FIC: That One May Smile 7/10
Title: That One May Smile 7/10
Author: Unsentimental Fool
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: (this part) R
Word count: 2,100
Summary: Richard can't hide from the truth any longer.
Back to Ch 1
John wasn't desperate about Sherlock's plight beyond all caution; he slid to his knees as he went round the door frame and Richard pictured him flat against the landing carpet, out of range of someone at the bottom of the steep stairs.
There was silence for a second, then Moran's deep voice.
"He's still alive down here. Toss the gun down the stairs or I'll shoot him in the head."
A choked noise from John, then a thump.
"Now crawl down on your stomach. Make it fast. He's badly in need of a doctor."
Richard listened to the noises of Watson complying, then quiet voices. He wished irrationally that he didn't look as he imagined he must; burned, beaten, face raw from crying. He still wasn't certain that this was a rescue anyway.
Eventually there were quick strides up the stairs, two at a time. Moran appeared in the doorway, his attention and outstretched gun still on the bottom of the stairs.
He glanced quickly into the room.
"Boss?"
Richard just stared at him.
"Oh for...Get out!"
"I can't." Richard was crying again. "I'm chained up."
Moran glared at him. "Get out, Richard. Go under, give up, turn yourself off, whatever you do. I've got Sherlock fucking Holmes down there. He's meant to be dead. I have no fucking instructions for this. None. Get the fuck out of it and give me the boss back. Now."
If Richard hadn't just had every part of his missing or inconsistent past dragged out in front of him by a sneering Watson- if he had still felt like a human being and not a beaten, abused rag- he might have held onto his self belief longer. As it was, Seb's absolute certainty was the last utterly horrible missing piece. All he could think about was that phone under his bed. Moriarty's phone. Moriarty's call to Moran, and Finney dead.
"I can't. I don't know how," he said, in a whisper. "I don't understand."
Seb was apparently convinced enough of his sincerity to not demand the impossible of him again. He took another look down the stairs, then back at Richard.
"Damn. No. You said you wouldn't know who you were. Going undercover, you said. Deep enough that they wouldn't find a trace. I didn't think you could do it. You seemed normal- well, not normal. You seemed enough like you- whenever you called me."
"I'm really Moriarty?" He wanted so much for this to be a mistake.
"You're Jim Moriarty. The meanest, smartest bastard in existence. Now would be a really good time to remember that, Boss. Richard Brook's cute as a kitten but he's sod all use to me now."
He shook his head. He had no idea how to do what Seb wanted. He didn't think he wanted to do it anyway. He didn't want to be vicious and guilty and someone else.
"You killed Finney."
"On your instructions, Boss. You don't remember?"
"No! I didn't want him dead!" He'd wanted his audition. His audition for the career that was everything to him and that Jim Moriarty screwed up forever with a phonecall because he didn't like what Richard had used his sodding mouth for.
There was a shout from downstairs. Seb glanced down, snorted. "In the absence of instructions I'm going to assume that you want Sherlock Holmes alive. The doctor looks like he needs some help with that. I'll be back shortly."
Seb hadn't even bothered to untie him. Richard lay propped halfway up the fire grate in considerable pain and tried to think.
He hated Moriarty. Hated the way that Seb looked at him now like he was just unwanted detritus. Seb, who he'd fallen half in love with the moment they'd met and had that been just Jim fucking Moriarty having a laugh? Lestrade had arrested him. Mycroft had betrayed him. Watson had tortured him. Not Jim, hiding somewhere, unscathed, laughing, but him and he'd done nothing to any of them to deserve it.
There wasn't any good in struggling. Jim was far smarter, malicious and powerful than him. After all, Richard knew Moriarty like no-one else. He knew him as an actor knows his character; inside out, a second skin, someone else to be. He'd played him in the Shakespeare in prison, to Mycroft in his room, for Sherlock before his fall. But he'd just been acting, then.
Richard closed his eyes, trying to remember exactly what had happened when he'd put Moriarty on for Mycroft. It had come out vicious; he remembered that, but Jim was vicious. His head had felt a bit odd afterwards. Bit like the play; all a little blurred.
God. Was that how Jim did it? Took over Richard's performances? Not all of them. He'd had no confusion in rehearsals; he was sure of that. He'd kept control in front of Mycroft, though Jim had...leaked...a bit.
Sherlock's return, John's recordings, both spelled the end of the fiction of Richard Brook to the rest of the world. They would all want Moriarty back, to answer for his crimes, to give them orders, to be the villain. Nobody would rest until Richard Brook was pushed aside. And when Moriarty returned he would wipe what was left of Richard out without a thought, his usefulness done. He was going to die after all.
He opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling without seeing it. One chance. What other choice did he have? A good actor didn't lose control to his character. If he could keep it, he might just live.
Richard pulled himself up onto his knees, straightened his back and whistled once, sharply.
Seb dashed into the room, stopped.
"If you could spare thirty seconds from cleaning up your mess downstairs" Richard said, coolly, "the keys are on the table."
"Shit. Yes. Sorry, Boss." He helped Richard out of the cuffs and into the armchair. "Thought I'd lost you."
"Thinking is not your strong point, is it, Moran? Where in the instructions I left did it say fuck up everything and then shoot my playmate?"
Seb seemed about to defend himself, then thought better of it. "Sorry."
"I'll have a bit more than "sorry" out of your hide later. Bring Watson up; we'll extend a little of his own hospitality to him."
What he really wanted was treatment for the burns and a hell of a lot of painkillers. Moriarty wouldn't ask for them. Richard didn't.
A few minutes later John was cuffed down by the grate and Sherlock was laid out on the sofa, his eyelids starting to flutter. He'd been shot just above the hip, Seb had said, had hit his head on falling down the stairs, probably broken his left arm, maybe some more injuries from the fall. If he woke up and someone got the bullet out reasonably soon he would probably survive. Richard wasn't sure that was good news, but Moriarty approved.
He had Moran take their phones and check the house's defences. Lestrade's people still seemed to be keeping their distance. John's gun was now resting in Richard's lap, and would stay there- he had no idea how to fire it. He didn't dare even try to access Jim's skills or memories.
All he could do was act.
"Do I get an apology now?" he said mockingly to John. "I did tell you I didn't murder him. Apparently he just got bored of you and left."
John glared at him, silent.
Richard laughed. "Poke Sherlock awake for me," he commanded Seb. "I'd like to say hello."
"No need. I am awake." The figure on the sofa stirred, rolled over painfully to face him.
"Haven't you made a mess of things, Sherlock? Even worse than Seb here. Breaking your cover to stop your little friend from his dramatic murder/suicide, just in time to watch him die. I think I'll leave you alive for a bit after that, give you time to think things over. Then there's always that rooftop after all, sweet. Second time lucky."
Sherlock was watching him intently. " You and I need to talk, Jim. In private."
"Easily arranged." He gestured to John. "Finish this one off for me, Sebastian." On John's fate he and his fictional Moriarty seemed to be in agreement. The crazy bastard had hurt them, for hours.
"No." Sherlock's voice projected hard for someone so close to unconsciousness. "You'll want to hear this first."
"Fine. I'll kill him afterwards." He threw a hand up, winced as the burns on his neck protested. "Go make me a cold drink, Seb, and take him with you."
They made quite a pair, he thought, as Seb dragged John away. Sherlock all but immobile on the sofa, himself barely any better in the armchair. The pain wasn't getting any less. He had to finish this somehow and get to somewhere where his injuries could be treated properly. He needed this to be a closing scene.
"Alone at last! All those pesky little people out of the way. What's our heart to heart going to be about then, Sherlock? Going to tell me how you did it?"
"You're an actor, Richard, and you've got a fair proportion of Moriarty's intelligence. I'm sure you could work it out if you wanted."
Richard's heart sank, but he could do nothing but bluff. "I realise this has all gone rather fast for you and that blow to the head didn't help. Brook is quite exploded."
Sherlock bared his teeth in a pained smile. "A theatrical reference. Oh dear. You'll have to get considerably more in character than this, Richard, if you want to keep the rest of the world believing. This is his latest scheme, I assume?"
There really was no point feigning with Sherlock. Richard gave up. "No. It's mine. I don't want him coming back. You should have pretended to be fooled, Sherlock. I didn't want to have to kill you."
"Really? You're keeping him at bay? Remarkable. You don't need to kill me. I'm willing to support your charade for as long as you can keep Jim Moriarty under control. Provided my people aren't harmed, naturally."
Richard narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. One thing had to be clear. "Jim Moriarty has no conscience. I start rescuing kittens and making soup runs, I'm dead. I'm going to run his damn empire and people are going to get hurt in the process. If not your people, others."
"Make it others." Sherlock said. His eyes were cold. "And be assured I'll do what I can to stop you, without limits, with one exception. As long as my people stay unhurt I won't do anything that would facilitate Jim's return."
"Watson. The housekeeper. Who else?"
Sherlock tilted his head, considering Richard. "You don't remember? That's interesting. How are you going to manage without his memories?"
Richard didn't want to acknowledge the impossibility of the task ahead. What option did he have? "Who else?"
"Lestrade." A long, reluctant pause. "And my brother. I suppose."
Richard channelled a little more Moriarty. "The others are nothing to me. You're fond without cause and far too easily, Sherlock. But your brother... I have a debt owing to dear, helpful, friendly Mycroft. I'm going to take him down." He smiled, tipped his head one way, then the other. "But just for you, precious, I promise I'll let him survive the experience."
That was an exit line, thank God. He whistled Seb back into the room before Sherlock could respond, downed the cold water with relief.
"Rip van Winkle here has a number of touchingly fond reunions to conduct. We'd only be in the way. Key?"
Seb opened his hand. "Kitchen radiator."
"Brilliant." He plucked the small handcuff key from Seb's palm, tossed it over to Sherlock. "Have fun." As a last act he told Seb to unplug keyboard and mouse and toss them in the far corner. It would take the badly injured Sherlock a long time to get to either John or a link to the outside world. 'Up the ante. Set the place alight,' his character suggested. He ignored it. He was in charge, and he had a deal with Sherlock Holmes.
From the look on Seb's face as he half carried Richard down the stairs to the concealed exit, he had a good idea of how much his boss was hurting. It was a good excuse to passively let Moriarty's lieutenant take charge. At the small medical facility that Richard presumed he must own he refused opiates; he needed to stay clearheaded as long as he could. In the end though he had to sleep, even knowing that he might never wake again. He drifted into unconsciousness with one thought uppermost in his mind. He was going to stay Richard Brook.
Chapter Eight
Author: Unsentimental Fool
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: (this part) R
Word count: 2,100
Summary: Richard can't hide from the truth any longer.
Back to Ch 1
John wasn't desperate about Sherlock's plight beyond all caution; he slid to his knees as he went round the door frame and Richard pictured him flat against the landing carpet, out of range of someone at the bottom of the steep stairs.
There was silence for a second, then Moran's deep voice.
"He's still alive down here. Toss the gun down the stairs or I'll shoot him in the head."
A choked noise from John, then a thump.
"Now crawl down on your stomach. Make it fast. He's badly in need of a doctor."
Richard listened to the noises of Watson complying, then quiet voices. He wished irrationally that he didn't look as he imagined he must; burned, beaten, face raw from crying. He still wasn't certain that this was a rescue anyway.
Eventually there were quick strides up the stairs, two at a time. Moran appeared in the doorway, his attention and outstretched gun still on the bottom of the stairs.
He glanced quickly into the room.
"Boss?"
Richard just stared at him.
"Oh for...Get out!"
"I can't." Richard was crying again. "I'm chained up."
Moran glared at him. "Get out, Richard. Go under, give up, turn yourself off, whatever you do. I've got Sherlock fucking Holmes down there. He's meant to be dead. I have no fucking instructions for this. None. Get the fuck out of it and give me the boss back. Now."
If Richard hadn't just had every part of his missing or inconsistent past dragged out in front of him by a sneering Watson- if he had still felt like a human being and not a beaten, abused rag- he might have held onto his self belief longer. As it was, Seb's absolute certainty was the last utterly horrible missing piece. All he could think about was that phone under his bed. Moriarty's phone. Moriarty's call to Moran, and Finney dead.
"I can't. I don't know how," he said, in a whisper. "I don't understand."
Seb was apparently convinced enough of his sincerity to not demand the impossible of him again. He took another look down the stairs, then back at Richard.
"Damn. No. You said you wouldn't know who you were. Going undercover, you said. Deep enough that they wouldn't find a trace. I didn't think you could do it. You seemed normal- well, not normal. You seemed enough like you- whenever you called me."
"I'm really Moriarty?" He wanted so much for this to be a mistake.
"You're Jim Moriarty. The meanest, smartest bastard in existence. Now would be a really good time to remember that, Boss. Richard Brook's cute as a kitten but he's sod all use to me now."
He shook his head. He had no idea how to do what Seb wanted. He didn't think he wanted to do it anyway. He didn't want to be vicious and guilty and someone else.
"You killed Finney."
"On your instructions, Boss. You don't remember?"
"No! I didn't want him dead!" He'd wanted his audition. His audition for the career that was everything to him and that Jim Moriarty screwed up forever with a phonecall because he didn't like what Richard had used his sodding mouth for.
There was a shout from downstairs. Seb glanced down, snorted. "In the absence of instructions I'm going to assume that you want Sherlock Holmes alive. The doctor looks like he needs some help with that. I'll be back shortly."
Seb hadn't even bothered to untie him. Richard lay propped halfway up the fire grate in considerable pain and tried to think.
He hated Moriarty. Hated the way that Seb looked at him now like he was just unwanted detritus. Seb, who he'd fallen half in love with the moment they'd met and had that been just Jim fucking Moriarty having a laugh? Lestrade had arrested him. Mycroft had betrayed him. Watson had tortured him. Not Jim, hiding somewhere, unscathed, laughing, but him and he'd done nothing to any of them to deserve it.
There wasn't any good in struggling. Jim was far smarter, malicious and powerful than him. After all, Richard knew Moriarty like no-one else. He knew him as an actor knows his character; inside out, a second skin, someone else to be. He'd played him in the Shakespeare in prison, to Mycroft in his room, for Sherlock before his fall. But he'd just been acting, then.
Richard closed his eyes, trying to remember exactly what had happened when he'd put Moriarty on for Mycroft. It had come out vicious; he remembered that, but Jim was vicious. His head had felt a bit odd afterwards. Bit like the play; all a little blurred.
God. Was that how Jim did it? Took over Richard's performances? Not all of them. He'd had no confusion in rehearsals; he was sure of that. He'd kept control in front of Mycroft, though Jim had...leaked...a bit.
Sherlock's return, John's recordings, both spelled the end of the fiction of Richard Brook to the rest of the world. They would all want Moriarty back, to answer for his crimes, to give them orders, to be the villain. Nobody would rest until Richard Brook was pushed aside. And when Moriarty returned he would wipe what was left of Richard out without a thought, his usefulness done. He was going to die after all.
He opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling without seeing it. One chance. What other choice did he have? A good actor didn't lose control to his character. If he could keep it, he might just live.
Richard pulled himself up onto his knees, straightened his back and whistled once, sharply.
Seb dashed into the room, stopped.
"If you could spare thirty seconds from cleaning up your mess downstairs" Richard said, coolly, "the keys are on the table."
"Shit. Yes. Sorry, Boss." He helped Richard out of the cuffs and into the armchair. "Thought I'd lost you."
"Thinking is not your strong point, is it, Moran? Where in the instructions I left did it say fuck up everything and then shoot my playmate?"
Seb seemed about to defend himself, then thought better of it. "Sorry."
"I'll have a bit more than "sorry" out of your hide later. Bring Watson up; we'll extend a little of his own hospitality to him."
What he really wanted was treatment for the burns and a hell of a lot of painkillers. Moriarty wouldn't ask for them. Richard didn't.
A few minutes later John was cuffed down by the grate and Sherlock was laid out on the sofa, his eyelids starting to flutter. He'd been shot just above the hip, Seb had said, had hit his head on falling down the stairs, probably broken his left arm, maybe some more injuries from the fall. If he woke up and someone got the bullet out reasonably soon he would probably survive. Richard wasn't sure that was good news, but Moriarty approved.
He had Moran take their phones and check the house's defences. Lestrade's people still seemed to be keeping their distance. John's gun was now resting in Richard's lap, and would stay there- he had no idea how to fire it. He didn't dare even try to access Jim's skills or memories.
All he could do was act.
"Do I get an apology now?" he said mockingly to John. "I did tell you I didn't murder him. Apparently he just got bored of you and left."
John glared at him, silent.
Richard laughed. "Poke Sherlock awake for me," he commanded Seb. "I'd like to say hello."
"No need. I am awake." The figure on the sofa stirred, rolled over painfully to face him.
"Haven't you made a mess of things, Sherlock? Even worse than Seb here. Breaking your cover to stop your little friend from his dramatic murder/suicide, just in time to watch him die. I think I'll leave you alive for a bit after that, give you time to think things over. Then there's always that rooftop after all, sweet. Second time lucky."
Sherlock was watching him intently. " You and I need to talk, Jim. In private."
"Easily arranged." He gestured to John. "Finish this one off for me, Sebastian." On John's fate he and his fictional Moriarty seemed to be in agreement. The crazy bastard had hurt them, for hours.
"No." Sherlock's voice projected hard for someone so close to unconsciousness. "You'll want to hear this first."
"Fine. I'll kill him afterwards." He threw a hand up, winced as the burns on his neck protested. "Go make me a cold drink, Seb, and take him with you."
They made quite a pair, he thought, as Seb dragged John away. Sherlock all but immobile on the sofa, himself barely any better in the armchair. The pain wasn't getting any less. He had to finish this somehow and get to somewhere where his injuries could be treated properly. He needed this to be a closing scene.
"Alone at last! All those pesky little people out of the way. What's our heart to heart going to be about then, Sherlock? Going to tell me how you did it?"
"You're an actor, Richard, and you've got a fair proportion of Moriarty's intelligence. I'm sure you could work it out if you wanted."
Richard's heart sank, but he could do nothing but bluff. "I realise this has all gone rather fast for you and that blow to the head didn't help. Brook is quite exploded."
Sherlock bared his teeth in a pained smile. "A theatrical reference. Oh dear. You'll have to get considerably more in character than this, Richard, if you want to keep the rest of the world believing. This is his latest scheme, I assume?"
There really was no point feigning with Sherlock. Richard gave up. "No. It's mine. I don't want him coming back. You should have pretended to be fooled, Sherlock. I didn't want to have to kill you."
"Really? You're keeping him at bay? Remarkable. You don't need to kill me. I'm willing to support your charade for as long as you can keep Jim Moriarty under control. Provided my people aren't harmed, naturally."
Richard narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. One thing had to be clear. "Jim Moriarty has no conscience. I start rescuing kittens and making soup runs, I'm dead. I'm going to run his damn empire and people are going to get hurt in the process. If not your people, others."
"Make it others." Sherlock said. His eyes were cold. "And be assured I'll do what I can to stop you, without limits, with one exception. As long as my people stay unhurt I won't do anything that would facilitate Jim's return."
"Watson. The housekeeper. Who else?"
Sherlock tilted his head, considering Richard. "You don't remember? That's interesting. How are you going to manage without his memories?"
Richard didn't want to acknowledge the impossibility of the task ahead. What option did he have? "Who else?"
"Lestrade." A long, reluctant pause. "And my brother. I suppose."
Richard channelled a little more Moriarty. "The others are nothing to me. You're fond without cause and far too easily, Sherlock. But your brother... I have a debt owing to dear, helpful, friendly Mycroft. I'm going to take him down." He smiled, tipped his head one way, then the other. "But just for you, precious, I promise I'll let him survive the experience."
That was an exit line, thank God. He whistled Seb back into the room before Sherlock could respond, downed the cold water with relief.
"Rip van Winkle here has a number of touchingly fond reunions to conduct. We'd only be in the way. Key?"
Seb opened his hand. "Kitchen radiator."
"Brilliant." He plucked the small handcuff key from Seb's palm, tossed it over to Sherlock. "Have fun." As a last act he told Seb to unplug keyboard and mouse and toss them in the far corner. It would take the badly injured Sherlock a long time to get to either John or a link to the outside world. 'Up the ante. Set the place alight,' his character suggested. He ignored it. He was in charge, and he had a deal with Sherlock Holmes.
From the look on Seb's face as he half carried Richard down the stairs to the concealed exit, he had a good idea of how much his boss was hurting. It was a good excuse to passively let Moriarty's lieutenant take charge. At the small medical facility that Richard presumed he must own he refused opiates; he needed to stay clearheaded as long as he could. In the end though he had to sleep, even knowing that he might never wake again. He drifted into unconsciousness with one thought uppermost in his mind. He was going to stay Richard Brook.
Chapter Eight