"You're censoring my cases," Sherlock says when he sees his brother.
Mycroft doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. Sherlock knows. At first he wasn't sure. He thought it was just a slow period. He thought that it was just a dreadfully dull slow period. But then he started getting subtle hints. Lestrade didn't call him for a case that was baffling the police. They solved it on their own. It wasn't really one Sherlock would have cared for, but it was in the range where he'd always get called. It was then that he figured out. Mycroft was diverting clients.
"We had to cut out half of the social projects we planned and raise the tax rate," Mycroft said.
"I don't care," Sherlock answered, intending to turn and storm out angrily.
"I know you don't. Sherlock, sit down," Mycroft said. It was too caring and too firm for him to ignore, though he hated it.
"Why are you keeping me here?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft wouldn't let him leave, not with that tone of voice.
"She gives us new information every month," Mycroft said.
"Too smart to give you everything at once," Sherlock says, sneering. Mycroft just looks at him and he closes his mouth.
"Yes, new information… timely, accurate, helpful. She gives back some pictures to some people. It's not a bad partnership, though at a very steep cost."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"You mustn't go after her. I can't let you do it," Mycroft said. It was in his voice again, that hideous pity that got shored up every time the two of them seemed to be in close proximity to each other now. "You can never see her again."
"And that's why you're censoring my cases?"
"Sherlock," again, that pitying noise. "I couldn't cover everything. You failed, and it cost the British government a King's ransom. From now on you cannot do exactly as you please. They simply will not allow it."
"What is my sentence?" Sherlock asked. "Don't give me that look. If I'm to be confined I should be able to know my boundaries."
Mycroft sighed heavily. "Nothing outside of the Isles. You won't be traveling outside of the country for a while. Nothing that deals deeply with the security of our country."
"So what, I'm just supposed to sit around and wait until I'm handed something to do?"
"Cases will come up on their own. They always do."
"You'll throw me a puzzle now and then so I won't lose my mind? Should I be thanking you?" he asked, standing.
"Sherlock, please, sit down," Mycroft said.
"I know everything I already need to know," Sherlock said, turning and walking out. Mycroft wouldn't stop him. He was being too kind about everything. It was like when they were little again, Mycroft's boundaries. Sherlock knew very well that is wasn't Mycroft's masters that set those restrictions. Mycroft picked them. Mycroft was playing mother again. Mycroft was trying to protect him, keep him locked inside away from the real danger.
Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he felt so angry. He needed a cigarette.
It was possibly the most interesting case he'd gotten since Mycroft started taking a more serious interest in his work. It was also one that Mycroft would never have cared about. It was also more than a bit fun to cause problems up the line by using his brother's identity to get into the lab. It wouldn't be as much fun when he had to call and ask for his brother's help in the morning, but Sherlock hadn't thought of that yet.
He sat alone, by the fire, feeling a terrible, unending fear course through his veins. He couldn't help how he felt, but he wasn't used to feeling so strongly. After the screw up with Irene Adler, he'd felt quiet emotionally dull for a while. He'd simply noted it and kept going. Frankly, he wasn't happy to have such a strong feeling back. He imagined that as a child he'd probably had such strong fear, but he would have been too young to remember it.
Sherlock sat there for a long time, simply trying to get his mind back. It became easier to think about things he wasn't happy about then to think about what he'd said to John, or what he'd seen in the hollow. The Woman had been in leagues with Moriarty. There was something to start with. She beat him, she beat him at the guidance of James Moriarty. That crawled under Sherlock's skin whenever he thought of it.
Moriarty's games stopped being fun the second he'd heard that child speaking the countdown. He knew that he wanted to beat the man then. He didn't just want to play the game, to win. He wanted to beat him, to have him be actually dead and gone. If Sherlock could destroy him, then he would. That urge had become much worse recently. Hearing his names slip from the woman's lips had reminded him that he had no time to play silly games, not even with the woman.
No, he would continue with his cases, but he'd always have to keep one eye open for Moriarty's doings. Moriarty wouldn't leave him alone for long, of that he was sure. He'd gone after Mycroft's attention recently, after all. Moriarty was waiting, biding his time. For a moment, just a moment Sherlock felt a pang, a wondering if maybe Moriarty too was only interested in getting to Mycroft. Sherlock quickly dismissed this as his body still reacting to what he'd seen in the hollow. On a logical level he also knew that Moriarty wouldn't simply leave him alone, not after the five pips, not after the pool.
That thought is comforting, and Sherlock neither knows why nor examines the feeling for a reason. He files it simply as the fear that's caught hold of him, which doesn't seem to go away no matter how he doesn't think of it. The fact that the fear doesn't go away makes him forget about everything else. Instead he replays the entire day, trying to figure out if there was any common denominator amongst himself, the client and John, and why only John hadn't see the hound.
He finds his deduction comforting. The more he is able to think, the better he feels. He knows that it's not real. He thinks that if he figures out what caused it then he won't be afraid, or at least that it won't matter. Yet even when he knows they'd been drugged. Even when he knows who did it. Even when he can be perfectly logical, he still sees the face of James Moriarty inside that mask. At that moment the fear he will feel will be more overpowering than even before. It will be even worse than when he sat in front of the fire and told John he didn't have any friends.
James Moriarty is the man who continues to punch holes in his life, and before they leave Dartmoor Sherlock Holmes promises himself that he will destroy Moriarty.
The next time he sees Moriarty, he's been caught on tape as he steals the crown jewels. Steal isn't so much the operative word. The only thing he did was break a case. It's odd, but Sherlock feels an odd kind of glee even under a good dose of weariness. Moriarty didn't brush him aside for his brother. He picked Sherlock, wanted Sherlock. There was something very glorious about the black and white image of Moriarty smashing in the clear casing with the words "Get Sherlock" written so that the cameras could read it, with a smiley face added to be annoying.
Six weeks later was Moriarty's trial. He was sure, knew for sure that Moriarty had gotten arrested on purpose. He was just showing off. The reason? The reason he couldn't figure out yet. Why would a man who'd stayed in the shadows, who preferred to keep his hands clean, why would he suddenly let the world see his face?
"The defense. When the trial begins he'll sit back, uninterested and take no notes," he said out loud one evening a few nights before the trial.
"Are you sure?" John asked.
"I'm sure," Sherlock said, and didn't speak of it again until after he'd been released from prison.
"You didn't have to speak about him like that," John said while they were in the cab.
"Like what?" Sherlock asked, his mind back on the problem. Why was Moriarty purposefully showing his face? Why wasn't he mounting a defense?
"Before you got arrested. He's a spider sitting on a criminal web with a thousand threads, and he knows how each of them dances?" John asked.
"Did I say it wrong?" Sherlock asked.
"No, Sherlock, you're not a poet," John said, shifting a bit in his seat, eyes focused on his friend. Sherlock didn't even seem to notice, eyes back out the window.
"I never said I was," Sherlock said.
"Sherlock, the way you talked about Moriarty. If you aren't careful people are going to talk."
"Talk, talk about what?"
"About the both of you. It sounded like you were in love with him. "I felt we had a special something"? What was that?" John asked.
"You should know John," Sherlock said.
"Yeah, yeah, intellectual equals," John said. "But you don't talk about Mycroft that way. The only other person you seem… to…" John trailed off.
"Seem to? Seem to what?" Sherlock asked.
"The only other person you've ever been that interested in is… well, her," John said.
"Hmm… no," Sherlock said.
"No? That's it? Just no?"
"Yes, just no," Sherlock said. "Let's talk about the case," he said as the cab pulled up to their street and he got out.
"Yeah, sure the case," John said like he didn't quite believe him, but was willing to play along. Sherlock didn't think about his tone, and focused instead on the questions that actually needed answers. His questions, not John's.
Moriarty came to visit.
"Oh be honest, you're just a tiny bit pleased."
"What, with the verdict?"
"With me, back on the streets. Every fairy tale needs a good old fashioned villain. You need me, or you're nothing. Because we're just a like you and I, except you're boring. You're on the side of the angels."
Sherlock wouldn't say it out loud, but he did feel pleased. He was pleased that Moriarty was out. He wanted to be the one to destroy him. Watching Moriarty sit in his chair just made Sherlock want to crush him all the more. But it was more than that… he was pleased; pleased to see the man had come to visit. He didn't care enough to figure out why. It was simply a comfort to know that the man continued to be interested in him.
Watching Moriarty transform himself into Richard Brook had been quiet shocking. How easy it was to strip away a man's reputation. All it took was a good lie, a good liar. All it took was a few compromising stories, a few emails. It was so shockingly easy. Sherlock hadn't cared before, didn't think he had. No one could take away his intelligence, his abilities, what else mattered? But he liked to show off, he always had. That was the flaw of genius: it needed and audience.
Watching Moariaty transform himself into Richard Brook had been astonishing. It shouldn't have been. He'd seen the man play Jim from IT before. But this time it reminded him of a woman, the woman. She changed herself so easily, playing the seductress, the damsel, and then the harpy. It all flowed together so well, all so believably similar. Moriarty wasn't like that at all. He could play any part. He'd break his act, but only for the people it mattered with. Sherlock watched Moriarty's hand part over his face and the mask of Richard Brook was ripped away… but only for a second. Sherlock felt his lips twitch when he saw that. It was brilliant.
Moriarty had always been brilliant, but even he had his weaknesses… things he didn't see… ordinary people. Sherlock was too much like Moriarty not to see this, to not plan ahead… and again, he was every bit as good an actor as Moriarty.
He had a feeling… an idea of what Moriarty would do. Moriarty wanted to give him a fall, in every sense of the word. Sherlock had to have his fall. He would get to pick the manner and place, he could manipulate that much. He just hoped Molly could follow through. Moriarty would have something up his sleeve, he always did. Sherlock had to have his fall.
It shouldn't have surprised him to hear that Moriarty was going after his friends. Three gunmen, three bullets. He wasn't so much surprised at it seemed so obvious there was no point to even think of it in words. John, Mrs. Hudson, even Lestrade were too important to him. Not Mycroft, even Moriarty couldn't rig that. Not Molly, from what Moriarty had seen, she was never important. That was the key then.
That didn't mean he wanted to go through with it. So many things could go wrong, so many things. He was about to do something he never thought he'd have to do. He didn't want to. As he stood on that ledge he felt so badly that he didn't want to, as his mind worked for any way to keep him from having to jump. And then he saw it and he started to laugh.
"What? What did I miss?" Moriarty shouted, angry with the idea that his little plans weren't perfect. Sherlock kept laughing, giving a little hop off the ledge and back onto the solid rooftop.
"You're not going to do it? So the killers can be called off, then. There's a recall code or a word or a number. I don't have to die if I've got you." He crooned the last bit, pleased with his solution.
"Oh, you think you can make me stop the order? You think you can me do that?"
"Yes, and so do you?"
"Sherlock, your big brother and all the king's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to do."
"Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am you. Prepared to do anything, prepared to burn, prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell, I shall not disappoint you."
At that moment he felt like he could and would do anything. He'd felt too closed off for the past few months. That terrible jolt of chemical induced fear had woken him up, but he felt raw. He felt raw for Moriarty's end. He wanted to destroy the man so badly. If he ended up destroyed in the end he almost didn't even care so long as Moriarty was truly, truly beaten. Sherlock had never been someone against violence, but he'd always been in control. At that moment, looking at that man he could have done anything. He knew he could.
"Nah, you talk big, nah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary. You're on the side of the angels."
"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."
Moriarty stared at him for a moment before his face started to change. "No, you're not. I see. You're not ordinary. No, you're me. You're me. Thank you. Sherlock Holmes," It was like he was a child, being offered a chance to play after repeatedly being left out of a game. Sherlock remembered that feeling. Seeing it made him feel raw, a sick sense of recognition… and a memory of another time, when another familiar human experience had been used against him. Looking at Moriarty now he felt uneasy.
"Thank you. Bless you. As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. You got a way out." Why did he feel so uneasy? Where was the lie? Sherlock had seen under Irene's mask too, had known that she had been in love with him, and then it had all broken. Where was the lie? "Well good luck with that."
Sherlock felt Moriarty grab tight to his hand, pulling him close as the man brought out a gun and put it in his mouth. Sherlock jumped back and there were a loud bang. Moriarty lay dead on the ground, smiling that insane little smile.
"No," Sherlock gasped, looking around. He felt that fear again, the one similar from the hollow… and that other sense… Betrayal. It was like the woman all over again. He'd seen it, he'd had the solution in his grasp. Moriarty had done it again, use Sherlock against himself… but it was less elegant. Sherlock looked around, trying to see the snipers. He couldn't. He knew he wouldn't be able to, but he still looked. He didn't have a choice. He'd have to go through with his plan. He'd have to jump.
No, Moriarty's plan wasn't as elegant was Irene Adler's. A man who had no connection to the world except to burn it all couldn't survive. Irene Adler's win had been complete. Moriarty's hadn't been. Yes, Sherlock's reputation was in shambles, but he had a plan. He wasn't going to die. Moriarty lost in the end. He was dead, Sherlock wasn't. Sherlock could rebuild, even if it meant going to Mycroft.
Thinking of Mycroft made something in Sherlock snap as he walked to the ledge. Moriarty's win was incomplete, why did Irene Adler's have to be? Sherlock would jump, be 'dead' for a few hours, and then come back, with a more injured body, but he'd survive. Snipers, criminals, once they were paid for a job, would not go after someone for a boss who wasn't alive. If a day passed, then the snipers would get their money and leave and it wouldn't matter anymore. A sniper for hire's loyalty lied in coin, and once the man who paid the purse was dead they wouldn't stick around.
But he would be 'dead' wouldn't he? Who was to know? Mycroft wouldn't… Mycroft wouldn't know. If Sherlock was dead then Mycroft wouldn't stalk him, censure his cases, or tell him that he couldn't go after Irene Adler. Sherlock didn't like having unfinished cases, and Mycroft said himself that Irene Adler continued to hold onto most of the information for herself. If Sherlock could get the phone and the passcode, then he could give it to Mycroft and everything would be cleared up. It would be like his loss never happened.
Sherlock made a decision then, and as soon as he made it he saw John. He grabbed his phone, quickly calling his flatmate, his one real friend. He had to make a phone call, a difficult one. John couldn't come looking for him. Maybe even more than Mycroft, John would look… and Sherlock just couldn't have that happen. Sherlock couldn't have anything else tying him down as he went to deal with the woman.
"Are you sure you have to go?" Molly asked, watching Sherlock tie his newly blood-free scarf around his neck.
"Yes, I'm sure," Sherlock said, glancing over at her. "Thank you," he said. The thank you sounded rusty. He looked down at the suitcase he was putting things into. He wouldn't need a lot, but he'd need something. "Molly, you're staring," he said when he glanced over at her.
"I'm sorry," she said, flustered and blushing. "I'm just not used… I mean, it's not bad, but it's just not…"
"I look different," Sherlock said. He'd been lying low for a few weeks, enough time for Mrs. Hudson to clean out his things and Molly to be able to collect some of the things he needed, like his laptop and a few clothes, all of which were packed into a suitcase, along with some of the clothes he'd wear for disguises, and a bit Molly had gotten from a second hand store, all freshly laundered.
"It's just… I'm not used to you without your dark hair is all," Molly said.
Yes, he did look different. He'd bleached his hair a bit, down to a red. It was an accident, he'd mean for blond, but the red wasn't impossible to work with. He'd change to blond later if he needed. He'd shave the moustache too, once he saw the woman again. For now he just had to get out of the country.
"You think it looks bad?" he asked.
"I just said it didn't," Molly said. "Here, take this," she said.
"For God's sake, I don't need a lunch box. The flight's only 45 minutes."
"It's not for the flight, Sherlock," Molly said softly, still holding the packed food out to him. It became awkward quickly, and he only took it when he realized that she'd just stand there mute until he did. The second he did she lowered her arm and sighed. "I know you don't have a lot left, and you're going to need to eat sometime. John would want you to," she added.
"I don't want to talk about John," Sherlock said. He'd gone one day to see his grave, only to find that Mrs. Hudson and John were there was well. He felt a deep guilt for leaving them behind, for the anguish on John's face. If he thought about it for very long then he'd give up and just go back to Baker Street. That would be easier, but Sherlock needed to go.
He felt too raw, too wrong. Not having Moriarty alive, not having a goal, someone to have violence for… Sherlock hadn't realized that he'd been repressing anything. It was shocking when he realized what he'd done. He couldn't ignore Irene Adler anymore. If he did he was sure he'd become just as insane as Moriarty.
"Please, be careful," Molly said. "Here, one more thing."
"Molly, don't please," Sherlock said.
"You don't have anything else. You spent everything you had in your wallet on the plane ticket. You won't be able to find her at first. It will take even you some time. Just take the money, and take the food. Don't make me worry about you," she begged.
Sherlock reached out, taking the money, but stepped closer to Molly, until they were almost touching. If they breathed a little differently, then they would be. Molly blushed. She always blushed. Sherlock wasn't going to be caught unaware with Irene Adler again, that he'd promised himself. He leaned in just a bit, pressing his lips to Molly Hooper's in the kiss he'd practiced over and over for Irene Adler.
"Thank you," he said softly.
"Don't-" she said. He knew the words 'mention it', would have followed if her breath hadn't caught in her throat. She took a deep breath and stepped back, putting space between them. "Just be careful… or more careful than you normally would be," she amended with a tiny little smile.
"I'll try," he said with a small smile. "Will you call me a cab?" he asked. He turned away, zipping up his suit case. It would be a carry on. He didn't need a lot, just enough. He'd dressed different, clothes that were much less his style, but with his hair and the annoying little moustache he'd grown in he looked very different. He'd even cut his hair a bit different. Any little thing to help him from being recognized. If Mycroft found him then it was all over. The sooner he could get out of London the better.
"Sherlock, the cab's waiting," Molly said.
Sherlock said nothing. He picked up his suitcase in one hand, and the sack lunch in his other. He walked out and got into his cab. He didn't say goodbye. He didn't think of it. Molly had been useful. She'd allowed him to practice a few things, practice a few acts he hadn't been comfortable with. He was comfortable with them now, had to be in order to face the woman. He knew how she felt about him. He wouldn't believe that he was wrong. Her love for him would be his undoing. He was sure of that. She wanted him more than as a method to get what she wanted.
"You should stop by sometime," she'd said. "You have my number," she added.
Two hours later Sherlock caught a cab in Paris. He didn't have an address, not yet, but he gave the drive vague instructions on where to go.
Ms. Adler,
Let's have dinner
-SH
A/N: This took so much longer to write than I wished it did. Honestly, Sherlock Holmes, why are you so hard to write? John comes so naturally to me I hate that I don't get to write him more. Sherlock, why are you the central character of this story? Why couldn't it have been John? Why do you make my life so hard Sherlock Holmes? Why?
This is not a Johnlock story. For the record, I'm not even sure it counts as Irene/Sherlock… well, you'll see. Hopefully this will be more about Sherlock's little/big break down… but I never know when I start these things. Irene next chapter, I promise!
Also, this fandom! I got a review within like 20 minutes of posting the prologue… how is that even possible?
PS: Hopefully no more of trying to transcribe the script from the show. It was such a pain to write for the prologue. Even the little bits I had to get from "The Reichenbach Fall" was a pain to get… probably because I felt like crap having to write things around those amazing scenes with Moriarty. How great is he huh? How great… guh! Yes, my favorite episode for sure!
