Land of Hope and Glory - Chapter 15
Sherlock knew he couldn’t stop the explosion any more than he could turn back time and make sure none of this could ever happen. He needed to make the most of what time he had left with John. They would be together in these final moments and that was what truly mattered.
AU - Mycroft Holmes leads the grim war on terror and Sherlock is his best secret agent: cold, calculating and ruthless. He is obsessed with destroying the militant terrorists hiding deep in the disused London Underground - until one momentous day when he meets a child soldier named John.
Rating PG-13
Genre Adventure/Action, Kidfic, Espionage, Romance, Dark,
Characters Sherlock/Irene, Sherlock&John, Mycroft/Anthea, Lestrade, Sally Donovan, Anderson, Moriarty
Length 40,000+ 16 Chapters
Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3.1 - Chapter 3.2 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 -
Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14
Chapter 15 - Safe
Irene was greatly relieved that they were still inhaling lungfuls of stale air rather than murky Thames water, even though every passing moment brought them closer to a nuclear meltdown. It appeared that either Mycroft knew they were down here, or he had simply not moved on to the "flooding the Underground" part of his schedule.
A search of the facilities inside the power station forced them to reach the nasty conclusion that the rebels had been operating this plant for a very long time. The monitoring equipment was outdated but in good order, and although there was no computer system, the LRA personnel had meticulously documented every reading they could perform. Special ops engineers had confirmed that the dial readings showed the cooling towers malfunctioning, but unfortunately they still hadn't figured out how to solve the problem.
Suddenly Jo Portman, a young, slender woman with short-cropped, fair hair, came running into the control room, her face a picture of joy. "Irene, they've found a way to prevent a meltdown!"
"How?" asked Irene, as she turned to glance back at the giant, clumsy metal control panel filled with knobs, buttons and flickering dials.
Jo looked slightly less enthusiastic about having to answer that question. "They're going to blow open the back wall of the cavern."
"What?" Irene stared incredulously at Jo, wondering if the entire team had been seized by a sudden epidemic of madness.
"The engineers have scanned the back wall of the cavern: it's only a few metres thick, and the only thing separating the power station and the River Thames, where it gets its water supply. If they can turn off the turbine generator and flood the entire cavern, the reactor core will cool down before the separators melt, and we won't have to worry about a nuclear meltdown."
This plan was beginning to sound suspiciously like Mycroft's more grandiose plot to flood the entire Underground.
"Who came up with this idea?" demanded Irene, her eyes narrowing.
"Lestrade," replied Jo with a grin. "Our boss is pretty smart…and pretty desperate right now. He'll be giving an evacuation order very soon. We're all to retreat above ground - standard protocol. I thought I'd come give you the heads-up and help you grab anything you might want to save."
Irene thought for a moment and stuffed a pile of logbooks into Jo's arms before grabbing another pile herself. "Come on, let's get out of here," she said grimly.
"See anything, Anderson?" inquired Lestrade as they stopped together on the metal platform high above the cavern floor where they had first made their entrance. They were the last to leave the immense red cave, and Anderson was scouring the area with his infra-red binoculars.
"No," muttered Anderson quietly, "everyone's out."
"Good - let's get a move on."
By the time they had clambered swiftly up the long flight of steps into the disused railway, they were both out of breath. A special ops unit was still waiting at the entrance to the cavern with materials in hand to seal up the door and prevent the water from spilling into the rest of the Underground.
"You sure that's going to hold?" asked Lestrade one last time.
"Yes sir," replied one burly officer, not sounding irritated in the slightest.
Lestrade nodded and looked down the tunnel. Ahead, the main body of the team was sprinting towards Westminster Station, the fanned beams of torchlight jolting up and down as the special operatives ran. Lestrade took a few deep breaths and reluctantly started to chase after them. He wasn't as fit as he used to be; five years being confined to his office as section chief had not made him portly, but it had lowered his exercise tolerance considerably. Anderson, being a technical operative, hated exercise, and the two out-of-shape MI5 agents panted their way out of the Underground like a pair of rusted steam engines.
In the top level of Westminster Underground Station, Lestrade raised his hand to get everyone's attention. Over seventy people stood in the dirty, tiled passageway, but it had been built with a million commuters in mind, and they fitted tightly but comfortably.
"Head count," ordered Lestrade, and each team member shouted out their number sequentially.
When they reached seventy-two, Lestrade let out a sigh of relief and motioned for the large group to disband and regroup at the designated location. It would look highly suspicious to the public if a horde of dusty, dirty, sweating people came pouring out of a disused underground station. They would sneak out in threes and fours, blending into the crowds, remaining anonymous and elusive.
He leaned back against the cold, dirty wall and breathed easier. The mission was going exactly to plan; he had sent his private report off to Sugarhorse as soon as they had timed the explosives. He was quietly confident that his end of the mission would be accomplished without a glitch.
Suddenly a desperate cry rang out through the station, just as people were getting ready to leave.
"Sherlock!" Irene cried, causing all the operatives in the station to freeze. "Sherlock and I didn't have numbers, and he's not here!"
Anderson stared up at Lestrade from where he was kneeling by his equipment, as if waiting for his boss to say something, but Lestrade merely leaned against the tiles and exhaled slowly.
All had been going to plan. It was too late to back out now.
"…We're both going to die down here…."
The solid red sandstone ceiling of the cavernous room was dotted with holes, and as Sherlock looked more closely he realised they'd been filled with plastic explosives. Thin black wires criss-crossed the ceiling like the intricate threads of a giant spider's web, linking all the explosives together to produce a bomb capable of burying the entire room with tonnes of rock.
"Get it now?" sneered the sickeningly snide voice of Jim Moriarty. "You're me, Sherlock, and we can't live without each other…you know that." Sherlock stared back, dumbfounded and horrified at the maniac standing before him. In response to his realisation, Jim's dark, soulless eyes lit up for one brief moment with a mad energy, producing a look so hideously wild that Sherlock found himself both awed and terrified. He had chased this man for ten years, and yet he had never quite realised just how insane Moriarty truly was. However, he composed himself: he didn't want John to lose faith in the father he had only just discovered.
"Yes, I do get it," replied Sherlock, boldly stepping forward. He directed his gaze at his son, looking into the boy's deep blue eyes and hoping that the child could see some of the overwhelming joy and…love that he felt for John, hoping that it would calm the terror he was feeling right now. "It's going to be okay, John," he reiterated calmly.
Jim's face contorted into an ugly, violent expression when he saw that the results he had been hoping for simply did not materialise. The inhuman eyes flashed with a visceral hatred that seemed to spread through his expression like a noxious poison, twisting the muscles until the mask of sanity had completely vanished and the true face of the monster was revealed. "It's not going to be okay!" screamed Jim, his high-pitched voice echoing around the large room like the thwarted cry of a malicious demon.
John let out a wail of fright as Moriarty's claw-like fingers closed around his neck in a vicious, choking grip.
Sherlock pulled out the gun from his pocket and levelled it slowly and deliberately at Jim's head. It was effectively an empty gesture: he couldn't shoot Moriarty before the man pressed the detonator, but Sherlock's mind and intellect were working at double capacity now - he had a plan, though it was not an easy one to implement.
Moriarty loosened his grip but didn't let go, his breathing ragged with the force of his brutal emotions.
"I don't believe you have the guts to press that detonator," replied Sherlock coldly, advancing towards his nemesis with his arm still outstretched. There was nothing more insulting to Moriarty than questioning his resolve, and the maniac was bound to respond on reflex.
True to form, he did.
"Look around you, Sherlock," hissed the monster as he retreated a few steps, dragging John with him. "This is the overflow reservoir from the Circle Line's draining system. When your darling brother floods the Underground, that pool will fill this entire room and we will all drown. Oh, are you surprised I know? I've been spying on you. …Spidercam, a lovely little invention of mine. Did you ever think to actually clear that cobweb from your ceiling, or check that the spider sitting in the centre of it was actually real?"*
Jim gave a high-pitched giggle that reverberated around the cavernous room. "It wasn't all that difficult to gain access to your dear brother's personal computer files, either. All this nuclear nonsense was just something to reel you in, Sherlock. It would have been nice if the nuclear meltdown did happen, but that wasn't the point. Iplanned everything for this moment - for us."
The sickeningly affectionate way in which Jim's tone caressed the last word sent an involuntary shudder down Sherlock's spine.
"And," continued Jim, "just in case Mycroft fails to deliver the flood, I've wired this entire room with enough explosives to bring down the ten metres of concrete above our heads." He waved the detonator between them, as if daring Sherlock to make a grab for it.
Jim smiled at Sherlock's undisguised shock - a bizarre, frightening look which perverted everything that a smile should be.
"Why?" asked Sherlock, resisting the urge to look up at the ceiling and thus betray his own growing fear. He needed to buy more time; he needed to get John away from Jim.
"I'm going to burn the heart out of you," said Jim, this time looking sadistically pleased. He patted John's shoulder with one hand to indicate just what he meant by heart. "I promised you that, didn't I? And I never go back on my promises. …Unlike some people I know."
He looked down at John again. The traumatised boy turned his head away defiantly as Jim lowered his face so that they were just inches apart.
"Look at your father, boy, look at the man who abandoned you as a baby, who threw you out like so much garbage," he snarled, closely wrapping the long, spider-like fingers of his left hand around John's face, turning it forcibly toward his adversary. Sherlock felt a burning flare of anger and disgust at the monster touching his son in such an intimate way, but he quelled it almost instantly: the plan required his full attention. "He doesn't love you, John," continued Jim, thrusting his face forward until it was almost touching John's, "and he never will. You are nothing but a pawn in our little game."
"That's not true, John," countered Sherlock steadily. "I was made to believe that you died at birth; if I'd thought for a moment that you lived, I would not ever have stopped searching for you." He meant it, every single word, and he hoped that John could see the truth of those words in his expression. "I loved you from the moment I learnt of your existence, and I will never stop loving you."
John stared at him, his searching blue eyes boring deep into Sherlock's own pair - paler, but with a nerve and intensity to match his own.
"Oh, how swweeet," drawled Jim, his face a picture of overwhelming disgust, "but it's all lies! You altered the live birth certificate to a stillbirth to throw me off the scent, Sherlock. He never wanted anyone to find you, Johnny boy, never."
Sherlock continued to look at John, half-fearing, half-expecting the boy to believe Moriarty. There was nothing that he could counter Jim's words with except to call him a liar, and that wouldn't be convincing. He couldn't bear the thought that what could potentially be his last moments with his son would be marred by distrust and betrayal.
However, to his surprise, John's terrified expression started to change. At first Sherlock wasn't sure what it was turning into, but when the new expression finally appeared it gave him hope beyond all his wildest dreams. John smiled at him - a tearful, trembling smile - and Sherlock knew then that his son understood, despite all the logical evidence to the contrary, that his father loved him.
Thwarted again, this time Moriarty did not explode with anger. "But I suppose it's more painful this way," he said pensively, "so close and yet so far…. Just think of all the wonderful father-son moments you two will never have…and think of all the warm family memories that Irene will never experience, either."
Moriarty sounded positively delighted with the prospect. His voice took on an insane sing-song quality. "Think how sad your poor darling mother will be when she's left all alone in the world, how she will sink into despair every time she sees a father with his son, how her heart will break every time she sees a boy hugging his mother."
He looked back up at Sherlock from his bent position over John, his body almost completely hidden behind the small boy's.
"I'll have my revenge, Sherlock, on you and Irene. You're going to die, but she will be destroyed. Two birds with one stone." He physically shook John's shoulder. "Elegant, no?"
"You are still going to die, too," remarked Sherlock coolly, his gun remaining pointed at Moriarty's head even though it was currently leaning over John's shoulder. It was a futile gesture and they both knew it. There was no way he could shoot Jim without also killing John.
"Yes, but that's what I planned," explained Jim, sounding terribly exasperated all of a sudden. "Like I said before: with you gone, there will be no point in me living. Who would play the game with me?
"…Oh, but you think me mad?" hissed Jim, glaring up at Sherlock as if he had fallen short of expectation. "I once told you that we are halves of a whole, Sherlock. Do you really think that your life will have any meaning without me?"
Sherlock stared back at Jim's twisted expression, refusing to be intimidated and refusing to allow this demon the joy of knowing just how much of Sherlock's life had been wasted obsessing about him. He realised now why Lestrade, Irene, and Mycroft had each tried forcing him to give up his fanatical hunt: it was delivering Sherlock to the very monster he sought to capture.
"I can live without you," said Sherlock calmly, "and I will live a full, happy life without you. You're just a madman who needs to be committed to a mental asylum."
The words seemed have a powerful effect on Moriarty. His previously gleeful face suddenly morphed into something akin to horror. The corners of his mouth pulled down in a grimace, more suited to the features of a stone gargoyle than a human face, and his eyes widened with fear.
"That's not true," he spat. "You can't bear to live without me, I am your life."
"You were my life," replied Sherlock, feeling the power he had over this monster coursing through his veins, "but I realise now that it wasn't really a life at all. When you are gone, I can finally move on. John and Irene will be my life."
Moriarty screamed: a terrible, wretched sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the ground they were standing on and then sink back into the depths of the earth from whence it came. He flung up his arms to hide his face as if Sherlock's words had physically burned him.
Suddenly, before Sherlock could even react, John had spun around and kicked Moriarty between the legs, sending the madman sprawling backward, howling with pain and rage. John quickly acted on his advantage, as any soldier would've done, and leapt forward to disable his opponent. It was then, in a horrifying moment that seemed to unfold in slow motion, that Sherlock saw the wicked glint of a knife flash through the air. A second later it had imbedded itself into John's abdomen, causing a splash of bright-red blood to spray over the dirty blue tiles.
John didn't cry, he merely collapsed sideways in a crumpled heap. Moriarty slithered back to his feet, the bloodstained knife held in front of him like a trophy.
Sherlock realised instantly that he could take a kill shot now, but he instinctively rushed to John's side. His hands found the wound, and he desperately pressed against the flow of warm blood trickling from John's body. An equally warm liquid was flowing down his face and dripping onto the ground to mingle with John's blood. It took several moments for Sherlock to understand that they were his tears.
"Shall we end this now, Sherlock?" demanded Moriarty, "shall we end all of this, now?"
Sherlock didn't want to look away from John's pale face, but something compelled him to do so. Moriarty was standing just feet away from him holding a detonator in one hand and the still-dripping knife in the other. Sherlock knew he couldn't stop the explosion any more than he could turn back time and make sure none of this could ever happen. By the time he reached Moriarty the button would be pressed, and he would not allow the last image burned into his mind to be one of Moriarty's triumphant face.
He needed to make the most of what time he had left with John.
He sat down beside his son and gathered the small, fragile boy in his arms, pressing his head against Sherlock's cheek. He savoured the warm feeling of John pressed up against him, committing to memory every single line and contour of his child's face. They would be together in these final moments and that was what truly mattered.
Suddenly a tiny, white object whizzed over his head and struck Moriarty in the neck, felling the man instantly.
Sherlock looked up, utterly flabbergasted, at the black-clad MI6 special operative standing just inside the doors which had somehow been silently prised open. Within moments an entire division of similarly dressed operatives flooded into the room like a legendary shadow army. Behind them, not quite running but walking very briskly, were Mycroft and Anthea.
Mycroft Holmes looked impassively through the door of the private room at Sherlock sitting beside the tiny, pale figure lying in the hospital bed and holding his hand. He maintained a silent vigil over his younger brother as Sherlock watched over John.
"Ready to go, my dear?" enquired Anthea, walking up behind him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. When he didn't respond, Anthea gently spun him around so that they were facing each other before slowly pulling him in for a warm kiss. He didn't resist; the hospital corridor was deserted at a time so late at night that it really should be called early morning. The soft, sensual feel of Anthea's kiss brought him some relief from the conflicting emotions that were warring within him.
"You are such a perfectionist," she murmured around his cheek, her words sending little vibrations through his skin. "Not everything can go to plan, you know."
He leaned in for another kiss, hoping to silence both her and the rational voice inside his head which sounded just like Anthea. It worked for all of ten seconds before his wife pulled away and forced him to look her in the eye.
"Mycroft, your ridiculously Byzantine plot worked far better than anyone could have predicted. We captured Moriarty, stopped a nuclear catastrophe, rooted out a terrorist cell, and cured your brother of his horrible, life-sapping obsession all in one evening. Surely that's something to celebrate?"
"Perhaps," whispered Mycroft, stroking Anthea's face with his hands and seeking comfort in her warm, smooth skin.
"Darling, when you first suggested altering my sister's stillbirth certificate to catch Moriarty, I thought you were a depraved, heartless bastard. I was horrified that you were going to exploit the memory of her dead child - but when you explained your thoughts, I supported you. I supported you because I believe that you are doing the right thing, that you've always done the right thing, even if sometimes you use unconventional methods."
She wrapped her arms around his neck, gently caressing the nape.
"You know, at times I doubted Moriarty would fall for such a ploy, but he took the bait, and you predicted his every move so brilliantly." He could feel Anthea's breath tickling his chin and the slow, tender hands moving down his back, sending a sensation of warmth through his weary body. "All the things we did: turning Lars Sigerson, allowing Moriarty access to your computer records, laying down the trail of clues to lead Moriarty to John, they worked beautifully. We even managed to shepherd both my sister and your brother along with the plan too. …On that note, we should really buy poor Lestrade a nice present for all the stress we put him through."
"If I do that, he might think the whole Sugarhorse scheme is about to end," muttered Mycroft.
"And you called me the master puppeteer…," whispered Anthea, her tone he making the words sound at once a compliment and an amused reproach.
"The problem," he whispered back as he leaned down to bury his face in her neck, inhaling her sweet scent, "is that Sherlock thinks John really is his child."
"Is that necessarily a bad thing?" asked Anthea.
"I shouldn't lie about this to my brother."
"Then don't," stated Anthea with conviction. Her strength of character was just one of the things that Mycroft so loved about his wife. "Tell Sherlock the truth and let him make up his own mind about John."
"And if he doesn't want the boy?" asked Mycroft curiously, pulling back to look into Anthea's warm brown eyes.
"Then I'd be happy to have him," replied Anthea, and suddenly burst into a fit of giggles when she saw the shock on Mycroft's face. "Go on, Mycroft, talk to Sherlock now," she said encouragingly as she pulled away from his embrace, leaving the faint scent of her perfume lingering behind in her wake. Mycroft took a deep breath and, taking heart from the compassion shining in her eyes, he walked into the private hospital room.