Sherlock (BBC) Fanfic - Survival - Chapter 6
Title: Survival (Chapter 6)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: Sherlock, John, Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Moriarty (men.), Homeless Network, Col. Moran
Genre: Drama, hurt/comfort, angst, friendship - there will be a great deal of bromance (or pre-slash, you can in fact read this one either way)
Rating: T
Chapter Length: 6,438 words
Spoilers: End of series 2, “The Reichenbach Fall”
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs
Summary: “Sherlock had never expected dismantling Moriarty’s empire would be anything less than gruelling, however he also never anticipated just how desperately he would miss home.” Post-Reichenbach to reunion; Sherlock’s p.o.v.
Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5
A.N.: Well, as a treat this chapter is almost twice the usual length - consider it my fervent “THANK YOU!” to you all for all the wonderful responses you've left for me on both LJ and FFn. They really do mean the world to me.
As ever, thanks must go the wonderfully kind (and exceptionally skilled) betas who have been so generous with their time. interjection, velveteenkitten, and infinityuphigh… Thank you so, so much.
ooo
SURVIVAL - CHAPTER 6
ooo
With finding information regarding his targets being so easy, Sherlock is packed and ready to leave a day early. Leon is a beautiful city, for all that it is distinctly lacking in anywhere that serves an even vaguely passable cup of tea, but he is eager to move on. Not that Portugal is likely to be any better, but the odd days he can shave from this ‘trip’ of his are immensely valuable. Each one is another day he will spend at home rather than in a foreign hotel. He cannot bring himself to delay his departure. He has kept a close eye on the news, and either the Catalan cell have decided not to sacrifice their colleague to bring down their attacker, or they moved too slowly to do so and the police have disregarded Sherlock in favour of acting on the information he provided. Whichever is true, the end result is that he has nothing to fear from Spain’s authorities at present and can pass through border control unhindered. It is not something he expects to last; as soon as he completes the files, he delivers them to Leon’s police station in the same way he left the ones in Barcelona.
If he were anyone but Sherlock Holmes he would take his time on this last walk back to the hostel, perhaps alter his route a little to wander by his favourite sights before he leaves, but he has somewhere to be and far too many reasons for getting there with all possible haste. He has loathed pretending to be a tourist, wasting so many hours wandering and buying trinkets so that he had something to show Rosa when pressed for details of his day.
The trinkets will remain hidden in his room until he is long gone (one keyring, he will take one keyring for John, to match the one from St. Petersburg and prove he has been thinking of him the whole time) and his photographs will be deleted as soon as he is aboard the second train. If found on his person they would provide a clear map of his movements, which would be more than enough proof of means for them to place ‘Robert Clarke’ under suspicion as the one disassembling Moriarty’s little empire. Even just the keyrings, hidden deep within his single suitcase, are a ridiculous risk to be taking. He knows each time he so much as thinks of them that he should leave the one bought at MUSAC with the rest of his purchases and throw the mistake from St. Petersburg in the nearest gutter, but those thoughts are followed each time by a vision of John as he was the last time Sherlock saw him. He had seemed so disconsolate, and it is very likely that he will never be able to completely forget that emotion even after Sherlock is able to return home. Sherlock needs to do this, to have some way of corroborating his claims that he has been constantly thinking of John, constantly missing him as much as John was - and, knowing John, is and will for a good while yet - missing Sherlock.
He may not be particularly excellent at comprehending the intricacies of emotions, nor always able to tell when something is “a bit Not Good.” Despite this, though, he is not so blind to it all that he is ignorant of the accusations which will be levelled his way by the likes of Sally and Anderson. He knows they will declare him callous and uncaring, that it was nothing for him to up and abandon the few people who care about him in exchange for the promise of ‘excitement’ and ‘adventure’ (it is neither, regardless of the fact that it should be). Mrs. Hudson will not believe it for a moment, stalwart as she is, and as long as he returns safely and with an apology Sherlock knows he will be forgiven with a hug and an offer of tea and biscuits. Lestrade… He trusts Lestrade to understand when he explains, just as he knows that the DI trusted Sherlock to understand when the older man explained why he arrested him, had he not been denied the chance. Lestrade trusted Sherlock to understand that he did it because he was positive the consulting detective would be proven innocent (the set of his jaw and twitch of his hand, the angle at which he held his badge, his loosened shirt collar and his efforts to keep John out of it all). Sherlock will afford him the same quiet faith.
John, on the other hand, is an unknown. He has always been an unknown, forever surprising Sherlock for good or ill. The detective has all the facts, can read John’s experiences with as little effort as he would expend to read a road-sign, but the doctor’s reactions are another matter altogether. He wants to believe that John will forgive him, will know better than to believe him uncaring or unconcerned. However, Sherlock has seen time and again that grief twists people in harsh ways. Besides, Sherlock and John’s entire lives have been intertwined for the past year and a half, and John lacks the support system Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade have. Whereas the other two have multiple shoulders to lean or cry upon, John’s trusted brothers in arms are either in Afghanistan or too busy readjusting to civilian life to be able to give John the support he needs. This leaves him almost entirely isolated aside from friends and acquaintances of both himself and Sherlock (with the minor additions of Harry and Clara, neither of whom he would ever choose to go to). No, Sherlock would not blame the older man for doubting the sincerity of his apologies and explanations.
Which is why he packs the keyrings beneath his socks, and does not try to tell himself that he will refrain from buying more.
Rosa and Shep are kind, if interfering, people, leaving him feeling unusually guilty when he makes false promises to remain in touch (the telephone number he leaves is for a small residential complex in Kent; the email simply does not exist) and to visit again when he can. He has told similar lies to multitudes of unwanted acquaintances before, feeling nothing but satisfaction and perhaps a little scorn upon confirmation of their belief, and a precise explanation for his abrupt, unhappy onset of conscience eludes him. All of a sudden there are too many options, ranging from how very good to him the pair have been during a time of personal crisis to the remorse being a projection of his emotions regarding John and the others, and he cannot seem to grasp a definitive answer. It is incredibly frustrating to deem it a mixture of ‘all the above,’ as it were, and write any further musing off as a bad job, but it is all he can do. He certainly cannot afford to be distracted by the puzzle of his own emotions when he has such a large-scale task on his hands, with so very little room for hesitations or missteps.
Sherlock smiles and waves as he walks through the small reception room, observing all the social niceties that John tried to drill into him. They delay him briefly, although he leaves as quickly as possible and without a backwards glance. He is already running late - extricating himself from Rosa’s rather overzealous embrace took longer than expected and his train is not going to wait for him. He should have left earlier, but between arguing with himself one final time regarding the keyrings and his general distaste for waiting around in stations unnecessarily he has failed to leave himself any margin for error.
Sherlock soon finds himself sprinting for the platform, barely managing to leap aboard the train bound for Monção before the door hisses closed behind him. It is not crowded, but there are no empty pairs of seats remaining; he turns, smirk in place, to joke that he his sure John will not mind a different travelling companion for a short while only to find himself struggling not to let out a viciously bitter curse when he registers the empty space beside him (too used to running with the other man at his side - his mind is yielding to habit).
He spends the first leg of the journey beside a half-asleep businessman (head of accounts for a Portuguese construction firm, late twenties, gay, enjoys classical literature more than his lover’s company), and silently fumes at himself until the women gossiping three rows down (housewives and mothers, old friends usually in contact through e-mail, studied nursing together) become loud and obnoxious enough to distract him. By the end of the three-hour journey it is only his determination to keep a low profile that prevents him from rising and giving them a venomous piece of his mind. The cutting lecture on exactly why their fellow passengers would rather permanently deafen themselves than suffer another second of their shrieks and laughter is bubbling in Sherlock’s throat. He has a headache, the man beside him is wincing each time any of them opens her mouth, and the student at the table beside theirs has increased the volume of the music roaring from her headphones to the point that Sherlock could sing along if he so desired.
When the train comes to a final halt he is two-thirds through an internal recitation of ‘John Watson’s Top Fifty Excuses for Standing Up His Girlfriends in Favour of Danger With Sherlock,’ and he cannot escape quickly enough. Although his Spanish is far more academic than conversational, he knows more than enough slang to be painfully aware of how far past the point of mere insinuation the women’s conversation went. It is one of those rare instances in which he finds himself wishing for the ignorance of the masses. His first instinct is, in fact, to delete the entire journey from his memory as soon as he is afforded a moment of peace in Coimbra, but unfortunately he needs to be more careful than that. If he is being followed, or if he should meet one of his fellow passengers again at the wrong moment, his memory of this awful journey will be necessary to maintaining his cover as a simple tourist.
When he goes home, after he has told John his stories in all their minutiae, he will delete every shred of the idiocy he knows will be cluttering his brain. He will take a great deal of satisfaction in clearing it all, every second of unnecessary annoyance and overheard conversations.
What he will not do, tempting as it may be, is erase his newfound intimacy with the sensations of bone-deep loneliness and grief - of the desperate longing for a specific person’s company to which he had believed himself to be immune to for so long. Perhaps he had been, for the most part, until he effectively hauled John into his home and life on a whim and a combination of vague curiosity and the awareness of his seclusion planted by his almost-friendship with Lestrade. Perhaps John has altered him even more than Sherlock himself had thought.
Ever since their first case together the former army doctor has been playing the roles of both his catalyst and his compass, so Sherlock could claim no surprise if John is behind the new, fragile heart as his core. Not that he has ever been as “heartless” as so many seem to believe. Nevertheless, his old one of the pre-John years was a heart built of gears and wires and fibreglass tubing; it acknowledged another’s absence with wistfulness and idle wonderings at the very most. This new one of flesh and flame… It aches and it twists, screaming its discontent in every shade of worry, grief and guilt.
Worst of all, however, is how damned poetic the bloody thing is making him.
ooo
He is lucky enough not to be one of those randomly pulled aside to have their passports checked. Security is predictably tight so close to the border but not quite as much as it could be, and he is waved past the four officers and their sniffer-dog with open impatience (the eldest is formerly an engineer in Portugal’s Armed Forces, discharged due to a combination of age, diabetes and a poorly-set tibia). The train to Coimbra is waiting at the platform, an older but far less crowded and therefore infinitely more comfortable version of the one he has just left. Sherlock is quick to find the quietest spot possible and settles in, pulling out his file and his minimalist notes with the intention of spending the next few hours revisiting his knowledge and refining his plans. There is a short delay though, and by the time they are pulling away from Caldas station he is already finished with his reading and has discovered that his plans need nothing more than a little tightening up. It is incredibly tempting to be excessive in his contingencies and safety measures after the debacle of Barcelona, but Sherlock knows better than to waste the time and effort. “The best laid plans…” as John sometimes used to mutter.
He knows that he has done well in covering as many potential difficulties as he has. Further planning will do little more than hinder him until he has the chance to assess the situation more closely, much as it pains him to put away his work, and he resigns himself to watching the scenery fly past. The countryside is too similar to that of Spain to hold his attention for very long; the Atlantic, on the other hand, is a wonderful sight. The tracks take them along the coast for a full thirty-five minutes before beginning the gradual curve inland and Sherlock spends every second he can gazing out across the horizon. It is pathetically sentimental, but the first time he saw this particular body of water he was bundled up in Lestrade’s car, three months after meeting the man and during his first attempt at quitting cocaine. Mycroft had decided that London presented his little brother with far too many temptations, near-forcing Lestrade to take him to Cornwall for a fortnight.
Any other day, the DI would probably have made an ill-advised attempt at disobedience or outright rebellion, but as he had returned home early from visiting family to find his wife cheating on him with a builder from Amersham he had been almost glad to be distracted by the Holmes brothers. Mycroft had arranged extra time off work for him, paid for the trip in its entirety, and handed over a generous amount of spending money, after which Sherlock may have had complaints but Lestrade had not cared to argue. It had ended up being strangely pleasant, despite Sherlock’s initial fury and the expected later bouts of sickness, and although they certainly were not close by the time they returned to London there had been some sort of bond there; a feeling of attachment which has prevented either man from pulling away from the other over the years.
An attachment from which the friendship that resulted in Lestrade’s life being threatened grew.
The thought is a bitter one, and Sherlock is glad that the sea is long behind him when it makes itself known.
ooo
The final hour of the journey is both uneventful and uninspiring. Sherlock’s fellow passengers (four tourists from the Netherlands, eight Portuguese businessmen returning from a conference, a history student and a banker) go from quiet to silent, some of them sleeping and the remainder respecting that. By the time Coimbra rises around them, only Sherlock and three others are still awake and his watch reports it to be gone ten. He would prefer to wander immediately, as there is always a vast wealth of information to be had on a drunken Friday night, but the business hotel’s check-in closes in less than an hour. Whilst lugging his one remaining suitcase with him from bar to bar would not be too much of a physical strain he is very much opposed to drawing any more attention than necessary. He can wait just a little longer.
The taxi barely makes it in time; the boy behind the counter scowls through the process of retrieving and activating Sherlock’s key-card. His room is bland, the same cheap accommodation easily found in every city he has ever known, and it is not at all difficult for him to part from it as soon as his bags are stashed away. He joins the roiling masses on the streets, allowing himself to be swept up by an already impaired group as they pass - he smiles and laughs, and not one man realises that he does not belong with them. They meander from pub to club to bar to pub, buying his drinks as though he has been there all night and eventually causing Sherlock to take pity on them, buying one round before disappearing on to the next bar alone. He seriously doubts they will remember him in the morning, never mind miss him now, but by repaying them he will at least be recalled fondly if they do.
Although he had asked for only juices and one virgin margarita, he is infuriated to find unwelcome warmth spreading through his veins and turning his thoughts ever so slightly muzzy. He doubts the mistake was made intentionally and must admit that he should have been paying closer attention to his drinks rather than ignoring them in favour of keeping up his happy, tipsy façade - not to mention measuring the mood of the bar, the percentages of locals versus tourists, and the quality of the liquors on offer. Still, it is a struggle not to head back there and cause a scene. Not that it would help, but Sherlock has been nursing a bad temper since his first train ride of this long day-and-night, and the excuse presented to indulge it would be appealing even without the alcohol loosening his restraint. He keeps walking with difficulty, reminding himself with every step that he cannot afford any trouble.
The burn of the alcohol in Sherlock’s system fades as the sky brightens from navy to cobalt, and the sun is rising before most of the clubs close. Even when they finally do, turfing out the last party-goers with practised efficiency at gone four in the morning, some of the bars remain open - the ones Sherlock noticed the majority of the locals entering, as luck would have it, and he ducks into the closest without hesitation. It is dark, smoky and perfection, a haven from the noise and tackiness of the rest of the area. A few of the older patrons raise their eyebrows in his direction, but as soon as he orders a large whisky he is written off as ‘one of them’ and almost completely ignored.
Sherlock settles down on a barstool, and watches. The range of clientele here is wide and varied (entirely male though, so it must be a well-known local watering hole with a distinct reputation), with shady characters and definite gang members scattered almost innocuously between young professionals, labourers and alcoholics of every age and background. In the corner, however, is the man Sherlock finds to be of the most interest.
To most, he would be entirely unremarkable. He is of average weight, with a mid-range phone beside him. His attire and brogues inexpensive but smart and well kept, and his hair is neat but trimmed plainly - he is nondescript in every way possible, and that is what draws Sherlock’s attention. People who have absolutely nothing remarkable or distinguishing about them are anomalies, almost impossibilities, and invariably turn out to be the ones trying to hide the biggest secrets. It is overwhelmingly likely that this man, who blends so seamlessly into the background, is one of Moriarty’s agents.
There is little Sherlock can do right now though, aside from making a mental note of everyone the thirty (thirty-two?) year old speaks to whilst smuggling as much of his whisky as possible into the plant pot beside his right elbow. By seven in the morning he has imbibed a mouthful of the deep amber liquor at the very most - impressive even by his standards when it is out of five glasses and he is seated right under the barman’s nose. His acting is impeccable as well, made easier by the lack of a friend or accomplice to interact with, and when he stumbles his way into the street thirteen minutes after his mark no one pays any more attention to him than to offer a genial smile or nod.
ooo
The visit to his hotel room is a flying one, barely long enough for him to shower and change before he is back under the morning sun, already sweltering even in a thin t-shirt and light, cotton trousers. The blonde dye has finally stopped running when he washes his hair, at least; he is able to leave his short curls to dry naturally and enjoy the relief offered by the light breeze against his wet scalp and nape. Said relief lasts ten minutes at the very most, but Sherlock finds the heat is that little bit easier to cope with now that he has been eased into it rather than plunged.
Coimbra is as lovely as Leon, he finds, with equally beautiful historic architecture, equally interesting and accommodating locals, and equally terrible tea. The Delta café he ends up in after a long search is obviously part of a chain but stocks only rooibos, which is far from his favourite in the first place but has never been so awful as it is here. He could have coffee, he knows - he likes the stuff, so it is not as though it would be a hardship - but he wants tea. More specifically he wants John’s excellent tea, with one of Mrs Hudson’s little shortbread fingers at its side. If he cannot have exactly that, he still wants the closest substitute.
Perhaps he will go to Paris next. He remembers little of the holiday the Holmes’ took there as a family - he had, after all, been only six at the time. What he does remember of the city is favourable, though. He knows that he will find a half-decent range of teas in most cafés, and the office there is likely to hold plenty of useful information. It suits what small parody of a plan he has, too - lull the cells outside the continent into what semblance of a ‘false sense of security’ a criminal cell can be lulled by working through the vast majority within Europe, then quietly gather reconnaissance for a month or so before dealing with as many other offices as possible within as short a time as can be arranged. It is not likely to be easy or nearly as effective as one might hope, but it is the best he can manage alone.
ooo
By mid-afternoon it is all too clear that today is not a day for progress - he has walked by the office as often as he dares for at least the next couple of days, even risking notice by loitering in front of a quaint glassware shop across the street for a full fifteen minutes. All he has discovered is that there is a tolerable, family-run café on the corner with one table in the window that has a perfect view of the office entrance. It is precious little reward for many hours of pounding the pavements; Sherlock is hard-pressed not to allow his resentment to shine through when he is told by yet another smiling shop assistant that they don’t know what the offices are for and are sorry they cannot be of more help, but they do not think anyone would mind him taking a few photos. At four o’clock he gives up and does so, managing by luck or providence to catch two smirking, suited men as they pass one of the thin gaps between the blinds.
Neither appears again, so it is unlikely they noticed him, but he continues to play the part of a tourist anyway, smiling admiringly up at the large, renaissance-style building one more time before casually walking away. His immediate intention is to go straight back to the hotel and attempt to make a little more sense of the correspondence. The alternative would be to take a nice, cool shower after being out in Portugal’s painfully hot afternoon air before spending a couple of hours trying to make a few more deductions from his memory of the man at the bar. He will be there again tonight, most likely; it would be nice if Sherlock could be as well. The more quickly he can fill the final few gaps in his file on this office, the sooner he can escape this god-forsaken heat and head somewhere more comfortable. He has to work on his deductions first though; it will be far more advantageous to have some leverage or, as John would probably phrase it, ‘shock-factor’ insight at his disposal before going back to the bar and risking being noticed or interacted with.
He cannot have moved more than thirty yards before he hears the distinct sounds of a heavy door opening and closing behind him. The only such door in the street is the one barring the entrance to Moriarty’s office. Of course, it could be nothing to do with him; it could be the end of a shift or someone making a quick trip to pick up more paper or milk for the coffees. It could, but it never would be.
Sherlock is being followed.
He does not turn, tempting as it may be, and keeps his stride at an even, comfortable and easy pace. The steps behind him fall into a matching rhythm so naturally he cannot help but be a touch impressed. They head towards the more populated streets, less than three-hundred meters between them if Sherlock’s calculations are correct, and he sees his pursuer just once in the polished glass of a storefront. The one consolation he can find is that he is not the man from the bar. He has the same purposely-bland air about him though, much as it is now sharpened by suspicion and a touch of violence. There is no doubt in Sherlock’s mind as to his intentions, and the desire to run claws at his insides.
Not that he would have any safe haven to escape to. Sherlock cannot, must not, return to the hotel with this threat in tow. Whatever it takes, he will have to lose him, because if his pursuer finds out where he is staying Sherlock knows there will be three more men picking the locks and rooting through his luggage within the hour. Then they will put together all the clues as to who Robert Clarke really is and kill him, or perhaps alert the rest of the organisation, kill John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade out of spite, and then kill him. No, if it reaches the point where Sherlock has no choice but to retire, he will do so to another hotel or a ‘flophouse’ of one disgustingly familiar sort or another (he had never seen reason to be ashamed of the nights spent in those dives, nor of the drugs he would flood his brain with whilst there, until John and the disappointed, forlorn way his face twisted. Now Sherlock can bear neither, the temptation and shame trying very hard to rip him in two). He desperately hopes it will not come to that.
Sherlock has been followed, tailed like this on numerous occasions. This is the first time in over six years where he does not have some form of backup though, and the thought is more than a little disconcerting. He is loath to admit it, even to himself, but he is afraid - terrified. He is fierce in his assertions to himself that he need not worry or fear (regardless of how exposed and isolated he feels without the knowledge that John is barely a street behind and Lestrade only a text away), but no reassurances or ridiculous platitudes can extract the panic hindering his movements and thought processes. It is all he can do to keep walking. The fact that his hands are steady when he raises the camera to photograph one or ten of the pleasant, elegant buildings they are passing becomes a point of pride (not to mention another oddly comforting - if unhelpfully distracting - reminder of John).
It is louder now, and despite Moriarty’s agent still being very much there Sherlock cannot hear his steps above the racket. He is jostled from the left of the pavement to the right and back again - in London he would have glared imperiously and refused, in all his tall, angular, bony glory, to shift even an inch, but here and now it makes a wonderful excuse for attempts at evasion. He picks up the pace. The pavement makes his sore feet ache, and he darts between his fellow pedestrians as quickly as he dares. He soon finds himself biting the inside of his cheek to prevent any snarls escaping as he is knocked about. He tastes the metallic tang of his blood but keeps a happy, curious smile on his face and his gaze casually interested in the people and sights surrounding him even as he fights the instinct to sprint. Another wide window affords him nothing but disappointment - his pursuer is still there and, although he has failed to gain any ground and the seeds of doubt Sherlock has been hoping for are beginning to take root, the fact remains that he is also not giving up.
Neither is Sherlock. He may not know this city the way he does London, but he knows enough. Besides, his pursuer probably is not such a thorough expert on Coimbra either (not the way Sherlock is on his city, the city, the sights of which he misses every day), so his disadvantage is not even close to being as disproportionate as it could have been.
He dismisses the predictable urge to dash down a side street. He is aiming to lose his new friend, not destroy any plausible deniability he may yet have managed to retain - if he turns down an unfamiliar alleyway alone he will definitely not be sticking to his current persona, only making himself appear more suspicious. Either he has to lose him in the crowds or bore him until he leaves freely. All things considered, he deems himself far more likely to be successful with the latter. All he needs is a first stop.
Tourist tat? Too obvious. Museum? Costly, and with it being late afternoon also highly unlikely. A visit to one of the many chapels would be the best way to start, but there are none within an acceptable radius so that will have to wait. He dares not risk another café, in case they have been watching longer than he is inclined to assume, and after two more streets he ends up pausing for a moment to take a few photos of the prettier buildings and try his damnedest to formulate a plan. He wishes he had at least brought the Swiss Army knife out with him.
The shop is a first-floor job, the door rather filthy and set slightly back between a bank and what might be a clothes shop (or a fancy-dress shop, or a trap for the seriously mentally impaired - if John were here they would be sniggering by now). The Portuguese for “books” may or may not be above it, he cannot quite see through the film of dirt on the sign, but in the current circumstances he also cannot claim to be particularly concerned. He hurries over, allowing his intrigue to show on his face, and tests the doorknob. He can feel the delighted grin pulling at his lips when there is a click and the grimy wood and glass swing back to admit him. It is cleaner inside than one might expect; the carpet is worn but still a vibrant red, leading the way up the stairs. Sherlock hardly takes a breath before rushing inside, bounding up to the tiny bookshop.
There is barely space to walk between the coral reefs of books crowding the room. Old, new, varying languages and covering every subject… He cannot hold back the awed, delighted “oh!” which swells in his throat. He is not an avid reader - it is an idle hobby used to stave off boredom unless he is hunting for specific information, and he has been known to delete the less useful or enjoyable books from his memory. Nevertheless, he can still appreciate such a vast and varied selection. Many of them are beautiful, bound in leather or fabric with their titles and authors tooled into the spines in artistic, gilded fonts.
The footsteps on the stairs behind him remind him of his purpose here, and he gravitates steadily around the room towards one of the larger stacks, hoping to swing around it and leave before his pursuer can pick up on what his plan is. It is unlikely to work, all things considered, however it is one of the few possibilities that will not incriminate him should things go wrong. That is the best he can hope for at present.
Ten minutes later he is back at street-level, hugging close to the wall as he tries not to rush his exit; there are no steps behind him just yet. Cramming himself into the tightest of corners was an annoyance, but it left his ‘tail’ feeling secure in the knowledge that he would be unable to leave without notice - a security undermined by the fact that all it took was one familiar title drawing the other man’s eye for a moment too long to allow Sherlock the opportunity to slip by. It will not last, obviously, a fact which causes Sherlock to feel that foolish, amateur urge to race for the nearest corner burning through his stomach and joints as he walks down the street. Unfortunately he is no longer within range to hear the warning of footsteps, and to have pulled this off only to be seen dashing away, trying to get out of sight, would be as irritating as it could prove deadly. He keeps to a brisk walk instead, pulling out his phone to check the time once he is a good distance from the door.
The downside of this act is that he has nowhere to go, and until he can ascertain whether he is still being followed he needs to appear as though he does. Rushing out of the bookshop is easily explained, but without any evidence to support his story - a friend to meet, an event to get to, a reservation to make - he will soon be a figure of suspicion again. As a tourist he can buy time by appearing to get lost, but he will need something.
He catches sight of a statue just beyond an alley on his right as he strides by and backs up a step to take a second look. He has no idea who it is, but it is a landmark he can fake knowing and a final, blessed excuse to dart down one of the many thin side streets he has been passing with frustrated longing. He moves down it at a jog, glad of the excuse to speed up a little as well - it is reasonable enough that no tourist would want to take a shadowed alleyway at a wander, and Sherlock is happy to exploit that fact. He does not pause at the end, turning to the left and stepping back to lean against the wall and listen for a full three minutes.
No footsteps. No thud of rubber soles on the flagstones, no heavy breaths or rustles of fabric. Whoever he is, and whether Sherlock has retained his air of innocence or not, he is no longer following him. Or rather, he is no longer able to do so effectively - Sherlock does not doubt that the man will be trying to locate him for some hours yet. He may even still be at the bookshop, unaware that his mark has left his corner.
There is no time for Sherlock to rest on his laurels; he still has to put some distance between himself and his pursuer. He takes four more alleys at a run, choosing at random and laying out a jagged path with no logic behind it to be used against him. He does, however, try to aim for the general direction of the hotel, and can see the blinds he had drawn before leaving to keep the room private and cool when he hears the engine thundering his way. He is half way across the street. The tactic is an easy one to see through (frighten the pedestrian; they hurry to step onto the pavement and pay less attention to their footing than they should as they move to escape peril), but that does not change the fact that he instinctively lurches forwards with little grace, very nearly twisting his ankle when his throbbing foot slips slightly beneath him.
The tyres squeal and the large, undoubtedly expensive car halts directly behind him. Sherlock can just make out the line of the roof and the uppermost few inches of the tinted windows reflected in the glass panel of a door to his left. It is with a resigned sigh that he hears the car door swing open behind him; multiple hands grab him (two men - one soldier and one civilian, the latter an office worker of some sort from a reasonably high-born background and very familiar), and he is dragged backwards into the relative dark of the car’s spacious back seat. Or, rather, back seating area - the seats themselves are arranged in a small ‘U’ around the central space Sherlock’s long limbs are currently occupying.
“I must admit, you very nearly managed to fool even me, Sherlock,” comes the familiar, aristocratic voice. Then, quieter, and with far more emotion than he is used to hearing from the older man: ”You do enjoy making me worry.”
He twists as best he can against the soldier’s restraining hand, and addresses his brother. “If you will insist upon handing out my life story to known criminals, Mycroft, you deserve to be left out of the loop.”
ooo
Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and I’m sorry to be leaving you there for this week. If you have the time, I would love to hear what you thought. No flames please, but con-crit is very welcome. Thanks again!
Continue to chapter 7...
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: Sherlock, John, Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Moriarty (men.), Homeless Network, Col. Moran
Genre: Drama, hurt/comfort, angst, friendship - there will be a great deal of bromance (or pre-slash, you can in fact read this one either way)
Rating: T
Chapter Length: 6,438 words
Spoilers: End of series 2, “The Reichenbach Fall”
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs
Summary: “Sherlock had never expected dismantling Moriarty’s empire would be anything less than gruelling, however he also never anticipated just how desperately he would miss home.” Post-Reichenbach to reunion; Sherlock’s p.o.v.
Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5
A.N.: Well, as a treat this chapter is almost twice the usual length - consider it my fervent “THANK YOU!” to you all for all the wonderful responses you've left for me on both LJ and FFn. They really do mean the world to me.
As ever, thanks must go the wonderfully kind (and exceptionally skilled) betas who have been so generous with their time. interjection, velveteenkitten, and infinityuphigh… Thank you so, so much.
ooo
SURVIVAL - CHAPTER 6
ooo
With finding information regarding his targets being so easy, Sherlock is packed and ready to leave a day early. Leon is a beautiful city, for all that it is distinctly lacking in anywhere that serves an even vaguely passable cup of tea, but he is eager to move on. Not that Portugal is likely to be any better, but the odd days he can shave from this ‘trip’ of his are immensely valuable. Each one is another day he will spend at home rather than in a foreign hotel. He cannot bring himself to delay his departure. He has kept a close eye on the news, and either the Catalan cell have decided not to sacrifice their colleague to bring down their attacker, or they moved too slowly to do so and the police have disregarded Sherlock in favour of acting on the information he provided. Whichever is true, the end result is that he has nothing to fear from Spain’s authorities at present and can pass through border control unhindered. It is not something he expects to last; as soon as he completes the files, he delivers them to Leon’s police station in the same way he left the ones in Barcelona.
If he were anyone but Sherlock Holmes he would take his time on this last walk back to the hostel, perhaps alter his route a little to wander by his favourite sights before he leaves, but he has somewhere to be and far too many reasons for getting there with all possible haste. He has loathed pretending to be a tourist, wasting so many hours wandering and buying trinkets so that he had something to show Rosa when pressed for details of his day.
The trinkets will remain hidden in his room until he is long gone (one keyring, he will take one keyring for John, to match the one from St. Petersburg and prove he has been thinking of him the whole time) and his photographs will be deleted as soon as he is aboard the second train. If found on his person they would provide a clear map of his movements, which would be more than enough proof of means for them to place ‘Robert Clarke’ under suspicion as the one disassembling Moriarty’s little empire. Even just the keyrings, hidden deep within his single suitcase, are a ridiculous risk to be taking. He knows each time he so much as thinks of them that he should leave the one bought at MUSAC with the rest of his purchases and throw the mistake from St. Petersburg in the nearest gutter, but those thoughts are followed each time by a vision of John as he was the last time Sherlock saw him. He had seemed so disconsolate, and it is very likely that he will never be able to completely forget that emotion even after Sherlock is able to return home. Sherlock needs to do this, to have some way of corroborating his claims that he has been constantly thinking of John, constantly missing him as much as John was - and, knowing John, is and will for a good while yet - missing Sherlock.
He may not be particularly excellent at comprehending the intricacies of emotions, nor always able to tell when something is “a bit Not Good.” Despite this, though, he is not so blind to it all that he is ignorant of the accusations which will be levelled his way by the likes of Sally and Anderson. He knows they will declare him callous and uncaring, that it was nothing for him to up and abandon the few people who care about him in exchange for the promise of ‘excitement’ and ‘adventure’ (it is neither, regardless of the fact that it should be). Mrs. Hudson will not believe it for a moment, stalwart as she is, and as long as he returns safely and with an apology Sherlock knows he will be forgiven with a hug and an offer of tea and biscuits. Lestrade… He trusts Lestrade to understand when he explains, just as he knows that the DI trusted Sherlock to understand when the older man explained why he arrested him, had he not been denied the chance. Lestrade trusted Sherlock to understand that he did it because he was positive the consulting detective would be proven innocent (the set of his jaw and twitch of his hand, the angle at which he held his badge, his loosened shirt collar and his efforts to keep John out of it all). Sherlock will afford him the same quiet faith.
John, on the other hand, is an unknown. He has always been an unknown, forever surprising Sherlock for good or ill. The detective has all the facts, can read John’s experiences with as little effort as he would expend to read a road-sign, but the doctor’s reactions are another matter altogether. He wants to believe that John will forgive him, will know better than to believe him uncaring or unconcerned. However, Sherlock has seen time and again that grief twists people in harsh ways. Besides, Sherlock and John’s entire lives have been intertwined for the past year and a half, and John lacks the support system Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade have. Whereas the other two have multiple shoulders to lean or cry upon, John’s trusted brothers in arms are either in Afghanistan or too busy readjusting to civilian life to be able to give John the support he needs. This leaves him almost entirely isolated aside from friends and acquaintances of both himself and Sherlock (with the minor additions of Harry and Clara, neither of whom he would ever choose to go to). No, Sherlock would not blame the older man for doubting the sincerity of his apologies and explanations.
Which is why he packs the keyrings beneath his socks, and does not try to tell himself that he will refrain from buying more.
Rosa and Shep are kind, if interfering, people, leaving him feeling unusually guilty when he makes false promises to remain in touch (the telephone number he leaves is for a small residential complex in Kent; the email simply does not exist) and to visit again when he can. He has told similar lies to multitudes of unwanted acquaintances before, feeling nothing but satisfaction and perhaps a little scorn upon confirmation of their belief, and a precise explanation for his abrupt, unhappy onset of conscience eludes him. All of a sudden there are too many options, ranging from how very good to him the pair have been during a time of personal crisis to the remorse being a projection of his emotions regarding John and the others, and he cannot seem to grasp a definitive answer. It is incredibly frustrating to deem it a mixture of ‘all the above,’ as it were, and write any further musing off as a bad job, but it is all he can do. He certainly cannot afford to be distracted by the puzzle of his own emotions when he has such a large-scale task on his hands, with so very little room for hesitations or missteps.
Sherlock smiles and waves as he walks through the small reception room, observing all the social niceties that John tried to drill into him. They delay him briefly, although he leaves as quickly as possible and without a backwards glance. He is already running late - extricating himself from Rosa’s rather overzealous embrace took longer than expected and his train is not going to wait for him. He should have left earlier, but between arguing with himself one final time regarding the keyrings and his general distaste for waiting around in stations unnecessarily he has failed to leave himself any margin for error.
Sherlock soon finds himself sprinting for the platform, barely managing to leap aboard the train bound for Monção before the door hisses closed behind him. It is not crowded, but there are no empty pairs of seats remaining; he turns, smirk in place, to joke that he his sure John will not mind a different travelling companion for a short while only to find himself struggling not to let out a viciously bitter curse when he registers the empty space beside him (too used to running with the other man at his side - his mind is yielding to habit).
He spends the first leg of the journey beside a half-asleep businessman (head of accounts for a Portuguese construction firm, late twenties, gay, enjoys classical literature more than his lover’s company), and silently fumes at himself until the women gossiping three rows down (housewives and mothers, old friends usually in contact through e-mail, studied nursing together) become loud and obnoxious enough to distract him. By the end of the three-hour journey it is only his determination to keep a low profile that prevents him from rising and giving them a venomous piece of his mind. The cutting lecture on exactly why their fellow passengers would rather permanently deafen themselves than suffer another second of their shrieks and laughter is bubbling in Sherlock’s throat. He has a headache, the man beside him is wincing each time any of them opens her mouth, and the student at the table beside theirs has increased the volume of the music roaring from her headphones to the point that Sherlock could sing along if he so desired.
When the train comes to a final halt he is two-thirds through an internal recitation of ‘John Watson’s Top Fifty Excuses for Standing Up His Girlfriends in Favour of Danger With Sherlock,’ and he cannot escape quickly enough. Although his Spanish is far more academic than conversational, he knows more than enough slang to be painfully aware of how far past the point of mere insinuation the women’s conversation went. It is one of those rare instances in which he finds himself wishing for the ignorance of the masses. His first instinct is, in fact, to delete the entire journey from his memory as soon as he is afforded a moment of peace in Coimbra, but unfortunately he needs to be more careful than that. If he is being followed, or if he should meet one of his fellow passengers again at the wrong moment, his memory of this awful journey will be necessary to maintaining his cover as a simple tourist.
When he goes home, after he has told John his stories in all their minutiae, he will delete every shred of the idiocy he knows will be cluttering his brain. He will take a great deal of satisfaction in clearing it all, every second of unnecessary annoyance and overheard conversations.
What he will not do, tempting as it may be, is erase his newfound intimacy with the sensations of bone-deep loneliness and grief - of the desperate longing for a specific person’s company to which he had believed himself to be immune to for so long. Perhaps he had been, for the most part, until he effectively hauled John into his home and life on a whim and a combination of vague curiosity and the awareness of his seclusion planted by his almost-friendship with Lestrade. Perhaps John has altered him even more than Sherlock himself had thought.
Ever since their first case together the former army doctor has been playing the roles of both his catalyst and his compass, so Sherlock could claim no surprise if John is behind the new, fragile heart as his core. Not that he has ever been as “heartless” as so many seem to believe. Nevertheless, his old one of the pre-John years was a heart built of gears and wires and fibreglass tubing; it acknowledged another’s absence with wistfulness and idle wonderings at the very most. This new one of flesh and flame… It aches and it twists, screaming its discontent in every shade of worry, grief and guilt.
Worst of all, however, is how damned poetic the bloody thing is making him.
ooo
He is lucky enough not to be one of those randomly pulled aside to have their passports checked. Security is predictably tight so close to the border but not quite as much as it could be, and he is waved past the four officers and their sniffer-dog with open impatience (the eldest is formerly an engineer in Portugal’s Armed Forces, discharged due to a combination of age, diabetes and a poorly-set tibia). The train to Coimbra is waiting at the platform, an older but far less crowded and therefore infinitely more comfortable version of the one he has just left. Sherlock is quick to find the quietest spot possible and settles in, pulling out his file and his minimalist notes with the intention of spending the next few hours revisiting his knowledge and refining his plans. There is a short delay though, and by the time they are pulling away from Caldas station he is already finished with his reading and has discovered that his plans need nothing more than a little tightening up. It is incredibly tempting to be excessive in his contingencies and safety measures after the debacle of Barcelona, but Sherlock knows better than to waste the time and effort. “The best laid plans…” as John sometimes used to mutter.
He knows that he has done well in covering as many potential difficulties as he has. Further planning will do little more than hinder him until he has the chance to assess the situation more closely, much as it pains him to put away his work, and he resigns himself to watching the scenery fly past. The countryside is too similar to that of Spain to hold his attention for very long; the Atlantic, on the other hand, is a wonderful sight. The tracks take them along the coast for a full thirty-five minutes before beginning the gradual curve inland and Sherlock spends every second he can gazing out across the horizon. It is pathetically sentimental, but the first time he saw this particular body of water he was bundled up in Lestrade’s car, three months after meeting the man and during his first attempt at quitting cocaine. Mycroft had decided that London presented his little brother with far too many temptations, near-forcing Lestrade to take him to Cornwall for a fortnight.
Any other day, the DI would probably have made an ill-advised attempt at disobedience or outright rebellion, but as he had returned home early from visiting family to find his wife cheating on him with a builder from Amersham he had been almost glad to be distracted by the Holmes brothers. Mycroft had arranged extra time off work for him, paid for the trip in its entirety, and handed over a generous amount of spending money, after which Sherlock may have had complaints but Lestrade had not cared to argue. It had ended up being strangely pleasant, despite Sherlock’s initial fury and the expected later bouts of sickness, and although they certainly were not close by the time they returned to London there had been some sort of bond there; a feeling of attachment which has prevented either man from pulling away from the other over the years.
An attachment from which the friendship that resulted in Lestrade’s life being threatened grew.
The thought is a bitter one, and Sherlock is glad that the sea is long behind him when it makes itself known.
ooo
The final hour of the journey is both uneventful and uninspiring. Sherlock’s fellow passengers (four tourists from the Netherlands, eight Portuguese businessmen returning from a conference, a history student and a banker) go from quiet to silent, some of them sleeping and the remainder respecting that. By the time Coimbra rises around them, only Sherlock and three others are still awake and his watch reports it to be gone ten. He would prefer to wander immediately, as there is always a vast wealth of information to be had on a drunken Friday night, but the business hotel’s check-in closes in less than an hour. Whilst lugging his one remaining suitcase with him from bar to bar would not be too much of a physical strain he is very much opposed to drawing any more attention than necessary. He can wait just a little longer.
The taxi barely makes it in time; the boy behind the counter scowls through the process of retrieving and activating Sherlock’s key-card. His room is bland, the same cheap accommodation easily found in every city he has ever known, and it is not at all difficult for him to part from it as soon as his bags are stashed away. He joins the roiling masses on the streets, allowing himself to be swept up by an already impaired group as they pass - he smiles and laughs, and not one man realises that he does not belong with them. They meander from pub to club to bar to pub, buying his drinks as though he has been there all night and eventually causing Sherlock to take pity on them, buying one round before disappearing on to the next bar alone. He seriously doubts they will remember him in the morning, never mind miss him now, but by repaying them he will at least be recalled fondly if they do.
Although he had asked for only juices and one virgin margarita, he is infuriated to find unwelcome warmth spreading through his veins and turning his thoughts ever so slightly muzzy. He doubts the mistake was made intentionally and must admit that he should have been paying closer attention to his drinks rather than ignoring them in favour of keeping up his happy, tipsy façade - not to mention measuring the mood of the bar, the percentages of locals versus tourists, and the quality of the liquors on offer. Still, it is a struggle not to head back there and cause a scene. Not that it would help, but Sherlock has been nursing a bad temper since his first train ride of this long day-and-night, and the excuse presented to indulge it would be appealing even without the alcohol loosening his restraint. He keeps walking with difficulty, reminding himself with every step that he cannot afford any trouble.
The burn of the alcohol in Sherlock’s system fades as the sky brightens from navy to cobalt, and the sun is rising before most of the clubs close. Even when they finally do, turfing out the last party-goers with practised efficiency at gone four in the morning, some of the bars remain open - the ones Sherlock noticed the majority of the locals entering, as luck would have it, and he ducks into the closest without hesitation. It is dark, smoky and perfection, a haven from the noise and tackiness of the rest of the area. A few of the older patrons raise their eyebrows in his direction, but as soon as he orders a large whisky he is written off as ‘one of them’ and almost completely ignored.
Sherlock settles down on a barstool, and watches. The range of clientele here is wide and varied (entirely male though, so it must be a well-known local watering hole with a distinct reputation), with shady characters and definite gang members scattered almost innocuously between young professionals, labourers and alcoholics of every age and background. In the corner, however, is the man Sherlock finds to be of the most interest.
To most, he would be entirely unremarkable. He is of average weight, with a mid-range phone beside him. His attire and brogues inexpensive but smart and well kept, and his hair is neat but trimmed plainly - he is nondescript in every way possible, and that is what draws Sherlock’s attention. People who have absolutely nothing remarkable or distinguishing about them are anomalies, almost impossibilities, and invariably turn out to be the ones trying to hide the biggest secrets. It is overwhelmingly likely that this man, who blends so seamlessly into the background, is one of Moriarty’s agents.
There is little Sherlock can do right now though, aside from making a mental note of everyone the thirty (thirty-two?) year old speaks to whilst smuggling as much of his whisky as possible into the plant pot beside his right elbow. By seven in the morning he has imbibed a mouthful of the deep amber liquor at the very most - impressive even by his standards when it is out of five glasses and he is seated right under the barman’s nose. His acting is impeccable as well, made easier by the lack of a friend or accomplice to interact with, and when he stumbles his way into the street thirteen minutes after his mark no one pays any more attention to him than to offer a genial smile or nod.
ooo
The visit to his hotel room is a flying one, barely long enough for him to shower and change before he is back under the morning sun, already sweltering even in a thin t-shirt and light, cotton trousers. The blonde dye has finally stopped running when he washes his hair, at least; he is able to leave his short curls to dry naturally and enjoy the relief offered by the light breeze against his wet scalp and nape. Said relief lasts ten minutes at the very most, but Sherlock finds the heat is that little bit easier to cope with now that he has been eased into it rather than plunged.
Coimbra is as lovely as Leon, he finds, with equally beautiful historic architecture, equally interesting and accommodating locals, and equally terrible tea. The Delta café he ends up in after a long search is obviously part of a chain but stocks only rooibos, which is far from his favourite in the first place but has never been so awful as it is here. He could have coffee, he knows - he likes the stuff, so it is not as though it would be a hardship - but he wants tea. More specifically he wants John’s excellent tea, with one of Mrs Hudson’s little shortbread fingers at its side. If he cannot have exactly that, he still wants the closest substitute.
Perhaps he will go to Paris next. He remembers little of the holiday the Holmes’ took there as a family - he had, after all, been only six at the time. What he does remember of the city is favourable, though. He knows that he will find a half-decent range of teas in most cafés, and the office there is likely to hold plenty of useful information. It suits what small parody of a plan he has, too - lull the cells outside the continent into what semblance of a ‘false sense of security’ a criminal cell can be lulled by working through the vast majority within Europe, then quietly gather reconnaissance for a month or so before dealing with as many other offices as possible within as short a time as can be arranged. It is not likely to be easy or nearly as effective as one might hope, but it is the best he can manage alone.
ooo
By mid-afternoon it is all too clear that today is not a day for progress - he has walked by the office as often as he dares for at least the next couple of days, even risking notice by loitering in front of a quaint glassware shop across the street for a full fifteen minutes. All he has discovered is that there is a tolerable, family-run café on the corner with one table in the window that has a perfect view of the office entrance. It is precious little reward for many hours of pounding the pavements; Sherlock is hard-pressed not to allow his resentment to shine through when he is told by yet another smiling shop assistant that they don’t know what the offices are for and are sorry they cannot be of more help, but they do not think anyone would mind him taking a few photos. At four o’clock he gives up and does so, managing by luck or providence to catch two smirking, suited men as they pass one of the thin gaps between the blinds.
Neither appears again, so it is unlikely they noticed him, but he continues to play the part of a tourist anyway, smiling admiringly up at the large, renaissance-style building one more time before casually walking away. His immediate intention is to go straight back to the hotel and attempt to make a little more sense of the correspondence. The alternative would be to take a nice, cool shower after being out in Portugal’s painfully hot afternoon air before spending a couple of hours trying to make a few more deductions from his memory of the man at the bar. He will be there again tonight, most likely; it would be nice if Sherlock could be as well. The more quickly he can fill the final few gaps in his file on this office, the sooner he can escape this god-forsaken heat and head somewhere more comfortable. He has to work on his deductions first though; it will be far more advantageous to have some leverage or, as John would probably phrase it, ‘shock-factor’ insight at his disposal before going back to the bar and risking being noticed or interacted with.
He cannot have moved more than thirty yards before he hears the distinct sounds of a heavy door opening and closing behind him. The only such door in the street is the one barring the entrance to Moriarty’s office. Of course, it could be nothing to do with him; it could be the end of a shift or someone making a quick trip to pick up more paper or milk for the coffees. It could, but it never would be.
Sherlock is being followed.
He does not turn, tempting as it may be, and keeps his stride at an even, comfortable and easy pace. The steps behind him fall into a matching rhythm so naturally he cannot help but be a touch impressed. They head towards the more populated streets, less than three-hundred meters between them if Sherlock’s calculations are correct, and he sees his pursuer just once in the polished glass of a storefront. The one consolation he can find is that he is not the man from the bar. He has the same purposely-bland air about him though, much as it is now sharpened by suspicion and a touch of violence. There is no doubt in Sherlock’s mind as to his intentions, and the desire to run claws at his insides.
Not that he would have any safe haven to escape to. Sherlock cannot, must not, return to the hotel with this threat in tow. Whatever it takes, he will have to lose him, because if his pursuer finds out where he is staying Sherlock knows there will be three more men picking the locks and rooting through his luggage within the hour. Then they will put together all the clues as to who Robert Clarke really is and kill him, or perhaps alert the rest of the organisation, kill John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade out of spite, and then kill him. No, if it reaches the point where Sherlock has no choice but to retire, he will do so to another hotel or a ‘flophouse’ of one disgustingly familiar sort or another (he had never seen reason to be ashamed of the nights spent in those dives, nor of the drugs he would flood his brain with whilst there, until John and the disappointed, forlorn way his face twisted. Now Sherlock can bear neither, the temptation and shame trying very hard to rip him in two). He desperately hopes it will not come to that.
Sherlock has been followed, tailed like this on numerous occasions. This is the first time in over six years where he does not have some form of backup though, and the thought is more than a little disconcerting. He is loath to admit it, even to himself, but he is afraid - terrified. He is fierce in his assertions to himself that he need not worry or fear (regardless of how exposed and isolated he feels without the knowledge that John is barely a street behind and Lestrade only a text away), but no reassurances or ridiculous platitudes can extract the panic hindering his movements and thought processes. It is all he can do to keep walking. The fact that his hands are steady when he raises the camera to photograph one or ten of the pleasant, elegant buildings they are passing becomes a point of pride (not to mention another oddly comforting - if unhelpfully distracting - reminder of John).
It is louder now, and despite Moriarty’s agent still being very much there Sherlock cannot hear his steps above the racket. He is jostled from the left of the pavement to the right and back again - in London he would have glared imperiously and refused, in all his tall, angular, bony glory, to shift even an inch, but here and now it makes a wonderful excuse for attempts at evasion. He picks up the pace. The pavement makes his sore feet ache, and he darts between his fellow pedestrians as quickly as he dares. He soon finds himself biting the inside of his cheek to prevent any snarls escaping as he is knocked about. He tastes the metallic tang of his blood but keeps a happy, curious smile on his face and his gaze casually interested in the people and sights surrounding him even as he fights the instinct to sprint. Another wide window affords him nothing but disappointment - his pursuer is still there and, although he has failed to gain any ground and the seeds of doubt Sherlock has been hoping for are beginning to take root, the fact remains that he is also not giving up.
Neither is Sherlock. He may not know this city the way he does London, but he knows enough. Besides, his pursuer probably is not such a thorough expert on Coimbra either (not the way Sherlock is on his city, the city, the sights of which he misses every day), so his disadvantage is not even close to being as disproportionate as it could have been.
He dismisses the predictable urge to dash down a side street. He is aiming to lose his new friend, not destroy any plausible deniability he may yet have managed to retain - if he turns down an unfamiliar alleyway alone he will definitely not be sticking to his current persona, only making himself appear more suspicious. Either he has to lose him in the crowds or bore him until he leaves freely. All things considered, he deems himself far more likely to be successful with the latter. All he needs is a first stop.
Tourist tat? Too obvious. Museum? Costly, and with it being late afternoon also highly unlikely. A visit to one of the many chapels would be the best way to start, but there are none within an acceptable radius so that will have to wait. He dares not risk another café, in case they have been watching longer than he is inclined to assume, and after two more streets he ends up pausing for a moment to take a few photos of the prettier buildings and try his damnedest to formulate a plan. He wishes he had at least brought the Swiss Army knife out with him.
The shop is a first-floor job, the door rather filthy and set slightly back between a bank and what might be a clothes shop (or a fancy-dress shop, or a trap for the seriously mentally impaired - if John were here they would be sniggering by now). The Portuguese for “books” may or may not be above it, he cannot quite see through the film of dirt on the sign, but in the current circumstances he also cannot claim to be particularly concerned. He hurries over, allowing his intrigue to show on his face, and tests the doorknob. He can feel the delighted grin pulling at his lips when there is a click and the grimy wood and glass swing back to admit him. It is cleaner inside than one might expect; the carpet is worn but still a vibrant red, leading the way up the stairs. Sherlock hardly takes a breath before rushing inside, bounding up to the tiny bookshop.
There is barely space to walk between the coral reefs of books crowding the room. Old, new, varying languages and covering every subject… He cannot hold back the awed, delighted “oh!” which swells in his throat. He is not an avid reader - it is an idle hobby used to stave off boredom unless he is hunting for specific information, and he has been known to delete the less useful or enjoyable books from his memory. Nevertheless, he can still appreciate such a vast and varied selection. Many of them are beautiful, bound in leather or fabric with their titles and authors tooled into the spines in artistic, gilded fonts.
The footsteps on the stairs behind him remind him of his purpose here, and he gravitates steadily around the room towards one of the larger stacks, hoping to swing around it and leave before his pursuer can pick up on what his plan is. It is unlikely to work, all things considered, however it is one of the few possibilities that will not incriminate him should things go wrong. That is the best he can hope for at present.
Ten minutes later he is back at street-level, hugging close to the wall as he tries not to rush his exit; there are no steps behind him just yet. Cramming himself into the tightest of corners was an annoyance, but it left his ‘tail’ feeling secure in the knowledge that he would be unable to leave without notice - a security undermined by the fact that all it took was one familiar title drawing the other man’s eye for a moment too long to allow Sherlock the opportunity to slip by. It will not last, obviously, a fact which causes Sherlock to feel that foolish, amateur urge to race for the nearest corner burning through his stomach and joints as he walks down the street. Unfortunately he is no longer within range to hear the warning of footsteps, and to have pulled this off only to be seen dashing away, trying to get out of sight, would be as irritating as it could prove deadly. He keeps to a brisk walk instead, pulling out his phone to check the time once he is a good distance from the door.
The downside of this act is that he has nowhere to go, and until he can ascertain whether he is still being followed he needs to appear as though he does. Rushing out of the bookshop is easily explained, but without any evidence to support his story - a friend to meet, an event to get to, a reservation to make - he will soon be a figure of suspicion again. As a tourist he can buy time by appearing to get lost, but he will need something.
He catches sight of a statue just beyond an alley on his right as he strides by and backs up a step to take a second look. He has no idea who it is, but it is a landmark he can fake knowing and a final, blessed excuse to dart down one of the many thin side streets he has been passing with frustrated longing. He moves down it at a jog, glad of the excuse to speed up a little as well - it is reasonable enough that no tourist would want to take a shadowed alleyway at a wander, and Sherlock is happy to exploit that fact. He does not pause at the end, turning to the left and stepping back to lean against the wall and listen for a full three minutes.
No footsteps. No thud of rubber soles on the flagstones, no heavy breaths or rustles of fabric. Whoever he is, and whether Sherlock has retained his air of innocence or not, he is no longer following him. Or rather, he is no longer able to do so effectively - Sherlock does not doubt that the man will be trying to locate him for some hours yet. He may even still be at the bookshop, unaware that his mark has left his corner.
There is no time for Sherlock to rest on his laurels; he still has to put some distance between himself and his pursuer. He takes four more alleys at a run, choosing at random and laying out a jagged path with no logic behind it to be used against him. He does, however, try to aim for the general direction of the hotel, and can see the blinds he had drawn before leaving to keep the room private and cool when he hears the engine thundering his way. He is half way across the street. The tactic is an easy one to see through (frighten the pedestrian; they hurry to step onto the pavement and pay less attention to their footing than they should as they move to escape peril), but that does not change the fact that he instinctively lurches forwards with little grace, very nearly twisting his ankle when his throbbing foot slips slightly beneath him.
The tyres squeal and the large, undoubtedly expensive car halts directly behind him. Sherlock can just make out the line of the roof and the uppermost few inches of the tinted windows reflected in the glass panel of a door to his left. It is with a resigned sigh that he hears the car door swing open behind him; multiple hands grab him (two men - one soldier and one civilian, the latter an office worker of some sort from a reasonably high-born background and very familiar), and he is dragged backwards into the relative dark of the car’s spacious back seat. Or, rather, back seating area - the seats themselves are arranged in a small ‘U’ around the central space Sherlock’s long limbs are currently occupying.
“I must admit, you very nearly managed to fool even me, Sherlock,” comes the familiar, aristocratic voice. Then, quieter, and with far more emotion than he is used to hearing from the older man: ”You do enjoy making me worry.”
He twists as best he can against the soldier’s restraining hand, and addresses his brother. “If you will insist upon handing out my life story to known criminals, Mycroft, you deserve to be left out of the loop.”
ooo
Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and I’m sorry to be leaving you there for this week. If you have the time, I would love to hear what you thought. No flames please, but con-crit is very welcome. Thanks again!
Continue to chapter 7...