Fic: Run, Neon Tiger 4/6
Title:Run, Neon Tiger (4/6)
Author: Unsentimental Fool
Rating: R (this part) R/NC-17 (whole)
Pairings (approximately): (whole) John/Sherlock, Sherlock/Moriarty, Moriarty/Moran, Moran/John
Word count: (this part) 5,100 words
Summary: Three's an awkward number at 221B.
Notes: The eagle-eyed amongst you may have noticed the arrival of an extra chapter. The next one is definitely last.
Sequel to Burning Bright.
back to chapter one
"Sainsbury's will still be open. Pick up a phone there, text me the number, take him to Baker Street and stay there."
Sherlock swept his coat up and glared at Moran as he wrapped his scarf around his neck.
"And where are you going?" John asked.
"Not any of his business. You can't play for both sides either, John."
"What?" John took a moment to process that. "Hey! I'm not the one who started this!"
"I'm working. You're merely succumbing to temptation, and a remarkably unappealing one at that. There's something very wrong about him. Go home, stay there, and don't let him near anything at all of mine."
Moran was carefully expressionless. John knew this was not the place to have this out with Sherlock. "We're going to talk about this when you get home!"
"About your bringing home a stray serial killer? Really? Buy that phone." He stalked out, leaving John to look around the deserted tea rooms.
"Damn the man. Should I pay, do you think?"
Seb laughed. "You're the only one of the four of us who would contemplate it. No, John. We don't pay. We leave the poor sods counting their blessings that we're finally gone with no bodies on the tiles."
"I don't think I like 'us' all that much."
"Finally." Seb's mouth twisted upwards. "We're getting past all that 'good man' crap." Come on. You can pay for the phone, if it makes you feel better."
"I don't have to like him all the time. Nobody does." John explained as they looked around the supermarket aisles.
"No." Seb agreed.
"He's not usually this bad. It's Moriarty. The man does something to him."
"Yes."
"He's doing this for me. Mostly."
Silence.
"Come on, Seb! Jim wanted me dead because you didn't tell him about us. Didn't he?"
"Yeah." Reluctantly.
"Sherlock negotiated something. Didn't he?"
"Seems like it."
"So, then. You put my life at risk. He's saving it. Who should I be most pissed off with, Seb?"
"Who are you most pissed off with, then?"
John sighed. "Him. What does that say?" He pulled down a mobile phone box at random. "Know anything about phones? Which of these should I buy? "
"I could hack any one of these in fifteen seconds. Buy a cheap one now and we'll go to Tottenham Court Road tomorrow. You're pissed off with him because since it turns out that he does sex after all he bloody well ought to do it with you, not Jim Moriarty. And you've got a point."
When had he stopped even denying that? Silence while they negotiated the checkout and a cab. It wasn't a long walk home but John felt less exposed by taxi. Back in the flat he settled in his chair to put the phone together and send Sherlock's text, while Moran made coffee.
"What's Moriarty like, anyway? Up close?"
Seb snorted. "Insane."
"That stuff on your back; is that what that was?"
Moran brought the coffee out, stripped off jacket and shirt, indicated the deepest of the scars. "Those ones were a tiger. The rest were the boss."
John stood up to look closer at the manmade scarring. "Going back a couple of years?"
"Twenty months."
"That's a lot of damage."
"Two blood transfusions, so far. He's not always so careful about avoiding arteries when he's having fun."
"Hell, Seb! You got a deathwish?"
Seb shrugged. "Way it is."
A sudden terror. "Is this what he did to Sherlock?"
Seb snorted. "God, no. Holmes got to call all the shots. I've never seen the boss play pussycat before."
John narrowed his eyes. "You jealous?"
"Nah." A pause. "Maybe a touch. Not like the boss is exactly monogamous, but we usually hunt together." He sighed. "Four o'clock this morning I got a bloody tiger skin dumped on my head. Now I'm here. Hell of a day."
"I've got beer?" John offered.
"Why didn't you say so before, Watson? Dig it out."
A couple of hours later they were still on old regiment stories, having skipped more recent history by mutual consent. The doorbell startled John, and as he pulled himself to his feet he realised that he'd drunk rather more than might be advisable.
"Prob'ly Sherlock lost his key again." He made his way downstairs, blinked at Lestrade. "Hello?"
"Why won't either of you answer your bloody phones!" Lestrade came past him, up the stairs. "Is he in?"
"No. My phone got broken." John climbed up after him. "Just me and..." Mustn't say Seb, his brain advised him, almost too late. "Just me."
"Yeah." Lestrade looked around the living room. "Everything alright, John?"
Ah. Rather a lot of empty beer bottles, and no Seb. John fumbled for an excuse for that much drinking alone."Had a bit of a row with Sherlock. You know."
Lestrade was frowning at him. "About Moran?"
How did Lestrade know about him and Seb? "Er. Yeah."
"Sorry, John." Lestrade sounded genuinely regretful. "But Sherlock was right, as usual. We've got a detailed description from the man who sold his pass on, and when we searched Moran's business premises we found tracings of a map of the zoo and the taxidermist's number. And now Moran's gone missing. He's our man, all right."
"No. It was Jim Moriarty." He felt the need to explain further. "It's always fucking Jim, Greg! Not me, though. We're simple, apparently."
Lestrade was looking at him oddly. "Look, John. Just tell Sherlock I need to talk to him, will you, when he gets home."
"You can talk to me now."
They both turned. Sherlock had come up quietly behind then. Now he walked over to the couch and began moving empty bottles onto the floor. "At least Lestrade can. Expecting coherence from John after this amount of alcohol is over-optimistic. I suggest that you sit down, John, before you fall over."
He knew damn well that John was no more than tipsy. John started to protest and Sherlock gestured firmly at the chair. "Sit down and be quiet!"
John did, reluctantly.
"Thank you. Now, this is about Moran, I presume, Inspector?"
Lestrade repeated the findings. "We've got a most wanted out on him, press conference first thing in the morning, then Crimewatch tomorrow evening. He's pretty recognisable and the murders are running top of all the news schedules. If he hasn't got out of the country already I'm sure we'll get him. Thanks to you."
Sherlock nodded. "Good work. Anything on that taxidermist yet?"
"Still missing. We're looking."
"Let me know if you find anything." He ushered the inspector out, came back up and rummaged in his desk.
"Sherlock!"
"Not now." He came out with a large evidence bag. "Moran!"
Seb stepped out from Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock sighed.
"We've been watching him like a hawk, I see. Gun, unloaded. Phone." He glanced swiftly up and down Moran's rangy figure. "Three knives."
Moran divested himself of the items, placed them in the bag without comment. He tossed the ammunition for John's gun back to him.
"Sherlock! He didn't do it."
"Those particular murders, no. He did commit several others though, at least two of which are sitting on Scotland Yard's cold case files. Lestrade will never catch Jim so he might as well chase Sebastian."
"Except that he's in our flat! And he didn't do it!"
"Go to bed, John. It will make sense in the morning."
"Where's Seb sleeping?"
"Definitely not with you." Sherlock looked back at Moran standing quiet. "I'm afraid our hospitality isn't quite up to your standards. Naked men chained to the floor would startle our landlady. You sleep on the couch and you go nowhere, you touch nothing and you try to contact no-one." A quick cold smile. "Otherwise we find out how long a high security police cell will keep you safe from Moriarty. I strongly suspect he'll find it no trouble at all."
Moran nodded. "Understood."
"Go to bed, John. Your drinking partner will still be here in the morning, unless he's very stupid indeed."
Seb was still there in the morning, sitting on the couch in one of Sherlock's black shirts, open necked, watching the owner tap away on his laptop.
"Good morning" John tried to both of them, got no replies, shrugged and went in search of coffee. Over breakfast he discovered that Seb continued monosyllabic in Sherlock's presence and his flatmate was barely more forthcoming.
"So what happens now? Seb can't leave."
"No," Sherlock agreed. "Interesting, that."
"What's Moriarty up to?"
Sherlock shrugged, elegant and dismissive. "Why not ask his henchman? Who were you planning to murder this week, Moran?"
"That's operational matters."
Moran looked relaxed, but John could see the tension at the pulse in his throat. Sherlock would see it, of course.
"John knows you kill innocent people, Moran. There's no point pretending."
A flicker towards John, and his attention was back on Sherlock. "There's no point asking, either, Mr Holmes."
"No. You don't know what Jim's up to at all, do you? Only that you've been kicked out here and John's now the only card in your hand." Sherlock's voice dropped, slowed. "I've be very careful about how you try to play that card, Moran. You think Moriarty's revenges are bleak; mine would be far, far worse."
Moran watched him for a couple of seconds, then nodded.
"Right here," John pointed out. "If you want to let me in on the conversation?"
"It's done." Sherlock closed the laptop, tucked it under his arm. "Don't leave the house, don't let anyone in. There's a police watch front and back. Try not to do anything foolish. I may be out late."
"Where are you going?"
"To see a man about a dog." And he went.
It was a long morning. John had been uncomfortably reminded that Seb was Moriarty's man; he kept a chilly distance. Seb tried a familiarity once or twice then dropped into the same perfunctory civility.
About midday John received an anonymous picture text; a slightly pudgy hand resting on the inside of a long white thigh. At his shocked curse Seb came to look over his shoulder.
"What did you expect?"
"This is your fault. Shut up." Sherlock didn't answer his phone. John spent the afternoon pacing, distressed.
When Sherlock got home in late afternoon he had the same reaction. "What did you expect?"
"If you can meet up for this you can get him arrested, Sherlock!"
"No."
"We've got to talk about this. You can't do this. It's dangerous."
"Stop fussing, John. Obviously I can." And he disappeared for a very long shower.
Afterwards he was all business. "I'll watch the sniper. Go shopping, look normal. We're almost out of milk."
It was a long evening as well. John tried to watch military documentaries on the Discovery Channel, enlivened by Seb's occasional dry critique. Sherlock shut himself in his room for much of the evening, refusing food. John was both desperately worried about him and furious.
When he came down early next day after a night almost devoid of sleep Sherlock had already left.
"You could have stopped him!" he shouted at Seb.
"Voice down. He knows what he's doing. No-one's come after you or me yet; think that's coincidence?"
John didn't speak to him all day. The midday picture was of an iron ring around a narrow ankle, a chain from it winding so tight up the calf that it dug deep into pale compressed flesh. He didn't show it to Seb; instead he spent an hour or so cleaning his gun.
Sherlock ignored everything that he had to say when the man got home, disappearing into the bathroom instead. John stood squarely in his way when he came out again.
"At least let me check you over for injuries, Sherlock. I'm a doctor."
"There's nothing to check."
"Then you won't mind me looking, will you? I'm insisting on this, or I'm tying you up myself tomorrow."
Reluctantly, Sherlock stripped down to his underwear. "Satisfied, Doctor?"
The loop was still round his ankle; John recognised it as the metal he'd seen when Sherlock had woken him for the Zoo. It wasn't chafing. Faint marks up his leg showed where the chain had pulled tight but there was no sign of scratches or bruising. John had to concede that Sherlock was unhurt.
"Doesn't mean he won't do something next time, Sherlock. He's insane. You know what he did to Seb."
"I'm not Moran. And I'll have some shepherd's pie since you're making it."
John waved a helpless hand. "You are using protection, aren't you?"
Sherlock laughed out loud at that. "John, please. I'm not your teenage daughter. "
"How long is this going to go on for? You going out, Seb being here, the police search... it's got to end soon."
"I calculate that two events will occur." Sherlock had dressed again. "One here, one there. I doubt if either is more then a few days away now."
He smiled at John, the first genuine warm smile he'd shown for days. "Tolerate all this for a little longer, John. We'll have our quiet lives back soon enough."
Moran had been watching from the living room doorway. He turned a stiff shoulder to John and went to the corner that he'd appropriated, curled up on the floor with a book. John sighed and went to the kitchen to start dinner.
That night John woke to a step on the stair.
"Seb?"
"Hush. There's an outside chance that he doesn't know I'm up here." Seb climbed onto the bed, curled up next to John, head close on the pillow. "You're a real wuss when it comes to him, aren't you?"
"Hey, I'm doing what I can!" He'd not figured any way to stop Sherlock that would work.
"Yeah, sure. I tell you, if it were my boyfriend heading off to fuck Jim Moriarty every day he'd get a bit more then a medical and a safe sex lecture."
"Sherlock's not my boyfriend."
"How do you know? Come on, John. You haven't tried him. Ever. So he's got to go and screw Moriarty every day, so send him off marked every fucking inch as yours, and rip every trace of the boss off his skin when he comes home again."
There was warmth pressed up against John's side now. "I tell you, it's embarrassing, watching you right now."
John shifted, uncomfortable. "Look. It's not like that, him and me."
"Why do you think the boss sends you those photos? Because you're his doctor? Because you go halves on the rent?" He shifted up even closer. "That's my good samaritan speech done. If he's not getting it from you, I might as well. That couch gets pretty chilly late at night."
"Go away." There wasn't a great deal of conviction in John's tone, however, and Moran merely dug his way under the covers instead. Sure hands rolled him onto his stomach, massaged his tight neck and shoulders for a very long time, until he was finally relaxed for the first time in days and half asleep. Then it was only Sebastian, and warm and human; he let the man part his legs and screw him slowly and gently, barely keeping him awake, let Seb curl up against him afterwards and sleep.
"Get out."
John started awake. Sherlock was by the bed, and angry.
"Get out!" Sebastian was dragged off the bed by an arm.
"Stop it!" Sherlock really couldn't behave like this in his bedroom!
"Get downstairs." Sherlock hissed at Seb, who left without comment.
"What do you think you're doing?" John snapped.
"Did you have sex with him? Don't bother answering, I can smell that much. He's using you, John. I didn't think that you would be so stupid as not to see that. There's something wrong about him when it comes to you. Don't let him anywhere near!"
John sat bolt upright. "Ok. One, smell comment, not acceptable. Ever. Two, he's trapped, Sherlock! You and Moriarty between you have stuck him here, with no idea of your plans, knowing you both think he's expendable and with no-one on his side, except possibly me. I'd bloody well cuddle up to my only ally in that situation too. Three, I like him. He might not be a good person but right now he's a much better friend than you are. He does at least recognise that I have feelings!"
"What 'feelings' would these be," Sherlock demanded. "Lust? I have noticed that, believe it or not. I'm just a little too busy right now keeping you and your good friend alive to engage in detailed discussions of your carnal desires."
"Carnal desires?" John looked round but there was nothing in reach to throw. "Fuck that, Sherlock! I'm scared! And yes, I'm jealous too, because yes OK there's a bit of that, but mostly I'm terrified that today when you take your clothes off for Jim Moriarty he's going to rape, torture and mutilate you and send me a bloody photo when he's done, because he's a fucking madman and you are not in control. I can barely breathe when you're with him and it doesn't get any better when you come back because you're going to go there again. And all the time I know I'm the hold that Moriarty has over you. How do you think that feels?"
"What does that have to do with Moran?" Sherlock was quieter.
"Seb doesn't matter, Sherlock! He's lost too, just a warm body in the terrible cold. We're pawns, him and I, and neither of us have anything else to hold onto right now. I don't know if he misses Jim but I miss you. Part of you's been gone since you first went to Moriarty, and I don't know if I'm ever going to get you back whole again."
Sherlock sat down on the bed. There was a long silence.
"I cannot" he finally said, "promise you that everything will be how it used to be, nor that everything will work out fine. However I do not think that Moran's position is as desperate as it currently appears, nor do I think that I am yet in as much physical danger as you imagine."
He looked directly at John. "You have some personal experience of perverse desires, and I intend no judgement by that term. It is not always possible to choose the nature of one's inclinations. If it were so then I might well consider inclining them towards a friend and partner, rather than, as you put it, a fucking madman. But," he shrugged, "I would not want to hold out any promises unlikely to be kept."
A quick smile. "I assure you that I don't hold you in any way responsible for our current situation, regardless of my somewhat hasty words a minute ago. The initial curiosity was mine, and everything has followed on after.
"Does that cover everything, John?"
John let go of a deep breath. "Not everything, but thank you. It's at least good to have you talk to me again. Do you really have to go today?"
"I really do, yes. Try not to fret. It's a game, with rules, and he's limited by them even if he wouldn't admit it. He'll send a rather more unnerving photo; I don't want you to actually worry overmuch but a few texts and frantic messages in response will keep him happy."
"I can certainly do that. Please come home safely. I hate this."
"I know you do." A brief smile from Sherlock. "I don't. Not yet." He stood up. "I meant it about Moran. He holds secrets, still, and they may involve you. Trusting a known killer in such a desperate position is every bit as rash as you imagine I'm being."
"Did you make a pass at him, then?"
John shook his head. "Well, sort of. While shouting. He's not interested, but polite about it. And at least we got to talk about what's going on."
"So, what's going on?" Moran was sprawled across the couch eating crisps.
"I don't actually know," John admitted. "It wasn't that sort of talk. But he seems happy enough. Reckons Moriarty and he are in a game with rules, so he's safe."
Moran snorted. "Idiot. Boss has never stuck to a set of rules in his life. Still, he's not dead yet, not that I'd care. Last time I was dragged out of a bed like that boy was fifteen and it was the bloody father."
"Sorry about that. He doesn't trust you at all."
Moran merely snorted at that, and opened another packet of crisps.
The wait for the photo was bad, despite Sherlock's reassurance. It didn't come through until nearly 1pm, and then it was hard to make out. Moran transfered it onto John's laptop and they stared at the enlarged image together.
John made out the dip of the spinal cord disappearing, identified the photo as taken of the small of the back, entirely wet with blood, and the smear of JM drawn clean in it with a fingertip.
The blood could have come from anywhere Seb pointed out; there were no cuts shown. And it wasn't a great deal of blood, all told; thinly spread. John knew he was right, appreciated the reassurance but he had no difficulty being frantic at Sherlock's answerphone. Moriarty had cut Sherlock open.
Ten to four his phone rang.
"Sherlock? God, are you all right?"
"Perfectly." Sherlock's voice was curt. "I want you to go out for 500ml sulphuric acid."
"Now?"
"Right now."
"What about Moran?"
"Now, John. I need it the instant that I get home, in an hour and a half. That chemist in Dale Street will have it." He hung up.
John turned to Seb. "Sherlock needs me to dash out for something. Hour, tops. Will you be all right?"
"If they find me I'm fucked whether you're here or not. Go on."
John picked up the gun from his room, unwilling to leave it with Seb, then took the stairs two and three at a time.
He had been on the bus for ten minutes when Sherlock rang again. "Get off, next stop. Cross the street; there's a taxi waiting." The line went dead again.
Sherlock was in the cab, looking bright eyed and excited. "Excellent, John." He leaned forward to the driver "Baker Street."
"What are we doing? Hang on, never mind that, are you hurt?"
Sherlock flashed a bandaged hand at him. "You can check it later, Doctor, but it's only a small cut. We are leaving Moran enough rope to hang himself."
"What? How?"
"I've suspected for some time that your friend Seb has two masters. He's been reporting on Moriarty for someone else. What I haven't been able to find out is who he's spying for, although given his Middle Eastern links I have suspicions that it will be an Islamist group. Whoever it is, he's been out of touch with them for days and he has a great deal of information to pass on. He can't leave the flat, so they'll send someone to him." He directed the taxi to pull up.
"I think we should have timed things perfectly. Got your gun? Good." He flung some money at the cab driver, ran out and up the stairs to the flat. John followed close behind, hand in his jacket, on the gun.
They burst into the living room and the man already seated there turned at the interruption. Sherlock slammed to a halt and there was a second's silence, broken by Sherlock's slow drawl.
"Well. What a surprise. And to what do we owe the honour?"
Mycroft patted a file on the table. "A matter of some vital importance. I let myself in to wait, since there was no-one here. Perhaps John could make some tea while we discuss it?"
Chapter 5 Favourite Weapon
Author: Unsentimental Fool
Rating: R (this part) R/NC-17 (whole)
Pairings (approximately): (whole) John/Sherlock, Sherlock/Moriarty, Moriarty/Moran, Moran/John
Word count: (this part) 5,100 words
Summary: Three's an awkward number at 221B.
Notes: The eagle-eyed amongst you may have noticed the arrival of an extra chapter. The next one is definitely last.
Sequel to Burning Bright.
back to chapter one
"Sainsbury's will still be open. Pick up a phone there, text me the number, take him to Baker Street and stay there."
Sherlock swept his coat up and glared at Moran as he wrapped his scarf around his neck.
"And where are you going?" John asked.
"Not any of his business. You can't play for both sides either, John."
"What?" John took a moment to process that. "Hey! I'm not the one who started this!"
"I'm working. You're merely succumbing to temptation, and a remarkably unappealing one at that. There's something very wrong about him. Go home, stay there, and don't let him near anything at all of mine."
Moran was carefully expressionless. John knew this was not the place to have this out with Sherlock. "We're going to talk about this when you get home!"
"About your bringing home a stray serial killer? Really? Buy that phone." He stalked out, leaving John to look around the deserted tea rooms.
"Damn the man. Should I pay, do you think?"
Seb laughed. "You're the only one of the four of us who would contemplate it. No, John. We don't pay. We leave the poor sods counting their blessings that we're finally gone with no bodies on the tiles."
"I don't think I like 'us' all that much."
"Finally." Seb's mouth twisted upwards. "We're getting past all that 'good man' crap." Come on. You can pay for the phone, if it makes you feel better."
"I don't have to like him all the time. Nobody does." John explained as they looked around the supermarket aisles.
"No." Seb agreed.
"He's not usually this bad. It's Moriarty. The man does something to him."
"Yes."
"He's doing this for me. Mostly."
Silence.
"Come on, Seb! Jim wanted me dead because you didn't tell him about us. Didn't he?"
"Yeah." Reluctantly.
"Sherlock negotiated something. Didn't he?"
"Seems like it."
"So, then. You put my life at risk. He's saving it. Who should I be most pissed off with, Seb?"
"Who are you most pissed off with, then?"
John sighed. "Him. What does that say?" He pulled down a mobile phone box at random. "Know anything about phones? Which of these should I buy? "
"I could hack any one of these in fifteen seconds. Buy a cheap one now and we'll go to Tottenham Court Road tomorrow. You're pissed off with him because since it turns out that he does sex after all he bloody well ought to do it with you, not Jim Moriarty. And you've got a point."
When had he stopped even denying that? Silence while they negotiated the checkout and a cab. It wasn't a long walk home but John felt less exposed by taxi. Back in the flat he settled in his chair to put the phone together and send Sherlock's text, while Moran made coffee.
"What's Moriarty like, anyway? Up close?"
Seb snorted. "Insane."
"That stuff on your back; is that what that was?"
Moran brought the coffee out, stripped off jacket and shirt, indicated the deepest of the scars. "Those ones were a tiger. The rest were the boss."
John stood up to look closer at the manmade scarring. "Going back a couple of years?"
"Twenty months."
"That's a lot of damage."
"Two blood transfusions, so far. He's not always so careful about avoiding arteries when he's having fun."
"Hell, Seb! You got a deathwish?"
Seb shrugged. "Way it is."
A sudden terror. "Is this what he did to Sherlock?"
Seb snorted. "God, no. Holmes got to call all the shots. I've never seen the boss play pussycat before."
John narrowed his eyes. "You jealous?"
"Nah." A pause. "Maybe a touch. Not like the boss is exactly monogamous, but we usually hunt together." He sighed. "Four o'clock this morning I got a bloody tiger skin dumped on my head. Now I'm here. Hell of a day."
"I've got beer?" John offered.
"Why didn't you say so before, Watson? Dig it out."
A couple of hours later they were still on old regiment stories, having skipped more recent history by mutual consent. The doorbell startled John, and as he pulled himself to his feet he realised that he'd drunk rather more than might be advisable.
"Prob'ly Sherlock lost his key again." He made his way downstairs, blinked at Lestrade. "Hello?"
"Why won't either of you answer your bloody phones!" Lestrade came past him, up the stairs. "Is he in?"
"No. My phone got broken." John climbed up after him. "Just me and..." Mustn't say Seb, his brain advised him, almost too late. "Just me."
"Yeah." Lestrade looked around the living room. "Everything alright, John?"
Ah. Rather a lot of empty beer bottles, and no Seb. John fumbled for an excuse for that much drinking alone."Had a bit of a row with Sherlock. You know."
Lestrade was frowning at him. "About Moran?"
How did Lestrade know about him and Seb? "Er. Yeah."
"Sorry, John." Lestrade sounded genuinely regretful. "But Sherlock was right, as usual. We've got a detailed description from the man who sold his pass on, and when we searched Moran's business premises we found tracings of a map of the zoo and the taxidermist's number. And now Moran's gone missing. He's our man, all right."
"No. It was Jim Moriarty." He felt the need to explain further. "It's always fucking Jim, Greg! Not me, though. We're simple, apparently."
Lestrade was looking at him oddly. "Look, John. Just tell Sherlock I need to talk to him, will you, when he gets home."
"You can talk to me now."
They both turned. Sherlock had come up quietly behind then. Now he walked over to the couch and began moving empty bottles onto the floor. "At least Lestrade can. Expecting coherence from John after this amount of alcohol is over-optimistic. I suggest that you sit down, John, before you fall over."
He knew damn well that John was no more than tipsy. John started to protest and Sherlock gestured firmly at the chair. "Sit down and be quiet!"
John did, reluctantly.
"Thank you. Now, this is about Moran, I presume, Inspector?"
Lestrade repeated the findings. "We've got a most wanted out on him, press conference first thing in the morning, then Crimewatch tomorrow evening. He's pretty recognisable and the murders are running top of all the news schedules. If he hasn't got out of the country already I'm sure we'll get him. Thanks to you."
Sherlock nodded. "Good work. Anything on that taxidermist yet?"
"Still missing. We're looking."
"Let me know if you find anything." He ushered the inspector out, came back up and rummaged in his desk.
"Sherlock!"
"Not now." He came out with a large evidence bag. "Moran!"
Seb stepped out from Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock sighed.
"We've been watching him like a hawk, I see. Gun, unloaded. Phone." He glanced swiftly up and down Moran's rangy figure. "Three knives."
Moran divested himself of the items, placed them in the bag without comment. He tossed the ammunition for John's gun back to him.
"Sherlock! He didn't do it."
"Those particular murders, no. He did commit several others though, at least two of which are sitting on Scotland Yard's cold case files. Lestrade will never catch Jim so he might as well chase Sebastian."
"Except that he's in our flat! And he didn't do it!"
"Go to bed, John. It will make sense in the morning."
"Where's Seb sleeping?"
"Definitely not with you." Sherlock looked back at Moran standing quiet. "I'm afraid our hospitality isn't quite up to your standards. Naked men chained to the floor would startle our landlady. You sleep on the couch and you go nowhere, you touch nothing and you try to contact no-one." A quick cold smile. "Otherwise we find out how long a high security police cell will keep you safe from Moriarty. I strongly suspect he'll find it no trouble at all."
Moran nodded. "Understood."
"Go to bed, John. Your drinking partner will still be here in the morning, unless he's very stupid indeed."
Seb was still there in the morning, sitting on the couch in one of Sherlock's black shirts, open necked, watching the owner tap away on his laptop.
"Good morning" John tried to both of them, got no replies, shrugged and went in search of coffee. Over breakfast he discovered that Seb continued monosyllabic in Sherlock's presence and his flatmate was barely more forthcoming.
"So what happens now? Seb can't leave."
"No," Sherlock agreed. "Interesting, that."
"What's Moriarty up to?"
Sherlock shrugged, elegant and dismissive. "Why not ask his henchman? Who were you planning to murder this week, Moran?"
"That's operational matters."
Moran looked relaxed, but John could see the tension at the pulse in his throat. Sherlock would see it, of course.
"John knows you kill innocent people, Moran. There's no point pretending."
A flicker towards John, and his attention was back on Sherlock. "There's no point asking, either, Mr Holmes."
"No. You don't know what Jim's up to at all, do you? Only that you've been kicked out here and John's now the only card in your hand." Sherlock's voice dropped, slowed. "I've be very careful about how you try to play that card, Moran. You think Moriarty's revenges are bleak; mine would be far, far worse."
Moran watched him for a couple of seconds, then nodded.
"Right here," John pointed out. "If you want to let me in on the conversation?"
"It's done." Sherlock closed the laptop, tucked it under his arm. "Don't leave the house, don't let anyone in. There's a police watch front and back. Try not to do anything foolish. I may be out late."
"Where are you going?"
"To see a man about a dog." And he went.
It was a long morning. John had been uncomfortably reminded that Seb was Moriarty's man; he kept a chilly distance. Seb tried a familiarity once or twice then dropped into the same perfunctory civility.
About midday John received an anonymous picture text; a slightly pudgy hand resting on the inside of a long white thigh. At his shocked curse Seb came to look over his shoulder.
"What did you expect?"
"This is your fault. Shut up." Sherlock didn't answer his phone. John spent the afternoon pacing, distressed.
When Sherlock got home in late afternoon he had the same reaction. "What did you expect?"
"If you can meet up for this you can get him arrested, Sherlock!"
"No."
"We've got to talk about this. You can't do this. It's dangerous."
"Stop fussing, John. Obviously I can." And he disappeared for a very long shower.
Afterwards he was all business. "I'll watch the sniper. Go shopping, look normal. We're almost out of milk."
It was a long evening as well. John tried to watch military documentaries on the Discovery Channel, enlivened by Seb's occasional dry critique. Sherlock shut himself in his room for much of the evening, refusing food. John was both desperately worried about him and furious.
When he came down early next day after a night almost devoid of sleep Sherlock had already left.
"You could have stopped him!" he shouted at Seb.
"Voice down. He knows what he's doing. No-one's come after you or me yet; think that's coincidence?"
John didn't speak to him all day. The midday picture was of an iron ring around a narrow ankle, a chain from it winding so tight up the calf that it dug deep into pale compressed flesh. He didn't show it to Seb; instead he spent an hour or so cleaning his gun.
Sherlock ignored everything that he had to say when the man got home, disappearing into the bathroom instead. John stood squarely in his way when he came out again.
"At least let me check you over for injuries, Sherlock. I'm a doctor."
"There's nothing to check."
"Then you won't mind me looking, will you? I'm insisting on this, or I'm tying you up myself tomorrow."
Reluctantly, Sherlock stripped down to his underwear. "Satisfied, Doctor?"
The loop was still round his ankle; John recognised it as the metal he'd seen when Sherlock had woken him for the Zoo. It wasn't chafing. Faint marks up his leg showed where the chain had pulled tight but there was no sign of scratches or bruising. John had to concede that Sherlock was unhurt.
"Doesn't mean he won't do something next time, Sherlock. He's insane. You know what he did to Seb."
"I'm not Moran. And I'll have some shepherd's pie since you're making it."
John waved a helpless hand. "You are using protection, aren't you?"
Sherlock laughed out loud at that. "John, please. I'm not your teenage daughter. "
"How long is this going to go on for? You going out, Seb being here, the police search... it's got to end soon."
"I calculate that two events will occur." Sherlock had dressed again. "One here, one there. I doubt if either is more then a few days away now."
He smiled at John, the first genuine warm smile he'd shown for days. "Tolerate all this for a little longer, John. We'll have our quiet lives back soon enough."
Moran had been watching from the living room doorway. He turned a stiff shoulder to John and went to the corner that he'd appropriated, curled up on the floor with a book. John sighed and went to the kitchen to start dinner.
That night John woke to a step on the stair.
"Seb?"
"Hush. There's an outside chance that he doesn't know I'm up here." Seb climbed onto the bed, curled up next to John, head close on the pillow. "You're a real wuss when it comes to him, aren't you?"
"Hey, I'm doing what I can!" He'd not figured any way to stop Sherlock that would work.
"Yeah, sure. I tell you, if it were my boyfriend heading off to fuck Jim Moriarty every day he'd get a bit more then a medical and a safe sex lecture."
"Sherlock's not my boyfriend."
"How do you know? Come on, John. You haven't tried him. Ever. So he's got to go and screw Moriarty every day, so send him off marked every fucking inch as yours, and rip every trace of the boss off his skin when he comes home again."
There was warmth pressed up against John's side now. "I tell you, it's embarrassing, watching you right now."
John shifted, uncomfortable. "Look. It's not like that, him and me."
"Why do you think the boss sends you those photos? Because you're his doctor? Because you go halves on the rent?" He shifted up even closer. "That's my good samaritan speech done. If he's not getting it from you, I might as well. That couch gets pretty chilly late at night."
"Go away." There wasn't a great deal of conviction in John's tone, however, and Moran merely dug his way under the covers instead. Sure hands rolled him onto his stomach, massaged his tight neck and shoulders for a very long time, until he was finally relaxed for the first time in days and half asleep. Then it was only Sebastian, and warm and human; he let the man part his legs and screw him slowly and gently, barely keeping him awake, let Seb curl up against him afterwards and sleep.
"Get out."
John started awake. Sherlock was by the bed, and angry.
"Get out!" Sebastian was dragged off the bed by an arm.
"Stop it!" Sherlock really couldn't behave like this in his bedroom!
"Get downstairs." Sherlock hissed at Seb, who left without comment.
"What do you think you're doing?" John snapped.
"Did you have sex with him? Don't bother answering, I can smell that much. He's using you, John. I didn't think that you would be so stupid as not to see that. There's something wrong about him when it comes to you. Don't let him anywhere near!"
John sat bolt upright. "Ok. One, smell comment, not acceptable. Ever. Two, he's trapped, Sherlock! You and Moriarty between you have stuck him here, with no idea of your plans, knowing you both think he's expendable and with no-one on his side, except possibly me. I'd bloody well cuddle up to my only ally in that situation too. Three, I like him. He might not be a good person but right now he's a much better friend than you are. He does at least recognise that I have feelings!"
"What 'feelings' would these be," Sherlock demanded. "Lust? I have noticed that, believe it or not. I'm just a little too busy right now keeping you and your good friend alive to engage in detailed discussions of your carnal desires."
"Carnal desires?" John looked round but there was nothing in reach to throw. "Fuck that, Sherlock! I'm scared! And yes, I'm jealous too, because yes OK there's a bit of that, but mostly I'm terrified that today when you take your clothes off for Jim Moriarty he's going to rape, torture and mutilate you and send me a bloody photo when he's done, because he's a fucking madman and you are not in control. I can barely breathe when you're with him and it doesn't get any better when you come back because you're going to go there again. And all the time I know I'm the hold that Moriarty has over you. How do you think that feels?"
"What does that have to do with Moran?" Sherlock was quieter.
"Seb doesn't matter, Sherlock! He's lost too, just a warm body in the terrible cold. We're pawns, him and I, and neither of us have anything else to hold onto right now. I don't know if he misses Jim but I miss you. Part of you's been gone since you first went to Moriarty, and I don't know if I'm ever going to get you back whole again."
Sherlock sat down on the bed. There was a long silence.
"I cannot" he finally said, "promise you that everything will be how it used to be, nor that everything will work out fine. However I do not think that Moran's position is as desperate as it currently appears, nor do I think that I am yet in as much physical danger as you imagine."
He looked directly at John. "You have some personal experience of perverse desires, and I intend no judgement by that term. It is not always possible to choose the nature of one's inclinations. If it were so then I might well consider inclining them towards a friend and partner, rather than, as you put it, a fucking madman. But," he shrugged, "I would not want to hold out any promises unlikely to be kept."
A quick smile. "I assure you that I don't hold you in any way responsible for our current situation, regardless of my somewhat hasty words a minute ago. The initial curiosity was mine, and everything has followed on after.
"Does that cover everything, John?"
John let go of a deep breath. "Not everything, but thank you. It's at least good to have you talk to me again. Do you really have to go today?"
"I really do, yes. Try not to fret. It's a game, with rules, and he's limited by them even if he wouldn't admit it. He'll send a rather more unnerving photo; I don't want you to actually worry overmuch but a few texts and frantic messages in response will keep him happy."
"I can certainly do that. Please come home safely. I hate this."
"I know you do." A brief smile from Sherlock. "I don't. Not yet." He stood up. "I meant it about Moran. He holds secrets, still, and they may involve you. Trusting a known killer in such a desperate position is every bit as rash as you imagine I'm being."
"Did you make a pass at him, then?"
John shook his head. "Well, sort of. While shouting. He's not interested, but polite about it. And at least we got to talk about what's going on."
"So, what's going on?" Moran was sprawled across the couch eating crisps.
"I don't actually know," John admitted. "It wasn't that sort of talk. But he seems happy enough. Reckons Moriarty and he are in a game with rules, so he's safe."
Moran snorted. "Idiot. Boss has never stuck to a set of rules in his life. Still, he's not dead yet, not that I'd care. Last time I was dragged out of a bed like that boy was fifteen and it was the bloody father."
"Sorry about that. He doesn't trust you at all."
Moran merely snorted at that, and opened another packet of crisps.
The wait for the photo was bad, despite Sherlock's reassurance. It didn't come through until nearly 1pm, and then it was hard to make out. Moran transfered it onto John's laptop and they stared at the enlarged image together.
John made out the dip of the spinal cord disappearing, identified the photo as taken of the small of the back, entirely wet with blood, and the smear of JM drawn clean in it with a fingertip.
The blood could have come from anywhere Seb pointed out; there were no cuts shown. And it wasn't a great deal of blood, all told; thinly spread. John knew he was right, appreciated the reassurance but he had no difficulty being frantic at Sherlock's answerphone. Moriarty had cut Sherlock open.
Ten to four his phone rang.
"Sherlock? God, are you all right?"
"Perfectly." Sherlock's voice was curt. "I want you to go out for 500ml sulphuric acid."
"Now?"
"Right now."
"What about Moran?"
"Now, John. I need it the instant that I get home, in an hour and a half. That chemist in Dale Street will have it." He hung up.
John turned to Seb. "Sherlock needs me to dash out for something. Hour, tops. Will you be all right?"
"If they find me I'm fucked whether you're here or not. Go on."
John picked up the gun from his room, unwilling to leave it with Seb, then took the stairs two and three at a time.
He had been on the bus for ten minutes when Sherlock rang again. "Get off, next stop. Cross the street; there's a taxi waiting." The line went dead again.
Sherlock was in the cab, looking bright eyed and excited. "Excellent, John." He leaned forward to the driver "Baker Street."
"What are we doing? Hang on, never mind that, are you hurt?"
Sherlock flashed a bandaged hand at him. "You can check it later, Doctor, but it's only a small cut. We are leaving Moran enough rope to hang himself."
"What? How?"
"I've suspected for some time that your friend Seb has two masters. He's been reporting on Moriarty for someone else. What I haven't been able to find out is who he's spying for, although given his Middle Eastern links I have suspicions that it will be an Islamist group. Whoever it is, he's been out of touch with them for days and he has a great deal of information to pass on. He can't leave the flat, so they'll send someone to him." He directed the taxi to pull up.
"I think we should have timed things perfectly. Got your gun? Good." He flung some money at the cab driver, ran out and up the stairs to the flat. John followed close behind, hand in his jacket, on the gun.
They burst into the living room and the man already seated there turned at the interruption. Sherlock slammed to a halt and there was a second's silence, broken by Sherlock's slow drawl.
"Well. What a surprise. And to what do we owe the honour?"
Mycroft patted a file on the table. "A matter of some vital importance. I let myself in to wait, since there was no-one here. Perhaps John could make some tea while we discuss it?"
Chapter 5 Favourite Weapon