A/N- A little epilogue, of sorts, to my Prude, Pasty and British fic. Four years after taking down Moriarty's organization, Sherlock and John are paid a visit by Irene Adler, with another case for the boys. Nothing spectacular or long, just a little one-shot that I had stuck in my head. My husband is trying to convince me to continue a gigantic series, which I'll admit is tempting, but not conducive to novel writing! Anyway I hope you enjoy this, and review if you'd like :)
John Watson thought maybe after six years things would get easier, if not calmer or less violent, he'd at least bounce back faster than he had when he first met the ego-maniacal, obsessive, curly haired man with his weird experiments and his violin and incessant chatter. On the latter, John confronted him once, saying, "Didn't you say you didn't talk for days on end? When can I expect that?"
"You're easy to talk to," was Sherlock's reply.
John couldn't really argue with that, as much as he wanted to. He was limping now, hobbling along the pavement, his hip hurting more than it had the night before. John had been through a lot with Sherlock, and because of Sherlock. It had been four years since the Sherlock-died-we-saved-the-country incident, and John thought maybe things would calm down after they took down Moriarty's organization.
He didn't really consider the few who did escape going underground and continuing their crime spree, on a somewhat lesser level than before. Still, there were always going to be psychopaths, murderers, people eating each others faces, and going on gun sprees in the cinemas.
There were always going to be mad people, angry with Sherlock because he was so... Sherlock, and chasing them down as they came to the conclusion on who-dun-it. That's why John was limping now, as it were, because they had been chased off the top of a building. Sherlock had jumped to the next building over, spry, like a cat, landing on all fours.
John, however, had jumped, missed completely and landed in the back of a truck packed to the top with bags of yard trimming. In the movies, when people made those landings, they jumped up, shook it off, and kept going after the bad guy.
In John's case, his hip was pulled from the socket and he lay there gasping in pain until Sherlock found his way down and managed to call him an ambulance. John had been shot, beaten, tortured, given nerve agents which had rendered him blind and nearly immobile, so he hadn't expected it to hurt so damn much when the doctors held him down and shoved his hip back into place.
"Mother of God," he gasped. He was gripping Sherlock by the front of his coat, and the taller man was staring down at him, one eyebrow raised.
"Surely it can't be that bad," Sherlock said as he detached John's hands from his front.
"Let's yank your hip out of the socket and see how bad it is," John gasped, once he had gained control of his senses.
"Well thanks to your poor calculations of your ill timed jump, I lost Bryant. Get a cab home, I believe I know where he's going to be and I won't be able to sleep tonight if I don't make this arrest."
"Sure thing, Officer Holmes," John grumbled as Sherlock tipped him a wave and rushed out the door.
"He always like that?" the nurse asked him as she helped John to sit up on the exam table.
John grimaced and shifted his weight to his other side. "Always."
"How long you two been together, then?" she asked as she wrote something on his chart.
"We're not-" John started but realized it wouldn't matter anyway and he just rolled his eyes. "Six years. Six blood years that I've been left places and injured, and sent home in cabs while he runs off like a madman, and probably won't ring me to let me know he's alive unless he's actually dying, and even then..." John realized he was ranting and he trailed off, blushing a little.
"You must really love him then, eh?"
John chuckled and attempted to hop down off of the table, which turned out to be a huge mistake as he nearly toppled over from the pain. "Christ," he gasped.
"Well it's still going to hurt a bit," the nurse chastised him. "You've just had your leg ripped out of its socket, it's not going to feel great, you know."
"Can I go now?" John barked at her, tired, hurting and really desperate for his arm chair and a cup of boiling hot tea.
"Just finishing up your paperwork. I've sent someone from the pharmacy with your pills."
"Uh no, no pills thanks," John said quickly. Sherlock didn't always have a problem with drugs, but with the cases fewer, and more, as he described dull and boring, the more he craved them, and John didn't want them around. "I'll just, you know, take a Tylenol or something."
"You're going to want something stronger, believe me," she said.
"Honestly, I'll be fine," John insisted.
The nurse frowned but shrugged and went to cancel the drugs. She returned with his paperwork, and soon after John was checked out, some after-care instructions which he tipped in the bin the moment he was outside, and before long he was limping to a cab and heading straight for the Baker Street flat.
When he got in, Mrs Hudson was waiting at the landing for him, holding the cane he hadn't seen in years. "Sherlock called," she said as she offered him the cane. "He said you'd be needing this, and some tea. Got into a spot of trouble, did you?"
John glowered at the stairs and sighed. "Just a bit, no thanks to him."
"Will he be home tonight?"
John put one foot up on the stairs and grimaced at the pain. "Probably, might be late though. Mrs Hudson, I've changed my mind. I'm going out for a pint. If Sherlock gets back early let him know."
"I'm not your secretary," she said, though John knew the old woman would give the message, and do so with a smile. "Are you sure you want to go out?"
"Mrs Hudson, I've fallen off a building tonight, nearly broken my hip, probably would have died if it hadn't been for piles of yard trimmings, and I've had to turn down drugs to dull the pain. I'm absolutely sure I want to go out for a pint, and I'm absolutely sure I don't want to come home until I've had a very long, very good shag."
"Oh you dirty boy," she cried, blushing a little and slapping his arm. "Just be safe, you hear me?"
"Always," John said, and then he was gone.
The pub was close, and as sore and tired as he was, he walked. The air was crisp, autumn now, with winter well on its heels. The pub was crowded, people were well drunk and happy. John went straight to the bar and ordered a lager, tipping half back in one go.
At first glance, no one would really think John a very smooth man. He had an awkward gait, his hair still cut military style, and he was far too polite for his own good. But there was something about him that women just loved. Maybe it was the eyes, deep set, tired, wrinkled at the ends, but full of something that attracted women. It could have been his mouth, always turned up in a smile, even when he was absolutely irritated at the world. More than likely it was the way he said, "Hello." Simple, friendly, and more open than anyone had ever been before.
It didn't take him long to get the attention of the short brunette at the end of the bar. She was young, younger than he usually preferred, probably in her mid twenties. She was cute though, and her black rimmed glasses made her look very smart. "Smart is the new sexy," Irene's voice echoed in his head, and she was right.
After a few drinks John learned that this girl was smart, graduated from University, gift from her grandparents opened her up a shop in downtown London. She had a flat just round the corner, ground floor, she mentioned when she saw the cane in John's hand.
He didn't remember what led to the kissing at the bar, but he did remember saying, "No I don't mind the walk there," and the warm hand in his.
I deserve this, he thought to himself as her expressive hands removed his trousers, the warm palms touching the tops of his thighs. He hated himself for a moment, when he thought about Sherlock as her mouth ghosted over his feverish skin, but he worried for a moment, worried that Sherlock was alright. As she busied herself with her own knickers, John turned the ringer on his phone up, and then decided that if Sherlock needed him, he'd ring.
Sherlock didn't, and John forgot all about worry for the next few hours.
John had one-offs all the time. John had, as the kids said these days, game. He stopped having girlfriends, of course, because every time he tried the woman would end up kidnapped and nearly killed and then would make a rather embarrassing scene about loving him but not being able to handle the danger of his job.
If it wasn't danger, the woman was crying about his relationship with Sherlock, unable to understand his loyalty, his absolute marriage to the other man. She wouldn't believe him when he said that he wasn't romantically involved with Sherlock. She didn't quite get it when he dropped plans to be at his side, at his every beck and call. It always ended ugly that way.
John also almost never spent the night over at a woman's house when he had finished with her. He never exchanged numbers, never promised to call her again. John didn't like hurting people, he didn't like leaving expectations and not living up to them. That wasn't the kind of person John was.
He felt bad the next morning when he woke up in the woman's bed, alone, but clearly having had slept next to her all night. He supposed he didn't realize just how tired he was after all the shagging, not to mention the whole falling off of a building bit, and he winced as he sat up, his hip still aching badly.
"Your clothes are on the chair!" the woman called. He didn't even remember her name and he felt terrible about it.
He slipped on his pants and trousers and reached for his phone. Sherlock had texted only once, and only to say, Finished. Mind the stairs when you come up. They might still be wet.
John didn't want to know what that was supposed to mean. He slipped his shirt on, pulling a face because it still smelled a little bit like hospital and yard trimmings. He found his cane near the front door and he paused as the girl poked her head out of the bathroom.
"Thanks for last night," she said.
"Thank you," John replied. "I'm sorry I er... I mean... I don't usually..."
"Don't worry about it. I'm a lesbian, you know. I told you that but you may have been too drunk by then to remember. I just like a bit of cock every now and then. Look me up if you're ever in the mood."
John blushed. "Er, right. Thanks."
She winked at him and then disappeared back into her shower. John left the flat, grateful that he would only have to climb one set of stairs. He was shagged, and that was great, but he was sore and irritated, and he wished Sherlock would show just a scrap of sympathy for everything John had to go through because of the curly haired man.
He made it back to 221B in just a few minutes and found the door unlocked. There was a thick smell of coffee coming from upstairs, which John suddenly became desperate for, and he ignored the pain as he climbed the steps up to their flat.
Sherlock was in the kitchen when John arrived, mixing some sort of liquid into a powder on the kitchen table. John involuntarily winced, part of him expecting a slight explosion. Instead the liquid turned a rather violent purple, and Sherlock set the jar over a small flame.
"I expected you home earlier," he said as John helped himself to coffee.
"I couldn't make the stairs," John replied. He took the coffee black, finding it bitter and lovely.
"I see you found a place to stay. Anyone I've met?"
John shook his head. "Met her at the pub."
Sherlock looked at John, his eyes darting over his body from head to toe. "She won't call, she's a lesbian."
"I don't even want to know how the hell you know that," John grumbled. He hobbled across the kitchen, but stopped when Sherlock touched his shoulder.
"I want to try acupressure on your hip," Sherlock said, surveying John's limp. "I haven't been able to practice it much, and I want to see if my calculations and modifications are correct."
"No," John said, pulling away from Sherlock. "I'm in enough pain as it is, I don't need you experimenting on me."
"Well you can allow me to try now, conscious and able to tell me what hurts and what doesn't, or you can wait until you're asleep when I'm going to do it anyway," Sherlock said. "Your choice."
John glared at him. "Mind if I have a shower first?"
"I insist. I don't really enjoy the smell of emergency rooms and human secretion," he deadpanned.
John had been spoken to like this for the last six years, and yet he still blushed. He went straight to the shower and turned it on, letting the water warm up while he fetched a towel. The shower was short, but helpful in relaxing John's muscles, and he noticed the throbbing in his hip was becoming less pronounced.
John wandered into his bedroom and pulled out a pair of jeans, loose and comfortable ones, socks, pants, and then went to find a shirt. John, being a military man, liked things neat and orderly. His shirts hung organized by style, color, and sleeve length.
He pulled out a brown one with buttons and started to put it on. He got two buttons in, however, and found three missing. Frowning, wondering how that could have happened, he selected another shirt, grey this time, longer sleeves. He put it on and again got two buttons in before he found three missing.
Throwing his shirts on the ground, John began sifting through everything hanging and found the same thing over and over. Each shirt was missing the three middle buttons. Face red, John stormed into the kitchen, wearing only his towel, a handful of shirts in his hand.
"Where the hell are my buttons, Sherlock?"
Sherlock was standing over his boiling beaker, staring at John with a half-smile. "Your buttons?"
"Don't act stupid, Sherlock. The three middle buttons on all of my shirts have gone missing. Where. Are. They."
Sherlock sighed, shrugging his shoulders and going back to the beaker. "I borrowed them."
"You borrowed them? For what, exactly?"
"Experiment. Different plastics in different colors, melting points and what not. It was important, John, honestly. I didn't think it would matter."
"How..." John stammered. "What, exactly, am I supposed to wear now? You've taken all of my buttons!"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "What about your Christmas jumpers? You love those and it's nearly Christmas."
"It's bloody October, Sherlock!" John cried. "Why couldn't you use your bloody buttons?"
"Well that wouldn't do, would it? I mean, let's face it, John, I'm far more concerned with my clothes, not to mention the cost of my shirts vs yours, not to be rude of course, but it would hardly serve me any purpose pulling off the buttons from my shirts and melting them, would it?"
"This is... unbelievable," John muttered. He rolled his head back and turned, and then froze to see a somewhat smirking Irene Adler sitting in his favorite armchair. He gasped, pulling his towel tighter around his waist. "What... what are you... how long have you been sitting there?"
"Nearly the entire time. You can drop the towel if you like, Dr Watson, I don't think any one in this room would mind that view."
John reddened. "My god, it never ends. It never bloody ends in this house, Sherlock!" He stormed off and rummaged through his things. He managed to find a jumper without any Christmas themed colors or knitting patterns, and he pulled it on. It was one of the itchier varieties, though, so irritated and uncomfortable, John stormed back into the room, taking every single shirt with him.
He tossed them onto the sofa, right on top of Sherlock's violin, and glared at his friend. "You will remedy that."
"I already sent Mrs Hudson out button shopping," Sherlock said with a pacifying smile. "Your things will be mended in no time. I'm not cruel, John." Sherlock then put down what he was working on, went to the door and grabbed his coat. "Be back in an hour. Do keep our guest comfortable, John."
John opened his mouth to argue, but Sherlock dashed off. John heard him taking the stairs two and three at a time, and then the familiar slam of the front door.
Irene smiled at John, and for the first time he really looked at her. She looked good, as usual, her hair back to black, wearing a white suit with a black silk shirt and impossibly tall, black stilettos. She had a cigarette in one of the old style silver cigarette holders and she was puffing on it lightly.
"No need to stand around, you're obviously in pain," Irene said and nodded to the sofa.
John shoved the violin and shirts over, feeling little care for Sherlock's things at the present moment, and he plopped down. His hip was aching still, and part of him had wished he'd just thrown caution to the wind and brought home the pain pills.
"Eventful night, was it?" Irene asked. "Was it your first time having sex with a lesbian?"
John's face pinked. "How could you possibly know that? Did Sherlock tell you?" John asked, because he had learned after all these years with Sherlock that sometimes the answer was the most obvious.
Irene leaned over the table, hooked her finger around the collar of John's jumper and pulled it down. She pressed her fingertip to a small love bite just below his collar bone. "That told me," she said and sat back with a little laugh. "Only two people in the world leave love bites, John. Teenagers, and lesbians. Oh you get the occasional drunk, frisky couple, but not very often, and I don't find you to be a man with a taste for children."
John went a bit green at the thought and sighed. "Yes, it was an eventful night. I fell off of a roof, had my leg dislocated, had sex with a lesbian and came home to find all the buttons on my shirt missing. Eventful, but typical."
"Have you told him how you feel?" Irene asked.
"He bloody well knows how I feel," John snapped. "We have rows once a month about him experimenting on me, or my things. I shouldn't have to explain to that man how inappropriate it is to steal my buttons."
Irene broke off into a peal of laughter. "It's not often a person gets to have a conversation so honest and ridiculous as this one."
John looked at her and then, despite his irritation, realized the truth of it and chuckled, too. "Yeah well, welcome to my world."
"I wasn't talking about the buttons, though, John. I was talking about how you feel about him. Have you told him?"
John's laughter cut off almost instantly as he looked at her. "Yes," he said, despite his desire to lie to the woman. "Yes I did. I told him that he's insufferable and impossible, and that despite the fact that I'm not even remotely gay, we're a bloody couple, and that I love him. That it's going to be him and me in the end, and as angry as it makes me, it also makes me feel..."
"Safe," she finished for him. She smiled, but her smile looked sad. "What did he say?"
"I think it was the first time in the history of the world that Sherlock Holmes had nothing to say," John said with a small smile. "He didn't need to, though."
"Everyone knows," Irene answered. "Everyone knows and everyone with half a brain is insanely jealous."
"Including yourself?" John asked her.
"Of course," she said as if that were the most obvious thing in the world. "Who wouldn't be, John. I could never have someone like you, that relationship, that marriage the two of you have. Men are too caught up in sex, and women... women are just so isolated. We may be very maternal, but we're not very kind to each other. No, I suspect I'll never have what you two have, and that does make me incredibly jealous."
"I don't understand the two of you," John said. "One minute he's risking his life to save you from terrorists, and the next he's leaving you in a room to blow up while you're carrying his..." John trailed off and then said, "Where's the baby?"
Irene frowned. "What baby?"
"The baby, your... your baby! Sherlock's baby!"
"Oh. Well you didn't think I'd keep a baby, now, did you?" Irene asked, her expression unreadable.
"Well I er..." John stammered. "I sort of thought what you did was deliberate. I mean, I figured you would keep it. Did you, you know... ter-terminate it?"
"An abortion?" she asked with wide eyes. "Hardly. I gave the baby up, of course. I'm not exactly the most maternal woman on the planet, and let's face it, with my job, there's no room for a child."
"So why did you have it?"
"Insurance," she replied.
"I hardly think a child is good insurance against Sherlock Holmes."
"Not against him, John, against you," Irene said plainly. "Thanks for that, by the way, forcing him to save my life so his child wouldn't die."
John felt his face grow hot with anger. "Why bother? Why bother at all? What's in it for you that you have this hanging over him?"
"Over you," she corrected. "It might come in handy one day. It's like the pictures I carry, John. I may never use them. They may sit in their little files for the rest of my life, never being touched, admired, gawked at. But why not take the precaution?"
"Why are you here?" John asked.
"It's all business, I'm afraid," she said. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small photograph. "This is Holly, she is the biological daughter of myself and Sherlock Holmes. She looks like him, don't you think?"
In the photo was a small toddler, ice blue eyes, black curls, looking somber and sullen between her two adopted parents. They seemed happy, the woman blonde, bright eyed, and the husband tall with soft features and brown hair.
"She's quite the charmer, I'm told," Irene said, "but her mind is all her father's. I haven't met her, of course, but I do get updates from time to time."
"She's lovely," John said, not really sure what else to say, or how to feel.
"She's also missing," Irene said. "I took great precautions to make sure no one in the world learned that this child was the product of Sherlock Holmes. Unfortunately, someone did figure out she was the biological child of mine, and it probably won't take long before they pinpoint who her natural father is."
"How did they figure out she was yours?" John asked.
"Her adopted mother is my sister," Irene said. "Her name is Abby, and she doesn't know, of course, that she's my sister. She's six years younger than I am, and she was raised by her mother and her step-father. My father didn't tell anyone of his affair, but I knew. I knew about it, and the baby. I had always kept tabs on little Abby. She was having fertility problems, so I had an agent contact her. She and her adoring husband were more than willing to welcome a little girl into their home. I'm not sure who leaked the information, and believe me when I find them, they will be very sorry they did so... before they die. The important thing now is to get her back home and take care of any loose ends."
"What makes you think Sherlock will help you?"
"Because you aren't going to let his little girl die, are you, Dr Watson."
John looked at the photograph. He didn't even need to think on it, and as much as he wanted to hand the photo back and tell the woman to piss off, he didn't. "He's not going to be easy to convince."
"Yes he is," Irene said with a smile. "Just show him those puppy dog eyes of yours, John. Sherlock doesn't like to tell you no." Irene fell silent a moment, her eyes looking down at the photo. "Her name is Holly, because Hamish just wouldn't do for a little girl."
John felt something, sharp and emotional, stab him from the inside out. My god, this woman, The Woman, she was too dangerous for John's liking. He shuddered and pushed the photo away. "Who has her? You have some idea, I'm sure."
"Oh I know exactly who has her," Irene said. She pulled out another photo and handed it to him. The man in it was young, and looked vaguely familiar. His features slim and pointed, hair short and black, eyes blue and even in the photo, insane. "You'll recognize his surname, I'd imagine."
John turned the photo over and felt the world swim for a moment. Michael Moriarty. "You're joking."
"Much like Sherlock, Jim had a brother. Only his is a baby brother, who idolized Jimmy with his whole, black heart. He's got my daughter... Sherlock's daughter. He's not as insane as Jim, but he's close, and I don't want to know what he's capable of. I may not be maternal, but that is still my child. I want her home, and I want Michael dead."
John's hands were trembling as he set the photo down. He rubbed his face and desperately wished he had tea right then. "Where do I begin?"
"Don't ask me," Irene said. Right then the door opened and Sherlock walked in. Irene stood and bent down, kissing John on the cheek, leaving a perfect imprint of her lips in her bright red lipstick on his pale skin. "And please don't let me down."
Irene walked around the sofa and touched Sherlock on the cheek. "It was nice to see you, Sherlock. I only wish we had more time to play."
"Indeed. I suspect whatever it is you want, John has already told you no."
Irene smiled. "I'll be in touch soon. Have a good afternoon."
~pqpqpqpq~
Sherlock had been pacing for over thirty minutes, and after saying, "What?" about six times in a row, hadn't said anything at all. Occasionally he'd stop pacing, pick up the photographs, stare hard at them, and then put them down, pacing again.
John had left the room, made tea and a sandwich and had eaten it without Sherlock having seemed to notice. Now John sat in the chair, arms folded, watching as the curly haired man continued that routine. "As soon as you've come up with your answer, let me know."
Sherlock started, as though John had jumped out from a hiding spot and shouted, "Boo!" at him. He stared at John as though he was unaware John had been sitting there the entire time. "Answer... to what?"
John rolled his eyes. "On whether or not we take this case, Sherlock."
"Brother. He's got a brother. A mad little brother," Sherlock said, gripping the sides of his head suddenly. "My God, John! How did I miss that?"
"Well I hardly think you two got round to chatting about family up on that roof, did you," John pointed out. "I mean he was busy trying to get you to jump and blowing his brains out, wasn't he?"
"I studied him after, for weeks. Found out what I could. Moriarty isn't even his real name. He doesn't exist, John, in any real sense. How does he have a brother?"
"Maybe they're not really related," John offered lamely.
"Rubbish," Sherlock sneered. "Same receding hairline, bald by age forty-two, eyes with the same wrinkle marks here and here, suggesting they both are very nearsighted, squinting often, too proud to obtain glasses though, or more likely afraid that someone will notice them more often than not. Chin tips down, teeth thin and crooked, yellowish, suggesting they both have a penchant for wine and cigarettes. You can see from the part in his hair he, like Moriarty, was left handed, and though this man appears young, he's not nearly as young as one might think. At least thirty, I'd wager, and that would make him and Jim Moriarty only two years apart."
John let out a breath. "So what? We find him and we kill him."
"That's what she wants," Sherlock spat.
"She wants your daughter found safe," John replied.
"Do stop calling the child my daughter," Sherlock bit. "My daughter implies that I had something to do with parenting her, which clearly I have not, because a genetic transfer in a drug-induced state hardly qualifies me to be a parent."
John stood up, throwing his hands in the air. "So fine, she's not your daughter, she's your genetic spawn. Regardless, another madman has a child, doesn't matter what child, any child, and god knows what he's going to do with her if we don't get there in time."
"What do you mean in time?" Sherlock asked. "What more do you know, John?"
"Only that more than likely this Moriarty is going to figure out that you and Irene finally did have a go at it, and oops, out popped a baby. What do you think he's going to do when he realizes he has Sherlock Holmes' child in his possession?"
Sherlock, if possible, paled even further. He sat down on the sofa, looking almost defeated. "I've never heard of his man, John. We need to start with research, to find out who knows him, and where we can find him now. I want this taken care of now."
"Where do you want to start?" John asked.
Sherlock looked at him sideways before grabbing his coat and not waiting long for John to do the same. They shot down to the street and Sherlock led the way, to wherever they were going.
Wherever turned out to be the prison, and with a hefty bribe, Sherlock was left alone, no John, no guards, no cameras, with a particular prisoner, one of the higher ups from Moriarty's organization. John heard noises, noises he didn't want to know about, and forty-five minutes Sherlock stepped out of the cell, breathing heavy, hands covered in blood, hair a mess.
"Let's go," he said swiftly.
"Where to?" John demanded as he followed Sherlock out of the prison.
"Paris."
They opted for the Chunnel. It wasn't quicker, but they could get a ticket faster, and their plane would have been just taking off by the time they arrived. The moment they stepped out onto Paris' street, Sherlock's phone instantly started ringing and buzzing. He checked the number only once and then put his phone on silent, saying nothing as he marched the cobblestone streets, hands in his pocket, collar up, head down.
It was only a moment after that John's phone rang, and he looked at it. , the caller ID read. John sighed and answered it, knowing that while Sherlock could escape his brother, John would not be able to.
"Hello Mycroft."
"I've just got word from the prison. I would appreciate a short answer, as my time is limited. I'm flying off to Germany in a few minutes but my brother, as you can imagine, has me a bit concerned." Mycroft didn't sound concerned, but John knew that Mycroft's tone rarely mattered.
John looked over at Sherlock who gave John a short nod before continuing his almost impossibly swift pace. It was starting to get darker now, the shops were closing up for the evening, the vendors starting to pack up their carts. John wasn't sure where they were going, but he knew it was going to be dangerous.
"Irene Adler's been to see us," he said quietly.
"That I knew. She was spotted leaving your flat by cab," Mycroft said, sounding bored. "She's staying at the St. James."
"Well she has a case for us, it seems," John said. He relayed the information, leaving out the bit where the girl was the daughter of Sherlock. That would only set Mycroft off and upset Sherlock, and now was not the time. "We're in Paris, Mycroft."
"Damn it," Mycroft said. "Another Moriarty and Sherlock thinks he's just going to take care of this on his own, does he? I'm supposed to be in Germany in two hours."
"So go to Germany," John said irritably. They had reached a tall building full of what looked to be abandoned flats. Of bloody course it would be here, John thought to himself as Sherlock tried the door and found it locked. "Sherlock is obviously on the case, we're actually... wherever we're supposed to be, now."
"John," Mycroft said in a warning tone, "please don't let him do anything... stupid."
"Ring off," Sherlock said, his voice low and sharp. When John hesitated, Sherlock snatched the phone away, growled, "He'll have to call you back, dear brother," and snapped the mobile shut. He shoved the mobile into his own pocket and turned to face John.
"He's in here, in the basement. He's been living here the past two years, doing very little, except ordering a few hits now and again."
John frowned. "You learned all of this from the man at the prison?"
Sherlock grimaced. "I learned more than I asked for. No one knows about the girl, somehow Moriarty got this information from someone outside of the organization. From what I learned, this Moriarty is the black sheep of the family."
"How does that family even have black sheep?" John asked, his eyebrows raised.
"He doesn't possess a mind anywhere near Jim's capabilities, but he's mad. From what I've been told, he's frighteningly mad, and we'll be lucky if we're not carrying that little girl out in pieces."
"Last time Moriarty and his men had children they fed them Mercury, Sherlock," John said, feeling a bit ill.
"We should be so lucky tonight," Sherlock said. "I'm assuming Mycroft is on his way, but it's going to take him at least a half an hour just to get over here, and another to find us. I don't think we have time to waste." He reached into his pocket and pulled out John's gun. "Take this, and don't be afraid to kill him."
"When have I ever hesitated," John reminded him.
Sherlock seemed satisfied with that answer, and before John could say anything else, Sherlock kicked the door down. It came crashing in with a huge clatter, echoing off the nearby buildings, and John looked around nervously, checking to see if they'd drawn any attention.
Sherlock was in, his steps quiet and quick, and John did what he could to ignore the pain in his hip and tread softly. There was an old lift, clearly broken, and a set of stairs with no lights. Sherlock led the way down in the pitch blackness, keeping his mobile open to make sure they didn't fall over anything.
It seemed they descended for ages, the air growing cooler and wet against John's face, and finally, when John was convinced they'd reached the center of the Earth, they stopped.
"There's a door here," Sherlock whispered. "I'm going to kick it down and you're going to go in shooting, do you understand me?"
"What about the girl?" John asked with wide eyes. "I can't just burst in, emptying my pistol into a room with a child in it. We don't even know where she's at."
"She'll be out of danger. Likely she'll be lying on the floor, or in a chair near a wall. Shoot around, but try to avoid any corners or spaces."
John was petrified as he watched Sherlock back up, pull his leg back, and kick out. The door opened without a fuss, and John, squinting desperately in the dim light to see, did as Sherlock asked. He went in firing.
The shots echoed in the basement, the clinking of the bullets as they hit the walls making contact with concrete and metal.
"Damn, he's gone!" Sherlock shouted, holding up a hand for John to cease fire. "Get the girl, I'm going after him."
"Don't you dare go alone, Sherlock!" John cried. He was afraid for his friend, suddenly. He was afraid to let Sherlock face another Moriarty again, alone, and risk losing him, even for another moment.
Sherlock, of course, didn't listen to John, and while John wanted to go after him, he spotted the little girl, tied to a chair, her black curls a mess, a bit of dried blood on her face. Her mouth was bound with duct tape, and though she looked petrified, she wasn't crying.
"Hi, everything's going to be okay," John said quietly. He checked the girl for explosives or potential traps, but she was clean. She was tied up and terrified, but safe. John pulled out his pocket knife and freed her from the rope and tape. With gentle tugging, he pulled the tape from her mouth and threw it aside.
She stared at him, with Sherlock's same icy blue eyes, calculating, taking everything in. Her lips were trembling and her hands, now untied, were clasped in her lap.
"I want my mummy," she said very quietly, her voice stronger than he had anticipated.
"You're going to see her soon, I promise," John said. "I'm John Watson, I'm a doctor, and I'm going to take you home, okay."
"Where's your friend?" the girl asked.
The door at the end of the room banged open and Sherlock came tearing back through it. "He's shot, but he's gone," he said angrily. "Damn it, John. Damn it. He saw us coming some how and he's gone. How's the girl?"
"Safe," John said. He held out his hand for her and she hopped off the chair. "We need to get her out of here."
There were sudden sounds of sirens as the pair mounted the steps, John carrying the girl despite his injury, and when they made it outside, Mycroft stood there with the French police waiting by.
Leaning on his umbrella, Mycroft waited until the men approached, and John gave the girl off to the paramedics on hand, so they could check her over. "You both are really trying my patience."
"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock growled. "I refuse to call you for every small thing, especially when time is of importance."
"I expect you to call me when there's a kidnapping of a British citizen, Sherlock. That is, in fact, my business."
"Piss off," Sherlock said, and stormed off.
John sighed, looking after his friend, but knew it would be no use to go after him. John looked back at Mycroft and shrugged. "He's not been himself lately."
"I suppose it's difficult to come back from the dead, even four years later," Mycroft acquiesced. "I do hope he gets over his temper tantrums soon, however. Lestrade's been complaining about Sherlock's unavailable schedule and I'd hate to have to file a formal complaint."
"He needs time," John said. "Maybe not much more, but still, time."
Mycroft looked over at the little girl who was sitting on the edge of the ambulance, her eyes wide and curious. John was not surprised that the little girl didn't appear to be frightened, though he assumed she would have a little bit of trauma after such an event.
It didn't take long for Mycroft to make the deduction about her, and his normally beady eyes were wide as he stared at John. "Impossible."
"Not impossible. Unlikely, but unfortunately true," John said.
"How?"
"Irene Adler, of course," John said with a shrug. "How else?"
"He hasn't breathed a word," Mycroft whispered.
"Of course not, and I hope you don't plan to either, though I think this little girl could probably use a bit more protection now," John said.
"Look at those eyes, her hair," Mycroft said.
"I don't really want to believe it myself, but there she sits," John said. "She planned it, Irene, and Sherlock knew. He went along with her, thinking he was gaining the upper hand."
"And he ended up handing it right over to her," Mycroft said.
"So she thought, until she realized that despite the fact that he gave in to her, and gave her what she had wanted, it didn't matter. It didn't matter to him, at all. He nearly let her die."
"What stopped him?"
John laughed angrily and shook his head. "I did. She knew I wouldn't let her die, that I wouldn't let Sherlock let her die, while she was carrying his child. She knew that I wouldn't let Sherlock's daughter be harmed by a mad man, and so yes, in a way, she has the upper hand. Because even though she can't get to him, she can get to me."
"This is mad," Mycroft growled.
"Indeed it is," John said. "I'll see to the girl until we get her back home. I assume you have a plane arranged for us?"
"Text me when he shows his pretty face again," Mycroft said, nodding to the direction Sherlock walked off in. "I'll be on my own flight to Germany, but I'll be in touch when I can."
"Thanks for the ride," John called as Mycroft walked away. With his limp more pronounced than earlier that day, John hobbled to the ambulance and took a seat next to the little girl who sat with a cup of cocoa in her hands, a blanket around her shoulders.
"Holly, is it?"
She nodded and blew on the warm liquid. "What shall I call you?"
"John is fine," he said with a nod. "Are you alright?"
"He already asked me that," she said, nodding to the paramedic.
"And what did you tell him?"
"My face hurts. The other man hit me in the face, and it hurts." Her voice was so small, so childlike, but there was something behind it, something that John recognized and he knew exactly what she'd grow up to become.
"I'm going to take you back to your mum and dad, okay?"
She nodded, her eyes trained on the street ahead of her. "Is that your friend?"
John looked up and saw Sherlock walking towards them. He approached with extreme hesitation, staring at the girl, his calculating blue eyes taking in everything he could about her. He kept a few paces back, looking at John every now and then, but his face remaining calm and passive.
"We have the same nose," she said suddenly.
Sherlock looked at her sharply. "Sorry?"
"Me and you, we have the same nose. What's your name?"
"Sherlock Holmes," he said stiffly.
"I'm Holly."
"I've been told," Sherlock said.
"My hair is like yours, too," she said and tugged on her own strand of dark curls.
Sherlock looked sharply at John and beckoned him away from the girl. John assured her he'd be back and then went round the corner with Sherlock. "She knows," Sherlock said.
"I'd say you're being paranoid, but then again this is your kid," John said, daring Sherlock's wrath at being labeled a father again. "We're going to take her home and you'll never have to hear about her again."
"She's eventually going to look me up when she's older," Sherlock said. "What do I tell her?"
John looked back at the little girl who was now apparently grilling one of the paramedics on some of the contents of the ambulance, and he laughed. "You might not have to tell her anything, by then she'll probably already have it all figured out."
~pqpqpqpq~
Little Holly was returned to her parents who lived in Bristol, and amidst tears and profuse thanks, offered a reward to Sherlock and John, who promptly declined. While John was never one to refuse money on a case, this time he couldn't bring himself to take the check.
Sherlock did his best to say as little as possible to the girl, and to her parents, and hurried off as soon as they were allowed to be free. John decided to wait in the car while Sherlock went straight to Lestrade and provided him with the information on Michael Moriarty, and his possible whereabouts.
Luckily, at least in John's eyes, Sherlock seemed rather unconcerned with catching this other Moriarty himself, and was seemingly grateful to leave it to uniformed men to do the deed. They were silent on the drive home, and while Sherlock seemed to be ignoring John's pointed stares, he did offer John an arm to assist him up the stairs and to the sofa.
With a heavy sigh, John collapsed and pinched his eyes closed with his thumb and forefinger. "I need a holiday, Sherlock. I don't think my body can take much more."
"It looks like Mrs Hudson mended your shirts," Sherlock said, prodding a neatly folded bundle of material that was sitting on the table.
"At least I'll have something to wear tomorrow," John said with a sigh.
Sherlock went to the window and peered out. "The Woman is leaving," he said quietly.
"Is she outside?"
"Just driving by, it seems," Sherlock said. He let the curtain fall back into place and turned to look at John. "You were good with that child, John."
John looked up at Sherlock and frowned. "They're not aliens, you know. They're just tiny people. You just reassure them that they're not going to die and they're usually fine. That child needed a lot less reassurance than most would have, though."
"I expect so," Sherlock said. He sat down, kicked off his shoes and put his socked feet on the table. "I was far more emotional than that girl at her age."
"Your mum told me," John said with a smirk.
Sherlock glared. "I expect she did, what with giving you old photos of me."
"Don't be cross, Sherlock, she thought you were dead at the time," John defended with a small smile. "And for the record, you were pretty cute back then."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but a small smile played on his lips. "Do you want a child, John? We could always adopt."
"Don't be an idiot," John snapped, channeling a little bit of Sherlock in that moment. "I know you're joking, but it's not even funny."
"I don't know," Sherlock said, his smile widening, "just think of the child we'd raise. Brilliant, I mean honestly brilliant, and powerful. Definitely cool, hopefully not military bound."
John rolled his eyes and shifted his weight to take the pressure off his hip. "I'm going to say no, Sherlock, for the one and only time. Falling off of roofs, chasing kidnappers into different countries, and you with your weird sex involving riding crops..."
"And yours with lesbians," Sherlock pointed out.
"Hardly a place to raise a child," John said.
"Yes, but you have to admit, it would be pretty fantastic to grow up here with us, don't you think?"