He had not meant to eavesdrop, but as he passed the door, he had heard his name and stilled just long enough to realise that he had to hear the rest of what they were discussing. In one moment, Mary resurrected his darkest fear and in the next, John dissolved it.
Quietly, he continues down the hall, absently avoiding the creaking board to the left of the parlour door and seating himself on the leather sofa, his robe fluttering to rest around him. He steeples his fingers against his lips and shuts his eyes.
Moriarty is back in one form or another. Sherlock had discovered much of his web as he had systematically hunted down the assassins assigned to John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade.
He realises now that he should have recognised the signs as far back as a year ago. Minor activity, this arms dealer getting paid off, that drug cartel going under. It is as though someone is cleaning house, consolidating what was left of Moriarty's organisation and setting up for something...new.
Immediately, scenarios began unwinding behind his eyelids.
-John gunned down after Sherlock is lured away.
-Mary killed.
-Both of them killed.
-Mycroft coming to the door with the dead look in his beady little eyes, informing him that there's been an accident, no survivors.
-Mary going into early labour-something in the tea.
-John screaming from a rooftop.
-Sherlock falling to the ground, dying, unable to protect them any longer, knowing -knowing - that the instant his heart stopped, Mary, John and Shirley, his family, his heart would be cut out.
-Moriarty controlling John as John guns him down.
-Moriarty controlling Mary, forcing her to choose between her daughter and her love.
-Moriarty.
-Moriarty.
Moriarty.
Sherlock's eyes snapped open. Moriarty is dead. Sherlock had actually watched the actual bullet fly through his actual fucking head. It was no act, it was no charade. Moriarty is dead.
And the idiot he left in charge to try to make things right is doing a terrible job. Should be easy to find. He rises swiftly and flings his coat over his shoulders and sweeps out the door, only to freeze at the top of the stairs.
No. Not alone this time. It was expected, and it would be foolish to be so predictable. Slowly Sherlock removes his coat, methodically dropping it on the floor and sinks back into the couch, steepling his fingers again in front of him.
It is always possible that the recent attempt on Mary and the phone are purposefully clumsy in order to lure them into underestimating the threat. Sherlock shakes his head sharply.
Never doubt the obvious without good reason. Still, the possibility is there. If Moriarty left detailed instructions, even someone of Lestrade's calibre could follow them. It might not turn out as poetically as if the actual master directed it personally, but there would still be a very definite result. Sherlock shakes his head again, gathering thoughts that fray into a thousand threads and knitting them back into a cohesive cord
#1 Objective. Safety. For all of them, since he has to stay safe to protect them. And really he admits to himself, he's pushed John to the breaking point once too often. Actually dying wouldn't help anyone at all.
Sherlock grimaces, hating it, but he knows what comes next. Before he can stop himself his phone is in his hand.
The Diogenes Club has strict rules about the presence of annoying electronics, specifically mobiles. After only one infraction, a member was no longer a member, plain and simple.
Mycroft distinctly doesn't jump when his phone blasts off the first two measures of Bach's Toccata and Fugue in the middle of the silent parlour. Papers rattle, coughs rasp and glares pierce the room in his direction, one gentleman's complexion actually purpling in rage.
Mycroft calmly removes the offending device from his breast pocket and thumbs the volume button on the side, bringing crashing silence back down upon the Diogenes once more.
Not a paper rustled, not a sniff sounded as he neatly gathers the pieces of the file he is perusing into their folder, rises and walks slowly through the door, through the lobby and into the cool drizzle of London at night. Once outside, he gives himself a few moments to breath deeply then presses redial.
"Sherlock," he intones when his brother picks up. "To what do I owe the distinct displeasure?"
"Nonsense, Mycroft, Diogenes can't expel you, don't pretend to be annoyed about that."
"What do you want, Sherlock? It happens I am otherwise, and distinctly more interestingly, occupied."
"Occupy yourself instead with setting a surveillance team on 221 Baker Street."
"And how long will you require the help of Her Majesty's finest?" Mycroft sneers.
"Indefinitely. There's already been an attack. And I need a team to run surveillance footage of the south-east corner of Regent's Park between Sussex Place and York Gate between 13:10 and 14:00 hours today. We're looking for a man or woman with a manila envelope. Quick as you like." The line goes dead.
Mycroft frowns down at the phone. He ordered surveillance on Baker Street as soon as his brother's plane banked in the air. He intended to keep an eye on Sherlock, make sure he was focusing. Apparently that's not all he has to watch for. And apparently, Sherlock is sufficiently focused. But he won't tell Sherlock he had already made the order. It never hurt to have him feel as though he owed Mycroft a favour.
He texts the appropriate operatives and orders the footage from Regent's Park scanned and any images of the target or targets forwarded to him as soon as they are found. He then texts the head of the surveillance task force in place at 221 Baker Street informing him that, despite his efforts, an intruder had breached the premises and that he is released from duty. This task completed, he pockets the phone and turns back to the door and enters the parlour of the Diogenes club.
He walks right up to a scowling gentleman who blocks his passage into the parlour and stops just as the tips of his Barker Blacks came into contact with the other's toes and he stares down his nose, quirking his eyebrow.
With a barely audible growl, the gentleman blocking his way moves to the side. Mycroft waits a moment longer until the door is opened for him before making his way back to his fireside seat and reopening the file in front of him. Tea is deposited on the cherry table next to him and he sips it absently as he regards the picture attached to the file.
Mary's Morstan's eyes, glare back at him from under the brim of a black knit cap in the image taken at Magnussen's office building. Well, nothing comes without a price, he thinks smugly.
Sherlock throws down the phone, scowling. It isn't enough. If Moriarty is somehow posthumously pulling strings, then Mycroft's forces will not be enough to protect them. And he had to protect them. His fists slam into his thighs hard enough to bruise. Mary and John were depending on him to keep them safe. Leaving this time wasn't an option.
The presence of Mycroft's henchmen would keep another incident like the "gas leak" from occurring, but there were other more surgical ways of causing pain that would be harder to guard against.
But they had some time. He is totally certain that the Moriarty Threat would not move until Mary had given birth, otherwise Mary would be dead at this moment and John would be inconsolably and resolutely ripping Sherlock apart for not preventing it. Sherlock shakes his head to dislodge that could-have-been. The threat will wait to strike until the blow can do the absolute most harm. Sherlock's eyes narrow and his breathing quiets
Never. He vows to himself. Never will harm come to them. I can do it. I can protect them. It's not Moriarty himself, but a puppet. I will cut the strings. He thinks and is painfully aware that he has come close to admitting that he wouldn't be able to beat Moriarty himself.
The next day dawns on Sherlock still sitting on the couch, fingers steepled in front of his lips. As soon as the clock hits eight he makes several phone calls then descends the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's apartment and begins hammering on her door.
Several minutes later, the door is yanked open and a sleepy looking Mrs. Hudson, glared out at him
"Sherlock, I'm thrilled you're back, but-"
"Get packing Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock cut her off, looking beyond her into her foyer, trying to assess from his limited view how long it would take her to get her apartment sorted.
"What? Sherlock-"
"I've called a moisture remediation and remodelling firm. The owner owes me two extremely large favours. By Sunday, your basement apartment will be as warm and cosy as you like. And you should downsize at your age." He leaned into her doorway looking around "Honestly, such a large place for one person. Sinful.
"Sherlock what on earth are you-"
"Mrs. Hudson, I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume for thirty seconds that there is actually some spark of innate intelligence under that mask of babbling banality you show the world, and that you can access said intelligence sufficiently to understand the predicament you're in." he looked down at her, clearly expecting her to understand. He found himself disappointed.
"Fine, I'll explain: Mary will be giving birth between 34 and 36 days from now. She and John have looking for flats with more room than hers and obviously they can't live with me. Surely you can see..." He left the sentence trailing. Mrs. Hudson shook her head.
"Sherlock, I think it's lovely Mary's expecting, and of course they wouldn't want their child growing up in the same house as you." She says laughing, completely missing his sudden scowl. "But I don't really see what any of that has to do with me-"
"Dear idiot, I will be your only tenant when John leaves." Sherlock says. "You will be living in this house alone. Alone with me." Watching horrified realisation dawn on Mrs. Hudson's face is a pleasure worth the wait.
"At my age Sherlock, I should really be downsizing-honestly, this old place is so big for me, and-"
"Boxes will be delivered at ten." Sherlock says and turns away in a swirl of coat. Now is time for the hard part.
John awakes to the smell of a fry-up and smiles with his eyes closed. He hears Mary sniff appreciatively as well and realises abruptly that she is still in bed. The same thought evidently occurs to her and they both sit bolt upright simultaneously.
"Is that?"
"Is he?"
"S'got to be Mrs. Hudson."
"Yeah, yeah. But what if-"
They both scramble out of bed, wrapping appropriate garments around themselves as they walked quickly down the hall and into the parlour. Humming resonated from the kitchen and Mary presses a hand against her mouth to stifle a giggle.
John waits until she had control of herself and then they walk into the kitchen as though Sherlock is not standing in it wearing an apron over his tailored shirt and portioning out bangers onto already loaded plates on a table that actually had an actual tablecloth on it.
"Wow, uh," John starts as he sits down. Mary almost loses control of herself again as she awkwardly slides into her seat. "Didn't know we had a tablecloth," John finishes lamely.
Sherlock shakes his head and descends on the third chair after having practically pirouetted back to the stove to divest himself of the now empty fry pan.
"Didn't," he says shortly, hefting a fork. "Mrs. Hudson's downsizing. We got a tablecloth and a tea pot." John's fork stops half way to his mouth.
"Downsizing? At 9 am on a Saturday? And breakfast? Cooked? By you? I didn't even know you knew how to USE a fry pan. What the bloody hell is going on?"
"First of all, you're welcome for the meal, it's no trouble at all. Eat." Sherlock waits till John automatically connects fork to mouth before continuing.
"Secondly, Mrs. Hudson's moving to the basement after realising how much trouble it has become taking care of such a large flat. At her age. You know. Thirdly."
John picks up his teacup and takes a sip. Sherlock rushes into the breach.
"You and Mary are moving into the downstairs apartment which I believe should be quite big enough for you, Mary and up to two children.
Only Mary's quick reflexes keep her from being doused the tea that is forcibly projected from John's mouth.
"What makes you think we WANT to move downstairs from you, you egomaniac? I mean, honestly? You can't sit there and dictate our-"
"Two children?" Mary interrupts quietly, her hands on her abdomen. "Sherlock, John and I don't plan on..."
Sherlock is pushing beans and bangers around his plate as though he's trying to divine the future from the trails of grease left in their wake. Utter silence fills the room.
"There is absolutely no way you can know-" John begins
"Elevated HCG levels reported three weeks ago," Sherlock snaps, rolling his eyes. "And take into consideration the angle of distension and proportion of your abdomen which considering your height and weight is rather extreme, Mary, and remember the incredibly intense morning sickness that utterly ruined your honeymoon-Honestly, Mary, what the hell good is your obstetrician?" he finishes with some heat, finally raising his eyes to meet hers. "She should have told you," he adds lamely.
Silence reigns for awkward moments.
"I should have-" John began. Sherlock's elaborate groan cuts him off.
"John stop being so irritatingly self deprecating. You have many more appropriate inadequacies to gripe about than continually missing obvious prenatal signs in your wife. I mean just how extensive was your obstetrics training before they shipped you off to Afghanistan?" Sherlock says petulantly.
"You and Mary must move in downstairs. Aside from whatever dubious pleasure I might derive from your continued proximity, your habitation of this house absolutely is necessary to your safety and your children's safety.
"I can guard all four of you more effectively from here than almost anywhere else I can think of. Unless you'd see your way clear to move you and your family into a Yurt in upper Mongolia. All of my resources will be bent towards making this place impregnable.
"Also remember that recent efforts have been made to create a sense of violation, clearly with the intent of causing you to leave and making it necessary to split our efforts. Would you give in so easily to such manipulation?
"And I cooked you breakfast so you actually can't say no. I even bought sticky buns."
He produces them from a box on the counter with a flourish. Mary stares at the box absently.
John knows her so well he can almost feel her straining her senses inwards, trying to make out two individual shapes while knowing that it is impossible, knowing that she hasn't heard a thing Sherlock said after his declaration that she is having twins. Sherlock looks nervously between the two of them.
"Mary, obviously you're the decision-maker here," he says, ignoring John's sound of protest. "Surely you see the sense of it."
Slowly Mary becomes aware that Sherlock is still talking to her and that some answer is required.
"What? Oh, downstairs? Yeah, yeah that's fine, need to repaint, can you tell if they're both girls?" she asks, smiling.
"Now wait just a bloody minute," John explodes. "You have made all the decisions and I have taken this all on the chin and no complaints. But Mary, you actually want to keep living here? With our children? In a house where there are heads in refrigerators?"
Sherlock and Mary regard John with identical looks of surprise, which change into something that might resemble hurt on Sherlock's face. Mary notices and stiffens in anger. John felt the winds of the oncoming storm too late.
"John," Sherlock said in a colourless voice, "everything I have suggested, I have suggested for the sake of you, Mary, and your children. Despite what you may think, I remember being a child myself and I would never expose yours to anything-unsuitable.
"Sherlock, that's not what I-"
"Since you have decided that the risk of subjecting your children to my company and possible influence outweighs the risk of external dangers, we will of course bin this plan and find a suitable alternative." He pushes his chair away from the table and stands, his expression wooden.
"I will speak with Mycroft and he will have a list of alternative solutions by this evening, and you and Mary may discuss them," he finishes quietly, and before John can breathe again, Sherlock vacates the kitchen.
John stares at his plate.
"Well," Mary snarls softly. "Cocked that right up, didn't you?" And she, too, is gone.
John hears the sound of things banging about in Mrs. Hudson's apartment buries his head in his hands. The words of Sherlock's best man's speech echo in his mind.
"You sit here between the woman you have made your wife and the man you saved. In short the two people in the world who love you most."
They are banding together around him and offering sacrifices to his happiness and he is treating it like an attack.
Clenching his fists, John gets to his feet and goes into the parlour where Mary is sitting on the couch, regarding him coldly.
"See," he begins, "the problem here is that you-" he cuts himself off as Mary's expression hardens and looks down, immediately changing tack.
"The problem is that I am powerless, Mary. You two - you two bloody well have it all figured out. And of course you're both right, you're right about everything. We're having twins. Baker Street is the safest place for us. One of them will be named Shirley, after her godfather. These are all the right decisions and I haven't thought of a single one of them." He is aware that Mary has risen and is standing in front of him, reaching for his hands.
"Do you know why I love you John?" She asks. The non sequitur catches him off guard. "There are a million reasons. I've told you lots of them. You're a kind, compassionate, loving, intelligent, man, and even in this state I'd like to fuck the daylights out of you every blessed moment I'm with you. Another reason I love you is because you and I can always tell each other the truth-don't dare look at me like that. I learned this the hard way. I'm going to tell you some truths now.
"If I had to choose between you and Sherlock, now, I would choose you. If you tell me that we need to leave here or you'll be unhappy, I will follow you because I love you. If you are genuinely worried about our children growing up around our pet madman, I will humour you, though I utterly disagree. But, John, I like being in this house. I have come to love Sherlock. I want a family." She pauses as her voice hitches, then continues somewhat louder.
"And, you-Sherlock, you sneaky bastard, I hear you breathing behind the doorway so just bloody well come out and let's settle this." John doesn't shift his gaze away from Mary as Sherlock rolls around the doorjamb and into the room. He stands obliquely to one side of them, not looking at either of them.
"Sherlock," John says quietly, tilting his head sharply, nervous. "I will ask you one question, and I have an excellent lie detector here so you'd better answer it truthfully. Do you genuinely want Mary and me and our squalling babies living below you? Do you really want to be part of our lives like that? Because I feel I already owe you enough already. I don't want to owe you for this too. I don't think I can repay a debt that big."
Sherlock stares at the floor as if willing words to appear out of the grain of the wood. Finally he speaks, and his voice is so quiet John almost had to lean in to hear it.
"I would be privileged to be as much a part of your lives as you will allow me."
Mary produces something between a sob and laugh and reaches for Sherlock's hand. John nods and feels the last dregs of anger drain away.
"You might regret it, you know," he says, and there is a teasing quality to his voice that allows Sherlock to lift his eyes.
"No need for heads in the cooler after I convert your room to a lab," Sherlock retorts, his lips quirking upwards.
"Just put a lock on the door for heaven's sake Sherlock." is Mary's final word on the matter.