Fic: Run, Neon Tiger 5/6
Title:Run, Neon Tiger (5/6)
Author: Unsentimental Fool
Rating: NC-17
Pairings (approximately): (whole) John/Sherlock, Sherlock/Moriarty, Moriarty/Moran, Moran/John
Word count: (this part) 4,400 words
Summary: John's getting more desperate about the price that Sherlock's paying for his safety, while some of Seb's secrets are revealed.
Notes: When a final chapter hits 10,000 words it is time to admit that it's two chapters. Possibly even three. Here's the first of them. I hope the rest will follow shortly. Apologies for the overrun; way too many screwed up relationships to handle.
back to chapter one
Sherlock didn't even glance in the direction of the file on the table. "No new cases. Far too busy," he told his brother.
"I'll take no more than ten minutes of your terribly valuable time, Sherlock. I'm sure you're not that busy. And a cup of tea, if John could be charming enough?"
John kept an eye on them from the kitchen; Mycroft flicking through the papers in the file, leaning forward to explain, Sherlock's head tilted back, eyes half shut in seeming disinterest. When he came back in with a tray both men had temporarily stopped talking.
Sherlock broke the silence. "You've yet to ask me what I'm busy with, brother."
Mycroft folded his hands around his mug. "No tea cups, John? Did you check in the back cupboard... Oh well. Never mind. The zoo murders, I imagine, Sherlock. I do read the papers. Is your ex-army man guilty?"
"Didn't you ask him? Or hadn't you got that far when we interrupted?
Mycroft shook his head. "I don't know quite what you are imagining, Sherlock."
Sherlock glanced around the room. "There are a dozen signs that a third person has been staying here, someone who hasn't shown up on your external surveillance, yet you've not said a word. And you track our movements in and out of the flat; why on earth choose to visit on the one occasion when we are both out?"
He sighed. "John, quite astonishingly, was right all along despite a complete lack of relevant evidence. I set a trap for Moran's contact and you walked straight into it, Mycroft, just like any amateur. He's Secret Service."
He lifted his voice "Moran! Cover's blown. Come out and talk."
Moran curled around the doorframe. "I'm here."
John was staring at Seb as if seeing him for the first time. "You work for Mycroft?"
"I work for Jim Moriarty, and I don't forget it for an instant. But I also provide information for the British Government, on occasions."
Sherlock was smiling, satisfied. "At last. The missing piece. You can thank my brother's excessive sentiment for this whole mess, John," He put down his mug of tea. "And, not incidentally, your continued existence. I was sure Moran wasn't fond or stupid enough to risk his life covering for you to Moriarty, and I was right. He would have told Moriarty all about you from day one, if his instructions from Mycroft had allowed."
"Not sentiment." Mycroft insisted. "Doctor Watson is valuable. He supposedly prevents you from behaving quite as erratically as you might, although recently I am beginning to doubt that."
"Soon as John came on the scene I knew that one tiny coincidence had me fucked." Seb commented. "Me or him and Mr Holmes- my Mr Holmes- said it wasn't going to be him."
Sherlock waved a hand. "Moran thought you'd done for him, John. It made him reckless. You'd been carrying a bit of a torch for your hero for years. Both of you were rather disturbed by my interactions with Moriarty. The rest was inevitable. Obvious, in retrospect, as things usually are."
"If you're Service, they should take care of you. " John insisted. "You don't need to wait around for Moriarty to get to you."
Seb's voice was soft. "I kill people for Moriarty, John. I'm not an agent, not like you think of agents. Boss says shoot someone, I don't run back to Mr Holmes to ask what I should do, I shoot them, unless they're on the government list and it's a very small list. I've got no dispensation for murder, says I'm doing it for Queen and country, and I'm not going to run. I'm Moriarty's man. I'll stay here till he finally decides to have me put down."
"Or takes you back." Mycroft.
Moran whipped round on him. "He won't."
"He might. I understand that he's got a brand new tiger skin to play with." Mycroft's voice was mildly sarcastic.
Something flickered in Seb's eyes, closed down. "What if he wants John dead?"
"He won't ask for that," Sherlock said. "It's covered. What's rather more relevant, Mycroft, is the question of whether allowing Jim Moriarty's favourite weapon to return to him is at all sensible."
"Yes." Mycroft said without hesitation. "You of all people know how hard it is to get to him, Sherlock. We need some one on our side there."
"On your side? You're deluding yourself, brother. If Moran's on your side why isn't Jim dead?"
"Because I won't kill him." Seb. "I won't cripple him. I won't hand him over. I won't sabotage his operations. I'll give the government some information and I'll try to keep the names on their precious list alive and that's as far as it goes. It's enough for your brother. I don't give a damn what you think."
"Let him go back." Mycroft was definite. "He's undoubtedly flawed but still better than nothing."
"He'll kill people." Sherlock sounded angry. "And worse. He'll be Jim's hands and his knife and his gun and his partner and his victim all in one until the man kills him deliberately or by accident and dumps his body on the side of the road. He's a gift to Jim Moriarty and the man will use it."
"If the boss wants me back then nothing short of killing me is going to stop that. That what you're planning, Holmes?"
"I don't murder people."
"In that case you get no say in the matter." Seb's smile wasn't at all friendly.
Sherlock stared at him, whirled on Mycroft. "He's your problem. Do something about him."
"A little patience, Sherlock. The matter will get resolved." Mycroft put down his empty teacup, glanced at his watch. "For now we must all await developments. I have stayed for about as long as you and I can normally bear to converse so I will be leaving. No need to raise Moriarty's suspicions about this visit."
The flat was quiet after Mycroft left. Seb announced his intention of cooking and took over the kitchen. John persuaded Sherlock to let him look at the knife wound, a shallow cut to the palm.
"It's got to stop, Sherlock." John washed it in antiseptic liquid, rebandaged it, all he could do. "This is the start of something worse, you know that. You've got to find some other way to deal with him." It was as much as he could do to keep his voice level and reasonable. Screaming wouldn't help.
"Not yet. I'm still making progress. It's still safe."
"Seb says there's no such thing. That he always breaks the rules."
"Don't quote that man at me." He pulled his hand back sharply.
"I thought finding out about Mycroft would help. He's sort of on our side."
"You think a shred of conscience is better than none at all? I'd rather deal with a beast."
"He risks his life to give Mycroft information!"
"Of course he does. It won't save his soul in the end."
John blinked at Sherlock. "Soul? I didn't expect you to start getting theological." He paused. "I didn't expect you to care so much at all, I suppose. It's not the sort of thing you usually concern yourself with. Facts, deductions, yes. Not the state of someone's conscience."
"Moran's conscience seems to fade in and out in a remarkable and potentially significant manner." Sherlock said sharply. "Don't trust him for a moment." He sniffed at the warm scent of chilli from the kitchen. "I'm going out to talk to Lestrade."
The chilli was excellent. John and Seb found an action film to watch on the TV and they pulled it to shreds between them. No beer, though, and John kept his distance. Seb didn't seem particularly put out. When Sherlock came back in they were safely separated by the living room table, watching the news.
The police had obviously had trouble finding an up to date photo of Moran; the one they were using was several years old. John silently thought it looked rather dashing. Seb had laughed out loud on seeing it for the first time. Sherlock looked at the TV without comment and disappeared into his bedroom. John sighed, got up and knocked on the door.
"Sherlock? Can I come in to talk to you?"
"Not and watch our house guest, no."
John glanced round at the silent Moran. "I don't think he's going to run anywhere in the next five minutes."
"I'm not convinced that you think at all." There was the noise of his violin tuning, and John got no more from him but scraping and screeching until the early hours. Somehow he managed to leave the house next morning without John catching him going, leaving John to pace and fret all over again.
Around ten am there was a familiar knock. "Boys?" Seb had already ducked out of sight.
"Good morning Mrs Hudson." John managed a smile.
"Is Sherlock out again without you?" His landlady tutted. "You really shouldn't let him go off alone so much. John. Anything could happen."
"It's not" John said through gritted teeth, "my idea. Can I help you?"
"There's a parcel, dear, come through the letter box. I brought it up for you,"
Obviously. "Thank you very much." He took it from her, smiled and managed to steer her away again.
The parcel was something small and solid, addressed to himself. Seb reappeared at his shoulder.
"Think it's safe?"
Seb turned it over in his hands, sniffed at it. "Probably. I suggest we take appropriate precautions anyway."
"Which are?"
"You open it. I'll stand over there."
"Very funny." John noted that Seb did in fact move into the kitchen, watching.
The contents were in no way explosive, merely a well wrapped mobile phone. John examined it, puzzled. Seb had come out to take a look.
"Any ideas?"
John nearly dropped it as it started to vibrate with a raucous half familiar pop song.
"That will be for me, then." Seb plucked it out of his hands, answered it. "Yes."
John stood and watched him listen to what sounded like complex instructions. Probably exactly the sort of thing that Sherlock thought he ought to be stopping Moran from doing, but he made no attempt to wrestle the phone back. He wasn't Seb's captor.
Moran finally closed the phone and dropped it into a back pocket.
"Well?"
Seb looked at him, frowning. "I'm not going to make you come along. And that is the last instruction that I'm prepared to disobey. Understand that, John? The very last one."
John nodded. "But Sherlock's there already, isn't he? Him, you, even Mycroft; everyone's paying too much to protect me from Moriarty right now. It's time I stood up for myself. Where do we go?"
Seb let out a long breath. "There will be a disturbance in around three minutes, and a taxi at the front door."
The disturbance was an explosion big enough to smother the street in smoke and dust. John and Seb spent ten minutes flat on the floor of a taxi, another ten in the back of a van, sitting side by side without speaking or making eye contact. John had that calm that sometimes came before a situation that might mean combat; too late, or too early, to be scared. Something was going to happen; he held onto that. He could act, not just watch Sherlock walk away from him into danger every day.
They ended up in a side street, ushered quickly through a steel door into soundproofed corridors. Downstairs, well below street level, and the corridors opened up into what could easily have been a luxury hotel suite, except for the lack of windows.
Moran had taken the lead, apparently familiar with the place. John stepped on the thick plush carpet of what seemed to be an anteroom, trying to get the feel of the place. How would he run, if he had to? With great difficulty. There were guards in the narrow way in, even if none visible in here.
"And here you both are. Lovely."
Jim Moriarty, wrapped in a bright silk kimono. "Sherlock wasn't sure you'd come. Either of you. I had a little more faith. Going to be good, now, Sebastian?"
"Yes boss."
"Wonderful to hear it. Although I might just kill you anyway. Shall we see how it goes?"
John kept his tone calm. "Where's Sherlock?"
"In here." The familiar voice from behind Moriarty, who turned and waved John past into the sitting room.
Sherlock was lounging in his customary pose on a wide couch. Like Moriarty he was wrapped in silk. He looked entirely at home, and John snorted.
"Don't bother getting up, will you?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Observation, John." He shook an ankle and it rattled.
"Shit!" John surged forward towards the chain and Moran grabbed him from behind, pinioning his arms. Moriarty slunk into the room, smiling.
"It's not what you think." Beat. "Well, maybe a bit. Because chains are always fun. But mainly he just kept wandering off. Now I can be sure he'll be there when I want him."
Seb let John loose and he took a breath, turned to Moriarty. "I really don't know why no-one else has killed you yet, but I'm quite prepared to put that right."
Jim huffed. "Do we really have to go through the whole ground rules thing? Playing nicely, not interrupting, no death threats?"
John just looked at him.
"Very well, then. I see we do. Sherlock?"
Sherlock contemplated the ceiling, managed to sound genuinely bored. "Don't be rude. Don't make threats. Don't tell Jim he's insane unless you intend it as a compliment. Don't hit anyone. Don't try to run away. Don't argue- can we argue? I forget."
"You can argue." Jim said graciously. "Provided it's entertaining."
"Thank you. I believe that's all."
"Or what?" John asked, belligerently.
Sherlock brought his head round to stare at John incredulously. "How is that possibly going to be an intelligent question at this juncture, John? Do you really think the man could be bluffing? Do they actually teach you how *not* to do this stuff in the army, or are you still working on school playground level here?"
"I'm just a bit pissed off here, OK, Sherlock? You're not helping."
"Swearing." Moriarty commented. "I don't think I've ever had to tell you not to swear, sweetheart. You're always so beautifully spoken. No swearing."
With a great effort John kept silent.
Moriarty drifted over to sit next to Sherlock. "What do you think will win? Instinct or what passes for intelligence? He's a reasoning human being, he knows the score and yet we just know he's going to rattle the bars anyway. Fascinating."
John was uncomfortably sure that he was right. With the right trigger... he looked around the room. "What exactly am I meant to be doing here?"
"Oh, several things. Giving bad boy Sebastian here the chance to try to worm his way back into my affections. Providing Sherlock with a little extra motivation to play nicely. But mainly being very unhappy, I would think. I don't like you, John. Despite my best efforts to be polite I expect it's going to show."
There was Sherlock, chained but with Moriarty within his reach. There was Seb- not, John told himself, a reliable ally. There was John himself, loose. Even with Seb dubious, they could surely take Moriarty out.
"Don't even think about it." Seb's voice was dark behind him. Sherlock gave a slight head shake. Apparently not, then.
He glanced at his watch, instead. "Are we on any sort of timetable here? I've got braising steak for dinner and I was hoping to get back to make a start."
"Be quiet now." Moriarty was fondling Sherlock, a hand sliding up his bare ankle, further up under the silk. Sherlock's gaze had transferred itself up to the ceiling again. John shifted between feet, glared. He was going to break the man's neck, whether it got him out of here or not. It was just a matter of picking his moment.
Moriarty pulled the garment off Sherlock's shoulders and he shifted, compliant, to let it fall, still looking upwards. John did a quick, visual check for injuries, finding none, then looked aside. In the quiet of the underground room he could hear the rustle of Jim's hands sliding across bare flesh.
A small intake of breath and he looked back to see Jim's teeth hard at the side of Sherlock's throat, the captive flinching. "Wake up, pet!" And, to John, "He's normally a lot livelier. I think you're putting him off. Take the doctor into the bedroom, Seb, and warm him up a little for me."
That was the trigger. John lunged for Moriarty but Seb was on him before he could make contact, knocking him down and smashing his head against the leg of the couch, then landing another blow into his stomach. He kicked and fought but he was already dazed and bruised, and Seb dragged him into the next room, up next to the bed, and clipped an open and waiting cuff around his wrist.
He struggled to his knees, as far as the handcuff to the bottom of the bedstead would let him go, cursing. Seb was wrapping a length of bicycle chain around his fist, looked relaxed and alert.
"Fuck, Seb. You saw what he was doing!"
Seb shrugged. "So?"
"You're all right with that, are you?"
Seb's mouth twisted upwards. "How many days has he walked back in here? Face it, John. He likes it." He paused. "And if he was screaming rape and pissing himself I still wouldn't care."
"Bastard." John glared at him.
Moran shook his head. "You ain't seen nothing yet. Have you seen what you're kneeling on?"
John looked down, wrinkled his nose at the dead skin, the tiger's head. "God that's vile."
"It's beautiful. He killed a tiger for me, John."
"He set you up for murder!"
"Doesn't matter. He did it for me. Not bloody Sherlock Holmes." Moran let the chain swing a little. "Best I can do for you, John, is break you quick. Longer you fight, worse it gets. And you're going to try and fight, aren't you?"
The chain was in constant motion now, back and forth. Any minute it was going to...
Lash out, curling around John's right shoulder, digging deep and pulling him off balance. Back and then forward again, left thigh and he stumbled, around his leg again and he was down, one fierce blow across his back and he crumpled to the floor, arms wrapped in desperate protection around his head, throbbing from every impact. It had been so fast...
"I could flay every inch of skin off your back and you wouldn't even be able to get back onto your knees." The chain swung again, and again, ripping into his skin, pulling a cry from each blow.
"Sebastian!"
Everything stopped.
"Warm him up a little, I said, not kill him. What do you think you're doing?"
John didn't uncurl, not yet. His heart was racing and everything hurt like hell.
"Put the boot in and this one'd barely notice. I'm just making an impression. Are you done in there?" Seb sounded matter of fact.
"No we're not! Our little heart to heart, Sebastian, was interrupted, at a rather critical juncture, by the racket you two are making."
"Sorry. I'll stop."
"Yes, you will. Talk about over compensating..." Moriarty disappeared again, muttering.
John pulled himself up to sit against the bed, tentatively exploring his injuries with his free hand. Lots of blood where skin had been ripped off, lots of bruises, probably nothing else. Damn, it hurt.
Seb was standing at ease, running the bicycle chain through his fingers and watching John. When did he pick that up, anyway? John glanced around. Soundproofed underground rooms. Seb probably had a dozen other weapons to hand, here. He shuddered.
"Not even following orders, were you? Just showing off."
Seb shrugged. "No point fucking around, is there? Might as well cut to the chase. You're only here to get hurt." He raised an eyebrow at the shake of John's head. "So why else do you think you're here?"
To confront Moriarty. To stop Sherlock taking the hit for him, day after day. To help Seb out, and God didn't that seem funny, now. Not to get casually beaten up in a side room by the same man who'd come crawling into his goddamn bed two nights before while Moriarty did what he pleased to Sherlock just as if John had never come.
Seb knew all that. Seb watched John with sharp blue eyes that said "naive" and "stupid" and most of all, "victim".
That last made John make an effort to raise his chin, challenge Moran. "You getting off on this?"
A quick glance across to the other room. "Not till I'll told to. How about you?"
"Let me loose and I'll show you." He tugged helplessly at the handcuff around his wrist. Blood was soaked into his ripped shirt.
"No."
There were noises from the sitting room now; gasps, small cries. Not enough to tell John anything except that something was happening. Seb stepped backwards so that he could glance through the door. "Christ!"
"What's happening?" What was Jim doing to Sherlock? He yanked again at the cuff. "Seb!"
"If I tried that the boss would crucify me."
"Tried what?"
He called over "Sorry", shut the door. "They want their privacy, apparently."
John slumped back, hissing with pain. Why had he blithely walked into this place? What did he have left?
"I could tell him about Mycroft," he said, quietly.
"What would that get you? Aside from a Service agent dead, and almost certainly Mycroft Holmes to follow? You won't do that, John. You're the one solitary good man in this outfit."
"I'd do it to save Sherlock."
Moran snorted. "From what, though? Shagging his brains out? Looks to me like he's having the time of his life through there. It wouldn't save him, anyway. It wouldn't save either of you."
He went to the bedside cabinet, pulled out a set of black leather cuffs. "I'm going to cuff your hands behind your back. You're not in a position to stop me. You might want to start making smart decisions about things like this."
That was possibly good advice. Lashing out at Moran wildly from this position wouldn't hurt him, or Moriarty. John turned to the bedstead, cupped his hands together behind him, let the cuffs lock around his wrists, was released from the bedstead.
"Smart boy."
"Fuck you," he said, tiredly. "Now what?"
"Wait."
Silence again, until Moriarty's voice. "Boys!"
Seb ushered John into the living room. Sherlock was propped against the back of the couch, eyes closed. Jim had his head in the other man's lap. Both were naked again. There was a scent of sex in the air, sweat and semen and something sweet.
"And now I'm in the mood for a different vice." Moriarty purred. "Make him scream for me, Seb."
Sherlock's eyes came open. "No."
"Quiet, sweetheart. Didn't ask you." His hand pushed up, caressed a nipple. "I'm waiting, Sebastian."
A short knife had appeared in Seb's hand while John's attention had been on the couch. He lunged forward and John tried to dodge away, felt a fiery pain across his shoulder, then another. He stumbled back against the wall, panting, his hands yanking helplessly at the cuffs.
"Not hearing any screams yet."
Seb came forward again, this time to put a bruising hand around his neck. He jerked away as the knife sank deep into his left shoulder, twisted and he yelled in agony.
"Stop this!" Sherlock was shouting at Moriarty. "Leave him alone! You've had everything you wanted from me."
"But now I want this as well."
The knife was still twisting, the pain unendurable, and he kept on screaming. Seb's eyes were close and bright, bright blue.
"Let him go, now." Moriarty.
John fell over.
"He's bleeding to death." Sherlock's voice was oddly hollow.
"Don't fuss. Keep him alive, Seb."
Seb leaned over him, applying agonising pressure to the wound. "Hold on." His voice was barely audible. And louder. "He's going to need a hospital fast if you want to be sure."
"Moriarty." Sherlock, agonised.
"Two more things, Sherlock. Then you can take him wherever you like."
"What do you want?"
"First I want you to tell me about your brother."
Sherlock was talking fast, urgently, but John had no chance of following what was said. The roar in his ears was getting louder, the pain getting further away, along with the rest of the world. He could see Seb's lips moving, talking to him, but everything was getting dark and he lost that, lost everything, was gone.
He heard the voices for a while before he started to understand the words. Angry voices. When he did the meanings came all in a rush.
"I am genuinely sorry that your discovery of your fallibility had to come at the expense of Dr Watson. But I am not sacrificing a much needed piece to your desire to redeem yourself. Jim Moriarty is the issue here, not Sebastian Moran. Moran is a Crown agent and you will not touch him."
"I wasn't asking for your permission, Mycroft. If you won't help I'll go after him myself."
"Why this obsession with a mere tool, Sherlock? Can you really be so willfully blind? It was Moriarty that you mishandled and Moriarty who had John hurt as a direct consequence."
"You weren't there. It was your agent who decided where the knife would go, who chose to cripple him. I want him."
"You are still trying to avoid full responsibility. Has it occurred to you, Sherlock, that Moran is doubtless skilled at the art of long drawn out torture?" A rustle. "And now we have woken the patient, and I must leave him to you for tonight. Leave Moran alone, Sherlock. There are bigger issues here for all of us."
John struggled to open his eyes. Sherlock was leaning over him, looking tired and drawn.
"About time that you woke up. How are you feeling?"
Chapter 6 There's A Lot On Your Mind
Author: Unsentimental Fool
Rating: NC-17
Pairings (approximately): (whole) John/Sherlock, Sherlock/Moriarty, Moriarty/Moran, Moran/John
Word count: (this part) 4,400 words
Summary: John's getting more desperate about the price that Sherlock's paying for his safety, while some of Seb's secrets are revealed.
Notes: When a final chapter hits 10,000 words it is time to admit that it's two chapters. Possibly even three. Here's the first of them. I hope the rest will follow shortly. Apologies for the overrun; way too many screwed up relationships to handle.
back to chapter one
Sherlock didn't even glance in the direction of the file on the table. "No new cases. Far too busy," he told his brother.
"I'll take no more than ten minutes of your terribly valuable time, Sherlock. I'm sure you're not that busy. And a cup of tea, if John could be charming enough?"
John kept an eye on them from the kitchen; Mycroft flicking through the papers in the file, leaning forward to explain, Sherlock's head tilted back, eyes half shut in seeming disinterest. When he came back in with a tray both men had temporarily stopped talking.
Sherlock broke the silence. "You've yet to ask me what I'm busy with, brother."
Mycroft folded his hands around his mug. "No tea cups, John? Did you check in the back cupboard... Oh well. Never mind. The zoo murders, I imagine, Sherlock. I do read the papers. Is your ex-army man guilty?"
"Didn't you ask him? Or hadn't you got that far when we interrupted?
Mycroft shook his head. "I don't know quite what you are imagining, Sherlock."
Sherlock glanced around the room. "There are a dozen signs that a third person has been staying here, someone who hasn't shown up on your external surveillance, yet you've not said a word. And you track our movements in and out of the flat; why on earth choose to visit on the one occasion when we are both out?"
He sighed. "John, quite astonishingly, was right all along despite a complete lack of relevant evidence. I set a trap for Moran's contact and you walked straight into it, Mycroft, just like any amateur. He's Secret Service."
He lifted his voice "Moran! Cover's blown. Come out and talk."
Moran curled around the doorframe. "I'm here."
John was staring at Seb as if seeing him for the first time. "You work for Mycroft?"
"I work for Jim Moriarty, and I don't forget it for an instant. But I also provide information for the British Government, on occasions."
Sherlock was smiling, satisfied. "At last. The missing piece. You can thank my brother's excessive sentiment for this whole mess, John," He put down his mug of tea. "And, not incidentally, your continued existence. I was sure Moran wasn't fond or stupid enough to risk his life covering for you to Moriarty, and I was right. He would have told Moriarty all about you from day one, if his instructions from Mycroft had allowed."
"Not sentiment." Mycroft insisted. "Doctor Watson is valuable. He supposedly prevents you from behaving quite as erratically as you might, although recently I am beginning to doubt that."
"Soon as John came on the scene I knew that one tiny coincidence had me fucked." Seb commented. "Me or him and Mr Holmes- my Mr Holmes- said it wasn't going to be him."
Sherlock waved a hand. "Moran thought you'd done for him, John. It made him reckless. You'd been carrying a bit of a torch for your hero for years. Both of you were rather disturbed by my interactions with Moriarty. The rest was inevitable. Obvious, in retrospect, as things usually are."
"If you're Service, they should take care of you. " John insisted. "You don't need to wait around for Moriarty to get to you."
Seb's voice was soft. "I kill people for Moriarty, John. I'm not an agent, not like you think of agents. Boss says shoot someone, I don't run back to Mr Holmes to ask what I should do, I shoot them, unless they're on the government list and it's a very small list. I've got no dispensation for murder, says I'm doing it for Queen and country, and I'm not going to run. I'm Moriarty's man. I'll stay here till he finally decides to have me put down."
"Or takes you back." Mycroft.
Moran whipped round on him. "He won't."
"He might. I understand that he's got a brand new tiger skin to play with." Mycroft's voice was mildly sarcastic.
Something flickered in Seb's eyes, closed down. "What if he wants John dead?"
"He won't ask for that," Sherlock said. "It's covered. What's rather more relevant, Mycroft, is the question of whether allowing Jim Moriarty's favourite weapon to return to him is at all sensible."
"Yes." Mycroft said without hesitation. "You of all people know how hard it is to get to him, Sherlock. We need some one on our side there."
"On your side? You're deluding yourself, brother. If Moran's on your side why isn't Jim dead?"
"Because I won't kill him." Seb. "I won't cripple him. I won't hand him over. I won't sabotage his operations. I'll give the government some information and I'll try to keep the names on their precious list alive and that's as far as it goes. It's enough for your brother. I don't give a damn what you think."
"Let him go back." Mycroft was definite. "He's undoubtedly flawed but still better than nothing."
"He'll kill people." Sherlock sounded angry. "And worse. He'll be Jim's hands and his knife and his gun and his partner and his victim all in one until the man kills him deliberately or by accident and dumps his body on the side of the road. He's a gift to Jim Moriarty and the man will use it."
"If the boss wants me back then nothing short of killing me is going to stop that. That what you're planning, Holmes?"
"I don't murder people."
"In that case you get no say in the matter." Seb's smile wasn't at all friendly.
Sherlock stared at him, whirled on Mycroft. "He's your problem. Do something about him."
"A little patience, Sherlock. The matter will get resolved." Mycroft put down his empty teacup, glanced at his watch. "For now we must all await developments. I have stayed for about as long as you and I can normally bear to converse so I will be leaving. No need to raise Moriarty's suspicions about this visit."
The flat was quiet after Mycroft left. Seb announced his intention of cooking and took over the kitchen. John persuaded Sherlock to let him look at the knife wound, a shallow cut to the palm.
"It's got to stop, Sherlock." John washed it in antiseptic liquid, rebandaged it, all he could do. "This is the start of something worse, you know that. You've got to find some other way to deal with him." It was as much as he could do to keep his voice level and reasonable. Screaming wouldn't help.
"Not yet. I'm still making progress. It's still safe."
"Seb says there's no such thing. That he always breaks the rules."
"Don't quote that man at me." He pulled his hand back sharply.
"I thought finding out about Mycroft would help. He's sort of on our side."
"You think a shred of conscience is better than none at all? I'd rather deal with a beast."
"He risks his life to give Mycroft information!"
"Of course he does. It won't save his soul in the end."
John blinked at Sherlock. "Soul? I didn't expect you to start getting theological." He paused. "I didn't expect you to care so much at all, I suppose. It's not the sort of thing you usually concern yourself with. Facts, deductions, yes. Not the state of someone's conscience."
"Moran's conscience seems to fade in and out in a remarkable and potentially significant manner." Sherlock said sharply. "Don't trust him for a moment." He sniffed at the warm scent of chilli from the kitchen. "I'm going out to talk to Lestrade."
The chilli was excellent. John and Seb found an action film to watch on the TV and they pulled it to shreds between them. No beer, though, and John kept his distance. Seb didn't seem particularly put out. When Sherlock came back in they were safely separated by the living room table, watching the news.
The police had obviously had trouble finding an up to date photo of Moran; the one they were using was several years old. John silently thought it looked rather dashing. Seb had laughed out loud on seeing it for the first time. Sherlock looked at the TV without comment and disappeared into his bedroom. John sighed, got up and knocked on the door.
"Sherlock? Can I come in to talk to you?"
"Not and watch our house guest, no."
John glanced round at the silent Moran. "I don't think he's going to run anywhere in the next five minutes."
"I'm not convinced that you think at all." There was the noise of his violin tuning, and John got no more from him but scraping and screeching until the early hours. Somehow he managed to leave the house next morning without John catching him going, leaving John to pace and fret all over again.
Around ten am there was a familiar knock. "Boys?" Seb had already ducked out of sight.
"Good morning Mrs Hudson." John managed a smile.
"Is Sherlock out again without you?" His landlady tutted. "You really shouldn't let him go off alone so much. John. Anything could happen."
"It's not" John said through gritted teeth, "my idea. Can I help you?"
"There's a parcel, dear, come through the letter box. I brought it up for you,"
Obviously. "Thank you very much." He took it from her, smiled and managed to steer her away again.
The parcel was something small and solid, addressed to himself. Seb reappeared at his shoulder.
"Think it's safe?"
Seb turned it over in his hands, sniffed at it. "Probably. I suggest we take appropriate precautions anyway."
"Which are?"
"You open it. I'll stand over there."
"Very funny." John noted that Seb did in fact move into the kitchen, watching.
The contents were in no way explosive, merely a well wrapped mobile phone. John examined it, puzzled. Seb had come out to take a look.
"Any ideas?"
John nearly dropped it as it started to vibrate with a raucous half familiar pop song.
"That will be for me, then." Seb plucked it out of his hands, answered it. "Yes."
John stood and watched him listen to what sounded like complex instructions. Probably exactly the sort of thing that Sherlock thought he ought to be stopping Moran from doing, but he made no attempt to wrestle the phone back. He wasn't Seb's captor.
Moran finally closed the phone and dropped it into a back pocket.
"Well?"
Seb looked at him, frowning. "I'm not going to make you come along. And that is the last instruction that I'm prepared to disobey. Understand that, John? The very last one."
John nodded. "But Sherlock's there already, isn't he? Him, you, even Mycroft; everyone's paying too much to protect me from Moriarty right now. It's time I stood up for myself. Where do we go?"
Seb let out a long breath. "There will be a disturbance in around three minutes, and a taxi at the front door."
The disturbance was an explosion big enough to smother the street in smoke and dust. John and Seb spent ten minutes flat on the floor of a taxi, another ten in the back of a van, sitting side by side without speaking or making eye contact. John had that calm that sometimes came before a situation that might mean combat; too late, or too early, to be scared. Something was going to happen; he held onto that. He could act, not just watch Sherlock walk away from him into danger every day.
They ended up in a side street, ushered quickly through a steel door into soundproofed corridors. Downstairs, well below street level, and the corridors opened up into what could easily have been a luxury hotel suite, except for the lack of windows.
Moran had taken the lead, apparently familiar with the place. John stepped on the thick plush carpet of what seemed to be an anteroom, trying to get the feel of the place. How would he run, if he had to? With great difficulty. There were guards in the narrow way in, even if none visible in here.
"And here you both are. Lovely."
Jim Moriarty, wrapped in a bright silk kimono. "Sherlock wasn't sure you'd come. Either of you. I had a little more faith. Going to be good, now, Sebastian?"
"Yes boss."
"Wonderful to hear it. Although I might just kill you anyway. Shall we see how it goes?"
John kept his tone calm. "Where's Sherlock?"
"In here." The familiar voice from behind Moriarty, who turned and waved John past into the sitting room.
Sherlock was lounging in his customary pose on a wide couch. Like Moriarty he was wrapped in silk. He looked entirely at home, and John snorted.
"Don't bother getting up, will you?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Observation, John." He shook an ankle and it rattled.
"Shit!" John surged forward towards the chain and Moran grabbed him from behind, pinioning his arms. Moriarty slunk into the room, smiling.
"It's not what you think." Beat. "Well, maybe a bit. Because chains are always fun. But mainly he just kept wandering off. Now I can be sure he'll be there when I want him."
Seb let John loose and he took a breath, turned to Moriarty. "I really don't know why no-one else has killed you yet, but I'm quite prepared to put that right."
Jim huffed. "Do we really have to go through the whole ground rules thing? Playing nicely, not interrupting, no death threats?"
John just looked at him.
"Very well, then. I see we do. Sherlock?"
Sherlock contemplated the ceiling, managed to sound genuinely bored. "Don't be rude. Don't make threats. Don't tell Jim he's insane unless you intend it as a compliment. Don't hit anyone. Don't try to run away. Don't argue- can we argue? I forget."
"You can argue." Jim said graciously. "Provided it's entertaining."
"Thank you. I believe that's all."
"Or what?" John asked, belligerently.
Sherlock brought his head round to stare at John incredulously. "How is that possibly going to be an intelligent question at this juncture, John? Do you really think the man could be bluffing? Do they actually teach you how *not* to do this stuff in the army, or are you still working on school playground level here?"
"I'm just a bit pissed off here, OK, Sherlock? You're not helping."
"Swearing." Moriarty commented. "I don't think I've ever had to tell you not to swear, sweetheart. You're always so beautifully spoken. No swearing."
With a great effort John kept silent.
Moriarty drifted over to sit next to Sherlock. "What do you think will win? Instinct or what passes for intelligence? He's a reasoning human being, he knows the score and yet we just know he's going to rattle the bars anyway. Fascinating."
John was uncomfortably sure that he was right. With the right trigger... he looked around the room. "What exactly am I meant to be doing here?"
"Oh, several things. Giving bad boy Sebastian here the chance to try to worm his way back into my affections. Providing Sherlock with a little extra motivation to play nicely. But mainly being very unhappy, I would think. I don't like you, John. Despite my best efforts to be polite I expect it's going to show."
There was Sherlock, chained but with Moriarty within his reach. There was Seb- not, John told himself, a reliable ally. There was John himself, loose. Even with Seb dubious, they could surely take Moriarty out.
"Don't even think about it." Seb's voice was dark behind him. Sherlock gave a slight head shake. Apparently not, then.
He glanced at his watch, instead. "Are we on any sort of timetable here? I've got braising steak for dinner and I was hoping to get back to make a start."
"Be quiet now." Moriarty was fondling Sherlock, a hand sliding up his bare ankle, further up under the silk. Sherlock's gaze had transferred itself up to the ceiling again. John shifted between feet, glared. He was going to break the man's neck, whether it got him out of here or not. It was just a matter of picking his moment.
Moriarty pulled the garment off Sherlock's shoulders and he shifted, compliant, to let it fall, still looking upwards. John did a quick, visual check for injuries, finding none, then looked aside. In the quiet of the underground room he could hear the rustle of Jim's hands sliding across bare flesh.
A small intake of breath and he looked back to see Jim's teeth hard at the side of Sherlock's throat, the captive flinching. "Wake up, pet!" And, to John, "He's normally a lot livelier. I think you're putting him off. Take the doctor into the bedroom, Seb, and warm him up a little for me."
That was the trigger. John lunged for Moriarty but Seb was on him before he could make contact, knocking him down and smashing his head against the leg of the couch, then landing another blow into his stomach. He kicked and fought but he was already dazed and bruised, and Seb dragged him into the next room, up next to the bed, and clipped an open and waiting cuff around his wrist.
He struggled to his knees, as far as the handcuff to the bottom of the bedstead would let him go, cursing. Seb was wrapping a length of bicycle chain around his fist, looked relaxed and alert.
"Fuck, Seb. You saw what he was doing!"
Seb shrugged. "So?"
"You're all right with that, are you?"
Seb's mouth twisted upwards. "How many days has he walked back in here? Face it, John. He likes it." He paused. "And if he was screaming rape and pissing himself I still wouldn't care."
"Bastard." John glared at him.
Moran shook his head. "You ain't seen nothing yet. Have you seen what you're kneeling on?"
John looked down, wrinkled his nose at the dead skin, the tiger's head. "God that's vile."
"It's beautiful. He killed a tiger for me, John."
"He set you up for murder!"
"Doesn't matter. He did it for me. Not bloody Sherlock Holmes." Moran let the chain swing a little. "Best I can do for you, John, is break you quick. Longer you fight, worse it gets. And you're going to try and fight, aren't you?"
The chain was in constant motion now, back and forth. Any minute it was going to...
Lash out, curling around John's right shoulder, digging deep and pulling him off balance. Back and then forward again, left thigh and he stumbled, around his leg again and he was down, one fierce blow across his back and he crumpled to the floor, arms wrapped in desperate protection around his head, throbbing from every impact. It had been so fast...
"I could flay every inch of skin off your back and you wouldn't even be able to get back onto your knees." The chain swung again, and again, ripping into his skin, pulling a cry from each blow.
"Sebastian!"
Everything stopped.
"Warm him up a little, I said, not kill him. What do you think you're doing?"
John didn't uncurl, not yet. His heart was racing and everything hurt like hell.
"Put the boot in and this one'd barely notice. I'm just making an impression. Are you done in there?" Seb sounded matter of fact.
"No we're not! Our little heart to heart, Sebastian, was interrupted, at a rather critical juncture, by the racket you two are making."
"Sorry. I'll stop."
"Yes, you will. Talk about over compensating..." Moriarty disappeared again, muttering.
John pulled himself up to sit against the bed, tentatively exploring his injuries with his free hand. Lots of blood where skin had been ripped off, lots of bruises, probably nothing else. Damn, it hurt.
Seb was standing at ease, running the bicycle chain through his fingers and watching John. When did he pick that up, anyway? John glanced around. Soundproofed underground rooms. Seb probably had a dozen other weapons to hand, here. He shuddered.
"Not even following orders, were you? Just showing off."
Seb shrugged. "No point fucking around, is there? Might as well cut to the chase. You're only here to get hurt." He raised an eyebrow at the shake of John's head. "So why else do you think you're here?"
To confront Moriarty. To stop Sherlock taking the hit for him, day after day. To help Seb out, and God didn't that seem funny, now. Not to get casually beaten up in a side room by the same man who'd come crawling into his goddamn bed two nights before while Moriarty did what he pleased to Sherlock just as if John had never come.
Seb knew all that. Seb watched John with sharp blue eyes that said "naive" and "stupid" and most of all, "victim".
That last made John make an effort to raise his chin, challenge Moran. "You getting off on this?"
A quick glance across to the other room. "Not till I'll told to. How about you?"
"Let me loose and I'll show you." He tugged helplessly at the handcuff around his wrist. Blood was soaked into his ripped shirt.
"No."
There were noises from the sitting room now; gasps, small cries. Not enough to tell John anything except that something was happening. Seb stepped backwards so that he could glance through the door. "Christ!"
"What's happening?" What was Jim doing to Sherlock? He yanked again at the cuff. "Seb!"
"If I tried that the boss would crucify me."
"Tried what?"
He called over "Sorry", shut the door. "They want their privacy, apparently."
John slumped back, hissing with pain. Why had he blithely walked into this place? What did he have left?
"I could tell him about Mycroft," he said, quietly.
"What would that get you? Aside from a Service agent dead, and almost certainly Mycroft Holmes to follow? You won't do that, John. You're the one solitary good man in this outfit."
"I'd do it to save Sherlock."
Moran snorted. "From what, though? Shagging his brains out? Looks to me like he's having the time of his life through there. It wouldn't save him, anyway. It wouldn't save either of you."
He went to the bedside cabinet, pulled out a set of black leather cuffs. "I'm going to cuff your hands behind your back. You're not in a position to stop me. You might want to start making smart decisions about things like this."
That was possibly good advice. Lashing out at Moran wildly from this position wouldn't hurt him, or Moriarty. John turned to the bedstead, cupped his hands together behind him, let the cuffs lock around his wrists, was released from the bedstead.
"Smart boy."
"Fuck you," he said, tiredly. "Now what?"
"Wait."
Silence again, until Moriarty's voice. "Boys!"
Seb ushered John into the living room. Sherlock was propped against the back of the couch, eyes closed. Jim had his head in the other man's lap. Both were naked again. There was a scent of sex in the air, sweat and semen and something sweet.
"And now I'm in the mood for a different vice." Moriarty purred. "Make him scream for me, Seb."
Sherlock's eyes came open. "No."
"Quiet, sweetheart. Didn't ask you." His hand pushed up, caressed a nipple. "I'm waiting, Sebastian."
A short knife had appeared in Seb's hand while John's attention had been on the couch. He lunged forward and John tried to dodge away, felt a fiery pain across his shoulder, then another. He stumbled back against the wall, panting, his hands yanking helplessly at the cuffs.
"Not hearing any screams yet."
Seb came forward again, this time to put a bruising hand around his neck. He jerked away as the knife sank deep into his left shoulder, twisted and he yelled in agony.
"Stop this!" Sherlock was shouting at Moriarty. "Leave him alone! You've had everything you wanted from me."
"But now I want this as well."
The knife was still twisting, the pain unendurable, and he kept on screaming. Seb's eyes were close and bright, bright blue.
"Let him go, now." Moriarty.
John fell over.
"He's bleeding to death." Sherlock's voice was oddly hollow.
"Don't fuss. Keep him alive, Seb."
Seb leaned over him, applying agonising pressure to the wound. "Hold on." His voice was barely audible. And louder. "He's going to need a hospital fast if you want to be sure."
"Moriarty." Sherlock, agonised.
"Two more things, Sherlock. Then you can take him wherever you like."
"What do you want?"
"First I want you to tell me about your brother."
Sherlock was talking fast, urgently, but John had no chance of following what was said. The roar in his ears was getting louder, the pain getting further away, along with the rest of the world. He could see Seb's lips moving, talking to him, but everything was getting dark and he lost that, lost everything, was gone.
He heard the voices for a while before he started to understand the words. Angry voices. When he did the meanings came all in a rush.
"I am genuinely sorry that your discovery of your fallibility had to come at the expense of Dr Watson. But I am not sacrificing a much needed piece to your desire to redeem yourself. Jim Moriarty is the issue here, not Sebastian Moran. Moran is a Crown agent and you will not touch him."
"I wasn't asking for your permission, Mycroft. If you won't help I'll go after him myself."
"Why this obsession with a mere tool, Sherlock? Can you really be so willfully blind? It was Moriarty that you mishandled and Moriarty who had John hurt as a direct consequence."
"You weren't there. It was your agent who decided where the knife would go, who chose to cripple him. I want him."
"You are still trying to avoid full responsibility. Has it occurred to you, Sherlock, that Moran is doubtless skilled at the art of long drawn out torture?" A rustle. "And now we have woken the patient, and I must leave him to you for tonight. Leave Moran alone, Sherlock. There are bigger issues here for all of us."
John struggled to open his eyes. Sherlock was leaning over him, looking tired and drawn.
"About time that you woke up. How are you feeling?"
Chapter 6 There's A Lot On Your Mind