More fic...
Title: Longer Ways to Go, part 3
Rating: PG-13 for some language. And to be safe.
Summary: After the standoff at the pool, and with some help from Mycroft, Sherlock's determined to disappear from England with John in tow, and work to bring down Moriarty's entire operation in secret.
Characters: John, Sherlock, not-Anthea.
Disclaimer: All the cool things like characters and references and anything resembling coherent thinking belongs to ACD and the BBC/Moff/Gat. All medical mistakes, and other mistakes, of which I am sure there are several, I claim as mine.
Spoilers: The Great Game
Author’s Note: Takes off from the end of ep. 3, The Great Game, so yeah...some SPOILERific stuff. Apparently I wasn't done with this plot bunny, and I'm not sure when I will be. Feedback is love, and if there's a mistake that's really obvious/annoying/detrimental/etc. please don't hesitate to let me know and I will attempt to fix it.
Part 2
***
Over the course of the next two days, Sherlock spends an unreasonable amount of time at the hospital.
This is a fact which greatly amuses John when Sherlock points it out to him, and he’s quick to assure him that it’s nothing to worry about. He says together they cover the entire hospital experience, as he seems to spend an equally unreasonable amount of time lying convalescent on account of gunshot wounds. Sherlock gets to deal with the ire of the attending staff, and John makes off with the jelly. Not that he’s seen any of it yet.
After so many days, this is the first thing to make Sherlock laugh.
From his position in the armchair where he relocated after the first visit, Sherlock has supervised John’s care with a critical, if untrained eye. With his dark hair, dark moods, and dark clothes (he did manage to grab a suit during his visit to the flat), he seems a shadow manifest, creating an almost visibly oppressive air that emanates from his little corner. Despite this, the green fern hanging above his chair remains pert and cheerful looking.
For his part, John attempts to follow the plant’s example. Aside from constant questions with the expectation of detailed answers regarding his diagnosis, his prescribed medication, his recovery rate, and his therapy regimen, he doesn’t fuss much. He’s not exactly difficult - he does as instructed, and rests quietly for the most part - but his unrelenting interrogation of the staff quickly begins to wear on them. Especially since the medication he’s on has the unpleasant side effect of blurring his thoughts, making him liable to repeat himself. Something he does on numerous occasions. Barely twenty four hours have passed before all the nurses are positively eager to see the both of them off.
On the morning of the second day, after John’s been seated upright and the attendant has taken him through some deep breathing exercises, Sherlock informs John of his death. He takes the news calmly enough, but his furrowed brow and clenched jaw speak to his confusion and displeasure.
“Of course,” Sherlock continues, “It follows that you can’t inform anybody otherwise.”
At this, John’s gaze catches on Sherlock’s and sharpens remarkably.
“Why the hell not?”
Sherlock, already several exchanges ahead is his mind, is careful in choosing his next few sentences. He needs John to understand the danger he’s in, and accept their newfound fugitive status as quickly as possible (oddly, it strikes him that everything seems to require immodest haste lately). He realises that neither of these can be welcome pieces of news, particularly when one’s just woken up in hospital and presently been declared dead. If Sherlock can overwhelm him with the gravity of this information, an apparent compromise in allowing contact with his loved ones will appear a great concession. After which, he’ll be in a far more cooperative state. Manipulative, no doubt, but Sherlock reasons the danger is real enough, and John really has no sense of self-preservation.
“Because, John,” he says, “If Moriarty finds out you’re alive then one or many of several very bad things could happen. Best case scenario is he begins looking for us both, knowing now that I’m more of a threat than ever. But this time when he finds us, he’ll have an easy advantage, since you’re not exactly in fighting form. And this time, he won’t hesitate.
“Don’t you see that this is the only way I can keep you safe? Once we get out of the country we’ll be far more able to evade his scrutiny, and I’ll have the time and resources I need to bring him down, without any unnecessary distractions.”
“Glad to know that my fragile health won’t distract you,” John mutters.
“You’d be far more distracting dead, in any case.”
John is far from amused - A fact he makes no effort to conceal.
“Well, I don’t want to be kept safe, Sherlock! Shockingly enough, I don’t want to be kept at all!”
This impressive show of anger is interrupted by an abrupt coughing fit, and pain lancing up his entire right side. John folds inwards, wrapping his arms around his chest in an automatic move to impede the spasms. Cautiously, Sherlock reaches an arm out to brace against John’s shoulder.
“Are you alright?” he asks, no longer glib, and concerned despite himself.
John nods. He’s tired of being asked this question. He’s tired of being ill and weak. He’s tired of being hovered over. He’s tired in general, and right now he wants more than anything to go back to bed. He wants to go home, actually, but that’s evidently impossible, so he’s willing to settle.
Sherlock sees this, and as the coughing subsides, and John takes increasingly deeper breaths trying to wrestle his mutinous body under control, he makes his move.
Colouring his voice with false uncertainty he says, “I’ll...I’ll talk to Mycroft about telling Harry, at least.”
“Sarah,” John rasps. “I’m supposed to see her Thursday. She’ll be worried.”
“Okay. Sarah, too.”
“Thank you.”
“What for?” In an instant Sherlock reverts to his typically curt manner as he gets to his feet. “Get some rest. We leave tonight.”
John remains impassive in his chair, head bowed.
-----
Fully decked out in new, wholly unremarkable clothes, and in John’s case, bound further in tightly wrapped gauze and blankets and with a portable chest drainage device still attached, they’re met at the airport by Mycroft’s PA. She’s much as John remembers her - dismissive and utterly absorbed by her phone. Still, he makes the effort.
“Hello again,” he says".
“Hello John,” she replies perfunctorily, before turning to address Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes, everything has been cleared, and we’re ready to go at your word.”
That’s an improvement at least, John thinks. She remembered his name.
“Wait, you’re coming too?” he asks, suddenly latching on to the implication of her words.
“Yes,” she says simply.
Sherlock steps in to elaborate.
“With contact between us and our allies in England being nigh on impossible Mycroft’s seen fit to equip us with a single, isolated liaison. He assures me she is beyond reproach.” He plasters a smile across his face and cocks his head toward her.
“Quite.”
“Which reminds me,” Sherlock continues. He reaches into his coat pocket. After a momentary struggle he withdraws a small notebook and a pen. He hands both to John. “Keep them brief.”
John looks up at him in disbelief.
“Brief? How do I briefly explain to someone that I’m not in fact dead, but on the run from an international criminal mastermind who has recently engaged my flatmate in a life or death battle of wits; a battle which I have inexplicably become involved in, and incidentally, it’d be best if they didn’t let anyone know they know that I’m not dead after all, because then we’d probably all end up actually dead?”
“That sounds good. Hurry up.” Sherlock sighs heavily. The night is frigid and their breath hangs over their heads in a crystalline fog.
John chafes his hands together and flexes his fingers. Though the coats they were given are more than sufficiently warm, the procurement of a decent pair of gloves was overlooked. His letter to Harry is succinct, and emotionless. Sarah’s however, forces him to pause as he agonises over every word choice and sentence structure. He feels he owes her an apology, but what for he can’t quite articulate. He’s sorry for not sending a proper goodbye, he’s sorry for putting her through all this certainly, but with all the apologies he wants to make he leaves himself little room for explanation. It hits him then that he’s been very poorly informed by Sherlock. He doesn’t know where they’re going, how they’re to support themselves there, or how long they’ll be gone. He supposes the easy answer to the final matter is that they’ll be gone until they’re back - ostensibly, when Sherlock has won. Unfortunately, he cannot even guess at how long that will take. Days, definitely. At least several weeks, he’d hazard, going by the amount of effort being expended on smuggling them out. From there it’s not unreasonable to assume months, and, with a horrible wave of nausea, possibly years. Years. How can he possibly tell her he might be gone for years?
He decides then that he’s not going to tell her anything.
He hands the blank pad of paper and the pen back to Sherlock and crumples up the letter to Harry as well, shoving it in his pocket. She might as well stay in the dark with everyone else.
The surprise on Sherlock’s face is evident. Mycroft’s assistant too, looks vaguely nonplussed.
“It’s better that they just get on with things,” he says, wincing as he shifts in the chair he’s been wheeled across the runway in.
Something oddly reminiscent of approval crosses Sherlock’s face.
“I’ll never get your limits,” he says. He clears his throat, and pulls the collar of his jacket tighter across his throat. “Well, we’d best be going then.”
The PA, still nameless, John observes with only a small surge of frustration, is back on her phone. A man suddenly appears in the door of the plane and makes his way down the rolling staircase. Grinning madly, even as he’s met with dull eyes and haggard expressions, he advances on the small group. John barely registers a peevish, expletive ridden hiss of displeasure issuing from under Sherlock’s breath.
“Hi! I’m Dr. Kilkenny,” the man says, grabbing Sherlock’s hand, and pumping it up and down with far too much force. He indicates their newly acquired liaison on Sherlock’s right. “Aphrodite here has instructed me that I’d be traveling with you both to manage the care of one of your party. I assume that would be you, sir? Traumatic pneumothorax and all its wonders?”
He tucks his chin, and gestures broadly at John in the chair. John grimaces, but extends his own hand.
“Yes, I’m -”
“Ah! No names, no names,” Dr. Kilkenny interrupts, enclosing John’s hand in both of his, and patting it gingerly. “I’ve been made quite aware of the delicacy of the situation, and I’m just along for the ride, as it were. I’m here to oversee treatment while in transit only. Once you depart, I return home and carry on with nary a word as to my involvement. Of course, a comfortable cheque returns with me!”
He laughs, as enamoured with his humour as he obviously is with himself. John can’t decide if it will be his condescension or his relentless enthusiasm that will induce him to toss him from the plane in mid-flight. He can only hope that with enough grumbling he can convince the doctor that heavy sedation is required for the duration of the trip.
“Of course,” Sherlock drawls.
Tapping away on her Blackberry ‘Aphrodite’ makes no acknowledgement of the introductions. An uncomfortable silence falls, as Sherlock stares fiercely into the brittle depth of the night. Dr. Kilkenny shuffles his feet. The continuous energy which has propelled them to this point seems to have drained away, all sense of haste lost. John wonders if Sherlock’s distraction is the result of him taking a moment to collect himself. Considering homicidal thoughts have already crossed his own mind, he can’t help but assume Sherlock’s already mentally planned and executed the perfect crime, and is only now convincing himself not to act on it.
“Right,” says Kilkenny, finally breaking the silence, “Best be off, eh?”
As if on cue, (which John thoroughly expects it was) the plane’s engines slowly groan to life. The staircase is narrow, but with some creative problem solving, the three men manage to manoeuvre John onto the plane, and stow him safely away. The interior space is positively luxurious. Wide leather seats sit on opposite sides of a low table that John’s sure is larger than the one he used to contemplate eating off of at the flat. That was before Sherlock made it quite clear that it was to be used for chemical experiments and scientific inquiries only, of course. There are thick carpets, soft cushions, and bright lights. The windows are long and numerous, and each seat is paired with a personal television.
Sherlock returns to the front of the plane to speak with the pilots, while Kilkenny moves towards the back to organise his supplies. He natters cheerfully to himself as he works. Their assistant shuts the door, and relaxes into a seat across the narrow aisle. He debates not saying anything to her, but in the end can’t resist.
“Aphrodite?” John says.
There is a pause, but she eventually looks up.
“Hm?”
“Aphrodite,” he repeats, “What Kilkenny called you. Is that your real name?”
She laughs, “No. Definitely not.”
“Oh,” he replies, shaking his head abashedly. “Not Anthea, not Aphrodite. Ever contrary.”
“You can keep trying though,” she says with a smirk, and returning yet again to her Blackberry.
Sherlock settles opposite him as the plane begins taxiing down the runway. Within moments, John is thoroughly convinced that actual sedation would not have been remiss. Every slight bump sends him gasping for breath as pain courses through every inch of his body. Pure flight is no better as they seem to be constantly hitting unexpected turbulence. He doesn’t care when his requests for more pain medication deteriorate into pleas, but eventually Kilkenny relents and John’s blissfully relieved when the drowsiness supersedes the pain and he drops off to sleep.
***
Link to Part 4
Rating: PG-13 for some language. And to be safe.
Summary: After the standoff at the pool, and with some help from Mycroft, Sherlock's determined to disappear from England with John in tow, and work to bring down Moriarty's entire operation in secret.
Characters: John, Sherlock, not-Anthea.
Disclaimer: All the cool things like characters and references and anything resembling coherent thinking belongs to ACD and the BBC/Moff/Gat. All medical mistakes, and other mistakes, of which I am sure there are several, I claim as mine.
Spoilers: The Great Game
Author’s Note: Takes off from the end of ep. 3, The Great Game, so yeah...some SPOILERific stuff. Apparently I wasn't done with this plot bunny, and I'm not sure when I will be. Feedback is love, and if there's a mistake that's really obvious/annoying/detrimental/etc. please don't hesitate to let me know and I will attempt to fix it.
Part 2
***
Over the course of the next two days, Sherlock spends an unreasonable amount of time at the hospital.
This is a fact which greatly amuses John when Sherlock points it out to him, and he’s quick to assure him that it’s nothing to worry about. He says together they cover the entire hospital experience, as he seems to spend an equally unreasonable amount of time lying convalescent on account of gunshot wounds. Sherlock gets to deal with the ire of the attending staff, and John makes off with the jelly. Not that he’s seen any of it yet.
After so many days, this is the first thing to make Sherlock laugh.
From his position in the armchair where he relocated after the first visit, Sherlock has supervised John’s care with a critical, if untrained eye. With his dark hair, dark moods, and dark clothes (he did manage to grab a suit during his visit to the flat), he seems a shadow manifest, creating an almost visibly oppressive air that emanates from his little corner. Despite this, the green fern hanging above his chair remains pert and cheerful looking.
For his part, John attempts to follow the plant’s example. Aside from constant questions with the expectation of detailed answers regarding his diagnosis, his prescribed medication, his recovery rate, and his therapy regimen, he doesn’t fuss much. He’s not exactly difficult - he does as instructed, and rests quietly for the most part - but his unrelenting interrogation of the staff quickly begins to wear on them. Especially since the medication he’s on has the unpleasant side effect of blurring his thoughts, making him liable to repeat himself. Something he does on numerous occasions. Barely twenty four hours have passed before all the nurses are positively eager to see the both of them off.
On the morning of the second day, after John’s been seated upright and the attendant has taken him through some deep breathing exercises, Sherlock informs John of his death. He takes the news calmly enough, but his furrowed brow and clenched jaw speak to his confusion and displeasure.
“Of course,” Sherlock continues, “It follows that you can’t inform anybody otherwise.”
At this, John’s gaze catches on Sherlock’s and sharpens remarkably.
“Why the hell not?”
Sherlock, already several exchanges ahead is his mind, is careful in choosing his next few sentences. He needs John to understand the danger he’s in, and accept their newfound fugitive status as quickly as possible (oddly, it strikes him that everything seems to require immodest haste lately). He realises that neither of these can be welcome pieces of news, particularly when one’s just woken up in hospital and presently been declared dead. If Sherlock can overwhelm him with the gravity of this information, an apparent compromise in allowing contact with his loved ones will appear a great concession. After which, he’ll be in a far more cooperative state. Manipulative, no doubt, but Sherlock reasons the danger is real enough, and John really has no sense of self-preservation.
“Because, John,” he says, “If Moriarty finds out you’re alive then one or many of several very bad things could happen. Best case scenario is he begins looking for us both, knowing now that I’m more of a threat than ever. But this time when he finds us, he’ll have an easy advantage, since you’re not exactly in fighting form. And this time, he won’t hesitate.
“Don’t you see that this is the only way I can keep you safe? Once we get out of the country we’ll be far more able to evade his scrutiny, and I’ll have the time and resources I need to bring him down, without any unnecessary distractions.”
“Glad to know that my fragile health won’t distract you,” John mutters.
“You’d be far more distracting dead, in any case.”
John is far from amused - A fact he makes no effort to conceal.
“Well, I don’t want to be kept safe, Sherlock! Shockingly enough, I don’t want to be kept at all!”
This impressive show of anger is interrupted by an abrupt coughing fit, and pain lancing up his entire right side. John folds inwards, wrapping his arms around his chest in an automatic move to impede the spasms. Cautiously, Sherlock reaches an arm out to brace against John’s shoulder.
“Are you alright?” he asks, no longer glib, and concerned despite himself.
John nods. He’s tired of being asked this question. He’s tired of being ill and weak. He’s tired of being hovered over. He’s tired in general, and right now he wants more than anything to go back to bed. He wants to go home, actually, but that’s evidently impossible, so he’s willing to settle.
Sherlock sees this, and as the coughing subsides, and John takes increasingly deeper breaths trying to wrestle his mutinous body under control, he makes his move.
Colouring his voice with false uncertainty he says, “I’ll...I’ll talk to Mycroft about telling Harry, at least.”
“Sarah,” John rasps. “I’m supposed to see her Thursday. She’ll be worried.”
“Okay. Sarah, too.”
“Thank you.”
“What for?” In an instant Sherlock reverts to his typically curt manner as he gets to his feet. “Get some rest. We leave tonight.”
John remains impassive in his chair, head bowed.
-----
Fully decked out in new, wholly unremarkable clothes, and in John’s case, bound further in tightly wrapped gauze and blankets and with a portable chest drainage device still attached, they’re met at the airport by Mycroft’s PA. She’s much as John remembers her - dismissive and utterly absorbed by her phone. Still, he makes the effort.
“Hello again,” he says".
“Hello John,” she replies perfunctorily, before turning to address Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes, everything has been cleared, and we’re ready to go at your word.”
That’s an improvement at least, John thinks. She remembered his name.
“Wait, you’re coming too?” he asks, suddenly latching on to the implication of her words.
“Yes,” she says simply.
Sherlock steps in to elaborate.
“With contact between us and our allies in England being nigh on impossible Mycroft’s seen fit to equip us with a single, isolated liaison. He assures me she is beyond reproach.” He plasters a smile across his face and cocks his head toward her.
“Quite.”
“Which reminds me,” Sherlock continues. He reaches into his coat pocket. After a momentary struggle he withdraws a small notebook and a pen. He hands both to John. “Keep them brief.”
John looks up at him in disbelief.
“Brief? How do I briefly explain to someone that I’m not in fact dead, but on the run from an international criminal mastermind who has recently engaged my flatmate in a life or death battle of wits; a battle which I have inexplicably become involved in, and incidentally, it’d be best if they didn’t let anyone know they know that I’m not dead after all, because then we’d probably all end up actually dead?”
“That sounds good. Hurry up.” Sherlock sighs heavily. The night is frigid and their breath hangs over their heads in a crystalline fog.
John chafes his hands together and flexes his fingers. Though the coats they were given are more than sufficiently warm, the procurement of a decent pair of gloves was overlooked. His letter to Harry is succinct, and emotionless. Sarah’s however, forces him to pause as he agonises over every word choice and sentence structure. He feels he owes her an apology, but what for he can’t quite articulate. He’s sorry for not sending a proper goodbye, he’s sorry for putting her through all this certainly, but with all the apologies he wants to make he leaves himself little room for explanation. It hits him then that he’s been very poorly informed by Sherlock. He doesn’t know where they’re going, how they’re to support themselves there, or how long they’ll be gone. He supposes the easy answer to the final matter is that they’ll be gone until they’re back - ostensibly, when Sherlock has won. Unfortunately, he cannot even guess at how long that will take. Days, definitely. At least several weeks, he’d hazard, going by the amount of effort being expended on smuggling them out. From there it’s not unreasonable to assume months, and, with a horrible wave of nausea, possibly years. Years. How can he possibly tell her he might be gone for years?
He decides then that he’s not going to tell her anything.
He hands the blank pad of paper and the pen back to Sherlock and crumples up the letter to Harry as well, shoving it in his pocket. She might as well stay in the dark with everyone else.
The surprise on Sherlock’s face is evident. Mycroft’s assistant too, looks vaguely nonplussed.
“It’s better that they just get on with things,” he says, wincing as he shifts in the chair he’s been wheeled across the runway in.
Something oddly reminiscent of approval crosses Sherlock’s face.
“I’ll never get your limits,” he says. He clears his throat, and pulls the collar of his jacket tighter across his throat. “Well, we’d best be going then.”
The PA, still nameless, John observes with only a small surge of frustration, is back on her phone. A man suddenly appears in the door of the plane and makes his way down the rolling staircase. Grinning madly, even as he’s met with dull eyes and haggard expressions, he advances on the small group. John barely registers a peevish, expletive ridden hiss of displeasure issuing from under Sherlock’s breath.
“Hi! I’m Dr. Kilkenny,” the man says, grabbing Sherlock’s hand, and pumping it up and down with far too much force. He indicates their newly acquired liaison on Sherlock’s right. “Aphrodite here has instructed me that I’d be traveling with you both to manage the care of one of your party. I assume that would be you, sir? Traumatic pneumothorax and all its wonders?”
He tucks his chin, and gestures broadly at John in the chair. John grimaces, but extends his own hand.
“Yes, I’m -”
“Ah! No names, no names,” Dr. Kilkenny interrupts, enclosing John’s hand in both of his, and patting it gingerly. “I’ve been made quite aware of the delicacy of the situation, and I’m just along for the ride, as it were. I’m here to oversee treatment while in transit only. Once you depart, I return home and carry on with nary a word as to my involvement. Of course, a comfortable cheque returns with me!”
He laughs, as enamoured with his humour as he obviously is with himself. John can’t decide if it will be his condescension or his relentless enthusiasm that will induce him to toss him from the plane in mid-flight. He can only hope that with enough grumbling he can convince the doctor that heavy sedation is required for the duration of the trip.
“Of course,” Sherlock drawls.
Tapping away on her Blackberry ‘Aphrodite’ makes no acknowledgement of the introductions. An uncomfortable silence falls, as Sherlock stares fiercely into the brittle depth of the night. Dr. Kilkenny shuffles his feet. The continuous energy which has propelled them to this point seems to have drained away, all sense of haste lost. John wonders if Sherlock’s distraction is the result of him taking a moment to collect himself. Considering homicidal thoughts have already crossed his own mind, he can’t help but assume Sherlock’s already mentally planned and executed the perfect crime, and is only now convincing himself not to act on it.
“Right,” says Kilkenny, finally breaking the silence, “Best be off, eh?”
As if on cue, (which John thoroughly expects it was) the plane’s engines slowly groan to life. The staircase is narrow, but with some creative problem solving, the three men manage to manoeuvre John onto the plane, and stow him safely away. The interior space is positively luxurious. Wide leather seats sit on opposite sides of a low table that John’s sure is larger than the one he used to contemplate eating off of at the flat. That was before Sherlock made it quite clear that it was to be used for chemical experiments and scientific inquiries only, of course. There are thick carpets, soft cushions, and bright lights. The windows are long and numerous, and each seat is paired with a personal television.
Sherlock returns to the front of the plane to speak with the pilots, while Kilkenny moves towards the back to organise his supplies. He natters cheerfully to himself as he works. Their assistant shuts the door, and relaxes into a seat across the narrow aisle. He debates not saying anything to her, but in the end can’t resist.
“Aphrodite?” John says.
There is a pause, but she eventually looks up.
“Hm?”
“Aphrodite,” he repeats, “What Kilkenny called you. Is that your real name?”
She laughs, “No. Definitely not.”
“Oh,” he replies, shaking his head abashedly. “Not Anthea, not Aphrodite. Ever contrary.”
“You can keep trying though,” she says with a smirk, and returning yet again to her Blackberry.
Sherlock settles opposite him as the plane begins taxiing down the runway. Within moments, John is thoroughly convinced that actual sedation would not have been remiss. Every slight bump sends him gasping for breath as pain courses through every inch of his body. Pure flight is no better as they seem to be constantly hitting unexpected turbulence. He doesn’t care when his requests for more pain medication deteriorate into pleas, but eventually Kilkenny relents and John’s blissfully relieved when the drowsiness supersedes the pain and he drops off to sleep.
***
Link to Part 4