It was hellish. Hot, grand, breathtaking, demanding every space to explode in like a supernova, much brighter much better thanAfghanistan's burning sun.
It is a fiction about why Sherlock tried to quit smoking at the beginning of The Hounds of Baskerville, and why he was so sad at the end.
Slightly AU, since not every thought here fits into John's official blog. But again, people don't always write what they are really thinking, let alone to say that they know what they are really thinking.
Lestrade and his beloved Astronomy was the setting in Nor the Years Condemn, brilliant work. I sobbed at that Pale Blue Dot part.
Ruefully not beta-ed. If someone interested in this hard work, please please contact me ;)
Puppets in Games
Red dots disappeared in the thin air, so did Moriarty in his Westwood, only the ring tone still echoing in Sherlock's ear, Stayin' Alive, Stayin' Alive.
Who has just called in? How is the timing calculated? Are those bombs real?
Oddly, his brain didn't engage too much in these. A tick in it reminded Sherlock his own lie earlier, and his mind worked up now all its energy to face John's coming disappointment.
In his disgust Sherlock found that his stomach twisted, too.
Disadvantage of a human body.
"You do remember, last time you ran away alone after a serial killer, you almost got yourself killed?"
Ah. Here it comes. Sherlock took a deep breath, kept his voice flat, as flat as he could manage, "You wouldn't approve if I asked first."
"Of course I won't! Christ, Sherlock! There is a psychopath and his snipers! What could you do with a gun and a memory stick? What were you thinking!"
That he would come alone like I did. That he would like to play and play fair.
Sherlock thought, stomach protested again. Those long limbs of his carried his body towards his friend and lowered down beside him, despite the moaning and the kicking of his mind.
"No no no go back to your side. Or I will change my mind and kick you into the pool." John murmured, winced while rotating his shoulder, still breathing harshly. But there's no cold rage in his voice.
Interesting.
"You are not angry." Sherlock said, couldn't help but curious. John snorted laughter.
"Lucky for you tosser, set your date at midnight. If I spend one hour less in semtex, you would be in the water now. But then I thought about how a scene we were supposed to make…"
That there wasn't a John Watson at the first place.
Sherlock shuddered at that.
John moved nearer, searching for his eyes, and frowned at what he saw, the doctor grabbed his wrist to check his pulse, then squeezed his knee briefly, "Hey, you all right? Where's your coat?"
"In the stall."
"Well. I'd offer you mine. If you don't mind the bomb."
They giggled, then silent again, watching reflectively the blue dot of the bomb which was still flashing.
"…So we are still out of milk, I suppose?"
"I'm telling Mycroft to bring a pint. He's going to collect the memory stick anyway."
"Don't forget those beans you promised."
"Hmm."
John nudged him with a knee.
"And you'd better call Lestrade now. They will deal with the bomb, and find back my jacket. That's my favourite jacket."
"Your only jacket. Wasn't been cleaned at all before you moved into Baker Street."
"Sod off."
Sherlock finished his text, began to dial Lestrade. He explained the fact then cut off curtly. His brain began to swirl. John's hand lay on his knee, warmth ravished in. They were sitting like this, until the sirens came near.
-o0oo0oo0oo0o-
Waiting for the Yarders to show up felt like eternal. It took John a while to realize that his hand was still lying comfortably upon his friend's bony knee. Too comfortable for flatmates. But there was no protest from Sherlock, and John figured that it was too late to over work it anyway.
His mind was busy replaying what just happened here, trying to draw his own conclusion, like always, and felt that he was but a pawn upon the board, who had no idea what the next move of Moriarty's would be.
But if anything, Sherlock wasn't another player either. He thought. For he had seen the gaze his friend threw to him, checking his eyes, before he pointed the gun to the bomb, and constantly during the call.
(Too damnit constantly. Actually. John wanted to scream look at your goal don't get distracted! Christ, and the madman stuck the gun into his own hair earlier, too. He really needs to give Sherlock a lesson or two about safe using.)
…But this warmed up his heart: Knowing that at least for Sherlock, they were in this together.
…It was clearly to John, that somehow, this brilliant crazy man gave up to be a criminal mastermind at the very beginning, rather to become a lone figure on the board.
(Ignoring the rules, without peers friends allies, but still just a figure, instead of a hand of some superior existence. No wonder they scolded him for this waste.)
Something shivered inside, john licked his lip. He was in a combat zone. He was used to violence and death and knew who or what had killed the most people. Mycroft sneered that the bravery of a soldier was just stupid. Moriarty manipulated people's destinies to fulfil his own script of dramas. Normal people were inferior, worthless until became their puppets.
John was rather amused at his own absurd imaging now: Mycroft and Moriarty having a tea together, discussing the scripts.
Sherlock was a quiet ball beside him, like an exhausted child after a big day.
What has made you my friend? He suppressed the urge to ask.
…John watched the man as he sitting still after the old woman's line was cut off, yet heard Sherlock claimed that he was judged as heartless.
Clearly his friend didn't knew the answer himself yet.
The Yarders finally showed up, and it turned to be ugly. Very very ugly. Lestrade yelled at Sherlock for luring out a serial killer alone, again; Sherlock, despite his rather fatigue state, instinctively pushed back. (With his old words, mostly about the incompetence of the police to do their own job.) John was too tired to listen them bitching, zoned out until Lestrade banished Sherlock from his crime scenes at least a month; Sherlock snorted, swirled his coat theatrically, started to walk out, while Donovan was saying to Lestrade, not remotely lightly, that they shouldn't let a psychopath had his way anymore, especially not after now, he found his criminal twin mind.
It was then John was pushed off the brink and shout to the Yarders, "This man could have changed his career ages ago without tip from you or Moriarty!"
Silence. Everyone looked at him, not used to the change from a fellow doctor to a cold blood soldier.
Idiot. John thought, frustrated. Sometimes they follow their imaginary logic and ignore the facts, other times they see the facts the criminal deliberately shoved in their face, despite how illogical they are. Only seeing things they want to. John snorted. Is that how Sherlock usually felt?
Idiots.
He choose not to. And it is not what he's capable makes him.
Ignored the murmurs behind of them, he walked out the bloody pool, hard and fast, miraculously alive. Sherlock had to take several running steps to follow up. Ha. This is new. New and good. Well. John snorted again, satisfied somehow.
"Idiot."
After a while silence, he offered. Sherlock hummed. John looked up and their gazes met, his friend looked shocked but amazed, even smiled a little.
"Dinner?"
Two a.m. Again. And his night was ruined as Moriarty's gunmen shoved him into a damned car.
"Starving." He grumbled.
-o0oo0oo0oo0o-
John was half feared, that his friend would run after Moriarty's footprints with heady abandon. An idea so distasteful since it would be like another game of Moriarty's again.
(Well. He was there the first night Sherlock heard of Moriarty, grinning happily and said he had no idea; He was with Sherlock as the man storming away with pumping energy, announcing that he was on fire. That was, before the death of that old woman and the triggered bomb, before everything turned to hell. He knew how much Sherlock enjoyed the tease and it's all wrong. So wrong.)
To his relief, as he woke up the next afternoon, Sherlock was still standing beside the table, with a plate in the hand and a mouthful cake. Sherlock managed to grumble out something like "tea" and "Mrs. Hudson" through food, so John sat down and enjoyed his cuppa.
The consulting detective was distracted, though. Eyes kept darting to the window. John sighed under his breath and brought it up.
"I know it's bothering you."
He knew Sherlock heard him, because the man suddenly found something outside so fascinating and turned completely towards the window.
"You know what I mean. Moriarty. He has some twisted new plan for you. Thought you will go after him, now, or roasting one of his snipers already."
"He's all over the world."
Sherlock murmured, more to the window.
"Sherlock?"
"Remember what that cabbie said? Bohemian paper. Businessman disappeared in Columbia. Genius artist in Argentina. Probably the Chinese gang too, since they needed help to enter London. That's what he meant, more than me, more than just a man."
"Are you saying that he's kind of a king of a criminal underworld? What if we-"
Sherlock's nose twitched, interrupted quickly, "Oh no he's more than that. He's their God, writes scripts out of their pathetic mind burst and helps them to perform. Don't you see, John? Moriarty isn't the one who initiatives the crimes. There are enough people who're tempted and he provokes them only, make their plans workable. Even if I hunt him down—all of his men down, the world won't be a better one, only a boring one with incapable criminals." His face twisted in disgust, "No. A life engaged in disassembling his kingdom will be a same disaster one just like working for Mycroft. I'm not the Rabbit, chasing after dead ends, always feels important. I'm not leaving Baker Street!"
He almost snapped out the last words, then looked over anxiously as if searching John's reaction.
As if he's afraid to …disappoint me? John met his gaze with level eyes and a frown.
"This is what I am John."
It wasn't Sherlock's aggressive voice, as he was so desperate to be understood, as he meant I am right why you are so stupid not to see it. It was worse. It was Sherlock's quiet voice. Defensive and gave up trying already.
John's face softened.
"It's fine. Then. Really. You are not some superheroes. "
Sherlock hummed.
This should be how their only talk about this ended. But then something just bounced back into John's mind, the doctor's eyes narrowed and cleared his throat.
"Umm and…Sherlock?"
"What?"
"'Rabbit'?"
It took a moment to replay every word he said, and then Sherlock glared at John disbelievingly.
"Rabbit. The Rabbit who's just like Mycroft. Really John, you must have read Winnie the Pooh?"
The look on John's face told him that it was a colossal mistake to mention the Rabbit. He would never hear the end of it, just like the madding solar system.
And John knew that he knew it, too, the man began to giggle.
And, as Sherlock moaned and wondered if it could be worse, he heard that Mrs. Hudson answered the door, then the sound of the said man with his umbrella coming upstairs.
"Oh shut up John! It's totally your fault to bring him up!"
