Disclaimer: I own nothing and make no profit, except my enjoyment in writing.
A/N: A very tiny one-shot as I get my feet wet in fanfiction again. Currently working on a longer BBC Sherlock fic detailing none other than the return. Everyone else is doing it, so why not...
This takes place during 'The Great Game.'
"He's Been Expecting This"
"What is all this, then?" Lestrade asked, his voice tense.
John set the two drinks on the table and sat down, not meeting the policeman's eyes. He raised his brow and shrugged his shoulders, finally looking up with a put-on smile of innocence.
Lestrade didn't buy it.
"Come on John, give over. I know there's more to this than a random suicide bomber."
John glanced to where Sherlock stood with his own drink, staring out the window of the pub. He was surprised the detective had agreed to come, but perhaps he did have some human feeling left in him after all. Twelve people were dead, after all, and it was arguably Sherlock's fault...
"John? John?"
"What? Sorry," the doctor apologized and sipped his drink. But his eyes were drawn like a magnet back to his friend.
Lestrade sighed and looked between the two for a moment before speaking again. "Do you think he feels guilty?"
John blinked, though he shouldn't have been surprised Lestrade was thinking of the same thing. "I don't know."
The detective inspector's scrutinizing gaze made John feel a bit uncomfortable. He took another drink.
"What is this all about, come on now. People are going to start asking questions, of me. I don't know what to tell them," Lestrade said, throwing his hands up.
John sighed. He didn't know if it was betraying anything to tell Lestrade, and something in his gut told him he should let Sherlock do it. But he was starting to worry, especially now with the deadly explosion and still two pips to come. And under the policeman's steely gaze...
"Moriarty."
"What?"
"At least...that's what we think it is. Or who. Maybe he's a man...we don't know."
"Back up a tick. Who or...what, is Moriarty?"
John glanced back at Sherlock again. He was still staring out the window, his face blank and his drink held between both of his gloved hands.
"Like I said, we don't know. Back during the...'Study in Pink' business, right before the cabbie died... He told Sherlock that he had a sponsor."
"A sponsor?" Lestrade asked, shaking his head in confusion.
"He was being paid to commit the murders."
"What? And Sherlock never told me!?"
John cleared his throat. "Keep your voice down."
"Sorry. Go on," Lestrade said, his brows now drawn in frustration.
"Someone was paying the cabbie. And he told Sherlock that he had been warned by someone, or...something. 'Moriarty.' That whoever this was had warned him that Sherlock might get in his way."
Lestrade leaned forward and studied his drink as he took it all in. "So you're saying that this...Moriarty...was responsible for those serial killings, and is responsible for these bomb threats now?"
"That's what it looks like, yeah."
"And all the warnings... They've been aimed at Sherlock from the beginning, surely you've noticed."
"Of course I have," John said, trying to keep his voice even as he glanced at Sherlock again. The detective was still at the window, but he'd turned to face them. John suspected that he'd been listening to the whole conversation by the look on his face.
"So what is it then... Some arch-nemesis that's cropped up, playing games with people's lives in some...vendetta against Sherlock?"
Lestrade's tone suggested he was exaggerating. But John couldn't help but feel the cold shiver of truth in the words as Sherlock's gaze penetrated his and the detective gave a single, slow nod of his head.
John took another drink. "'The curtain rises.'"