I
"…After hearing the evidence, this panel is satisfied that the conduct of Doctor John Hamish Watson in the case in question was most irresponsible and detrimental to patient safety and that his competency to practice, as examined by the Tribunal that has adjourned on the 11th March 2016, is found lacking. The panel thus concludes that Doctor Watson's Medical Licence be withdrawn until further notice, and re-training requirements will be detailed at a later date-"
Maybe he should have punched the patient instead of just yelling at them and throwing a stapler at the wall. The end result would probably have been the same.
His patience isn't what it used to be. Not after Afghanistan. It's hard to listen to these spoiled Londoners complaining about the waiting times for bunion surgery after seeing children executed in cold blood.
II
"John? John Watson?"
Great. Just great.
He had wanted to get lost in the cracks of the city, not to be found by some pitying apparition from his past. Out of all the non-touristy pubs in Clerkenwell, it's his usual rotten luck that Mike would happen to walk into the same one.
Well, at least Mike Stamford is in the same boat. There's not a whole lot for disgraced doctors to do at this hour besides drinking.
"Hey Mike," he greets reluctantly.
"I heard what happened. Tough shit, mate. I know how it feels."
John doubts it. At least Mike has a chance to get his licence back, now that it looks as though the court case will be settled. He has a family, a nice house in the suburbs. He has a life, and a research career somewhat untainted by the long legal battle over the death of a patient.
All John has is his service gun, a second-hand mobile phone and a ratty bedsit in which he wants to spend as little time in as possible.
"Buy you one?" Mike glances at the row of empty shot glasses already adorning the bar counter. Many doctors would point out that heavy drinking at one in the afternoon is hardly going to help John's case with the GMC, but Mike refrains.
He's always known when to shut up – a quality in men John appreciates.
John shrugs.
"How are you on cash?" Mike asks.
It's refreshing, actually, this not-beating-around-the-bush approach. Most people are embarrassed to ask about money. They know what has happened to his licence – the initial incident was all over the tabloids.
"I'm about to lose my rental. Can't afford it. Can't afford anything." He'll have to live with Harry, soon. That'll be fun. His savings had quickly been eaten up by barrister bills, and the army pension is too small. They should be paying him restitution – it's effectively their fault that the patient had given him a flashback and caused him to react. Fucking Afghanistan. This is what he gets for serving his country.
Mike glances around. "Um, yeah. Look, if it was anybody but you- You can take care of yourself. Always have."
"What are you saying?"
"I know a guy. Who knows a guy. I know the GMC stuff can drag on for years and it's bloody expensive. I heard talk of someone looking for a doctor for some private work, a bit like Gulf royalty having their own physicians."
"Some celebrity?"
"No, not really. Look, the whole thing stinks to high heaven, but if you're desperate enough…"
John snorts. What the hell does he even have left to lose?
III
"First lesson: names are currency. You don't ask, and you don't offer your own. An unremarkable, untraceable alias is an option if giving a name can't be avoided. You got one?"
"John," he offers. It's common enough. Harmless enough. Besides, he's not going to be doing anything incriminating, is he? Is he?
The man addressing him is being referred to his companies as Moran. He doesn't look like he'd be happy if John asked such a question. He had been shoved into the back seat of an SUV with darkened, bulletproof glass windows ten minutes ago, and nobody is volunteering to tell him their destination.
He wonders if Moran is a harmless, untraceable alias.
"You're the guy looking to hire a doctor, then?" John plucks up the courage to ask.
"No. You'll not deal with him directly unless summoned – or until you've proven your worth and your reliability."
"Working hours?" A harmless enough question.
Moran regards him with a look that tells John he is not very impressed. "You come when summoned. Otherwise, you can do whatever the fuck you please."
"No point offering my income-tax card, then?" John jokes nervously.
Moran gives him a mobile phone. It's not as fancy as the one Harry had given him, but using that gift makes him feel guilty for something on which he can't quite put his finger.
"It's a burner, to be replaced once a week. If it falls into someone else's hands, you need to let me know instantly," Moran orders. "Memorise the first number programmed into it, then delete it. The other number is the one you use if and when you need to contact the boss."
John scrolls through the contacts. Only two numbers have been programmed in, one labelled "in an emergency" and another assigned to an "M". "That's you, then?" John asks, aiming for rhetorical.
"No. As I already told you, I'm not your employer. The M stands for Moriarty."
IV
John learns from Moran that his primary task is to look after Moriarty's asset, whatever that means.
He's also to do odd small jobs when needed, such as picking up things, giving advice on medical matters, tending to minor injuries among the crew– the crew for what? – but most of all, he is to be at Moriarty's beck and call, when the asset requires it. Since John is not a veterinarian, he doubts it's a racehorse or a guard dog. Still, he's not allowed to meet this asset, not yet at least.
He knows nothing about his new employer. Judging by the way Mike hadn't even wanted to talk about this under-the-table job offer in the pub – insisting they slip into some back alley instead like a pair of MI5 agents – John is convinced that the less he knows, the better.
V
During the following week, John learns two important things.
One: Moriarty creeps the fuck out of him with his snarly Irish accent, constant innuendo, unnecessarily expensive suits, ominous presence, black snake eyes and brains to die for.
Two: the asset's name is Will. Or, as everyone else in the crew calls him, The Freak.
The nickname fits with the rest of the crew – Stash, Bomb, Medium G.
Bomb is the woman of the group, and she cares for very few things in life except for impressing his husband, Medium G, who to John seems like the quintessential criminal of habit. Starting out with grand theft auto, he had evolved into a brawler and henchman, then into a veritable heist specialist.
Stash has the look of someone who had quit drugs years later than he should have. John quickly learns that he has the temper of a mountain lion being electrocuted.
Then there's Will. He looks like an Oxbridge student, instead of someone who might associate with the likes of Moriarty. His hair is a cloud of posh blackish ringlets, his cheekbones jut out in the style of a Greek statue, and he doesn't seem to have an ounce of fat on his body. He plays the violin and plans all the jobs with the help of copious notes that include more complex logistical details and mathematics than John had ever had to study for medical school. He wears beautiful, tight suits just like Moriarty does, but on Will, they look more befitting a businessman or someone from high society than a criminal's… boyfriend?
The sex is loud enough to make some kind of a romantic connection obvious.
Will is also the driver for what John soon realises is the string of major heists that have been all over the papers. If the young man otherwise comes off as timid, careful, introverted and socially a bit stunted, behind the wheel is when he comes alive: he drives as though the devil is nipping at his heels. Calculating and fearless, daring but not foolhardy, his precision rivals that of a sushi chef. Will truly is the asset that guarantees that nobody gets caught. John hasn't seen him in action with his own eyes, at least not yet, but the descriptions and blatant admiration of the team tell the story of someone who could have probably done well in Formula One.
Will is, in many respects, the star of the show, but he gets little reward for it. Judging by what John has seen, there's a strange power dynamic going on with him and Moriarty: he treats Will like crap scraped off the bottom of his expensive Italian shoes, and Will never protests.
Why would he stay, if it isn't out of fear? What does Moriarty have on him? What could justify or be worth the pain of the fingerprint-shaped bruises on the young man's neck?
VI
The knock on the door is sharp, demanding. John knows he's being summoned even before he opens the door to reveal Moran standing in the hallway. He escorts John wordlessly to the car after scoffing at his apparently lacklustre speed of finding his jeans and a presentable jumper.
"It's the asset," Moran tells John in the car.
"It's the asset what?" John asks. As a doctor, he'll be better prepared, better oriented to the task at hand if he knows more, but Moran is clearly not a talker.
He's escorted straight into Moriarty's private rooms – the bedroom to be precise – and John resists the urge to whistle. Black velvet, mirrors, chrome, Renaissance art. A violin sits on a marble side table. The drapes are closed, so John flicks a light switch.
Moriarty is sitting in a Chesterfield armchair by the window, clad in nothing but underwear and an emerald dressing gown the sash of which is loose, revealing a well-toned torso.
Looking bored, Moriarty cocks his head towards the middle of the room.
A beyond-king-sized bed sits on a pedestal, its black satin sheets twisted. There's an unmoving mound in the middle.
Awkwardly, John rearranges the sheet – no duvet, understandable since it's almost uncomfortably warm in the suite – and reveals the pale skin of the small of someone's back. He wastes no time in shifting the figure on the bed around.
Will.
A quick press on the supraorbital nerve above the eye produces a slight frown, a hand lifts and then let go flops back like a rag doll's. He's breathing, though shallowly. No verbal reaction to anything John does. Eyes closed, do not open to pain. John runs his thumb along the almost translucently pallid, lithe arms, his fingertips catching a nearly volcanic landscape of injection scars.
His head snaps up to face Moriarty. "What did he take?"
"Who knows what his exact cocktail is these days," Moriarty says in a disinterested tone and flings himself off the chair in a floating flurry of silk. "Drink?"
"He's unconscious so no. He shouldn't be mixing alcohol with this stuff, anyway." He shouldn't be taking this stuff in the first place.
"I meant for you. He's a handful when awake, so you might fancy some fortification."
There's a sudden urge to punch the man now fiddling around with a crystal decanter on the opposite side of the room. "I don't drink on the job," John replies from between clenched teeth.
"You're no fun, Doctor."
John pries Will's eyes open, which elicits a demurring moan. Pinprick pupils. John drops off the bed, scrambles to his bag, and finds the naloxone. During a short brief he'd received from Moran, he had been told bluntly that his services were mostly needed to assist with problems arising from the asset's unfortunate drug habit. Judging by what John has seen and deduced during the past few days, Moriarty is not worried about the habit itself, simply wants someone to mop up the mess when things go wrong.
All that has made John wonder if his foul employer somehow benefits from all of it. Maybe he finances it. It would be a devastatingly effective means of tying Will to him.
'Cocaine. Crystal meth. Heroin. Morphine. He's not very picky,' Moran had told John.
The naloxone works. Within two minutes, there's a gasp, and John nearly gets hit with an uncoordinated arm flinging out as Will abruptly wakes up and practically bounces into a sitting position. Their eyes meet. The young man is blinking wildly and seems alarmed by his unexpected presence on the bed.
"You idiot," Moriarty chides the bewildered-looking Will, but his heart is clearly not in it. "This is why I'm forced to waste my hard-earned cash on more hirelings." He emphasises his point with a disapproving glance and leaves the room.
John checks his patient's pulse. Quick, but not frantic. Blood pressure likely high – neck veins well-filled. Will's colour is better – no longer the deathly white of an overdose and a threatening respiratory arrest.
They should have called an ambulance, John realises but can put two and two together regarding why they didn't. Risk of exposure.
"How are you feeling?" he asks.
Will rubs his arms, a strange mechanic gesture that John doubts has little to do with the ambient temperature.
"Fine," the younger man offers tentatively.
"Has this happened before?"
The bewilderment in Will's gaze recedes, and steely dismissal takes over. John imagines walls being erected, battlements raised.
"None of your business."
"Well, it's very much my business tonight, thanks to him," John nods towards the door through which Moriarty had disappeared.
A snide smile. "Is this an intervention you're trying to stage here, Doctor? Don't waste your breath. I assure you I'm much more an expert in such things than you are."
"He may think he put me on the payroll just to bring you back from the dead when you decide one hit too many is a bloody marvellous idea, but if I get hired to do a physician's job, I do it. Properly. That means offering you the help you need, even if you don't want it right now."
Snort. "No wonder they took your licence. You're an infuriating busybody."
Somehow, John doesn't take offence. There's something in the way Will is looking at him that makes such teasing sound gentle and curious instead of malicious.
It sounds as though Will is trying to hide his surprise that someone would care.
VII
John's new job has perks. He gets to borrow the cars, as long as they're not currently being used for a job.
These are not just any cars. John hasn't ever even sat in such expensive things before, let alone driven one. As it turns out, driving some of them safely requires a bit of practice.
Whether Will had volunteered John does not know, but on a day when Moriarty is in an ominously good mood, John finds himself in the garage, picking a vehicle for a lesson by none other than the Freak Behind The Wheel. John hasn't been able to find out whether Will himself approves of such a derogatory nickname.
In the garage, the younger man instantly launches into a flabbergastingly detailed lecture into the finer points of each car in Moriarty's fleet, comparing their engines, their manoeuvrability, their structural stability and other properties John has neither the knowledge base nor the driving skills to appreciate properly.
"Which one do you like?" he finally asks, interrupting a seemingly endless monologue on variable valve exhaust systems.
Will worries his lower lip for a moment. "I'm rather partial to the Aventador, but the transmission can be downright abusive without the right driving experience."
John laughs. "Why do you like it, then?"
Will crosses his arms. "It looks like a criminally insane person designed it; it sounds like the apocalypse, there's excellent compensation with the automatic rear wheel curve system, and the V12 glows like cherries made of magma."
"I'll pretend I understood that."
An eye roll. "We'll take the Mercedes-AMG GT. Closest to a clueless football mum's car as you can get in this collection," Will says mischievously.
They end up not only taking the Mercedes for a spin but also running errands with John behind the wheel of a Bugatti Chiron – 'now that it's been established that you're not going to instantly reverse it into a tree', as Will had put it.
The afternoon turns out to be the best day John remembers having after leaving his life in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Will's enthusiasm about the cars is infective, and once out of the house, he changes so much. No longer the cold, awkward and visibly fearful person who is supposed to be a master criminal's significant other, he now seems younger and much less inhibited, more... himself? Awkward still, though – it is becoming obvious that some of Will's aloofness is overcompensation for long-term difficulties in dealing with people. It's fine. John doesn't pry further than what he can see and hear.
Once they reach the motorway, John cracks a joke, and it's not even a good one, but Will bursts into unadulterated laughter, rolls down the shotgun seat window and sticks his head out, his blackish curls a whirling halo in the high speed.
VIII
John gets arrested on his way from Tesco to his flat. He protests with the confidence of a man who knows he hasn't done anything illegal. At least not yet.
He is taken to the Headquarters of The Metropolitan Police and escorted through an office door sporting the title Chief Superintendent M. Holmes.
"What do you know about the whereabouts of Sherlock Holmes?" a slightly balding man with the stage presence of a rhino instantly demands, looming over his desk.
Holmes. Although their build is very different, there's a lot of Will in how this man looks, and vice versa.
"Nothing!" John protests. "You've got me mixed up with someone else."
"You have become a known associate of one James Moriarty. Our sources have repeatedly reported you frequenting some of his regular haunts."
John elects not to comment on that. He can, however, continue to insist that he knows nothing. "I don't know anyone by the name you just mentioned."
The Superintendent digs out a photograph from a desk drawer. It's a teenager with unruly, blackish curls, leaning on what John now recognises as a Lamborghini. Will.
"That was his third such vehicle," the Superintendent says bitterly. "The Sussex police did not catch him on his joyrides, not once. He was too highly skilled already at that age."
John swallows. "Why are you looking for him?"
"He's my younger brother. I want to ensure his safety."
You and me both.
John may not be a career criminal, but he realises that Moriarty finding out about a family connection to a high-ranking Met officer would be bad news. Monumentally bad news. It's probably the reason why Will never uses his surname, and why he never seems to leave the penthouse unless ordered to do so. The driving lesson had been a rare exception.
"Sherlock ran away from home at sixteen. He soon began making a career for himself in stunt driving for films, using a fake licence and demanding payment in cash. He caught the eye of some unsavoury elements. His whereabouts have been unknown for two years. He's now twenty-four."
"'Sherlock'?"
"Is that not the name you know him by?"
John says nothing.
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I doubt he'd using Scott. Perhaps he has created a pseudonym that has nothing to do with his real name, then?"
John says less than nothing and tries to keep his expression neutral.
"He always hated William," the elder Holmes says, glancing out the window as though a memory fluttering by has caught his attention.
"Even if he is your younger brother, if he doesn't want to be found, that's his right," John says after the silence becomes oppressive. Then, he wants to bite his tongue. It probably sounds a bit too suspicious that he's defending a person supposed to be a stranger to him.
"You're awfully loyal, awfully fast," the Superintendent chides ominously.
John pointedly taps his finger on the photo and slides it across the table.
He needs to learn more before he can decide whether this man finding out about Will's current life is a good idea. "I've learned to pick my battles."
IX
They're in lockdown. Will has been using again – a lot – so even John finds himself preparing to spend the night on the white leather sofa in the penthouse's sitting room. He has been promised a suite of his own in the building soon. Beats the bedsit, even though the notion of spending even more time in the headquarters feels claustrophobic.
Around midnight, Moriarty disappears two floors down, presumably to sort out practicalities. As if on cue, Will sneaks out from the bedroom and walks straight into John in the corridor.
Will slips past him without an apology, and strides straight to the lift keypad.
He knows the key code, John realises – before, Will had timidly always waited for someone else to let him out. Clever.
"Where are you going?" he asks quietly. Even though he hasn't been told to keep the young man in the apartment, he assumes Moriarty would not be happy to find him gone just before a big day, especially if he'd snuck out to score.
"I need some air."
John sticks a hand out to prevent the lift doors closing. "You and me both."
John texts Moriarty as they take the elevator down in silence. He receives a curt reply saying that it's fine if they go out to buy cigarettes.
Will – Sherlock – does not protest his presence, nor does he seem particularly interested in it.
John decides this is a good a time as any to address the elephant in the room. "Look, your relationship with Moriarty -"
Sherlock shoots him a vile, piercing glance but doesn't tell him to leave him alone. John follows him into the garage.
"It's not a relationship," Sherlock finally tells him as he steps on the gas pedal and skilfully manoeuvers the Porsche Boxter backwards without getting anywhere close to hitting a pillar. Soon, they shoot out of the garage into the empty streets. "Relationships require two amenable individuals."
"What is it, then? Why would you let him-" John lays a palm on Sherlock's bruised arm, eliciting a flinch.
John removes his hand. "He has something on you, doesn't he? It can't be just the drugs and the cars." Though you're obviously into both.
Sherlock bites his lip, carefully avoids even a glance at John as he is forced to turn his head to inspect the dead angle on his right before taking a turn.
"The... thing he has on me was, essentially, self-defence, but on the security tape, it looks anything but. He got rid of the body but preserved enough evidence to put me behind bars for the rest of my life. If I leave him, I have to leave Britain."
It's as if a mask of cold indifference has dropped momentarily. Sherlock's knuckles whiten as he curls his long fingers around the wheel. Then, he squares his shoulders and barely dodges an SUV on the opposite lane as he overtakes an elderly woman in an old Vauxhall. After a few minutes of driving quietly, he appears calmer again.
"Don't make me your charity project, John Watson. It will end badly for the both of us."
X
John is soon allowed to sit in when a job is being planned, and he attends the meeting, even though it probably incriminates him. He continues to come to the meetings, because Sherlock is there, and John loves watching him at his most brilliant.
There are other things he's allowed, such as going out on errands.
Tonight, they were supposed to meet some contact of Moriarty's to receive a parcel, but the electronic locking system of the Aston Martin had gone haywire and stranded them outside the warmth of the car.
It's pouring with rain, and they should feel dreadful being soaked through, waiting for a tow truck in an alleyway, but neither of them seems to care.
The downpour is so torrential that it should feel as though it's draining the very colour out of the world but Sherlock is laughing, his white shirt so soaked through that his torso looks like marble. His cherub curls are dripping with rain, and he looks so beautiful that something reaches into John's chest and takes hold.
XI
The night rides to a 24/7 convenience store in the suburbs for cigarettes becomes a regular occurrence. Moriarty thinks John is acting as Sherlock's minder on these outings, but in actuality, it's a welcome respite for the both of them from the oppressive atmosphere in the three stories of skyscraper Moriarty commandeers.
They talk. They begin to feel outstandingly comfortable around each other.
Neither of them seems to be quite certain why they feel the need or the desire to steal these moments together.
One night, Sherlock drives them outside city limits into Sussex and parks on a hill overlooking the grounds of what looks like a stately manor.
Despite repeatedly being called stupid by his companion for not making complicated deductions such as what some arbitrary details of a new heist plan being formulated could be, John can put some things together.
"This is home, isn't it?" he asks Sherlock.
"Not home, no. I grew up here, but there were no parents – they died when I was three. Adopted, raised by a family who saw children as a PR asset. I had what I wanted, but not really what I needed."
"What about siblings?"
"One brother. He's an arsehole. They didn't let us be adopted together since I was a special needs child," Sherlock says venomously. "He tracked me down when he became of age, using his connections within the Met. He's probably acting out of some misplaced guilt, trying to micromanage my life. I never asked anything from him."
John stifles the urge to say that Sherlock's brother seems genuinely worried about him.
"He has already helped me get away with… some things, and he never lets me forget that. I'm sure he would like nothing more than to see me go down with Moriarty if only to teach me a lesson."
They're leaning against the warm hood of the car, lit only by the starry sky above. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?" Sherlock asks.
John gapes. How could Sherlock know he'd even met the man? "No."
"Shame. We could have split the fee." Sherlock crosses his arms, not from cold, but to withdraw into himself a little. "They're going to get caught. We're going to get caught. If not soon, then eventually."
John wonders if Sherlock only means Moriarty's heist crew, of which he's a part, or the two of them, stealing these moments together?
"We need to make a plan," John tells him. "To get out. Especially you."
"Who's this we?" Sherlock asks, but this time, it sounds rhetorical.
It needs to be said. "Me. You, Sherlock. Us."
It's as though that the distance between them has somehow lessened, drawn them together with their thighs against each other where they're leaning on the side of the car.
Without a word, they both stand up, and soon Sherlock's breath is ghosting on John's lips.
Danger, John thinks but doesn't step away.
Danger, he had told himself on the plane to Afghanistan, and he would not have traded that feeling for anything else.
"I'm not gay," he tells no one in particular.
Starlight is reflecting in Sherlock's oddly coloured irises. "Is that what you keep telling yourself?"
John may not be gay, but Sherlock isn't anything, really, and what did it ever even matter?
John kisses him.
XII
"Oh, no, Mr Watson. This is a family business, and it's time we adopted you properly."
John finds himself banished from the comfortable sofa in his assigned suite, manhandled down to the garage and shoved into the back seat. His eyes meet Sherlock's in the rearview mirror. The slight shake of Sherlock's head and his ever so slightly widened eyes could mean anything.
An hour later, the whistling sound of a gunshot and the sight of a passer-by dropping to her knees propel John out of the vehicle before Sherlock can shriek a protest. After the rest of the group have already run back to the getaway car, he's still on his knees on the sidewalk, fingers nearly crushing the victim's neck as he tries to stop the bleeding.
He won't let go until Medium G and Stash tear themselves back out of the car and forcibly haul him back in. Just as Stash is trying to run around the back of the car, a bullet fired from the gun of a police officer running fast towards the bank entrance brings him to his knees.
Sherlock screeches them out into traffic just as it becomes apparent that Stash is a lost cause.
XIII
John is on his knees, and he thinks the whole thing is rather cliché. He shouldn't have got mixed up in any of this. Stamford is going to pay if this doesn't end up being John's last day on Earth.
"This bloody idiot nearly got us caught!" Bomb can barely control himself, shoving John's shoulder once more for good measure. Now, it's definitely going to bruise.
"I have made it clear, have I not, that there is to be no delay in departure from a job location, not for anyone," Moriarty snarls, and he isn't looking at John, he's looking at Sherlock.
Sherlock says nothing, simply drops his line of sight to the floor. Acting submissive is probably the best move right now, John knows it, but he hates the sight anyway – hates the diminished creature this psychopath is making out of Sherlock.
Medium G cocks his head at John as well from where he's standing by the fireplace. "He's the one who wouldn't budge, even though the coppers were already there! He's the one who fucked it up!"
Moriarty strokes his forefinger around the rim of the glass of outrageously expensive whisky on the marble table in front of him. A vile smile twists the corner of his mouth up as he crosses the distance between him and Sherlock. "No, the good doctor isn't the responsible party here," he whispers loudly into Sherlock's ear, his gaze homed in on John. Sherlock flinches. "But I do know who is."
XIV
John paces. It's nearly midnight, and he hasn't heard from Sherlock. He'd been returned by gunpoint to his suite after the frightening debriefing, and the whole thing had left him with a terrible sense of unease.
As the minutes continue to pass, he goes through every option he could think of. He's not a prisoner, but they'd taken his mobile and his wallet, and he doubts he'd make it all that far without a high-velocity bullet being embedded into his skull right now if he walked out of the front door.
Finally, a little before one in the morning, he hears a scratching sound from the vicinity of the door – as though someone's trying to fit the key card in but not quite hitting the slot.
He should probably use the safety chain, but worry overrules his sense of self-preservation.
When he opens the door, Sherlock collapses against him, listless fingers trying to grab a hold around his neck.
Sherlock is barefoot, dressed in the same silk pyjamas John had seen once already, with the buttons of the top undone.
He's a mess.
"Jesus," John exhales pointlessly and manages to half-drag Sherlock into the room and onto sitting on the bed. He reaches out for the light switch, but Sherlock lifts his hand in protest. John ignores him and soon, the room floods with light.
"I slipped a sleeping pill in his drink to get away," Sherlock tells him, averting his gaze from John's. He's lisping slightly, slurring his words which is not surprising, considering his split lip and the swollen right side of his jaw. He' sporting quite a colourful shiner, and his hair is sticking out in all directions.
John doesn't even know where to start surveying the damage. Without thinking, his hand reaches out to smooth the unruly curls; Sherlock hisses when his fingertips make contact with his scalp. John leans closer, supporting Sherlock's swaying form by gripping his shoulder with his other hand.
There's a dark bruise on his scalp, likely a bleed under the skin from someone grabbing his hair hard and dragging-
"Jesus Christ," John breathes out and kneels down next to the bed, gathering Sherlock in his arms and pressing his head gently against his shoulder.
"He's not coming, no matter how many times you try to invoke him," Sherlock mutters. He's shaking.
John drapes the duvet around his shoulders, then goes to his medical bag to retrieve ibuprofen since he's not sure if Sherlock had taken – or been forced to take tonight. Drugs might interact with a stronger painkiller.
John then dances his fingers around the delicate bony landscape of Sherlock's face, checking for potential orbital fractures, seeking signs of a dislocated jaw, checking anything and everything he can think of. There's a lot of bruising and a tiny bitten-off chunk of the tongue missing but nothing that would warrant a visit to an A&E. "Headache? Nausea? Dizziness?"
"I'm not concussed, John," Sherlock protests, and buttons his shirt to hide the bruises on his ribs John has already seen. He then collapses onto his back on the bed.
"If this goes on, he'll kill you. One of these days, he's going to go too far."
"We all already went too far," Sherlock says, and John doesn't need him to describe how.
The bystander. She's likely dead. They're all complicit.
The woman's trachea and a major artery had been hit. John couldn't have saved her, but he couldn't have stopped trying, either.
"You're right. I can't afford any more mistakes." Sherlock reaches into the back pocket of his pyjama pants and pulls out a slip of paper which he then presents to John.
John doesn't understand even the tiniest bit of it. Numbers, letters all jumbled up.
"It's everything I have on Moriarty. Everything, John. You can slip out tomorrow when we leave for the big one. You can leave out the maintenance door of the garage – it unlocks the same time as the sliding doors, and everyone will be too nervous and focused on watching us leave that you can get out. You need to get this to my brother. He has my passport, and I can get yours; Moriarty hasn't put it in the safe, I can hide it in the car in the morning. Contact my brother; he'll be able to get us safe passage abroad."
John can't help smiling. There is a plan. They need to get out, and Sherlock, clever, brilliant Sherlock has worked it out.
"Meet me at the parking lot of Highgate Cemetery. Eastern corner – no CCTV. Get there as soon as you can. I'll drop off the crew at the bank, then drive out. They'll notice you're gone, of course, but by the time they do, we'll have made a head start. I'll take the BMW 2 tomorrow – attracts less attention and it's fast on the motorway. We'll head to Dover unless Mycroft tells you differently."
John lies down next to him, slithers an arm onto his waist.
This is crazy. They're doing this; they're becoming fugitives from both the law and possibly the most dangerous man in Britain. And still, he hasn't a shadow of doubt in his head about doing any of this.
Sherlock's fingers curl around his bicep. "John," he whispers in the dark, and it's a promise and a prayer.
XV
It's a few hours before dawn. There's still time for them to lie here in the dark, listening to their synchronised breathing and feel the sheets cool from the aftermath of a kiss leading to more, but John wants a safety margin. He scoots closer to Sherlock, coils around him and presses a kiss on the side of his neck. "Love, you've got to go back, now, before he comes to."
These words he's forced to speak by circumstance break John's heart, but this is what must be done to avoid Moriarty knowing where Sherlock has spent the night.
Sherlock grabs his wrist and pulls his arms tighter around himself. John is tempted to snake his hand lower, but Sherlock winces and draws an agonised breath when he shifts on the bed, and this reminder of likely a broken rib or two give birth to a terrible suspicion. "Sherlock, yesterday, when he assaulted you, did he-" he trails out. The word 'assault' had been a deliberate act, mostly chosen because he wants to give Sherlock the gift of believing that he doesn't deserve any of this.
"No", Sherlock mutters. "I gave him what he wanted, so no need to force himself on me." The words are bitter.
"Never again," John promises and buries his face in the dark curls.
XVI
Hours later, feeling like the devil is chasing him down the streets of London, John runs into an electronics store, finds a scanner, shoos away an overly helpful salesperson and then manages to email the note from the adjoined computer to Superintendent Holmes as per Sherlock's instructions.
The following minutes are agony, but only four of them are required until a reply comes. There is no sentiment in the communique, only the word Cairnryan. A quick googling before John dashes out of the store reveals that it's a small town in Scotland with a ferry port.
He jumps a gate at a tube station, makes his way to the Northern line platform and heads for Highgate.
While on the train, he thinks about the older Holmes. The Chief Superintendent now has what he hoped for: proof of life and freedom for his brother. Proof enough to bring down the man who abused and extorted Sherlock for years. Still, it's unlikely that the two brothers will ever see each other again.
XVII
John's fingers curl around Sherlock's on the gear stick. A determined look. Adrenaline is singing a siren song in their ears, the purring warmth of the engine making their palms sweat.
The whistling screech of tyres on asphalt is getting louder – their pursuers are approaching like a thundering army behind the next hill.
There's only one way out.
Only a madman would attempt to cross the gap between the two buildings, even if said madman was sitting behind the wheel of this particularly superlative car.
Then again, Sherlock would. He can do anything when he's behind the wheel.
Soon, airborne.
Soon, alive. Gone.
Together.
––– The End –––
.
.
.
.
Author's notes: this began life as a plot bunny that hopped into my head after seeing Edgar Wright's brilliant heist film Baby Driver. This has been a fun experiment of telling a story in a style I don't usually go in for, in an AU setting that is so not my division. Live and learn.
The title is a slightly tweaked quotation from Alexander Pope's "Epistle to Dr Arbuthnot" (1735).