Hello! If you're looking for the full version of On My Own Terms, you can find it on my new fanfiction profile. I've been using someone else's account this whole time, and as I'm writing more and more these days, I thought it was time to get my own! My pen name's SuperSonicBeatrice, and you can find all my fanfic, including this one and updates to this one, on my profile (remove the space at the beginning): fanfiction .net/~SuperSonicBeatrice
"I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind," The Irishman drawled, his voice echoing against the pale tiles of the floor and out across the electric blue rippling waters of the pool. He stared at his opponent's back, a smirking, taunting smile stretching across his small face as he surveyed his sharp, lean black suit. His hands were in his pockets, almost as if he were being blasé about the situation, though it would seem impossible.
The tiny, flickering crimson light on the bomb vest twinkled in a rhythmic, sickening pattern on the floor, discarded but still haunting.
Sherlock's grimace pulled down the corners of his mouth, contorting his pale face to a sad, angry expression. He glanced over at John, who was staring up at him, open-mouthed, eager and attentive. Sherlock must have a way out of this. Sherlock can get us out.
But he had nothing, and his face said as much. He watched heartbroken as John's usually steadfast, usually optimistic eyes wilted, grew sad and afraid. It wasn't the first time he'd faced death, but Sherlock felt like this would be the worst time.
He trusted me. He trusted me, and look where it got him.
He summoned the last of his strength. He wouldn't go out without having the last word, for both his and John's sake. He glanced one last time at John, whose expression told him yes, I think we're going to die today Sherlock. And Sherlock was sorry with the little part of his heart that he'd allowed himself to keep after trying to rid himself of all other emotion. He hoped John knew.
"And my answer has probably crossed yours," Sherlock replied, trying to keep his voice from cracking, turning around to face his enemy. With a herculean effort, he dragged his pale eyes up to look Jim Moriarty in the eyes, though it was like torture. He did it for John, and for himself. He had been too proud to ask for help with the case; he wasn't going to let his pride get in the way of doing something heroic right now, when it mattered, for the last time.
He aimed the British Army L9-A1 at the bomb vest on the floor, and glanced over at his friend: crumpled shirt, tatty cardigan, jeans stained with something he wanted to believe wasn't blood. He'd been through too much. He looked him in his brown eyes, and saw the doctor nod once in approval.
Across the pool, Moriarty's gentle psychopathic smile jeered at him, bitter and maniacal. How could he smile in the face of certain death? The idea was impossible.
And yet . . . The sleuth smiled too.
He'd finally learned something new; found something truly worth having. He'd found John, and he'd learned to love. He'd made a friend, and now he was going to die by his side. It was too soon, yes, but it's all he could have ever wanted, though he assumed John was too fraught with fear to feel the same way. He smiled at John, though he was afraid it would be misinterpreted as something crazy or unhinged.
But in the fraction of a second before he squeezed the trigger, he could have sworn he'd seen the doctor smile back at him the same way: for some reason, it didn't seem crazy at all to be happy.
It was beautiful, and it was all he needed to see before –
"-John . . .?"
Sherlock awoke with a start, his eyes whipping open, staring into complete darkness, totally unaware of his surroundings. How . . . How did he get here?
He registered awareness of his body: torso, legs, feet, arms, hands, fingers . . . He realised there was pressure diagonally across his chest, and his looked down, though it was no use. He couldn't see anything, but there was a vaguely familiar smell in the air. Something he encountered every day; something that usually passed without notice . . . A sort of passive scent of a familiar interior.
He remembered what he'd said when he'd woken up: John. He knew John wasn't here, and that he was entirely alone. His voice had been hoarse when he'd called out for his friend, and deeper even than it usually was. He coughed, choking slightly in the process, and squeezing his eyes shut. He could move his hands, but he couldn't get up. He rubbed his eyes, and found that he was wearing his usual leather gloves, though he couldn't remember bringing them to the pool . . .
. . . The pool?
Suddenly, he panicked. He clawed at the thing that was restraining him, but it was still no use. He found that there was something of a barrier beside him to his left, some kind of wall, and he hit at it.
"Hello?" He called, becoming more frantic, but trying not to show it. Clearly, he was being watched by someone. This must be a – a joke . . . His default feeling was that everyone hated him, though he couldn't figure out most of the time or remember why. Thus, it wasn't that much of a stretch of the imagination that this could be an awfully dull prank.
It seemed quite serious to him, though.
But the pool? Before? He thought hard about it: the message on the website, it said – it said – Found. The Bruce Partington Plans. Please collect. The pool. Midnight.
He was retracing his steps to the pool when suddenly he felt something in his pocket: a vibrating phone. He dived for it, slipping his hand into the familiar material of his coat to retrieve his BlackBerry.
Lestrade Calling.
Lestrade? . . . Who . . . ?
He considered it carefully: trapped, with one phone call. He answered, and was surprised to find that it was a video call. He was unaware of this feature on his phone – then again, he'd never had purpose to use it before.
"Sherlock?" He sounded concerned at first, but pretended he hadn't said anything, looking at someone off screen and then sounding more serious: ". . . Operative Sherlock Holmes, please acknowledge,"
The man's voice was gruff, yet concerned; coarse from years of smoking-relapses, each worse than the last, if Sherlock's instincts were correct. He was confused by who would be calling him now, and why. He also found it hard to understand what had just been said.
Then there was his appearance: coffee stained shirt collar; top of a nicotine patch shown from under a rolled up sleeve. He looked as if he'd had very little or no sleep at all, but he could see from the dark circles under his eyes and the permanent lines in his forehead that this was usually the case. His shaving was patchy at best, indicating that he lived alone, although Sherlock saw a faint groove on his left ring finger: divorced three, no, two years ago. Simple. The string of deductions he was making helped make Sherlock feel calmer, and more at ease, like some form of reassurance.
Something made the man's eyes seem worse than they first appeared, though. They boggled, and flicked with desperation at what Sherlock assumed was the camera at his end. He knew he couldn't be seen, because there was no camera on the front of his Blackberry. The man probably didn't know where he was, either.
"Sherlock Holmes, please acknowledge,"
But Sherlock didn't hear him; more like wasn't inclined to listen at that moment. The light the video call was giving off was enough to give him a brief insight into his surroundings: leather seats, blacked out windows on the inside, yellow safety bar, fold down seat opposite, panel separating front and back . . .
"A taxi cab . . . ?" Breathed Sherlock, still a little unsure he was correct. It didn't make sense!
He found that what restrained him was a seatbelt, but it was unconventional: though it was fastened, he found himself unable to unfasten it, almost as if the buckle were fused with the socket. He tried the door: locked, of course. Despite knowing a bit more about his surroundings, he still couldn't find a way out. Not yet, anyway.
"Sherlock, acknowledge! – We have to send you back in, there's no time," The man sounded as if he were pleading with the sleuth.
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but found that he didn't know what to say. Acknowledge? I simple 'Are you okay?' would suffice. The command sounded almost military, though he could see that the man, from the period and style of design of the room he could see behind him, was at Scotland Yard. He seemed the police type, too. A detective, maybe, but not a soldier. Sherlock knew soldiers types . . .
He could see several people hovering about his conversational partner. He heard mutterings: they could have been inside his head, they could have been on the video call, but they said he won't do it. He's not ready. It's no use.
Sherlock cleared his throat, and responded in kind, seeing it the appropriate thing to do: "Acknowledged. I assume that's what you want me to say – do . . . Um," He felt a little embarrassed to admit he was unaware of where he was, but he decided it would be better just to ask an equally pressing question to give him time to figure that out: "Who am I speaking with now?"
The man paused, freezing with his mouth open, frowning. He turned a little in his seat, and beckoned someone over.
"Sherlock Holmes, what's my name?"
"I don't know you," Sherlock replied, frustrated "That's why I asked, obviously," He pulled at his belt again, trying not to let the man know he was trapped. He was too proud to be seen as helpless.
"Run memory recall!" A voice bleated off camera, and the man he was speaking with nodded with an incomprehensible grumble: something along the lines of "Yeah, I know, alright, doing it now . . ."
He cleared his throat, and appeared to be reading. Sherlock thought he saw the flash of a lamp post outside; thought he got blinded by it, but it passed as swiftly as it came, and he knew he'd imagined it. The cab wasn't even moving. There was no driver.
"Soo Lin, Brian and Eddie are smugglers. One of them stole the Jade Pin. The Jade Pin was given as a gift to an employee at Sebastian's bank. Her name is Amanda. Acknowledge,"
"Acknowledged," Sherlock said in a faraway voice, tracing a drop of condensation of the window with his finger, and trying to see his own reflection in it via the tiny amount of light he had. He couldn't see much: gaunt cheekbones, shock of curly black hair, unclear smears of their actual selves in the ambiguous reflection. The usual. He found he was sweating a little, so he mopped his brow.
"There were five names in that list, please list them in reverse-alphabetical order," The man asked him. Sherlock sighed, and repeated them:
"Soo Lin, Sebastian, Eddie, Brian and Amanda,"
"What's my name?"
"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, of course. Do you need me to tell you your own name now? Are you really that incompetent?" Sherlock snorted. "Why do you insist on boring me with obvious questions?"
Lestrade looked about, trying to mask a look of concern on his face, and said, "Welcome back, Operative Sherlock Holmes,"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and examined the belt again, ignoring Lestrade. He felt for any weak points it might have, but it felt pretty steadfast. He'd be out of it soon enough, by his own reckoning.
"More importantly, Lestrade, do you know where I am? Obviously it pains me to admit I need help from you, it's just that I'm trapped at the moment, and-"
"Later, Sherlock. We don't have time. You can have a break later – Anderson, run the Source Code,"
"Lestrade, listen, I'm – well, I don't know, but I can't help but feel you're enjoying this. My not knowing where – Source Code? - Anderson? What's he-"
"Sherlock, you need to find the snipers. I need a positive ID on all of them. Moriarty – well, we believe he got away, but we don't know how. Just find out the names of his associates and that'll lead us to him,"
"Moriarty? He . . . Got away? But, the bomb – he can't have! Impossible!" Sherlock spluttered, remembering harshly all at once the agony and the pain and the death he was sure he'd witnessed; he clutched his phone, and held it to his face as if it were the thing most dear to him in the world – though he knew for certain that the most dear thing to him in the world was in some unspecified location. "Where's John?"
"For God's sake, Sherlock, there's going to be more bombs! . . . I can't help you right now. We have no time. Find the snipers! – Running the Source Code. You have eight minutes,"
"Where's-"