Part II
Chapter 1
John followed Sherlock into the living room, wondering what the hell had just gone down. The trial had been a bizarre mix of watching Moriarty sit passively and interpreting for Sherlock. The court had discovered that, of course, the insane genius detective didn't understand BSL or the interpreter they'd provided. He hadn't liked Moriarty staring at his hands as he'd struggled through the questions. The man had smirked at him afterward, like he'd just handed the bastard some great treat.
"-Bank -England. -Tower -London. -P-E-N-T-O-N-V-I-L-L-E. -Our -country; -three -place -most -secure. -Six weeks ago -M-O-R-I-A-R-T-Y -enter. -No idea -how?, why?" John summarized, dropping himself into his chair. Sherlock started to pace but he kept his eye on him. "-All -we -know -what? -we know -"
"He ended up in custody," Sherlock finished for him, nodding like they'd come to some great resolution.
"-That; -finish," John protested, annoyed by the whole damn day.
"Stop what?" Sherlock asked, looking baffled.
"-That -look," John answered, gesturing at the man's face.
"Look?" Sherlock asked, apparently lost.
I'm stupider than you, get used to it.
"-You -that -look -again," John complained.
"Well, I can't see it, can I?" Sherlock asked, before nodding at him like that was covered and going back to staring at his damn fingertips, apparently trying to figure out whatever leap of understanding came out of 'he ended up in custody'.
John nodded toward the mirror and Sherlock glanced into it.
That look, John thought. You have to let me know what's going on if I'm going to help you.
"It's my face," Sherlock answered, sounding annoyed now.
"-Yes, -expression, -look at it. -Your -face -say -'-what happen? -we -both -know'," John explained.
Sherlock blinked.
"Well, we do," he answered.
"-No. -I -not. -That -explain -why -expression -annoying."
"If Moriarty wanted the jewels, he'd have them. If he wanted those prisoners free, they'd be out on the streets. The only reason he's still in prison right now is because he chose to be there," Sherlock explained, starting to pace again. "Somehow this is part of his scheme."
John nodded and settled into his chair, trying to think of what he could do to help that wasn't thinking. Sherlock obviously understood Moriarty's twisted way of thinking far better than he ever would.
~~/~~
The trial wasn't going well. If it weren't for how bloody obvious Moriarty's involvement had been, the P.A. might have actually managed to cock it up enough for the case to last years. As it was, John went to work every day and watched the case unfold on his phone and dragged himself home every night to a very crotchety Sherlock Holmes who utterly refused any more food or drink than that which would sustain him.
John did his best, staring at Sherlock's walls of photos and criminal contacts to try and figure out what, exactly, Sherlock was working on. Piecing together Moriarty's network, apparently, but Sherlock didn't stop to explain. The only evidence he had of progress at all were the waves of exalted shouts and furious rampages that took the man by turn.
"-We -together?" John asked, staring at where Sherlock was lying on his back on the couch.
"What?" Sherlock snapped, barely turning his head to better look at him. John settled back into his chair.
"-We -together? -Three weeks ago -up til now -not touch. -List of three; -first, -not kiss, -second, -not fuck, -third, not talk. -We -act -like -flatmates," John complained.
"We are flatmates, John," Sherlock explained condescendingly, shifting slightly on the couch. John scoffed, frustrated and trying not to go overwrought with that and think the man had broken it off without ever telling him. It wouldn't be out of character.
He rubbed his hands down his face roughly.
"-No, -we -partner," he argued. "-Or -least, -suppose -partner."
Sherlock glanced over at him, looking concerned and John felt his breathing stop for a moment, scared. Surely the man still wanted -
"Am I supposed to kiss you, then? Would that be better? Because this is a complicated case and -" Sherlock started.
He's still with me. John nodded swiftly, letting himself relax again.
"-No," he answered Sherlock, shaking his head. "-You -don't want -touch -me, -don't touch -me."
Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. The man nodded suddenly and went back to staring at the ceiling. John growled to himself and had to wave at the man.
"-This -about -you -not talk -me. -I -your -partner. -I help you. -If -you -not talk -me, -I -useless. -Happen -something; -you -need -tell me," John ranted. Sherlock blinked at him before opening his mouth in that 'ah' of realization.
"I wondered when this would happen," he said cryptically and turned back to the ceiling.
Great.
John waved again.
"-happen -what?" John demanded.
"When your pride would catch up to you. I knew it would happen eventually," Sherlock stated, his voice too light, almost cheerful in his realization. "You don't like tagging behind. You shouldn't worry, it's a normal emotion. It was much more unusual that you didn't seem to have it."
Sherlock swung his legs up and around to sit up on the couch, focusing fully on him now for the first time in weeks.
"There is nothing else I can offer you, John. I can not explain every step of my logic at every turn. How much work would be lost under such a regimen?" he explained slowly, looking every bit as awkward as he had at Angelo's the first night, saying he was married to his work.
He's preparing to break up with me.
"-No," John answered. "-Pride -not -need. -I -not help -much -with -thought. -Know -that. -That -alright. -But -this -case -involve -me. -Danger where? -you -need -tell -me. -Let -me -fight. -You -know -case, -I help you. -Something -you -don't know -I know. -I -don't help -with -puzzle. -I -help -with -everything -else. -You -need -me. -We -good -partner. -But -only -if -you -talk with me."
Sherlock rolled over onto his back, further away so he couldn't see.
"Fuck," John cursed, throwing his hands up. The man was infuriating. Sherlock always was, but in this moment John just wanted a man who'd share his life with him. John got up from his chair, wanting to be anywhere else and headed for the stairs. He slammed the door on the way out, wishing Sherlock could hear it.
~~/~~
Moriarty was better at this. That much was clear from the court case. The man knew people; he was like Mycroft, played them like so many strings. Sherlock knew puzzles better, that was obvious from the solid winning streak he'd had before they'd ended up in that pool, but Moriarty had changed the game to suit his strengths now. They weren't playing with puzzles, they were playing with people.
Sherlock turned toward the ceiling, watching the dust fly overhead. John had slammed the door. He wished he had no connections but Mycroft again. That had been a wonderful existence, a safe existence, where the only one who could be hurt was the most powerful man in the country and not easily fooled.
Moriarty was playing with John now and it was working. John was talking about them being partners – about an 87% chance he was either looking for marriage or a break up from as far as Sherlock had tallied such conversations. And then he'd slammed the door -angry, then. Not good, and Sherlock was supposed to do something -stay, leave him alone, follow him, plead, touch him somehow? - there was no clear way to know what, which meant there was a high chance he'd chosen wrong.
He couldn't play that game with Moriarty. He'd never win it. He needed to focus on the case, Moriarty's web, and tear it down before Moriarty took everything from him. He didn't want it to be just Mycroft and him again.
~~/~~
Sherlock pulled his hands through his hair. There was a time limit, based in how long John's faith in him would hold out against all evidence, and he had no idea how long it'd last. He breathed slowly, forcing his heart to calm as he refocused on the problem before him. Moriarty was being released within the hour, he was sure of it. The trial was ending; he could see it in his mind, the judge advising the jury.
"You must find him guilty," Sherlock muttered to himself and closed his eyes. There was little to be gained from going to prison. No, Moriarty would stay out of jail. It was time for the next part of their battle. The verdict would come out in his favor – likely determined by duress but there were other means, too many to determine the exact method Moriarty would chose.
John would be shocked by it. Sherlock had little doubt.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. Sherlock opened his eyes. John, no doubt. Sherlock pulled himself up, deciding to make the tea himself. Mrs. Hudson was out to the store and he wanted the tea hot. He hid the evidence wall and played violin while he waited. There was no point starting on any of his experiments when he had so little time. He had to beat Moriarty at this game. He'd never find another John. It was this battle or he'd live his life out alone.
He kept the mirror by his periphery vision to wait for the man's arrival and Moriarty didn't disappoint. Sherlock put down his bow when he glimpsed the door's shadow slide slightly. The door had been nudged. Moriarty pushed it open with a single hand and stood in the doorway, apparently waiting for him to turn.
"Most people knock," Sherlock commented, though it wasn't true – at least not for that door. "But then, you're not most people I suppose," he added, just to show off. He pulled his violin from his shoulder and moved to put it away in the case on the mantle.
"Kettle's just boiled," he offered.
"-Y-O-H-A-N-N -S-E-B-A-S-T-I-A-N, -if -hear -that -appalled," Moriarty mentioned, grabbing an apple.
Yohann Sebastian -almost certainly 'Bach', made more likely by the fact that he was playing the man's first sonata. Appalled -why? Two options – because he'd played it badly or because he'd cut it off. Moriarty glanced around the apartment, not looking impressed.
"-You -mind?" he asked, glancing at the chairs.
"Please," Sherlock offered, gesturing to John's chair. Moriarty took the other. A power play, and a strangely trivial one. Why?
Sherlock sat across from the man, still curious.
"-You -know, -he -on -death -bed, -die -soon. -Son -play -piano, -his -piece. -Bach -listen, -listen, -listen. -Before -piece -end, -boy -stop, -"
"And the dying man jumped out of his bed, ran straight to the piano, and finished it," Sherlock said, doing his best to hide his surprise. Moriarty didn't only speak sign language – he spoke their sign language. How long had he been watching them? Yet again Moriarty proved himself one of the only men in the world Sherlock could understand.
Would I have joined him, if it weren't for John?
It was possible. He wanted to prove himself to the man, wanted to watch what would happen if they played this game with eachother, see the sparks fly – but he'd lose John.
"-Melody -not finish; -he -not tolerate," Jim added.
"Neither can you. That's why you've come," Sherlock finished, getting up walk to the tea table. Did the man think he was too slow to understand? That could be useful.
"-But -honest. -You -tiny bit -happy," Moriarty demanded before he cut into his apple.
"What, with the verdict?" Sherlock asked, pouring his tea. Nothing else made sense. But Moriarty wanted to underestimate him and Sherlock liked that idea just as well. He had to beat this man.
"-Your -world; -I -there -again," Moriarty answered.
That's true.
He wanted to play. Moriarty gazed up into his eyes as Sherlock passed him to sit down.
He's enamored of me. That could be useful too. God, he wanted to watch the sparks fly. One game he couldn't play, with the only man in the world who could challenge him.
John is worth more.
Why?
It made no sense. Why was his partner worth more than the best opponent he'd ever have?
"-Every -fairy -story -need -villain -old -school. -You -need -me -or -you -nothing. -Why? -We -alike, -you -me. -But -you -boring. -Side -angels, -you -there," Moriarty drew a picture with his hands, showing the angels lined up side by side and pointing to where Sherlock sat, an angel amongst them all. This was how sign was supposed to look, a whole story painted with color, not a list of words. That was obvious, and after months John couldn't do it at all.
Sherlock picked up his cup, pretending to give himself time to think. It was obvious, John would win, John was everything. And Moriarty likely knew everything, he was Mycroft that way. But Moriarty had to think he was stupid enough to think he could hide it.
"Got to the jury, of course," Sherlock commented finally.
Duh.
"-Tower -London -doors -open, -open -open. -I walk inside easily. -Hotel, -twelve -rooms, -you -think -I -not enter? -Doors closed, -I approach and hit doors, -they stay shut?" Moriarty scoffed and glanced at the television.
I didn't need the hint, Sherlock thought, even as he was grateful for it. Moriarty was going to underestimate him heartily – maybe that would allow him enough time to save it all.
"Cable network," Sherlock filled in.
"-T-V; -every -hotel -bedroom -have -one. -Every -person -have -pressure -point. -Something -they -want -protect. -Push, -they fall away easily," Moriarty replied.
Sherlock sat down across from the genius, ready to spend a tedious afternoon across from a man telling him what he already knew. Still, it was a relief to have someone speak to him, the language blooming into all it could be.
He hated pretending he was so ignorant about the world as to believe the P vs. NP problem had been solved and had lead to a method. He knew what the P vs. NP problem could do to cryptography, to all its applications; Moriarty wasn't exaggerating. Modern security systems would be rendered trivial for years if 3-SAT was solved. But his mother had almost killed herself on that problem. He knew what it would take to solve it, and it wasn't a tapped pattern of Bach's Partita number one on a pant leg. But god, he was going to pretend it was even if it killed him.
Moriarty left and Sherlock scoffed out a laugh. As if P vs. NP had been solved by a man who thought 'I owe you' carved into an apple would have an emotional effect on a sociopath. He was one step ahead.
~~/~~
Sherlock knew why Moriarty had gone to trial; that at least was obvious by the fact that the tantrums had subsided, but the genius hadn't seen fit to share it. John was out of this case, apparently. That hurt, but he was hardly going to complain to Mycroft. He hadn't seen the man since that strange night in his house, but he was hardly surprised to be dragged back to his grand house. He was, however, surprised to see the sensationalist magazine on the posh club's end table.
"You read this stuff?" he asked, picking up the article promising 'Sherlock: The Shocking Truth" with the strapline "Close Friend Richard Brook Tells All"
"I'd love to know where she got her information," John mentioned lightly. They'd stop talking about Sherlock or they wouldn't lift their arms for weeks.
"Someone called Brook. Recognize the name?" Mycroft replied, his voice too light – like John was supposed to get some inside joke. John lowered the papers so he could see the man and shook his head.
"School friend maybe?" he suggested.
Hardly a friend, to give a reporter such information.
Mycroft laughed snidely and John wanted to punch him.
"Of Sherlock's?" Mycroft asked, chuckling. "But that's not why I asked you here."
Four international assassins and Mycroft asking him to watch out for Sherlock. John scoffed out a laugh as he left. Like there was any question of that. He felt himself frown as he hailed a cab. Mycroft had to know there was no protection someone if anyone was determined to kill him – killing people was just too easy for that. There was nothing more inherently frightening about a darkened parking garage than a well-lit street – getting shot felt just the same.
John climbed into the cab, concerned. If the assassins were just waiting for an order they were the same as any other sharpshooter with a target on his head and he'd kill them like any other enemy soldier. But if this was some other ploy in Moriarty's game he'd have to leave them breathing. He just had to trust that Sherlock would figure out which it was before either of them got shot.
John got back to 221B to see the front door hanging wide open – Mrs. Hudson was likely airing the place out. Hopefully she'd vacuumed. John paid the cabbie and started for the door, only to hesitate before he reached it. There was an envelope propped up against the doorstep. It was a strangely dark brown, some all-natural material he'd expect from Greenpeace or some such, but otherwise it felt like a normal envelope.
It was unaddressed. John felt his eyebrows furrow as he picked the thing up, hoping he wasn't about to stumble onto one of Mrs. Hudson's love letters. The envelope was too heavy for a letter and John's mind flashed automatically to the anthrax scares. Still, he figured, sliding his finger under the seal, the assassins had easier ways of killing him if that's what they chose.
Brown dust fell out, onto his feet. John caught the debris in his fingers, feeling his eyebrows rise. The argument for an anthrax package was certainly looking more promising. It was a dry, clumpy dust that skittered over the ground by his feet as it fell. John tipped the envelope up, saving its contents. No doubt Sherlock would have an answer. Some plea for a new case, perhaps. Some clever code Sherlock would decipher in a moment and call a paltry attempt to gain his interest. Still, he'd give it to the man all the same.
"'Scuse, mate," a man stated and John stepped out of the way automatically, turning to see a giant tattooed man stride past him, hauling a stepladder before him. John followed the man inside, shoving the mystery envelope into his pocket as he went.
"-Weird -happen," he started as he came into the living room. He stopped signing immediately, hesitating in the doorway. Greg and Donovan were in their flat, both standing by Sherlock. "-what happen?" he asked before he thought to speak. Greg and Donovan both looked at him askance.
I've gotten too used to silence here.
"Kidnapping," Sherlock replied without looking at him, crossing to his laptop.
"Rufus Bruhl, the ambassador to the U.S," Lestrade added, glancing between them like something was off.
"He's in Washington, isn't he?" John protested, figuring that if Sherlock had decided to ignore him he might as well get his information from Lestrade.
"Not him – his children, Max and Claudette, age seven and nine," Lestrade answered.
Oh. Hell.
Donovan flashed him the pictures of the children.
"They're at St. Aldate's," Greg added.
"Posh boarding place down in Surrey," Donovan explained.
"Translate for me?" Lestrade asked, jerking his head at Sherlock. "I need to tell him that the school broke up; all the other boarders went home – just a few kids remained, including these two."
"And that the kids have vanished," Donovan added.
"And that the ambassador has asked for you two personally," Lestrade returned.
John signed and tapped on Sherlock's arm.
"If it's not about the case, leave me alone; I'm too busy for sex. You know that," Sherlock stated without looking up from his laptop.
John closed his eyes. The flat had gone stupidly, stupidly silent.
Whatever. I'm not going back to the army. John tapped Sherlock's shoulder again.
"What, then?" Sherlock demanded, still without looking up from his ten tabs of recent news articles.
John moved to his periphery and started signing. Sherlock nodded slightly when he finished and John turned to face the music. Lestrade and Donovan were both still watching them, eyebrows up.
"We don't believe it, you know. You shouldn't worry. Psychopaths don't feel love. They don't feel anything," Donovant stated. "Don't bother being embarrassed, is all, we know he's lying," she added, shrugging.
Lestrade glanced between Sherlock and him again, not looking as sure.
"Why would I be embarrassed?" John asked and Donovan smirked slightly, like he'd just answered a different question. John felt his eyebrows furrow, but Sherlock was pulling up from his chair before he had a chance to ask. The man had strode past them and was out the door without a word only a second later and John resignedly moved to follow.
"Not the healthiest relationship in the world, is it?" Lestrade asked and John blinked, trying to figure out what kind of relationship Lestrade thought it was. Either way, he was right.
"The Reichenbach hero," Donovan added sarcastically.
We'd seemed healthy enough before Moriarty got involved. Or at least maybe getting there.
Is he getting bored of me already, then? John wondered, holding out an arm to gesture for Donovan to lead them out.
"Isn't it great to be working with a celebrity?" Lestrade snarked, moving toward the door.
~~/~~