing his best to curb his better-known quirks and tendencies, so any comment he could make would either be a bold-faced lie or result in disillusioning the soldier. Despite knowing that the charade will almost certainly end soon, now that he has the security of being known to someone, Sherlock finds that he is genuinely unwilling to commit to either verbal response. He wanders to the kitchen instead, Douglas trailing after him, filling the air between them with pointless noise as Sherlock busies himself with making coffee for the two of them.
He sits with Douglas for almost an hour, humming intermittently in half-hearted agreement. He is not truly paying attention until the other man mentions “your Watson.”
“Say that again,” he says, interrupting without a thought for pretence.
“Your Watson,” Douglas smirks. “Him and that D.I. - the one who nearly lost his job - they went to the review board and the media two days ago. Bloody brilliant. Seems they can prove you were - y’ are - one of the good guys after all.”
“I am not ‘one of the good guys’ - why must you people always be so reductive?” Sherlock huffs. “I am not, however, a fraud.”
Douglas gives him a sidelong glance, evidently unsure whether Sherlock is serious in his complaint. His tone is still slightly uncertain, for all its joy, when he ventures, “Still, good news, eh?”
Sherlock sneers. “The papers have far too much to lose to dare admit they were wrong.”
“Don’t doubt it, but they won’t have a choice, will they?” A shrug. “If the review boa- "
“And you think they’ll admit their mistake any more willingly?” he snaps, not bothering to hide his irritation or his distain. “The Yard has even more to lose, for god’s sake. ‘Police drove innocent man to suicide’ - they’d ne- "
“They’d have to,” the older man interjects, his expression stony.
“Oh, of course they wouldn’t,” is Sherlock’s quick retort. “Police cover-ups are hardly difficult.”
“You have public support, you know,” the other man tells him, and Sherlock cannot help thinking that he is clutching at straws. “‘Believe in Sherlock Holmes’ groups and all that. The internet fuckin’ loves you.” He grunts, then mutters, “Fuck knows why.”
“The ‘public’ is generally formed of morons who will believe anything as long as it’s in print,” Sherlock tells him bluntly, ignoring the last comment. There is, after all, no reason to continue pretending to be anything other than himself now that he knows Douglas is aware of his identity; the poor reaction is expected and summarily ignored.
Still, knowing that he has support - even from idiots - sparks a warm feeling in the vicinity of his sternum.
He should not be arguing this. Despite his scepticism, this is good news, fantastic news, of the sort that he has been waiting months for, and he should be both grateful and optimistic. However, and perhaps it is due to his interactions with Kitty Riley and the many front pages he saw dedicated to ‘his’ story back in London, or maybe it comes down to his knowledge of both NSY and basic human stupidity, but Sherlock cannot help thinking that this will backfire spectacularly. It seems very likely that, rather than exonerating him, John and Lestrade’s efforts will bury him entirely.
ooo
Douglas leaves Dresden with Sherlock two days later, when a replacement operative named Young (single, bisexual, gluten intolerant, amateur rugby player) arrives to maintain support for the two teams still remaining within the German borders. They follow the Elbe down to the Nationalpark Sächsische Schweiz on a pair of motorbikes brought for them by the Yorkshireman, where they cross the border into the Czech Republic under cover of darkness. From there they continue down to the E55 and on to a tiny second-floor flat in Prague.
Douglas has orders from Mycroft to keep an eye on him, Sherlock is sure; it is offensive, and he makes his displeasure known to his brother at the earliest opportunity. The office they are dealing with is certainly not enough of a challenge for Sherlock to require assistance, and although the two men are functioning well together, the arrangement is not one he is happy with. After twenty minutes of arguing, Mycroft assures him that he has an assignment waiting for Douglas due to start late the next week in Slovakia. The soldier politely pretends that he didn’t hear every word, probably because Sherlock had inadvertently praised his skills.
Day after day, the awaited disappointment from London fails to come. For the first time since his ‘fall,’ Sherlock is reading the British news sites. What he finds is no small surprise, and Douglas’ smug glee is almost tangible. With every article comes another former client, all of them coming forward to affirm that ‘Boffin’ Sherlock Holmes - ‘the great’ Sherlock Holmes, as the fickle media has now taken to calling him - was no fraud. It is irritating in the extreme that so many individuals had the ability to refute the accusations levelled against him, when none of them had the courage to come to his defence earlier. Sherlock is not surprised, of course - he fully expected that none would willingly be the first to step forward - but it is a disappointment.
With Lestrade and John taking the initial risk though, all are almost sickeningly eager to claim some of the glory inherent in turning back such a wrong.
Henry Knight’s testimony is particularly powerful, Sherlock having been a child himself at the time of the initial murder, and results in special articles in several reputable broadsheets the next day. The evidence provided by an anonymous source (The Woman) covers multiple cases and has more than half of both the press and the review board tearing Lestrade’s Chief Superintendent to sheds. Sherlock giggles his way through the online coverage, Douglas sitting beside him with ice cream and a beer.
Despite there still being almost a month to go before the enquiry is predicted to end, by the time Douglas leaves for Slovakia it would take an upset of biblical proportions to turn back the tide of support for the ‘Believe in Sherlock Holmes’ campaign.
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Again, thank you so much to all those who are still reading this scribble of mine. If you have the time and are so inclined, I would love to hear what you thought of this chapter. No flames, please, but con-crit is as welcome as any praise (and if you just want to berate me for taking so darned long then I understand and will do my level best not to flinch).
Read Chapter 17...
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: 3,756 words
Spoilers: End of series 2, “The Reichenbach Fall”
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs
Beta: patchsassy - thank you so very much!
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, via 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 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15
A.N.: I am so, so sorry, everyone. I know this has been a huge wait; all I can say is that I’ve had very good reasons for my disappearance and I’m really, genuinely sorry for leaving you for so long. My Dad injured his back, as I think I may have mentioned, but then I started a new job, my Grandad was diagnosed with cancer in his kidneys, my sister and I both had slight breakdowns, my Grandma developed a heart condition, my Mum managed to have pneumonia, and my Dad had a second stroke (not to mention Christmas, etc).
Anyway, I’m just very sorry. However! I am back, and I have 2 more chapters almost sorted. I’ll try to post every 2 to 3 weeks from now on until this behemoth is finally completed. We are, thankfully, edging towards an end (almost?) and with at least 1 chapter as a buffer I should be able to keep updates regular. I’m sure that some readers will have moved on from this scribble of mine, but to all those who have messaged me and new readers who have commented and reviewed to ask for more, thank you ever so much for all the encouragement and support, and I will do everything I can to ensure that the remaining chapters go up on time. I’ll be trying to reply to everyone personally in the next couple of days, but until then, all I can say is a big thank you.
I’m sure I’ve kept you waiting long enough without babbling on here, though. So, without further ado, here we go.
Cover by carolstime
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SURVIVAL - CHAPTER 16
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Sherlock should dive behind one of the police cars - they are the closest and most effective cover, for the time being. Instead, he dashes for one of the trees lining Theresienstraße, ducking down beside a bench in order to make the distance without being shot. With Vogt taken care of, Sherlock is the highest priority target; it is only by virtue of the D.I.’s more loyal officers and their excellent reflexes that Moran’s lackey has, as of yet, failed to eliminate him. The man is obviously a professional, and despite being overwhelmingly outnumbered he is achieving some level of success. The bullet meant for Sherlock may have missed, thumping through wood rather than fragile human flesh, but three of his former colleagues have not been so lucky. One is dead, while the other two are leaning against the front wing of the closest car, both attempting to dissuade the D.I. from trying to get to them.
It has been barely a minute, but Sherlock can already hear sirens amid the shouting and gunfire, which is so close to the city centre that it is no surprise that other patrols are already on their way. This should be good news, and in terms of capturing the gunman it is certainly a boon, but Sherlock cannot afford to be here when they arrive. He is carrying fake identification, is unlikely to be able to answer all their questions - despite there being an obvious link between Vogt, the gunman, and himself - and all it will take is one telephone call for the German authorities to discover that there is no Interpol agent named Sigerson. Sherlock will be detained at the very least, and the situation could quickly evolve into an international incident. No, regardless of the risk, Sherlock has to move immediately.
Just as he begins to slide his left foot forward, there is a scream from behind him. The boy who had tacked Vogt to the ground earlier, who had been so awed by what he had unwittingly involved himself in that he waited for over an hour to shake ‘Sigerson’s’ hand, is lying on the edge of the grass that stretches out in front of the Pinakothek with a bloody hole torn through his stomach (damage to multiple organs, heavy blood loss: he will be dead within the next three-hundred seconds). Sherlock’s own abdomen spasms painfully in strange sympathy - it is likely that the gunman mistook the boy for him in the chaos. For a moment, it is overwhelmingly tempting to remain where he is, tucked safely out of the line of fire. The sirens are getting louder though, and there is no more time.
Sherlock masters himself, readying his stance and tensing the muscles in his thighs. He chances a glance around the tree-trunk to check the location of Moran’s mole, ducks back, and then breaks cover just as an explosion rips through the air. Memories of Lucerne assail him, urging him to turn and check for additional danger and threatening to slow him down, but he refuses to look and manages to maintain his speed. There is a sculpture two-hundred meters away; Sherlock focuses on the solid, concrete base and sprints for it, ignoring the gunfire and shouting he is trying to leave behind. Five paces away, he dives, crawling the last couple of meters to safety.
It was a short run, but a hard one nonetheless. Sherlock is working for every breath, all too aware that he can only pause for a moment. The line of trees between the road and the vast lawn of the Alte Pinakothek is fully between him and the chaos now, but it is mid-November and they have long been stripped bare. The branches and trunks will certainly impede a shot, but they are no visual shield. He chances another glance at the road, a longer one to both gauge the situation and satisfy his curiosity. The gunman is truly pinned now, the Schupo covering all the angles of escape, and two police cars squeal to a stop as Sherlock watches - the back-up officers immediately exit the vehicles and take up tactical positions, trying to expand and complete the perimeter steadily being formed.
What really has his attention, however, is the burning shell of one of the police cars. A lucky shot must have punctured either the engine or the fuel tank, igniting the petrol - it is clear that the initial blast was impressive. Sherlock had heard it, had felt the wash of heat, but it is still a shock to see the damage. It is the one the two injured officers had been leaning against, and Sherlock can see them lying flat on the ground - neither appears to be moving, but at this distance he cannot confirm whether they are dead or merely unconscious.
There is a third man lying by the dislodged rear wheel. The D.I. had ignored his subordinates’ demands to remain where he was, determined to provide them with some level of defence, and the lapse in judgement has cost him his life. Even at this distance, Sherlock can see the burns, the bloody head-wound, and the glass scattered around him - he had been about to take a shot of his own when the car blew up, the rear windscreen shattering and the shards driving into his skull.
Sherlock cannot help but think of Lestrade, of the risks the idiot man has been known to take for the imbeciles placed under his command, and feels a little sick.
There is a shouted curse. Another of the Schupo has been hit, although this time it is more annoying than life-threatening, if his yelling is anything to go by. Sherlock has to move again.
He takes off towards the Pinakothek, zigzagging his way across the grass to present a more difficult target. Once he reaches the building itself, he runs around to the right, keeping close to the impressive structure and hoping the slight shadows cast by the high walls will provide a little camouflage. When he hits the street again, he peels away, feet pounding against the pavement as he tries to gain as much distance as possible. He cuts across to the right again behind the Glyptothek, sprinting over the lawn to Luisenstraße. There is a U-Bahn station just down the road, he is sure of it: he just has to hope that the trains are still running.
They aren’t. Königsplatz station is closed, the staff apologising to disgruntled passengers as they wave them out away. The taxis, on the other hand, are plentiful - the drivers moving to capitalise on the closure and disruption. One is idling barely ten meters ahead of him, the prior passenger only just moving away, and Sherlock waves for it to wait.
The drive takes fifteen minutes, and Sherlock manages to persuade the man to wait whilst he fetches his bags. He leaves behind the paperwork he had unpacked last night; it is all relating to Vogt and the Munich office, and is of no use to him now. Besides, he gave his hotel address and room number to both the initial Schupo officer and the now-deceased D.I., so it will not be long before the authorities come to investigate. The evidence will be put to good use - there may no longer be a case to be had against Vogt, but there are a handful of other names mentioned that, after today’s shoot-out, Sherlock is sure the German authorities will be eager to follow up.
He leaves his room with his smallest bag and his satchel, and goes back to the impatiently waiting taxi without checking out. Signposting his recent locations is not generally good conduct, but having worked alongside cretins like Anderson he knows that there can never be too many neon signs to help the authorities in the right direction.
ooo
Sherlock arrives in Dresden over five hours later, having switched taxis in Regensburg in an attempt to make it more difficult for him to be tracked. Ideally, he would have liked to have made at least one more switch (Selb or Hof - close enough to the border to suggest that he fled into the Czech Republic), but it was far too likely that the police outside Munich would have received both his description and orders to apprehend him immediately by the time he reached either city. As it is, he makes sure to introduce himself as Robert Clarke to both his drivers. He does, at least, still have a spare bank card and UK driver’s licence under that identity with him, tucked away in the side pocket of his satchel.
He had meant to give them to Mycroft before leaving Vienna, but between the tactical discussions and more personal arguments, it had slipped his mind. He is glad of it now, despite them being a potential liability.
Dresden is, luckily, a city where Sherlock’s local knowledge and contacts outstrip Mycroft’s by a vast margin; the flat being used by the back-up for all three of the teams currently active in Germany is one Sherlock knows well. It is on the third floor of a complex on Metzer Straße, just across the Elbe from the Semperoper, and belongs to a musician Sherlock knew during his three-month stint living and busking in Dresden immediately after university. It had been an admittedly ill-advised (and, indeed, ill-fortuned) attempt to escape his family’s various interferences in his professional life; still, it had been enough for a threat - Mummy had insisted that Father and Mycroft leave him to make his own decisions, determined to keep him in England at the very least.
He has the cabbie drop him off outside the Herkuleskule, paying a decent tip on top of the seven-hundred euro fare. He makes a show of entering the club as if in a hurry, only to leave through the side-entrance a moment later. Kabarett holds little interest for him, being so focused on politics; it is better than the usual inane jokes and trite dance acts found in French Cabaret, but Sherlock has little interest in politics aside from the potential it holds as criminal motive and he does not find himself regretting having to leave so quickly.
The walk to Metzer Straße is a cold one. As expected, considering the cities are of almost equal latitude, there is little difference between Dresden and London’s mid-November climates, and Sherlock finds himself missing his scarf. The one bought for him is stuffed carelessly at the bottom of his suitcase: it is a scratchy, flimsy thing, and not a patch on his cashmere one. By the time he reaches the flat he is bitterly cold, not to mention in a truly foul mood. The day has not been kind.
However, it redeems itself a little now. Picking the lock would have been easy - he has done it before - but would also have resulted in an exceptionally unfriendly welcome, most likely with some form of violence involved. Sherlock knocks on the door instead, although he does not restrain himself from tapping his foot impatiently when it takes almost a minute for it to be answered. When it does finally swing back to reveal a tired-looking Douglas, his complaints about being left to stand in the freezing corridor die on his tongue.
A beat, and then he is being hauled in by the arm. “Fuck’s sake, lad,” Douglas growls, “don’t just stand there.”
“I was under the impression that Baines was running this one,” Sherlock offers once the door is firmly closed.
“Yeah, well, the bloody idiot went and got his girl pregnant, so I’m stuck here instead,” the older man huffs.
It is clear from the detritus still littering the flat that Douglas has not stepped outside since his arrival three days ago; however, he is dressed in a smart jumper and slacks, which Sherlock knows the older man would only choose to wear if he either expected company or intended to go out. During their time cooped up in the Brussels flat, it was always Douglas who spent his off-hours lounging in ratty shorts and soft t-shirts. The conclusion is an easy one to reach.
“You knew I was coming.”
He receives a nod as confirmation, before being herded none-too-gently towards the sofa. “The Boss Man got a call from Munich - awkward questions, so don’t be surprised if he rips you a new one when you call in - so he notified me,” Douglas explains. “Told me ‘Sigerson’ would be showing up soon. I’d just got myse- ”
“You have only ever known me as ‘Clarke,’” Sherlock cuts in coldly. “If you were told to expect ‘Sigerson,’ only to find me at your door, it would’ve been cause for concern. You would’ve reacted,” he finishes, stepping closer to Douglas to better study the tell-tale lines around his eyes and mouth. Irritation and disquiet burn in his stomach, and bile tickles the back of his throat. Douglas, like Amerson, is not quite what one would call a ‘friend,’ but Sherlock will not relish being forced to kill him if his rapidly-mounting suspicions are proven correct.
“You really think we’re all stupid enough to fall for it, Holmes?” Douglas smirks. For a split-second Sherlock cannot help being surprised, but he masters it quickly and readies himself for the worst, fingers closing around the pen in his left pocket (metal nib: can be used as a weapon if enough force is applied, especially if he aims for the eyes). “I’m one of the most senior officers in this little organisation, in charge of the final assessments of all new recruits, you twassock.”
“How da- ” he tries; Douglas continues to speak over him, barely having to raise his voice to drown out the younger man.
“Even if I didn’t recognise your face, I’d know the name from the personnel reviews. ‘Sides, I’m trained to see through disguises - like dye-jobs and fake glasses,” he snickers. “You’re good, lad, but not that good.”
The last time Sherlock had felt so nonplussed had been during the tritely-named ‘Blind Banker’ case, when John had pinpointed The Lucky Cat as the shop they were looking for using Lukis’ diary after Sherlock had rattled through his own - frankly quite excellent - findings. It must show, because Douglas is grinning. It is without malice though, oddly enough, and formed more of indulgent fondness than amusement at his expense.
“You knew all along then,” he says, and it is not a question.
Douglas answers it anyway. “Yeah. Not sure whether Vicker’s figured it out yet, but Whykes knows too, after the Boss Man made such a fuss over you after that bloody bomb.”
Sherlock would argue that his brother’s reaction to events in Lucerne could hardly be construed as ‘fussing’ (which he is undeniably grateful for); by the standards of the over-emotional masses it would probably be referred to as cold. Still, this is Mycroft - the very fact that he was rushed back to the UK at the earliest possible convenience speaks volumes, before even considering the fact that he visited Sherlock personally. Certainly, none of Mycroft’s employees would have received such attention, making it quite obvious that ‘Robert Clarke’ was more than another simple chess-piece.
Combined with his observational and deductive skills, how obviously personal the mission is to him, and the death of Sherlock Holmes occurring so soon before ‘Clarke’ suddenly appeared within their ranks… Well, in hindsight it does appear rather obvious. For a moment, Sherlock wonders if Amerson ever managed to figure him out as well, but an unpleasant thought quickly occurs to him.
“You seemed quite content to work with me,” Sherlock begins, finding himself to be embarrassingly hesitant to ask the question now blaring in his head. “I would’ve expected to be treated with a degree of disgust if you knew - the media weren’t exactly singing my praises by the end.”
“Not really, lad,” the bigger man tells him, and that fondness becomes more obvious by the breath. Sherlock does his best not to allow his discomfort to show. “We knew ‘Richard Brook’ was full of shite - we’d caught the bugger, remember. We knew who Moriarty was.” Douglas shrugs. “I’d not really got any reason to hate you aside from the arrogant rep you’d got. And you haven’t really been shovin’ that in my face.”
Sherlock replies with a non-committal hum; he had been doing his best to curb his better-known quirks and tendencies, so any comment he could make would either be a bold-faced lie or result in disillusioning the soldier. Despite knowing that the charade will almost certainly end soon, now that he has the security of being known to someone, Sherlock finds that he is genuinely unwilling to commit to either verbal response. He wanders to the kitchen instead, Douglas trailing after him, filling the air between them with pointless noise as Sherlock busies himself with making coffee for the two of them.
He sits with Douglas for almost an hour, humming intermittently in half-hearted agreement. He is not truly paying attention until the other man mentions “your Watson.”
“Say that again,” he says, interrupting without a thought for pretence.
“Your Watson,” Douglas smirks. “Him and that D.I. - the one who nearly lost his job - they went to the review board and the media two days ago. Bloody brilliant. Seems they can prove you were - y’ are - one of the good guys after all.”
“I am not ‘one of the good guys’ - why must you people always be so reductive?” Sherlock huffs. “I am not, however, a fraud.”
Douglas gives him a sidelong glance, evidently unsure whether Sherlock is serious in his complaint. His tone is still slightly uncertain, for all its joy, when he ventures, “Still, good news, eh?”
Sherlock sneers. “The papers have far too much to lose to dare admit they were wrong.”
“Don’t doubt it, but they won’t have a choice, will they?” A shrug. “If the review boa- "
“And you think they’ll admit their mistake any more willingly?” he snaps, not bothering to hide his irritation or his distain. “The Yard has even more to lose, for god’s sake. ‘Police drove innocent man to suicide’ - they’d ne- "
“They’d have to,” the older man interjects, his expression stony.
“Oh, of course they wouldn’t,” is Sherlock’s quick retort. “Police cover-ups are hardly difficult.”
“You have public support, you know,” the other man tells him, and Sherlock cannot help thinking that he is clutching at straws. “‘Believe in Sherlock Holmes’ groups and all that. The internet fuckin’ loves you.” He grunts, then mutters, “Fuck knows why.”
“The ‘public’ is generally formed of morons who will believe anything as long as it’s in print,” Sherlock tells him bluntly, ignoring the last comment. There is, after all, no reason to continue pretending to be anything other than himself now that he knows Douglas is aware of his identity; the poor reaction is expected and summarily ignored.
Still, knowing that he has support - even from idiots - sparks a warm feeling in the vicinity of his sternum.
He should not be arguing this. Despite his scepticism, this is good news, fantastic news, of the sort that he has been waiting months for, and he should be both grateful and optimistic. However, and perhaps it is due to his interactions with Kitty Riley and the many front pages he saw dedicated to ‘his’ story back in London, or maybe it comes down to his knowledge of both NSY and basic human stupidity, but Sherlock cannot help thinking that this will backfire spectacularly. It seems very likely that, rather than exonerating him, John and Lestrade’s efforts will bury him entirely.
ooo
Douglas leaves Dresden with Sherlock two days later, when a replacement operative named Young (single, bisexual, gluten intolerant, amateur rugby player) arrives to maintain support for the two teams still remaining within the German borders. They follow the Elbe down to the Nationalpark Sächsische Schweiz on a pair of motorbikes brought for them by the Yorkshireman, where they cross the border into the Czech Republic under cover of darkness. From there they continue down to the E55 and on to a tiny second-floor flat in Prague.
Douglas has orders from Mycroft to keep an eye on him, Sherlock is sure; it is offensive, and he makes his displeasure known to his brother at the earliest opportunity. The office they are dealing with is certainly not enough of a challenge for Sherlock to require assistance, and although the two men are functioning well together, the arrangement is not one he is happy with. After twenty minutes of arguing, Mycroft assures him that he has an assignment waiting for Douglas due to start late the next week in Slovakia. The soldier politely pretends that he didn’t hear every word, probably because Sherlock had inadvertently praised his skills.
Day after day, the awaited disappointment from London fails to come. For the first time since his ‘fall,’ Sherlock is reading the British news sites. What he finds is no small surprise, and Douglas’ smug glee is almost tangible. With every article comes another former client, all of them coming forward to affirm that ‘Boffin’ Sherlock Holmes - ‘the great’ Sherlock Holmes, as the fickle media has now taken to calling him - was no fraud. It is irritating in the extreme that so many individuals had the ability to refute the accusations levelled against him, when none of them had the courage to come to his defence earlier. Sherlock is not surprised, of course - he fully expected that none would willingly be the first to step forward - but it is a disappointment.
With Lestrade and John taking the initial risk though, all are almost sickeningly eager to claim some of the glory inherent in turning back such a wrong.
Henry Knight’s testimony is particularly powerful, Sherlock having been a child himself at the time of the initial murder, and results in special articles in several reputable broadsheets the next day. The evidence provided by an anonymous source (The Woman) covers multiple cases and has more than half of both the press and the review board tearing Lestrade’s Chief Superintendent to sheds. Sherlock giggles his way through the online coverage, Douglas sitting beside him with ice cream and a beer.
Despite there still being almost a month to go before the enquiry is predicted to end, by the time Douglas leaves for Slovakia it would take an upset of biblical proportions to turn back the tide of support for the ‘Believe in Sherlock Holmes’ campaign.
ooo
ooo
Again, thank you so much to all those who are still reading this scribble of mine. If you have the time and are so inclined, I would love to hear what you thought of this chapter. No flames, please, but con-crit is as welcome as any praise (and if you just want to berate me for taking so darned long then I understand and will do my level best not to flinch).
Read Chapter 17...