Okay, go easy on me. It's my first Sherlock fic. Enjoy!
The East Wind Cometh
Prologue
"Well, if he is, he'd better wrap up warm," said Dr. John Watson, his steely brown eyes watching as the private jet made its approach towards the runway in front of them. A hint of a smile tugged at his face as his wife Mary turned to watch the plane land as well. "There's an east wind coming."
Despite the horror he felt at the consulting criminal James Moriarty's possible return, John couldn't help the elation he felt at this strange and sudden turn of events. Yes, Moriarty—or at least one of his lieutenants—was about to wreak havoc on their lives and all of London, but if that was what kept his friend from leaving the country, he would somewhat gladly accept it.
Even so, John couldn't shake the ominous foreboding he had felt since Mycroft had shown them Moriarty's cable hack. The last time the mad man had surfaced, he had nearly taken his best friend down with him. In a way, he had. John had lived two years believing Sherlock was dead. He had barely survived Sherlock's fake suicide. He didn't know if he could make it if Moriarty finished Sherlock for real this time.
The sound of jet engines whining as they shut down drew John's attention back to the plane as it came to a stop on the tarmac. Mycroft Holmes waited a moment before lifting the tip of his umbrella from the pavement next to the black town car and began heading towards the plane. John took the government official's cue and placed his hand on the small of Mary's back, leading the two of them towards the jet.
The three of them were about five hundred yards away when the door of the jet finally opened, and one of Mycroft's men appeared, easing the hatch down and descending the stairs. After a moment, Sherlock Holmes emerged, wrapping his traditional blue scarf around his neck and knotting it and quickly exiting the plane. He squinted in the sunlight that had come out as he wrapped his Belstaff coat around him, heading swiftly their way. The familiar sight of the consulting detective ready and eager for his latest case, Belstaff and scarf in place, black curls ruffled by the breeze, light blue eyes alive with excitement, tugged at John's heart; he never thought he would get to see his friend ever again.
As Sherlock approached them, the hard, emotionless mask slipped as a smile began to replace it. True, it wasn't much of a smile—with Sherlock, it never was—but it warmed John's heart all the same. In an uncharacteristic move, John pulled Sherlock into a stiff embrace. Sherlock lightly patted John's back before the two separated, sharing an easy smile at their sudden bout of good fortune—or lack thereof, given the circumstances.
All of it was over in about two seconds as Sherlock's smile dissolved, and he turned to his brother.
"No one's heard anything suspicious?" Sherlock asked.
"Nothing," Mycroft told him.
"What about MI-6?" Sherlock asked him as they all turned and began heading back to the car.
"Nothing that would suggest Moriarty's involvement," said Mycroft.
"What about Lestrade, Molly and Mrs. Hudson?" asked Sherlock.
"They are being moved to safe houses as we speak," Mycroft answered. "Which is where we must now take you three as well."
"No," said Sherlock shortly.
Mycroft stopped and slowly whirled around to face his little brother. "'No'?"
"Moriarty—if it even is him—is not stupid enough to come by Baker Street now that all of London knows who he really is," Sherlock explained. "It's practically suicide to come after me there."
"I insist…brother dear," Mycroft enunciated.
"I need to be able to investigate, Mycroft," Sherlock bit off at him. "Not held prisoner in a cottage in the countryside."
"May I remind you that you are still a convicted murderer and are under my authority until the British government sees fit?" Mycroft pointed out. "Just because you are now needed does not mean you get to return to life at Baker Street."
Sherlock gave a withering sigh as he stared into the distance, obviously not happy with that answer.
"Just do it, Sherlock," John told him bracingly. "It's better than Eastern Europe."
Sherlock rolled his eyes a little, still not giving an answer.
"We'll help you with the case," Mary told him, a hand on her pregnant belly. "Keep you company."
"Actually, for safety reasons, Sherlock will be taken to one location while the two of you will be kept in a different—" Mycroft began, but then halted at the glares he was receiving from the three of them. "Very well. We will increase security on your shared safe house." He promptly turned and headed once again for the town car.
Sherlock shared a smirk with John and Mary before following his brother.
Sherlock sat in the backseat of the car, hands steepled in front of him and eyes closed as he dug through the rooms of his mind palace. He stood that moment in the very basement of the place, digging through his files.
Could it have been a blank and a squib? Negative. A blank cartridge fired at that close of a range would have still done severe—if not fatal—damage. Actor Jon-Erik Hexum died after putting a blank-loaded .44 Magnum to his head during a scene for—
Focus!
Sherlock turned back to the task at hand: determining if and how Jim Moriarty could survive a bullet to the head.
Could he have aimed for a part of the brain that wouldn't kill him? Possible, but not probable. It is unlikely that Moriarty would have done anything to leave him brain-damaged. In a coma, maybe, since that would still solve the problem of being unable to call off the snipers—as was his intention—but he's not in a coma now. Not to mention, why leave yourself in a vegetative state when you can just kill yourself.
"Did you miss me?" came a demented voice from behind him.
Sherlock paid his mind palace's version of Moriarty no heed. The mirage madman was looked down safe and tight in his cell. The most he could do was taunt and yell at him.
Did I actually see the bullet enter his head? I had pulled myself away rather quickly when he pulled the gun out. Is it possible he turned the gun so that the shot fired into the air?
Sherlock looked up at a television in the far corner as it sprung to life, showing Moriarty's calculating face, eyes narrowed at him as he stood on that rooftop.
"No…you're not…" said Moriarty, blinking in realization. He gave a slow, slightly manic smile. "I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me." He let out a delighted laugh as the crazed smile grew. "You're me! Thank you! Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock glanced down to see Moriarty had extended his hand towards him. He slowly clasped the man's hand before raising his gaze back up to his face.
Moriarty nodded, his face now blank. "Thank you. Bless you." He blinked a few times and nodded as his gaze fell to the roof, almost as though trying to talk himself into something horrible. "As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. You've got a way out." He then lifted his gaze to Sherlock as the maniacal grin returned. "Well, good luck with that."
Moriarty's jaw dropped as his mouth gaped open, and just as Sherlock was trying to figure out what he was doing, a gun appeared, the barrel pointed straight at the roof of his mouth.
Sherlock stepped closer to the television screen, watching closely as Moriarty pulled the trigger and the bullet went straight through his head, exiting out of the upper back of it. Moriarty's body fell to the roof of St. Bart's and lay still, wide eyes staring up at the sky in his last laugh.
"Did you miss me? Did you miss me?"
"Shut up!" Sherlock exclaimed, turning and shoving the chained and straitjacketed criminal—who had apparently gotten free at some point—back into his cell, closing and locking the padded door.
Sherlock turned back to the telly, which had now shut back off.
So, he definitely ate that bullet. Must be a member of his network I missed, possibly a higher-up lieutenant of his.
"Sherlock."
Sherlock pulled himself out of his mind palace and opened his eyes, finding John staring at him in the seat opposite. "What?"
"I said, do you have any idea who's behind this?" John asked.
Sherlock shrugged as he let his hands fall to either side of his lap and his gaze went to the scenery passing by through the window. "One or two."
John nodded, taking that in for a moment.
Sherlock glanced down to see John's hand grasping tightly onto Mary's on the seat in between them. Worried, then, and trying not to show it.
John looked back at him, and he quickly looked up to meet his gaze. "Got any type of plan?"
"I'll figure something out," Sherlock told him.
John gave him a hard look as the muscle in his jaw twitched. "Sherlock, this is serious."
Sherlock gave him a mock frown of concern. "Really? I had no idea. Thank you for pointing it out."
John closed his eyes as his jaw clenched in irritation. After he had taken a breath to calm himself, he looked at Sherlock once again. "If this is Moriarty himself or just one of his blokes, the last time he came after you, he nearly put a bullet through my head and forced you to jump off a building. And now that everyone in the country knows that you tricked him and faked your death, he's going to make sure you stay dead this time."
Sherlock stayed staring out the window. "It's fine."
There was silence for a moment.
"Oh," said John shortly.
Sherlock turned his head slowly to see John nodding a little.
"It's fine," said John, looking off out the window. "Right." He paused another moment before continuing on in a sarcastically calm tone—if calm could even be sarcastic. "The world's most dangerous psychopath is out to get us all, but that's okay because Sherlock Holmes says that it's all fine." He gave Sherlock a hard look before looking back out the window.
Sherlock stared at him for a moment before looking at Mary, who quickly turned away to look out her own window. Sherlock's eyes then swept over to Mycroft, who sat on the seat beside him.
Mycroft gave him a pointed, exasperated look. "Maybe you should just tell him."
Sherlock looked over at John, thinking of the look on his face when the doctor had learned Mary's secret.
Sherlock gave a quick negative shake of his head in answer. He could never tell John Watson his secret.