The case felt far-fetched, even for Sherlock. John watched the man following the linseed oil tracks down the hall, deciding that if nothing else could be said about it, this case managed to make absolutely no sense at all. Only just enough sense for Sherlock to follow it, apparently.
And deduce the intruder's shoe size, height, gait, and walking pace, apparently, he added as Sherlock bragged. John rubbed a hand over his face, unsure what to do. He watched Sherlock chuckle to himself as he crouched on the floor by a child's footprint and decided that if nothing else, he could protect the man from himself.
"-Fun?" he asked. Sherlock nodded.
"Starting to," he answered.
"-Not -smile -maybe?"
Sherlock lifted his head.
"-Children -taken?" John reminded him. Sherlock lowered his head again to concentrate on scraping at the floor. John sighed and got back up.
~~/~~
Molly had said something to him.
Bore/core/door/for/fore/gore/more/pour/poor/roar/s ore/tore/tour/whore/your/you're? A – that at least was definite. Bit/fit/git/hit/mitt/pit/quit/sit/tit/wit/zit bike/dike/hike/like/Mike/mic/pike/Reich by/bye/die/dye/fie/guy/hi/high/lie/lye/my/pie/rye/ sigh/tie/vie/why bad/cad/dad/fad/mad/pad/rad/sad/tad bees/fees/he's/Lee's/sees/tease/wheeze/ bed/dead/head/led/lead/read/red/said/Ted/wed
'You're a bit like my dad. He's dead', 'You're a tit like my dad. He's dead'. 'You're a wit like my dad. He's dead' or any of that ending in 'he's red', 'Lee's dead' or "Lee's red'. He still didn't know anyone named Lee, but any of the permutations were almost equally meaningless. And likely offensive – there was some rule about likening people to the dead even in honest cases. Made people feel threatened or ugly and Molly likely wasn't shooting for either. Still, she broke the normal social conventions on a regular basis, it couldn't be discounted that she'd be doing the same now.
"No, sorry," she interrupted herself, closing her eyes. Her cheeks brightened and she only glanced at him for a moment – likely embarrassed, then. Had probably likened him to a dead man, then.
"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation. It's really not your area," Sherlock replied honestly. Molly cringed – wanted to be better at it, perhaps. Wanted him to find some meaning in the statement that he was like her dead father, maybe. No way to determine for sure.
Molly opened her mouth to talk again and Sherlock wanted to growl. Back to the lipreading, then, but it could be about the case.
"When he?she?Lee? was dying, he was _ _ cheerful. _ except when _ could see. _ Lee?She?He? Looked bad/mad/sad," she said. Or something like it. This was infuriating. Sherlock glanced around for John. The man was looking through papers on the other side of the lab, apparently unaware of the conversation. Sherlock growled and went back to focusing on Molly's face.
"Molly-" he growled.
"You look bad/mad/sad," she glanced toward John – almost definitely to refer to him, none of her projects were in that area of the lab. "_ you think he/she/Lee can't see you," she added. Certainly referring to John, then.
"Are you okay?" she asked -that one, at least, he was certain of. He'd seen it at the hospital and had had it confirmed.
Molly added something but Sherlock didn't catch it.
"I'm fine," he lied. Moriarty was winning; He could feel it. Control was slipping into Moriarty's hands and he had found nothing on the man. So much on his web, the names to bring him down but no proof and nothing on the man. Sherlock went back to his microscope.
Molly tapped his arm and slipped something next to his hand. Sherlock glanced down.
Don't just say you're okay. I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you. If you need anything, if there's anything I can do, just tell me. Please.
What could I need from you? Sherlock looked up but Molly had already started for the door. He glanced at John who was still uselessly puttering around, thankfully oblivious to their conversation.
The more distant he was with John, the less John knew, the less Moriarty would think he knew; the more Moriarty would underestimate him. Still, he'd have to be more subtle about it if Molly was noticing. He wanted to grab his partner, pull him close, but fortunately he had plenty of practice in not caring. He'd need it now. Moriarty had another move coming, that was clear. Sherlock just didn't know what it would be yet. 'Burn you' could have so many denotations.
John was waving his hands in the air, holding the envelope they'd found at the kidnapping scene and Sherlock refocused. There was always the case.
~~/~~
"-Hey," John waved when they were in the cab to Scotland Yard. Sherlock glanced over, hoping it was something important. "-I -need -faster -way -sign -your -name. -Too -long," he complained.
Not important, then.
"I know, that's why I use this for John," Sherlock replied shortly, twisting a 'J' twice by his heart. John rolled his eyes at him and muttered something Sherlock didn't catch. Probably irrelevant but Sherlock wanted to know anyway.
"-We -ought not -give -sign -name -ourselves," John stated. Sherlock blinked, his ruminating cutting off in utter confusion. It wasn't often he could think of no reason against an action. John nodded swiftly, like he'd just made some good argument.
"-Alright," he said. "-I -will -think."
Moriarty was waiting for him to figure it out before he made his next move. Sherlock felt his curiosity waring with him. He wanted to know, he loved these puzzles, his brain left to gain real traction on a problem, dig into it until it was solved. Sherlock felt a lick of excitement at the thought of it.
John was different in kind to everything else. He was like the Work, important as utterly separate from his use. And solving Moriarty's puzzle would only bring him pain faster.
Sherlock had a feeling curiosity was supposed to hold no weight against that.
~~/~~
He should have seen it coming sooner, Sherlock thought, staring at his laptop screen. John was standing at the window watching Lestrade and Donovan climb back into the car they'd left out front. Moriarty had played his hand; his reputation was the target, then. Moriarty would burn his good name.
The assassins were a twist he didn't yet understand. What was the final problem? Assassins killing each other, for a code he knew didn't exist?
He messed the timing up. He had wanted to have the camera down before Lestrade showed up with his inevitable request to bring him to Scotland Yard; had wanted to take that moment from Moriarty. Oh well, it was irrelevant. The Inspector had left without him all the same.
Sherlock felt strong hands grab onto his shoulders and press forward over his chest. John had moved around him, then. He let himself be turned in his chair and gazed up into John's worried face. John didn't look worried often.
We need more distance. This needed to not hit John when it fell apart.
"-What happen?" John demanded.
"They'll be deciding," Sherlock stated. Meaningless, of course they'd be deciding. The question was what came after, what were the assassins for if not to kill him?
"-Deciding?" John asked.
"Whether or not to come back with a warrant and arrest me," Sherlock answered. That was still up in the air, but it was fairly likely Lestrade would return. He was a good Inspector, had learned the dangers of sentiment and usually managed to work around them.
"You think?" John asked. For emphasis, only, -Sherlock was almost sure of it.
"Standard procedure," Sherlock agreed. Three assassins now; why would they need three? Surely the two kills had been planned out, some kind of clue. So three assassins. Three kills that weren't him, what would that solve? That wouldn't worsen his reputation unless he'd been framed, but Moriarty had enough to ruin his reputation and send him permanently to prison as it was; especially given his propensity to jury rigging. More deaths would be redundant.
"-Should -go -with -him. -People -will -think," John started, before placing his hands back over Sherlock's shoulders. His touch was warm and steady and Sherlock fought not to relax into it.
"I don't care what people think," Sherlock answered.
False.
"-If -they -think -you -stupid -or -wrong, -you care," John protested, lifting his hands away to speak.
I've dealt with people thinking I'm wrong for thirty five years, you really think Moriarty will play that card? It's been beaten to death already, Sherlock thought, but he didn't say. He wasn't going to play Moriarty's game; the curiosity wasn't fun anymore; John wasn't safe. John would stay away from this.
"-I -don't want -world -believe -you -" John broke off, looking concerned.
"Believe I'm what?"
"F-R-A-U-D," John answered. Sherlock shifted his weight and John crouched and ran his hands over Sherlock's knees, settling him back into the chair.
"You're worried they're right," Sherlock stated. That hurt unnecessarily. He'd stay with John anyway. It wouldn't effectively change anything.
"-No," John denied, shaking his head.
"That's why you're so upset. You can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You're afraid that you've been taken in as well," Sherlock accused.
And defrauded by your partner.
"-No, -I -not," John answered, staring into his eyes sincerely. He'd lose John if the man thought him a fraud for too long, that was clear.
Damn it John, think. For one moment. Why the impossible case, the screaming girl? Why couldn't John just think?
"Moriarty is playing with your mind too," Sherlock turned and slammed his hand down on the desk, to not punch his very dim partner.
Just think. How can't you see it? I can't lose you.
"Can't you see what's going on?" Sherlock growled and the air came from his lungs too hard; his stomach clenched to propel it. He'd shouted, he thought. Unintentionally.
Is this the final problem? Getting John to turn against me?
John grabbed his legs again, his hands steady and warm and Sherlock wanted to pull the man against him. He let himself be pulled up from the chair, those soothing hands rubbing up his sides.
"-No, -I -not. -I -know -you -true," John declared.
"-One hundred -percent?" Sherlock doubted it. John looked steadily back at him.
"-No -one -fake -so much -annoying -dick -all day. -Can't," John replied. Sherlock felt himself smile before he could think better of it and forced the expression away.
John reached a hand into his hair and pulled him down to kiss him softly.
"-We -alright," John stated.
Hell.
~~/~~
It was stupidly easy to get John to believe in the code, running around the streets of London as a pair of ridiculous fugitives. He'd give Moriarty all the man wanted if it'd mean the genius underestimated him.
Richard Brook, the actor to play his arch nemesis. Clever. Sherlock cursed to himself as he got out of the vile woman's flat. John caught him by the shoulder and Sherlock let himself be pulled around.
"-Can -do -that -he?" John asked. "-change -self -make -you criminal?"
Yes, he can. Fuck you, Mycroft, for not telling me when you put information in the hands of my enemies. Too confidential, was it?
"Yes, he can. He's got my whole life story. That's what you do when you sell a big lie; you wrap it up in the truth to make it more palatable."
"-Your -word -against -his," John followed along.
Yes. What do you think he's been doing this whole time?
"He's been sowing doubt into people's minds for the last twenty-four hours. There's only one thing he needs to do to complete his game and that's to -"
Have me admit to it. Complete the story. Three assassins. Of course they weren't for me. They're persuasion. That was obvious. Three assassins – too obvious who they were for.
Two options, try to maintain his freedom in court – impossible, Moriarty had proven that, or let his reputation fail. Two options. He could go to jail and Moriarty would be free and bored, and John would be defenseless. Or he could resort to the contingency plan he'd designed when his detective work first started; John was right, the press always turned, it'd been an inevitability.
The fall from that building was going to hurt.
John was waving at him, trying to get his attention. Sherlock turned.
"There's something I need to do," Sherlock answered. He needed a breakaway cable, as damn small as possible; hopefully it would slow him down enough. He'd find out. He'd have to set it up ahead of time, loop the cable down the side of the building and back up, the right length – turn it into a one story fall, something he could live through. He needed a back harness then and he'd wear his coat, that'd keep it all from John's sight -
"-What? -Can -I help you?" John asked.
"No, on my own," Sherlock ordered, starting away. He needed an accomplice. He always thought it'd be Mycroft, but Moriarty was too smart for that. A hand on his shoulder stopped him mid-stride.
"-Alright?" John asked, looking worried again.
"Fine," Sherlock lied. Nowhere close to fine. This was going to be...horrible. It was a fail safe, he reminded himself. If he could convince Moriarty to call it off, he could keep everything. It was just a contingency plan.
~~/~~
It seemed like the world was moving too fast. The case had gotten cocked up beyond reason. They'd almost been arrested, their home was being held by the cops and John didn't even care; he had to get home before the ambulance left. She'd die in route, if the paramedic was right about the entrance wound. She was dying and god, the cab couldn't move slower. And he wasn't going to think what the fuck Sherlock was doing sitting alone in a hospital lab at such a time. His work? John didn't believe it. But he'd have to find out later. For now -
There was no ambulance outside 221B. John felt his heart sink. He knew what that meant; they were heading for the hospital he'd just left and Mrs. Hudson was probably already dead.
Still, nothing could have stopped him from pushing inside to find what he could. He ripped the door open and it was like he was watching a dream. Adrenaline coursed through him, rushing his mind. Mrs. Hudson was standing just inside the door, helping that damn man with his stepladder, perfectly safe.
I've gone mad.
"Oh, god, John! You made me jump!" Mrs. Hudson complained. "Is everything okay now with the police? Has um, Sherlock sorted it all out?"
No, worse. He hadn't gone mad. Sherlock had. That fucker was planning something, something worth lying to him about a gunshot wound to a loved one.
"Oh my god," John choked out.
And hell, he'd believed the man would have just left her. God, Sherlock. What would he say to the man? What the fuck was going on?
John turned and ran.
~~/~~
He couldn't talk to Sherlock on the phone. He didn't know what to say. He felt choked just looking at the man balancing on the edge of a building where it made no sense for him to be, but it didn't matter – Sherlock couldn't hear. John kept repeating his name into the phone, knowing full-well the man heard nothing at all. So Sherlock just talked, and John had never hated Baskerville so much for taking Sherlock Holmes' hearing away. He couldn't ask what was going on.
"I... I ...I can't come down, so we'll...we'll have to do it like this. This is...an apology. It's all true. Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."
Sherlock sounded like he was crying. Sherlock Holmes, his partner, who'd apparently decided to be a jerk for the month of June and now was standing at the top of a building – what the fuck was going on?
"I'm a fake." Sherlock's voice broke. John wanted to pull the man to him, shoot anyone who even looked at them.
"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you, that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."
Oh god...no. Moriarty had won. John had no idea how but he must be seeing the result. Moriarty had won that damn game the two of them had played. And he was watching the result of it.
Sherlock, you idiot. But he couldn't talk.
"I'm a fake," Sherlock declared. John wanted to crush his phone, but he couldn't stop his connection to this man.
John shoved his phone into his crooked-up shoulder to free his hands. It was worth a shot; he couldn't just say nothing.
"-Shut up. -Shut up. -First -time -we -met, -first -time, -you know -about -my -sister, -right," he gestured as widely as he could.
"I can't see you. I'm sorry," Sherlock said, his voice breaking again.
Just come down. We'll be okay.
"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick, a magic trick."
Fucking stop it, John wanted to order, walking forward.
"-No! Stay exactly where you are. Don't move," Sherlock ordered and John stepped back into place.
Okay. Okay, just calm down and come down. John agreed, holding his hands up in surrender.
"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"
God, Sherlock sounded frantic. What could make such a man sound like that? Fuck, but he couldn't ask.
I love you, Sherlock. Whatever you're doing right now, don't.
"Fuck!" John cursed aloud.
"This phone call. It's...er...it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"
Oh, god. No. No way, this wasn't going to happen. There was nothing in the world that could make Sherlock do something he didn't want to do.
"Goodbye, John," Sherlock said.
"No! Don't!" John shouted into the phone. He saw Sherlock gaze down at him and drop his phone onto the roof. The line clicked dead.
No, no no no no-
Sherlock looked up, away from him and tipped forward.
No no no no-
"Sherlock!" John screamed but he knew Sherlock couldn't hear him. Sherlock plummeted out of sight, too damn fast. John knew that building; there was nothing there to catch him but the concrete at the bottom.
John ran for him.
Something hit him, hard, enough to drop him to the cement, but John didn't give a shit. He had to see, Sherlock had to be okay-
A crowd had gathered at the bottom, barely keeping out of the blood. John dragged himself over to it, pushing his way toward them.
Sherlock's hair was so matted with blood it looked like he'd bathed in it. An arm hung at a bad angle, clearly broken, but the man wasn't writhing in pain and his eyes were open. John knew what that meant, but he pushed his way forward anyway. He had to check, it couldn't be, he'd been talking to the man just two seconds-
He got through the pushing crowd and grabbed Sherlock's arm. He couldn't get himself to grab the broken one. The skin was warm against his fingers, but too still. Death was so obvious – most people didn't know that. He held on to the arm too long but he couldn't believe it. He'd been talking to the man just ten seconds ago, proud of the man's brilliance.
There was no pulse. John felt his brain stutter to a halt as the crowd pulled him away. He had no doubt of it. There was no pulse. John let himself get pushed down to sit on the warm concrete before he fainted. It was the only reason in the world he'd let anyone take that body from him. He'd felt for a pulse for ten seconds and there'd been nothing at all. The paramedics were wheeling away a body, nothing more. Sherlock was that blood smeared all over the concrete that he couldn't put back.
"God, no."
The world blurred around his eyes and someone gripped his arm. He needed to breathe more.
Oh, god. He couldn't do this.
His browning was at home. John started to get up but a hand held him down. He had to be sure, first. Sure Sherlock was – John closed his eyes as bile rose up in his throat. He forced it down. He had to know.
He sat on the concrete, utterly unsure of what to do or where to go, as the crowd slowly built up around the blood and slowly dissipated again when there was nothing more to see. It started to get cold and he had utterly no idea where to go. He had a feeling he was waiting to see Sherlock come striding back out of those hospital doors. Ridiculous, and Sherlock would mock him for waiting.
Oh, god.
A black van pulled up at the kerb beside him. He got in and for once, no one was in the back seat with him. He was left alone and dropped off before the front of 221B.
John stood outside the door for too long and the limo waited. No doubt Mycroft had been informed. The car would take him anywhere he wanted to go. Anger cut through him for a moment, remembering Mycroft idiotic involvement. This was why you didn't fucking negotiate with terrorists – you ever knew what you were handing them.
He should call Ella. She was supposed to keep him from doing anything rash. She was the only one who'd understand; it wouldn't be rash. It'd have been a long time coming, before he'd met Sherlock Holmes.
John stared at the door waiting for him, utterly unsure what the hell he was supposed to do but stand in the middle of the street and break down. Sherlock had brought him raging back to life. John turned around, wanting to go back to the bloodstain, double check. Sherlock couldn't be dead – it just didn't work.
The limo was idling, waiting for him. No doubt the driver was watching him, ready to report to Mycroft. John cursed and fumbled with the front door. He needed to get inside.
"Here again, John? What's all this rushing about? What's Sherlock done now?" Mrs. Hudson complained, sticking her head out of her flat.
John closed his eyes and started for the stairs.
"John?"
"Call-" he swallowed. "Call Mycroft."
He started up the stairs, hoping to hell she wouldn't say anything else.
"Is it Sherlock? Is he alright then?" she called.
John made himself walk steadily upstairs.
Why did he jump?
"John!" Mrs. Hudson screeched and John slammed the flat door closed.
The flat wasn't quiet enough. He could still hear Mrs. Hudson scrambling around downstairs, the bus stop outside loudly announcing its route, two people laughing together below their window. It was just their flat and John found himself wanting Sherlock to get home so the man could scoff at the tragedy, tell him mourning was futile, an excess of emotion that by definition could do nothing to affect its cause, and hold him close and breathe into his hair.
John fell into his chair stiffly.
What the fuck just happened?
~~/~~