BBC Sherlock: Villain (1/2)
Title: Villain
Author: Vescaus
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Summary: John Watson had fallen undeniable and irreversibly for Sherlock Holmes. And it was undoubtedly going to get them killed.
Spoilers: A few for 1.03 The Great Game
Rating: PG-17
Words: 9k
Notes: Second part of the Intents and Purposes series, following on from Sidekick Might be best to read that first.
This fic beta'd by the fantastic undunoops on Insanejournal.
Villain
by Vescaus
John’s life was filled with ironies since he’d come back from Afghanistan.
Thinking back on that afternoon, he realised something profound as he had sat on the sofa, watching John Nettles solve another case in this supposedly sleepy village of Midsommer. Sherlock Holmes was curled beside him, stilt-legs tucked beneath him, eyes closed and breathing deeply. The detective had finally dropped off in exhaustion, having worked not only on hunting down Moriarty but also on deciphering John, trying to unravel the mystery behind his sudden change in attitude. Now, his head lay on John’s shoulder, a tangled mass of curls tickling John’s cheek pleasantly and the cool feel of that long fingered hand still on top of his own. When John tilted his head ever so hesitantly so it rested against Sherlock’s own, he’d had a revelation.
John Watson had fallen undeniable and irreversibly for Sherlock Holmes. And it was undoubtedly going to get them killed.
Of course, he’d known for a while now that his affection for Sherlock went above and beyond fascination and awe. He’d felt great respect and admiration for soldiers he’d met and worked with in Afghanistan; but it always faded away after a while because people could never be perfect. Sherlock had at once shown himself to be brilliant but also flawed and he had to respect someone who was aware of this and even flaunted it. It was that infuriating indifference that attracted John, an unashamed mixture of genius and megalomania; prone to flashes of action and subdued melancholy like a swinging pendulum.
An interesting dynamic you have, Moriarty had said to him, one hand on his back as they entered the swimming pool. Considering, he certainly doesn’t feel for you the same way you feel for him. Sherlock Holmes cannot love…he just tolerates on different levels.
However, Moriarty had helped as well. He remembered how the man’s dark car pulled up beside him and encouraged him inside. For a while, John had thought it was yet another attempt by the older Holmes to plunge him into a John le Carre novel by trying to extract information from him. It soon became apparent, however, by the sinister atmosphere in the car that he might actually be in danger.
I’m sorry I failed to notice you before, Doctor Watson. It’s just that you’re so mediocre, I almost overlooked your value, was the first thing Moriarty had said when the door beside him opened and a long sniper gun was pointed in his direction. Please follow me.
And there had begun the longest hour or John’s life. Longer than the days in Afghanistan when there was nothing to do. Longer than the time it took for Murray to drag him away to safety after he was shot. Longer than the recuperation period after his surgery. He didn’t respond to any of Moriarty’s comments; just let the mastermind make his observations in a voice high on derangement. He had listened as Moriarty examined him, picking his personality apart piece by piece.
You don’t see it because you aren’t looking for it - or maybe you’re afraid of the rejection - but you have some hold over him.
That’s all Moriarty wanted, really. That’s what this spectacle at the swimming pool had been designed for…to use John as a test-case for Sherlock’s emotions. To uncover how deep his appreciation for John really went.
John would never say acting was his strong point.
You could always use Sherlock’s bizarre affection for you as an advantage.
He had looked at Moriarty, puzzled by this comment as the bomb was strapped to him, a jacket cheap in material but expensive in decoration. The man spun him around dramatically, seemingly unconcerned at being close to John’s chest. He zipped the coat up from bottom to top slowly, delicately, and if John wasn’t imagining it, provocatively. He could hear his heart hammering in his chest with every movement of Moriarty’s immaculate fingers. Stepping forward, the man invaded John’s personal space, pulled John’s collar, as if straightening it out to make him look presentable. So close he stood that John could feel his breath on his face, smell that ridiculously expensive but repugnant cologne and see the snake-like smile twitch on his face. Moriarty’s hands reached his shoulders, his cold fingertips gently scraping against John’s neck. It was so sickeningly vulgar that John jerked his head away.
Moriarty smirked at John’s movement but took a step back.
Or better yet, my little pawn, I’ll use it to mine.
He knew what was being asked of him. Moriarty wasn’t going to kill them now. He just wanted to scope them out; see how he could manipulate their increasing connection to each other. This was John’s new role.
In every nightmare that John experienced since that night, he always woke up at that moment. When Moriarty’s high-pitched threat reverberated in his ears like a demented child’s…I’ll use it to mine.
When he’d been released from hospital, he was temporarily convinced Moriarty’s observations on his and Sherlock’s relationship were incorrect. After all, the infuriating detective hadn’t visited him in hospital or tended to his concussion. Sherlock didn’t care; he used John in ways no different to how Moriarty did. For convenience. If John avoided both of them, maybe he could fulfil no purpose at all, even if it killed him to think of himself that way.
Have you ever wondered, Johnny-boy, why Sherlock keeps you around? I mean you aren’t a soldier anymore and barely a doctor. And judging by your silence, hardly stimulating conversation. It must be hard going from something to nothing. Because, really, I’m curious, what do you do?
It was what John had been desperately trying to ignore until Moriarty’s text came a few days after his hospital release:
Do we have a deal, John, darling?
It would be a loss to the world if Sherlock died because you couldn’t protect him.
Against his own wishes, his body rebelled and John found himself scrambling to the bathroom, phone still clutched in his shaking hand, to retch into the sink. He was, after all, still suffering from morphine withdrawal, concussion and a flaming back.
It was pure manipulation, John wasn’t stupid. But the man was right. Sherlock was too important and he cared for the man far too much to let him be chased into hell by Moriarty.
It hurt him to know that Sherlock couldn’t feel the same level of physical and emotional attachment and probably wouldn’t do the same for him; it was even more painful, as he looked back on the Moriarty debacle, that he was nothing more than a convenient device for both geniuses.
Don’t let Moriarty manipulate you the same way he can me, Sherlock had said to him. Too late for that.
As he searched vainly for a towel to wipe his mouth and his sweating forehead, and sat shivering from the aftermath on the bathroom floor, he came to his own conclusion. It was down to him to somehow save Sherlock from himself.
*
“This girl,” Lestrade said, slamming down a file on the kitchen table of 221b Baker Street a few days later as John came down from his bedroom. “Anona Kerry. We think she witnessed the murder of a man called Ronald Adair last night. She’s since disappeared, didn’t turn up to work this morning.”
John raised his eyebrows as he looked over file with the picture of a beautiful young dark-haired girl on it. “Do you think she’s dead or just on the run?”
Sherlock turned with his hands linked behind his back, a picture of dignity. “More importantly, do you think this is the work of Moriarty?”
Lestrade’s eyes flickered over to John and he shrugged in response. “You tell me. I have my suspicions; however, I don’t want to pressure you if you’re heeding Moriarty’s warning to back off.”
Lestrade was cautious in his recruitment, John noted, taking the report of the incident at the swimming pool seriously.
John remained deadpanned as Sherlock’s eyes flickered over to him now, as if assessing his reaction. With pursed lips and hesitation, Sherlock displayed an obvious struggle within as he decided whether to continue the puzzle, despite the danger it could present to both of them, or avoid it entirely by using the information they already had. In a situation which would never have stalled Sherlock, John realised the detective’s desire to protect him had indeed changed his attitude.
Less impulsive; more cautious.
Sherlock eventually replied quietly, “I always need more data. And given the accuracy of the shot that killed Ronald Adair, it’s the same sniper gun at the very least. Moriarty is behind it.” He smiled despite himself. “However, with this girl…he made a mistake; we have to capitalise on it.”
With a disappointed sigh, John handed over the files. He raised his eyes to meet Sherlock’s and could see, as only he could, the hint of apology in them.
So John flopped down on the sofa, his mind racing with Moriarty’s threat and wondering what on earth Lestrade was playing at, offering Sherlock this temptation.
“Ronald Adair,” Lestrade continued, slightly uncomfortable. No one could call him unobservant. “Killed by a shot to the back of the head at the Bagatelle Club. Pretty grisly. No forced entry, no sign of entrance or exit into his room or out of the window. So far no suspect or motive…”
“And Anona Kerry?” Sherlock interrupted.
Lestrade sighed in frustration and flipped through his notebook. “23 years old. Waitress in the tea rooms across the street. Never been late or ill for work, didn’t turn up this morning.”
John couldn’t help but think - which meant Sherlock already had - that it all sounded rather tame by Moriarty’s standards.
*
It had been an exhausting day. Sherlock had dragged him to the Bagatelle Club but they had been refused entry. No amount of charismatic charm or elegant lies on Sherlock’s part could have gained them access. All they were able to obtain from the sullen doorman was that Ronald Adair was a prestigious accountant and a good, strategic player. The man seemed to have no family or enemies.
Tracking down Anona Kerry was as hard. Daughter of a dysfunctional family, they had no idea where she was. Boyfriend after boyfriend could provide no help. Her friends who worked with her at the restaurant opposite the Bagatelle Club assured them that Anona needed the money; she wouldn’t have missed work for any reason. Even Sherlock Holmes could not find a needle in the haystack of London with so little to go on.
Times like this, John reminded himself, as Sherlock returned to the files Lestrade gave him, that Sherlock was a good person. Sherlock hated such arbitrary categorisations such as ‘good’ and ‘evil’ but sometimes they were necessary. Otherwise, how could he distinguish Sherlock from Moriarty?
John had long since realised that the motives behind Sherlock’s actions were not significant. His drive was relentless. He may only be doing it for his own mental stimulation but he was trying to solve them. Not perpetrate crimes or cover them up.
It made what John had to do even worse.
*
[The first time, John was given the perfect set-up.]
He was slowly stirring his tea in the kitchen when Sherlock called him over. Sitting down next to Sherlock, he looked over the papers Sherlock had amassed on Ronald Adair and Anona Kerry from the police, friends and co-workers. It was pitifully small.
Perhaps Sherlock didn’t notice but John did…how Sherlock was allowing John to touch him all the time. When they sat, it was close together, pressed against each other’s sides or legs connected; when they walked it was also close, hands brushing together occasionally. Sherlock grabbed John’s hand to pull him aside when he felt it wasn’t safe; John put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders when he felt the detective needed to calm his mind.
Once, he took John’s arm as the doctor was sipping his tea and staring out at the street view to move him away from the window. Hands gripped his upper arms tightly. “Don’t go near the window,” Sherlock had insisted, a stern order issued in a hoarse voice, a brief look of panic flittering across his face. He had been loathe, even in the relative safety of their own flat, to let John go for some time. Even his workload was migrating into John’s room.
It was only because Sherlock was that dense, he couldn’t notice the effect this - well, inadvertent teasing, essentially - had on John.
“He’s very connected,” Sherlock said almost to himself, resting his fingers against his lips.
“So are you,” John contended, failing to see the logic.
“In different ways,” was the snappy response. “I use the vast network provided by the underground. The homeless, mainly, and they’re on the lookout for Anona Kerry right now. Moriarty’s main sources are those of money, fame and power. People who can wield influence. Equally as effective but far more conspicuous. More difficult to bring down.”
John shrugged, sipping at his tea. “Yet…not so conspicuous that Mycroft would notice.”
“Precisely,” Sherlock agreed, resting his chin on his hand and picking up the Darjeeling John had made for him. “A prestigious club like the Bagatelle would have required membership, an esteemed list. Maybe Moriarty belongs to it, but if he doesn’t like to get his hands dirty, then someone else affiliated to Moriarty belongs to it as well and carried out the murder. Someone very well connected.”
Shaking his head to bring himself out of his reverie, Sherlock put on a game face. “It’s vital that we find Anona Kerry. If she can identify that person, we have a start. Then all this,” he said, pointing at his elaborate maze of papered connections he had accumulated over the weeks, “will slot into place and follow on from each other.”
John had to make it appear completely innocent as he leant over Sherlock’s crossed legs to pick up the folder Lestrade had left. And as he moved, his knee connected with Sherlock’s tea, toppling it over and sending the lukewarm liquid all over the information and seeping into the carpet.
Immediately, Sherlock cried out, rising to his knees to try and save the cheap, thin paper. When it was apparent that the notes were lost, the scribbling blurred together, he rounded on John in frustration. “You idiot! That was everything we had!” he cried, jumping up, pacing in front of the sofa in distress.
“I’m sorry. Sherlock, it was an accident,” John said, almost tasting the sourness of the lie in his mouth.
Sherlock stared at nothing for a few moments, those steely eyes flashing in annoyance. Then he grabbed his coat and walked out of the flat, slamming the door after thumping down the stairs.
John sat for a few moments in the thick silence of the flat, mourning the loss of Sherlock’s companionship and warmth. If he ignored Sherlock’s resulting anger, it was comforting how much trust Sherlock placed in him that he never suspected. It was painful how much John could abuse it.
With a heavy sigh, John got up, pulled out the memory stick from his laptop and Sherlock’s camera, which had been abandoned in the corner from the last time it was used. Sherlock would be gone for a while, allowing the madness of London to wash over him, soothing and stimulating his mind.
Plenty of time for John to carry out his orders.
*
I would have thought with your prior role as a soldier, you would have been very good at taking orders from superiors
Orders…John was good at following orders.
A good little soldier boy, aren’t you, Doctor Watson, even when discharged, Moriarty had mocked him. I do like men in uniform…so responsive to demands.
But just because he followed Sherlock around and waited patiently whilst the man presented his brilliant deductions before sending him off on an errand, that didn’t make him a pushover.
And just because Moriarty was threatening him by threatening Sherlock, that didn’t make him weak.
*
[The second time, he was thinking on his feet.]
He was running through Wapping, hearing the wet sound of his heavy soled shoes slapping against the cobbled stones. They had been watching the Bagatelle for about two hours and by then John was cold and tired and slightly miserable.
When Sherlock had stormed out of the house to allow his mind to relax, he had come to the conclusion that the shooter must have been in the building opposite the Bagatelle Club. It was conveniently empty and the perfect place to target Ronald Adair.
Now they were chasing the man Sherlock spotted coming out of the club, with an obviously huge bulge under his long coat. Not an ordinary hand gun; a sniper rifle. He’d run as soon as he noticed someone was following him and Sherlock, with his long legs and nimble frame was giving chase. John followed at a slighter slower pace.
Along Wapping High Street they ran, the darkened figure up ahead. He ducked into a side street, heading towards the river and they followed, passing the old meatpacking district and converted warehouse apartments.
John did what he did best at the moment. He hindered. He allowed his foot to slip on the Old Stars, crashing tumbling down them and crashing into the ground with more force than he had intended. It was enough to knock the wind out of him and he lay for a moment, hands splayed on the wet ground, catching his breath.
Further on, he knew Sherlock had stopped; heard his footsteps slow to a halt as he debated whether to continue running or to check on John. It was the dilemma that John had inadvertently placed on Sherlock by entering his life, the one he could twist in his favour.
Does it worry you? John had asked him, worry him that he had started to care.
Would you be disappointed if I said I was?
“Are you all right?” Sherlock voice suddenly appeared next to him, in that same worried voice he heard when unzipped the bomb from John’s chest. He knelt beside John, hands hovering over John but not touching, as if he was too afraid but still looking up the alley.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” John answered, putting a hand to his head. “Go!”
John knew by now that it was too late and the mystery man was gone, lost amongst the infrastructure of the river’s edge. Still, Sherlock would try. With a lingering glance at John, he ran off, using his intimate knowledge of London’s road network to guess where the man could have gone.
John sighed, sitting up and placing his hands on the wet and muddied cobbled stones, wondering how much damage he’d inadvertently done to his body. His hand came into contact with something cold and metallic so, curiously, he picked it up.
A medal. Too clean to have been there very long. In fact, John suddenly realised, it must have been dropped by their murderer.
Kosovo stripes. John recognised their pattern - a dark blue ribbon with white edges and a white central stripe - given to those who had served as NATO’s ground troops during the Balkan crisis.
Moriarty’s main sources are those of money, fame and power. People who can wield influence.
The army, John knew, was a fantastic connection.
*
One of Sherlock’s young homeless boys knocked on the door next day to say he’d found the girl they were looking for. He’d found her dead in the cold, grey hour of 3pm in Regent’s Park.
From his ‘privileged’ position with Sherlock inside the police tape, John watched like a mourner as they photographed Anona and placed her body in a bag. Her hair was still beautifully brown; her skin was ashen and blue, piercing eyes staring at nothing. A perfected break of a neck had, thankfully, ensured her end was swift and painless.
John bit his lip and tried not to be over-emotional at such a wasted loss of life. She hadn’t deserved to die.
All he could think of was that his culpability in Anona’s death was as great as Moriarty and his henchman. It was his fault. Sherlock could have found her; he could have saved her, even if he didn’t see it that way. Yet John had done nothing but deliberately place stumbling blocks in Sherlock’s path, as Moriarty had instructed. He’d placed Sherlock’s life above anyone else’s.
Now a girl was dead.
“Too late,” Sherlock muttered in anger beside him. “Too late to be of any use. And I doubt he left anything useful on her.” With detached determination, he went over to Lestrade, interrupting so he could examine the body and find something - anything - that could help him.
Of course to Sherlock, it wasn’t the loss of life that mattered. It was the loss of such a vital puzzle piece.
John couldn’t look at her anymore, though. She brought the betrayal home; watching Sherlock investigate her impassively was worse.
Quietly, he ducked under the tape and walked away, trapped in a bubble of despair. He was unaware of the cars passing him by or the people on the streets. He couldn’t even feel the cold. His brain was trying to process the wonderful irony of how he’d gone from protecting people, to inadvertently killing them.
Desperately scrambling for some sense of morality in this situation, John found himself at south bank, leaning on a wall a little way off from the London Eye, looking over the Thames to Parliament. Rubbing a hand over his face, he tried to keep his emotions at bay, wondering if he was going to break down on a public street.
He didn’t know how long he stood at the edge of the river, trying to hold his mind together. He stood, elbows resting on the cold cement, keeping him up as the guilt weighed him down physically and mentally.
Sherlock did eventually find him as the sun began to set, darkening the sky around them. Tourists and visitors were leaving the bank and John could barely make out the river.
“GPS tracker,” Sherlock informed, even though John hadn’t asked, hadn’t even reacted to Sherlock’s presence beside him. “I took the liberty of downloading an app from your iPhone, just in case.”
Sherlock stopped a little way off from him, arms folded and leaning his hip against the wall. “You’re upset about the girl,” he noted quietly, narrowing his eyes, scrutinizing John in that way he hated. That to care about the people involved was not a worthwhile pursuit. What made him so special to Sherlock?
He wishes it was that simple. So he doesn’t even respond. Just rubs his hands together and bounces gently on the soles of his feet to stave off the cold seeping into his skin.
“She was so young,” he finally murmured. He sniffed, took a shaky deep breath and continued to look entranced at the opaque muddy waters of the Thames, swirling majestically past him.
“Would it have mattered if she was old? Would you have reacted the same?” Sherlock instantly remarked, his mind programmed to release such logical observations.
John could only turn to look at him disparagingly, too weakened to engage in an argument over Sherlock’s lack of empathy. He thought he saw regret flash across Sherlock’s face but unable to actually apologise, the detective simply looked out across the river, chin high but lips thin.
Instead, John turned away. It was always his instinctual reaction in situations where his emotions threatened to diminish the strength of the argument. He felt anger, guilt and hurt swirling inside him in one giant, unpredictable melting pot. His chest was hitching and his eyes were stinging. As usual, against Sherlock, he was powerless.
He couldn’t do this any longer; if he didn’t leave now, he’d have to tell Sherlock, whatever the consequences. John was incapable of living such a lie.
However, before he could say anything, Sherlock’s heavy boots thumped towards him. He was spun around and - before John could react - Sherlock wrapped him his arms around him to pull him close. Despite all inclinations for John to pull away (because to accept such comfort was the epitome of weakness) he knew he craved the touch and reassurance that Sherlock Holmes, of all the people, was providing. Someone who didn’t know what he was being forced to do. He melted into the embrace, resting his forehead on Sherlock’s chest.
“He’ll be watching,” John whispered shakily, after a few moments, his voice muffled by the thick wool of Sherlock’s coat.
“I know, that body was left close to Baker Street as a message to me,” Sherlock replied, his grip tightening. One of his long hands, splayed across John’s upper back, moved to tangle in John’s short hair, gripping slightly too tight. “But I don’t care.”
John missed the warmth and intimacy of Sherlock’s embrace when the taller man finally pulled away. Yet he was to be further surprised when Sherlock’s hands came up cupping both of John’s cheeks, warm leather heating the skin. And, after a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock swooped down and captured John’s lips with his own cold and slightly chapped ones, softly. For a few moments, they both stood there, lips locked, mouths closed, and barely moving. Sherlock’s thumbs were rubbing his cheeks and John’s hands were gripping the lapels of Sherlock’s coat with tight grip, as if holding on for dear life.
It was hesitant, slightly clumsy, but that didn’t detract from the wonder of it.
John felt as though the bubble had burst from around him. When he opened his mouth to kiss deeper, he no longer felt cold, detached and isolated from the world. The feeling of living in a parallel world, where he moved nowhere as the world whizzed past him, was finally ebbing.
Sherlock may not appreciate that someone so full of potential had died. But if he understood that John did then maybe, the doctor thought, that was enough.
And when they finally parted, panting slightly and staring at each other, John couldn’t help but smile with undisguised elation. Sherlock, who had been breathing heavily in trepidation that John never thought he would see, relaxed and smiled back. It was the first time John had been in Sherlock’s presence without thinking of how Moriarty would burn the heart of Sherlock.
And it was the closest to a declaration of love John would ever receive from Sherlock. He was showing Moriarty he was right. That Sherlock did feel more than friendship for him and wasn’t afraid to display it; but that made it ever harder to refuse Moriarty’s threats by implying it didn’t exist.
*
It was the irony of being a soldier: the inevitability of developing close bonds with the people with whom you fought side by side, who you protected and loved like a brother; it made it that much harder to deal with the loss when they were suddenly taken by violent means.
John had experienced this far too often for Sherlock Holmes to be another addition to his list of grief. Another private day of mourning for the sparse calendar. At least this time, he thought as he sat in the taxi trundling back to Baker Street, Sherlock’s arm around his shoulders, pulling him close and keeping him warm, bringing him out of his shock…this time, he could actually prevent it.
*
At first John thought it was Sherlock creeping up behind him but when he heard that deranged ‘boo’ huffed out next to his earlobe, he dropped his fork, which clattered onto his plate.
“I see he’s taken the collar off you,” Moriarty commented, chuckling as he slid into the seat opposite John in the café. “Or are you being a bit naughty? If you were my sidekick, I’d train you properly.” He winked at John in a despicable way.
John didn’t react at all. He stared steadfast at Moriarty and then continued tucking into his sausage and eggs. Moriarty crossed his legs and leant forward as if they were two people about to have a gossip.
“You know, I was only speculating when I discussed this with you at the pool about you and Sherlock. I suspected that maybe, maybe, there was something more to you, John Watson, for Sherlock to make an acceptation. Because you are rather unspectacular.”
“Thank you,” John answered. “So are you, Jim.”
Moriarty’s eyes flickered for a second but then he forced a smile. “You both showed your hands, you know, when you grabbed me. You showed me that you would do anything to keep Sherlock safe but I already figured that. Now Sherlock Holmes…he showed how much deep his love for you goes. He didn’t run. And judging by that beautiful scene at the river yesterday I was right, you’ve finally admitted it to each other.” He clapped his hands in glee. “I do so love playing matchmaker. Especially when it’s doomed.”
John put down his fork and stared dispassionately at Moriarty. “You know, Sherlock’s on his way here, so say whatever you want and leave.”
He watched as Moriarty’s jaw tensed, that tell-tale sign that his amusement had faded. “I had hope for his sake, Doctor Watson, that you’ve done as I asked and found a way to destroy that mountain of information that Sherlock has been collecting.”
“I’m working on it,” John replied tersely.
“Good. Good. I’m assuming the plan doesn’t involve just knocking over more cups of tea. Because you know what will happen if you don’t do this. You barely managed to keep Sherlock off my last project and that was kind of a test case for you, Dr Watson, and look what happened. I would hate more innocent people to suffer because you couldn’t use your unique position in Sherlock’s life to keep the man off my back.”
John now leaned forward, feeling anger pour from his eyes. “Do not manipulate me and make me out to be the villain. You killed a young girl,” he hissed.
“I know! Shame, she was such a nice girl but she had gotten in the way. And yet you,” Moriarty crooned, pointing a wriggling finger at John, “are the one who feels guilty. Thank you for shouldering that pesky responsibility for both Sherlock and I. It allows both of us to get on with our jobs.”
This time, John didn’t respond but took a few calming breaths. He tucked back into his eggs, hating how Moriarty could read his every emotion. Hated that he was so blatant in his compassion, something he had always prided himself on as a doctor.
“A shot like the one that killed Adair, so precise, could only have been done by someone experienced,” John muttered quietly. He lifted the ribboned medal he’d found in the alley out of his pocket and placed it on the table. “I know, because I can make a shot like that. Your sniper, your right hand man, is a military man too, isn’t he?”
Moriarty smiled again, in crazed glee, and exaggerated a shiver. “Oooh, I was definitely wrong. Sherlock is training you well. You are full of surprises, John Watson, it makes me tingle. If you didn’t belong so devoutly to Sherlock, I’d have you all to myself.”
Moriarty picked up the medal and pocketed it. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to have this back. And, Dr Watson? Remember your part. As if you didn’t know already, somebody is always watching, a finger on the trigger.”
“You know I can’t just destroy all that information in one go,” John insisted. “Don’t you think it will be too obvious?”
Moriarty paused for a moment. “Perhaps you’re right. Maybe I’ll find a way to do it for you but it’ll still require your help. Just remember, it’ll be much more destructive. I’ll be in touch, Doctor Watson.” He stood up and tucked the chair under the table before straightening his suit and walking off.
As John suspected, Moriarty would want to show off John’s betrayal at the opportune moment.
“You know,” John replied calmly, not looking up but heard the sharp clicking of those over-polished shoes halt behind him.
“I’m sure I do,” Moriarty responded immediately and John stomach clenched at how similar a comment Sherlock had made in this very same cafe a month ago.
“You know that if you do anything to Sherlock, I’ll have nothing left.”
Moriarty smiled a cruel twisting sneer that managed to transform a handsome face into one of undisguised manic glee. He put a hand to his heart and mocked a sad expression. “How touching. But yes,” he replied.
John smiled slightly, poking at his sausages. “If I’ve made such an impact on Sherlock as you say - and evidence suggests I have - if I die, Sherlock will come after you like a bloody hellhound.”
John waited for Moriarty’s reaction but didn’t turn his head. He did, however, feel Moriarty place his hands on his shoulders and lean down to whisper in John’s ear. He had to close his eyes to ignore the overly sensual and intimate position they were displaying in public. “Of course,” the man replied softly. “However, it won’t be by my hand, don’t you worry your pretty head.”
Something buzzed and Moriarty’s hand dived into his pocket to look at it.
Then, still quietly speaking into John’s ear, said. “Your boyfriend’s on his way. Remember our agreement, darling.”
And with a brief kiss to the side of John’s head, the man waltzed out of the café.
The doctor waited until Moriarty walked out the door before taking a few breaths to calm himself down. “I didn’t say it would be by your hand,” he murmured to himself shakily.
He wasn’t hungry anymore. In fact, as the adrenaline rushed out of him after that encounter, he felt a sickening ball work its way through his intestines and up his throat. However, he quashed it down because he knew Sherlock, with his astute observation, would notice his unease. John always complained about the lack of food; if he suddenly stopped his never ending appetite, Sherlock would know something was wrong.
A few minutes later, there was the man himself, gliding into the café with grace and poise that turned heads. And John loved it, how Sherlock’s presence attracted everyone in the room and made them notice, even him. Moriarty may be equally as cunning, but in demeanour he paled in comparison to Sherlock. With practised accuracy, Sherlock quickly spun round to sit down in the chair opposite John and whipped off his gloves.
From then on, he was launching into a tirade about what he’d found out and what their next move should be. Apparently, Molly had messaged him a picture of something Anona Kerry had crudely scratched onto her arm. A heart symbol; followed by the number 9900.
He hurried John with his breakfast and was pulling John out of the door in no time. John let him, grumbling as usual at not being allowed to finish and digest, but secretly loving it, riding on Sherlock’s enthusiasm and speed. And if Sherlock was holding his hand as they walked down the street, John couldn’t help but smile and allow himself to be pressed up against Sherlock’s side.
To be continued in Part II
Hope you enjoyed that
Author: Vescaus
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Summary: John Watson had fallen undeniable and irreversibly for Sherlock Holmes. And it was undoubtedly going to get them killed.
Spoilers: A few for 1.03 The Great Game
Rating: PG-17
Words: 9k
Notes: Second part of the Intents and Purposes series, following on from Sidekick Might be best to read that first.
This fic beta'd by the fantastic undunoops on Insanejournal.
Villain
by Vescaus
John’s life was filled with ironies since he’d come back from Afghanistan.
Thinking back on that afternoon, he realised something profound as he had sat on the sofa, watching John Nettles solve another case in this supposedly sleepy village of Midsommer. Sherlock Holmes was curled beside him, stilt-legs tucked beneath him, eyes closed and breathing deeply. The detective had finally dropped off in exhaustion, having worked not only on hunting down Moriarty but also on deciphering John, trying to unravel the mystery behind his sudden change in attitude. Now, his head lay on John’s shoulder, a tangled mass of curls tickling John’s cheek pleasantly and the cool feel of that long fingered hand still on top of his own. When John tilted his head ever so hesitantly so it rested against Sherlock’s own, he’d had a revelation.
John Watson had fallen undeniable and irreversibly for Sherlock Holmes. And it was undoubtedly going to get them killed.
Of course, he’d known for a while now that his affection for Sherlock went above and beyond fascination and awe. He’d felt great respect and admiration for soldiers he’d met and worked with in Afghanistan; but it always faded away after a while because people could never be perfect. Sherlock had at once shown himself to be brilliant but also flawed and he had to respect someone who was aware of this and even flaunted it. It was that infuriating indifference that attracted John, an unashamed mixture of genius and megalomania; prone to flashes of action and subdued melancholy like a swinging pendulum.
An interesting dynamic you have, Moriarty had said to him, one hand on his back as they entered the swimming pool. Considering, he certainly doesn’t feel for you the same way you feel for him. Sherlock Holmes cannot love…he just tolerates on different levels.
However, Moriarty had helped as well. He remembered how the man’s dark car pulled up beside him and encouraged him inside. For a while, John had thought it was yet another attempt by the older Holmes to plunge him into a John le Carre novel by trying to extract information from him. It soon became apparent, however, by the sinister atmosphere in the car that he might actually be in danger.
I’m sorry I failed to notice you before, Doctor Watson. It’s just that you’re so mediocre, I almost overlooked your value, was the first thing Moriarty had said when the door beside him opened and a long sniper gun was pointed in his direction. Please follow me.
And there had begun the longest hour or John’s life. Longer than the days in Afghanistan when there was nothing to do. Longer than the time it took for Murray to drag him away to safety after he was shot. Longer than the recuperation period after his surgery. He didn’t respond to any of Moriarty’s comments; just let the mastermind make his observations in a voice high on derangement. He had listened as Moriarty examined him, picking his personality apart piece by piece.
You don’t see it because you aren’t looking for it - or maybe you’re afraid of the rejection - but you have some hold over him.
That’s all Moriarty wanted, really. That’s what this spectacle at the swimming pool had been designed for…to use John as a test-case for Sherlock’s emotions. To uncover how deep his appreciation for John really went.
John would never say acting was his strong point.
You could always use Sherlock’s bizarre affection for you as an advantage.
He had looked at Moriarty, puzzled by this comment as the bomb was strapped to him, a jacket cheap in material but expensive in decoration. The man spun him around dramatically, seemingly unconcerned at being close to John’s chest. He zipped the coat up from bottom to top slowly, delicately, and if John wasn’t imagining it, provocatively. He could hear his heart hammering in his chest with every movement of Moriarty’s immaculate fingers. Stepping forward, the man invaded John’s personal space, pulled John’s collar, as if straightening it out to make him look presentable. So close he stood that John could feel his breath on his face, smell that ridiculously expensive but repugnant cologne and see the snake-like smile twitch on his face. Moriarty’s hands reached his shoulders, his cold fingertips gently scraping against John’s neck. It was so sickeningly vulgar that John jerked his head away.
Moriarty smirked at John’s movement but took a step back.
Or better yet, my little pawn, I’ll use it to mine.
He knew what was being asked of him. Moriarty wasn’t going to kill them now. He just wanted to scope them out; see how he could manipulate their increasing connection to each other. This was John’s new role.
In every nightmare that John experienced since that night, he always woke up at that moment. When Moriarty’s high-pitched threat reverberated in his ears like a demented child’s…I’ll use it to mine.
When he’d been released from hospital, he was temporarily convinced Moriarty’s observations on his and Sherlock’s relationship were incorrect. After all, the infuriating detective hadn’t visited him in hospital or tended to his concussion. Sherlock didn’t care; he used John in ways no different to how Moriarty did. For convenience. If John avoided both of them, maybe he could fulfil no purpose at all, even if it killed him to think of himself that way.
Have you ever wondered, Johnny-boy, why Sherlock keeps you around? I mean you aren’t a soldier anymore and barely a doctor. And judging by your silence, hardly stimulating conversation. It must be hard going from something to nothing. Because, really, I’m curious, what do you do?
It was what John had been desperately trying to ignore until Moriarty’s text came a few days after his hospital release:
Do we have a deal, John, darling?
It would be a loss to the world if Sherlock died because you couldn’t protect him.
Against his own wishes, his body rebelled and John found himself scrambling to the bathroom, phone still clutched in his shaking hand, to retch into the sink. He was, after all, still suffering from morphine withdrawal, concussion and a flaming back.
It was pure manipulation, John wasn’t stupid. But the man was right. Sherlock was too important and he cared for the man far too much to let him be chased into hell by Moriarty.
It hurt him to know that Sherlock couldn’t feel the same level of physical and emotional attachment and probably wouldn’t do the same for him; it was even more painful, as he looked back on the Moriarty debacle, that he was nothing more than a convenient device for both geniuses.
Don’t let Moriarty manipulate you the same way he can me, Sherlock had said to him. Too late for that.
As he searched vainly for a towel to wipe his mouth and his sweating forehead, and sat shivering from the aftermath on the bathroom floor, he came to his own conclusion. It was down to him to somehow save Sherlock from himself.
*
“This girl,” Lestrade said, slamming down a file on the kitchen table of 221b Baker Street a few days later as John came down from his bedroom. “Anona Kerry. We think she witnessed the murder of a man called Ronald Adair last night. She’s since disappeared, didn’t turn up to work this morning.”
John raised his eyebrows as he looked over file with the picture of a beautiful young dark-haired girl on it. “Do you think she’s dead or just on the run?”
Sherlock turned with his hands linked behind his back, a picture of dignity. “More importantly, do you think this is the work of Moriarty?”
Lestrade’s eyes flickered over to John and he shrugged in response. “You tell me. I have my suspicions; however, I don’t want to pressure you if you’re heeding Moriarty’s warning to back off.”
Lestrade was cautious in his recruitment, John noted, taking the report of the incident at the swimming pool seriously.
John remained deadpanned as Sherlock’s eyes flickered over to him now, as if assessing his reaction. With pursed lips and hesitation, Sherlock displayed an obvious struggle within as he decided whether to continue the puzzle, despite the danger it could present to both of them, or avoid it entirely by using the information they already had. In a situation which would never have stalled Sherlock, John realised the detective’s desire to protect him had indeed changed his attitude.
Less impulsive; more cautious.
Sherlock eventually replied quietly, “I always need more data. And given the accuracy of the shot that killed Ronald Adair, it’s the same sniper gun at the very least. Moriarty is behind it.” He smiled despite himself. “However, with this girl…he made a mistake; we have to capitalise on it.”
With a disappointed sigh, John handed over the files. He raised his eyes to meet Sherlock’s and could see, as only he could, the hint of apology in them.
So John flopped down on the sofa, his mind racing with Moriarty’s threat and wondering what on earth Lestrade was playing at, offering Sherlock this temptation.
“Ronald Adair,” Lestrade continued, slightly uncomfortable. No one could call him unobservant. “Killed by a shot to the back of the head at the Bagatelle Club. Pretty grisly. No forced entry, no sign of entrance or exit into his room or out of the window. So far no suspect or motive…”
“And Anona Kerry?” Sherlock interrupted.
Lestrade sighed in frustration and flipped through his notebook. “23 years old. Waitress in the tea rooms across the street. Never been late or ill for work, didn’t turn up this morning.”
John couldn’t help but think - which meant Sherlock already had - that it all sounded rather tame by Moriarty’s standards.
*
It had been an exhausting day. Sherlock had dragged him to the Bagatelle Club but they had been refused entry. No amount of charismatic charm or elegant lies on Sherlock’s part could have gained them access. All they were able to obtain from the sullen doorman was that Ronald Adair was a prestigious accountant and a good, strategic player. The man seemed to have no family or enemies.
Tracking down Anona Kerry was as hard. Daughter of a dysfunctional family, they had no idea where she was. Boyfriend after boyfriend could provide no help. Her friends who worked with her at the restaurant opposite the Bagatelle Club assured them that Anona needed the money; she wouldn’t have missed work for any reason. Even Sherlock Holmes could not find a needle in the haystack of London with so little to go on.
Times like this, John reminded himself, as Sherlock returned to the files Lestrade gave him, that Sherlock was a good person. Sherlock hated such arbitrary categorisations such as ‘good’ and ‘evil’ but sometimes they were necessary. Otherwise, how could he distinguish Sherlock from Moriarty?
John had long since realised that the motives behind Sherlock’s actions were not significant. His drive was relentless. He may only be doing it for his own mental stimulation but he was trying to solve them. Not perpetrate crimes or cover them up.
It made what John had to do even worse.
*
[The first time, John was given the perfect set-up.]
He was slowly stirring his tea in the kitchen when Sherlock called him over. Sitting down next to Sherlock, he looked over the papers Sherlock had amassed on Ronald Adair and Anona Kerry from the police, friends and co-workers. It was pitifully small.
Perhaps Sherlock didn’t notice but John did…how Sherlock was allowing John to touch him all the time. When they sat, it was close together, pressed against each other’s sides or legs connected; when they walked it was also close, hands brushing together occasionally. Sherlock grabbed John’s hand to pull him aside when he felt it wasn’t safe; John put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders when he felt the detective needed to calm his mind.
Once, he took John’s arm as the doctor was sipping his tea and staring out at the street view to move him away from the window. Hands gripped his upper arms tightly. “Don’t go near the window,” Sherlock had insisted, a stern order issued in a hoarse voice, a brief look of panic flittering across his face. He had been loathe, even in the relative safety of their own flat, to let John go for some time. Even his workload was migrating into John’s room.
It was only because Sherlock was that dense, he couldn’t notice the effect this - well, inadvertent teasing, essentially - had on John.
“He’s very connected,” Sherlock said almost to himself, resting his fingers against his lips.
“So are you,” John contended, failing to see the logic.
“In different ways,” was the snappy response. “I use the vast network provided by the underground. The homeless, mainly, and they’re on the lookout for Anona Kerry right now. Moriarty’s main sources are those of money, fame and power. People who can wield influence. Equally as effective but far more conspicuous. More difficult to bring down.”
John shrugged, sipping at his tea. “Yet…not so conspicuous that Mycroft would notice.”
“Precisely,” Sherlock agreed, resting his chin on his hand and picking up the Darjeeling John had made for him. “A prestigious club like the Bagatelle would have required membership, an esteemed list. Maybe Moriarty belongs to it, but if he doesn’t like to get his hands dirty, then someone else affiliated to Moriarty belongs to it as well and carried out the murder. Someone very well connected.”
Shaking his head to bring himself out of his reverie, Sherlock put on a game face. “It’s vital that we find Anona Kerry. If she can identify that person, we have a start. Then all this,” he said, pointing at his elaborate maze of papered connections he had accumulated over the weeks, “will slot into place and follow on from each other.”
John had to make it appear completely innocent as he leant over Sherlock’s crossed legs to pick up the folder Lestrade had left. And as he moved, his knee connected with Sherlock’s tea, toppling it over and sending the lukewarm liquid all over the information and seeping into the carpet.
Immediately, Sherlock cried out, rising to his knees to try and save the cheap, thin paper. When it was apparent that the notes were lost, the scribbling blurred together, he rounded on John in frustration. “You idiot! That was everything we had!” he cried, jumping up, pacing in front of the sofa in distress.
“I’m sorry. Sherlock, it was an accident,” John said, almost tasting the sourness of the lie in his mouth.
Sherlock stared at nothing for a few moments, those steely eyes flashing in annoyance. Then he grabbed his coat and walked out of the flat, slamming the door after thumping down the stairs.
John sat for a few moments in the thick silence of the flat, mourning the loss of Sherlock’s companionship and warmth. If he ignored Sherlock’s resulting anger, it was comforting how much trust Sherlock placed in him that he never suspected. It was painful how much John could abuse it.
With a heavy sigh, John got up, pulled out the memory stick from his laptop and Sherlock’s camera, which had been abandoned in the corner from the last time it was used. Sherlock would be gone for a while, allowing the madness of London to wash over him, soothing and stimulating his mind.
Plenty of time for John to carry out his orders.
*
I would have thought with your prior role as a soldier, you would have been very good at taking orders from superiors
Orders…John was good at following orders.
A good little soldier boy, aren’t you, Doctor Watson, even when discharged, Moriarty had mocked him. I do like men in uniform…so responsive to demands.
But just because he followed Sherlock around and waited patiently whilst the man presented his brilliant deductions before sending him off on an errand, that didn’t make him a pushover.
And just because Moriarty was threatening him by threatening Sherlock, that didn’t make him weak.
*
[The second time, he was thinking on his feet.]
He was running through Wapping, hearing the wet sound of his heavy soled shoes slapping against the cobbled stones. They had been watching the Bagatelle for about two hours and by then John was cold and tired and slightly miserable.
When Sherlock had stormed out of the house to allow his mind to relax, he had come to the conclusion that the shooter must have been in the building opposite the Bagatelle Club. It was conveniently empty and the perfect place to target Ronald Adair.
Now they were chasing the man Sherlock spotted coming out of the club, with an obviously huge bulge under his long coat. Not an ordinary hand gun; a sniper rifle. He’d run as soon as he noticed someone was following him and Sherlock, with his long legs and nimble frame was giving chase. John followed at a slighter slower pace.
Along Wapping High Street they ran, the darkened figure up ahead. He ducked into a side street, heading towards the river and they followed, passing the old meatpacking district and converted warehouse apartments.
John did what he did best at the moment. He hindered. He allowed his foot to slip on the Old Stars, crashing tumbling down them and crashing into the ground with more force than he had intended. It was enough to knock the wind out of him and he lay for a moment, hands splayed on the wet ground, catching his breath.
Further on, he knew Sherlock had stopped; heard his footsteps slow to a halt as he debated whether to continue running or to check on John. It was the dilemma that John had inadvertently placed on Sherlock by entering his life, the one he could twist in his favour.
Does it worry you? John had asked him, worry him that he had started to care.
Would you be disappointed if I said I was?
“Are you all right?” Sherlock voice suddenly appeared next to him, in that same worried voice he heard when unzipped the bomb from John’s chest. He knelt beside John, hands hovering over John but not touching, as if he was too afraid but still looking up the alley.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” John answered, putting a hand to his head. “Go!”
John knew by now that it was too late and the mystery man was gone, lost amongst the infrastructure of the river’s edge. Still, Sherlock would try. With a lingering glance at John, he ran off, using his intimate knowledge of London’s road network to guess where the man could have gone.
John sighed, sitting up and placing his hands on the wet and muddied cobbled stones, wondering how much damage he’d inadvertently done to his body. His hand came into contact with something cold and metallic so, curiously, he picked it up.
A medal. Too clean to have been there very long. In fact, John suddenly realised, it must have been dropped by their murderer.
Kosovo stripes. John recognised their pattern - a dark blue ribbon with white edges and a white central stripe - given to those who had served as NATO’s ground troops during the Balkan crisis.
Moriarty’s main sources are those of money, fame and power. People who can wield influence.
The army, John knew, was a fantastic connection.
*
One of Sherlock’s young homeless boys knocked on the door next day to say he’d found the girl they were looking for. He’d found her dead in the cold, grey hour of 3pm in Regent’s Park.
From his ‘privileged’ position with Sherlock inside the police tape, John watched like a mourner as they photographed Anona and placed her body in a bag. Her hair was still beautifully brown; her skin was ashen and blue, piercing eyes staring at nothing. A perfected break of a neck had, thankfully, ensured her end was swift and painless.
John bit his lip and tried not to be over-emotional at such a wasted loss of life. She hadn’t deserved to die.
All he could think of was that his culpability in Anona’s death was as great as Moriarty and his henchman. It was his fault. Sherlock could have found her; he could have saved her, even if he didn’t see it that way. Yet John had done nothing but deliberately place stumbling blocks in Sherlock’s path, as Moriarty had instructed. He’d placed Sherlock’s life above anyone else’s.
Now a girl was dead.
“Too late,” Sherlock muttered in anger beside him. “Too late to be of any use. And I doubt he left anything useful on her.” With detached determination, he went over to Lestrade, interrupting so he could examine the body and find something - anything - that could help him.
Of course to Sherlock, it wasn’t the loss of life that mattered. It was the loss of such a vital puzzle piece.
John couldn’t look at her anymore, though. She brought the betrayal home; watching Sherlock investigate her impassively was worse.
Quietly, he ducked under the tape and walked away, trapped in a bubble of despair. He was unaware of the cars passing him by or the people on the streets. He couldn’t even feel the cold. His brain was trying to process the wonderful irony of how he’d gone from protecting people, to inadvertently killing them.
Desperately scrambling for some sense of morality in this situation, John found himself at south bank, leaning on a wall a little way off from the London Eye, looking over the Thames to Parliament. Rubbing a hand over his face, he tried to keep his emotions at bay, wondering if he was going to break down on a public street.
He didn’t know how long he stood at the edge of the river, trying to hold his mind together. He stood, elbows resting on the cold cement, keeping him up as the guilt weighed him down physically and mentally.
Sherlock did eventually find him as the sun began to set, darkening the sky around them. Tourists and visitors were leaving the bank and John could barely make out the river.
“GPS tracker,” Sherlock informed, even though John hadn’t asked, hadn’t even reacted to Sherlock’s presence beside him. “I took the liberty of downloading an app from your iPhone, just in case.”
Sherlock stopped a little way off from him, arms folded and leaning his hip against the wall. “You’re upset about the girl,” he noted quietly, narrowing his eyes, scrutinizing John in that way he hated. That to care about the people involved was not a worthwhile pursuit. What made him so special to Sherlock?
He wishes it was that simple. So he doesn’t even respond. Just rubs his hands together and bounces gently on the soles of his feet to stave off the cold seeping into his skin.
“She was so young,” he finally murmured. He sniffed, took a shaky deep breath and continued to look entranced at the opaque muddy waters of the Thames, swirling majestically past him.
“Would it have mattered if she was old? Would you have reacted the same?” Sherlock instantly remarked, his mind programmed to release such logical observations.
John could only turn to look at him disparagingly, too weakened to engage in an argument over Sherlock’s lack of empathy. He thought he saw regret flash across Sherlock’s face but unable to actually apologise, the detective simply looked out across the river, chin high but lips thin.
Instead, John turned away. It was always his instinctual reaction in situations where his emotions threatened to diminish the strength of the argument. He felt anger, guilt and hurt swirling inside him in one giant, unpredictable melting pot. His chest was hitching and his eyes were stinging. As usual, against Sherlock, he was powerless.
He couldn’t do this any longer; if he didn’t leave now, he’d have to tell Sherlock, whatever the consequences. John was incapable of living such a lie.
However, before he could say anything, Sherlock’s heavy boots thumped towards him. He was spun around and - before John could react - Sherlock wrapped him his arms around him to pull him close. Despite all inclinations for John to pull away (because to accept such comfort was the epitome of weakness) he knew he craved the touch and reassurance that Sherlock Holmes, of all the people, was providing. Someone who didn’t know what he was being forced to do. He melted into the embrace, resting his forehead on Sherlock’s chest.
“He’ll be watching,” John whispered shakily, after a few moments, his voice muffled by the thick wool of Sherlock’s coat.
“I know, that body was left close to Baker Street as a message to me,” Sherlock replied, his grip tightening. One of his long hands, splayed across John’s upper back, moved to tangle in John’s short hair, gripping slightly too tight. “But I don’t care.”
John missed the warmth and intimacy of Sherlock’s embrace when the taller man finally pulled away. Yet he was to be further surprised when Sherlock’s hands came up cupping both of John’s cheeks, warm leather heating the skin. And, after a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock swooped down and captured John’s lips with his own cold and slightly chapped ones, softly. For a few moments, they both stood there, lips locked, mouths closed, and barely moving. Sherlock’s thumbs were rubbing his cheeks and John’s hands were gripping the lapels of Sherlock’s coat with tight grip, as if holding on for dear life.
It was hesitant, slightly clumsy, but that didn’t detract from the wonder of it.
John felt as though the bubble had burst from around him. When he opened his mouth to kiss deeper, he no longer felt cold, detached and isolated from the world. The feeling of living in a parallel world, where he moved nowhere as the world whizzed past him, was finally ebbing.
Sherlock may not appreciate that someone so full of potential had died. But if he understood that John did then maybe, the doctor thought, that was enough.
And when they finally parted, panting slightly and staring at each other, John couldn’t help but smile with undisguised elation. Sherlock, who had been breathing heavily in trepidation that John never thought he would see, relaxed and smiled back. It was the first time John had been in Sherlock’s presence without thinking of how Moriarty would burn the heart of Sherlock.
And it was the closest to a declaration of love John would ever receive from Sherlock. He was showing Moriarty he was right. That Sherlock did feel more than friendship for him and wasn’t afraid to display it; but that made it ever harder to refuse Moriarty’s threats by implying it didn’t exist.
*
It was the irony of being a soldier: the inevitability of developing close bonds with the people with whom you fought side by side, who you protected and loved like a brother; it made it that much harder to deal with the loss when they were suddenly taken by violent means.
John had experienced this far too often for Sherlock Holmes to be another addition to his list of grief. Another private day of mourning for the sparse calendar. At least this time, he thought as he sat in the taxi trundling back to Baker Street, Sherlock’s arm around his shoulders, pulling him close and keeping him warm, bringing him out of his shock…this time, he could actually prevent it.
*
At first John thought it was Sherlock creeping up behind him but when he heard that deranged ‘boo’ huffed out next to his earlobe, he dropped his fork, which clattered onto his plate.
“I see he’s taken the collar off you,” Moriarty commented, chuckling as he slid into the seat opposite John in the café. “Or are you being a bit naughty? If you were my sidekick, I’d train you properly.” He winked at John in a despicable way.
John didn’t react at all. He stared steadfast at Moriarty and then continued tucking into his sausage and eggs. Moriarty crossed his legs and leant forward as if they were two people about to have a gossip.
“You know, I was only speculating when I discussed this with you at the pool about you and Sherlock. I suspected that maybe, maybe, there was something more to you, John Watson, for Sherlock to make an acceptation. Because you are rather unspectacular.”
“Thank you,” John answered. “So are you, Jim.”
Moriarty’s eyes flickered for a second but then he forced a smile. “You both showed your hands, you know, when you grabbed me. You showed me that you would do anything to keep Sherlock safe but I already figured that. Now Sherlock Holmes…he showed how much deep his love for you goes. He didn’t run. And judging by that beautiful scene at the river yesterday I was right, you’ve finally admitted it to each other.” He clapped his hands in glee. “I do so love playing matchmaker. Especially when it’s doomed.”
John put down his fork and stared dispassionately at Moriarty. “You know, Sherlock’s on his way here, so say whatever you want and leave.”
He watched as Moriarty’s jaw tensed, that tell-tale sign that his amusement had faded. “I had hope for his sake, Doctor Watson, that you’ve done as I asked and found a way to destroy that mountain of information that Sherlock has been collecting.”
“I’m working on it,” John replied tersely.
“Good. Good. I’m assuming the plan doesn’t involve just knocking over more cups of tea. Because you know what will happen if you don’t do this. You barely managed to keep Sherlock off my last project and that was kind of a test case for you, Dr Watson, and look what happened. I would hate more innocent people to suffer because you couldn’t use your unique position in Sherlock’s life to keep the man off my back.”
John now leaned forward, feeling anger pour from his eyes. “Do not manipulate me and make me out to be the villain. You killed a young girl,” he hissed.
“I know! Shame, she was such a nice girl but she had gotten in the way. And yet you,” Moriarty crooned, pointing a wriggling finger at John, “are the one who feels guilty. Thank you for shouldering that pesky responsibility for both Sherlock and I. It allows both of us to get on with our jobs.”
This time, John didn’t respond but took a few calming breaths. He tucked back into his eggs, hating how Moriarty could read his every emotion. Hated that he was so blatant in his compassion, something he had always prided himself on as a doctor.
“A shot like the one that killed Adair, so precise, could only have been done by someone experienced,” John muttered quietly. He lifted the ribboned medal he’d found in the alley out of his pocket and placed it on the table. “I know, because I can make a shot like that. Your sniper, your right hand man, is a military man too, isn’t he?”
Moriarty smiled again, in crazed glee, and exaggerated a shiver. “Oooh, I was definitely wrong. Sherlock is training you well. You are full of surprises, John Watson, it makes me tingle. If you didn’t belong so devoutly to Sherlock, I’d have you all to myself.”
Moriarty picked up the medal and pocketed it. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to have this back. And, Dr Watson? Remember your part. As if you didn’t know already, somebody is always watching, a finger on the trigger.”
“You know I can’t just destroy all that information in one go,” John insisted. “Don’t you think it will be too obvious?”
Moriarty paused for a moment. “Perhaps you’re right. Maybe I’ll find a way to do it for you but it’ll still require your help. Just remember, it’ll be much more destructive. I’ll be in touch, Doctor Watson.” He stood up and tucked the chair under the table before straightening his suit and walking off.
As John suspected, Moriarty would want to show off John’s betrayal at the opportune moment.
“You know,” John replied calmly, not looking up but heard the sharp clicking of those over-polished shoes halt behind him.
“I’m sure I do,” Moriarty responded immediately and John stomach clenched at how similar a comment Sherlock had made in this very same cafe a month ago.
“You know that if you do anything to Sherlock, I’ll have nothing left.”
Moriarty smiled a cruel twisting sneer that managed to transform a handsome face into one of undisguised manic glee. He put a hand to his heart and mocked a sad expression. “How touching. But yes,” he replied.
John smiled slightly, poking at his sausages. “If I’ve made such an impact on Sherlock as you say - and evidence suggests I have - if I die, Sherlock will come after you like a bloody hellhound.”
John waited for Moriarty’s reaction but didn’t turn his head. He did, however, feel Moriarty place his hands on his shoulders and lean down to whisper in John’s ear. He had to close his eyes to ignore the overly sensual and intimate position they were displaying in public. “Of course,” the man replied softly. “However, it won’t be by my hand, don’t you worry your pretty head.”
Something buzzed and Moriarty’s hand dived into his pocket to look at it.
Then, still quietly speaking into John’s ear, said. “Your boyfriend’s on his way. Remember our agreement, darling.”
And with a brief kiss to the side of John’s head, the man waltzed out of the café.
The doctor waited until Moriarty walked out the door before taking a few breaths to calm himself down. “I didn’t say it would be by your hand,” he murmured to himself shakily.
He wasn’t hungry anymore. In fact, as the adrenaline rushed out of him after that encounter, he felt a sickening ball work its way through his intestines and up his throat. However, he quashed it down because he knew Sherlock, with his astute observation, would notice his unease. John always complained about the lack of food; if he suddenly stopped his never ending appetite, Sherlock would know something was wrong.
A few minutes later, there was the man himself, gliding into the café with grace and poise that turned heads. And John loved it, how Sherlock’s presence attracted everyone in the room and made them notice, even him. Moriarty may be equally as cunning, but in demeanour he paled in comparison to Sherlock. With practised accuracy, Sherlock quickly spun round to sit down in the chair opposite John and whipped off his gloves.
From then on, he was launching into a tirade about what he’d found out and what their next move should be. Apparently, Molly had messaged him a picture of something Anona Kerry had crudely scratched onto her arm. A heart symbol; followed by the number 9900.
He hurried John with his breakfast and was pulling John out of the door in no time. John let him, grumbling as usual at not being allowed to finish and digest, but secretly loving it, riding on Sherlock’s enthusiasm and speed. And if Sherlock was holding his hand as they walked down the street, John couldn’t help but smile and allow himself to be pressed up against Sherlock’s side.
To be continued in Part II
Hope you enjoyed that