Chapter Two
The trip down to New Scotland Yard a few days prior had taken a bit of sweet talk on Sherlock's side because John had developed an irrational fear that Moriarty might just turn up anywhere and kill Sherlock without him being able to do anything about it. Even after visiting the library and going out to the pub after the traumatic events, John was growing more anxious by the day. Eventually it had taken a long sensual kiss and a promise to be careful for John to feel ready to follow Sherlock outside. They walked down to Euston Road to get a taxi, avoiding the slim chance that a cab might have waited in front of the house in form of a trap.
When they had arrived, Lestrade had not been quite as happy as John had expected him to be, but it was apparent that three or four days without the help of Sherlock Holmes could pose quite a big problem for everyone concerned. Even Sally Donavan breathed a sigh of relief when Sherlock wandered into the office. John wondered whether she knew that Sherlock had been injured or whether she would continue hating him in her rather overt way. Since she kept quiet, he guessed that Lestrade had filled her in.
John kept close to Sherlock, and noticed that Lestrade seemed to know more about them than he was letting on. He wondered if the Detective Inspector had actually known before John himself had. Thinking back at the strange undertone in his voice when he had told John about the threats over the phone and when John could tell him exactly that he knew Sherlock had been home in the middle of the night, it seemed likely. Lestrade had also seen him break down over Sherlock after the police had finally entered the library and despite the shock and everything else, there was no denying that it had been a very intimate moment, even if neither Sherlock nor John had been able to admit to their feelings just then. John could only tell by the way Lestrade looked back and forth between them as he started to ask them his questions that he might know more about their state of mind than John had hoped.
Sherlock had been quick to fall back into avoiding specifics, giving Lestrade just enough details to create a rough outline of events. Eventually he turned to John, looking a little desperate. "Can I speak to you alone?"
Sherlock stepped in front of John, protectively, and John had to fight the urge to take his hand and squeeze it to show him that it was fine. Instead he nodded at Lestrade, who carefully avoided looking at Sherlock, being aware of the stare that was directed at him.
The DI took John into another office, leaving Sherlock to pace the hallway outside. John could see his friend's eyes go wide when Lestrade let down the blinds on the windows to the hall.
"So tell me exactly what happened." Lestrade sat down behind the desk and started scribbling in his notebook. John knew he had no choice but to tell him about Moriarty. Despite Sherlock's low opinion of his abilities, the Detective Inspector was anything but stupid and he had proved it by showing up at the right place in the right time.
"Where should I start?"
Lestrade gave him a strange look. "At the beginning?"
"Well, you do remember the bombings? Of course you do. The man behind those came back to haunt us."
"Is that where the threats came from?"
"I believe so."
"Why?"
"How should I know?" He sounded defensive and he knew he needed to stay calm. "Well," John sighed, rubbing his forehead, "apparently whoever that is wants to kill him."
"Holmes?"
"Yes."
"Why then did he threaten you?"
John wasn't sure what to say. If Lestrade had been observant enough to see what was going on between him and Sherlock he should know that John had been used against him.
"He wanted to get to him, but how do you get to Sherlock Holmes? It hadn't worked with assassins, it hadn't worked with bombings…it seems like there weren't many options left."
"Oh."
John had to smile, almost, because he could see understanding dawning on Lestrade's face.
"I have been meaning to ask for a while but…"
"No."
"No?"
"Don't ask."
"But…"
"Don't."
"Fine." A sigh and a look that told John that Lestrade definitely knew that somethingwas going on.
"Thank you."
John was sure he was blushing and it was awkward, because both of them were practically staring at the elephant in the room. He tried to steer away from the topic. "Anyway, they kidnapped him while he was trying to make sure that nothing would happen to me and I more or less accidentally showed up at the British Library where he was being held, which of course I didn't know then..."
"More of less accidentally?" Lestrade pronounced the words very carefully.
"Yes." John tried his best to look innocent.
"Are you sure, I mean, he didn't mention it? Didn't talk about it"
"No. I just had a feeling…I don't know how, but it was there. So I went to talk to a friend of mine and then everything went mad and eventually people panicked and then someone shot a man and I tried to save his life but it was too late…" He swallowed, trying to get rid of the stale feeling that still clung to the thought of seeing the life stream out of the man on the floor. "And then Sherlock was there and I didn't know what to do and then there was another shot and Sherlock was hurt and … the man who had held him hostage got away and then I don't remember much."
He was sure that he sounded distressed enough that Lestrade might actually believe him that he had really not seen anything and that the events had been disturbing enough for him to miss important points, but it sounded sketchy, even to his own ears.
"John." He was back to calling him by his first name. He was surprised that he wasn't calling him 'soldier', making him see how completely pathetic his account was, considering where he had been and what he had done in his years in the armed forces. John ran his hand through his hair but looked Lestrade straight in the eye.
"I have three questions for you."
"Right."
"Who was that friendyou were talking to?"
"The curator, Miss Romanov."
"The one who called us to inform us that the old curator had been killed?"
"Yes."
"So it was you and not Sherlock that sent that message."
"I just figured that you should know."
"But how didyou know?"
"I didn't. I guessed. It seemed only logical."
Lestrade looked at him, unable to tell if John was telling the truth, but clearly wanting to believe him.
"I wanted to make sure that in case anything happened, you would know. If I hadn't been right it would have been just as well…"
"Right, how did you know about the art theft?"
"I didn't." Lestrade started to look annoyed.
"Miss Romanov told me that there was an unpublished manuscript and that she had a gut feeling that someone might try to steal it."
"Will she be able to confirm that?"
"Yes."
"Okay, last question. Who exactly is that Moriarty?"
John stared at him, lips pursed. He knew that Sherlock had avoided mentioning him. It was a game, a very dangerous game, but Moriarty had always been beyond the reach of the police. Sherlock and Moriarty worked on a different level than anyone else, and even though John knew that by now Sherlock was not amused by him anymore, he was still intrigued, still fascinated, and even John could not change that. They were just too much alike. And even though he wished it was different, he knew that Sherlock and Moriarty had not seen the last of each other.
"He's dangerous. He's intelligent. He's the worst man you'll ever meet." John could feel the hate for the man burn in his throat as he spoke of him.
"So it was he who sent the threats, who used you to get to Sherlock and who was about to kill you and him when … someone shot both of them?"
"Yes."
"Who shot him?"
John shrugged. "I was about to die, I have no idea how…"
Lestrade closed his notebook, leaning in closer.
"You know that you could have killed him?" He was very calm.
John looked at him sharply, hoping that he meant his statement in a general way, aiming at his role in the whole affair, but judging by the way he looked at him and the way his voice was very low when he said it, it seemed obvious that he knew exactly who had fired the gun.
"He was going to kill me…and him." John sounded incredibly sad and he hated himself for breaking at this point. "I had no choice."
"So you shot both of them."
"I had to. I couldn't hit him otherwise."
"John, you know that you can't just go around and shoot people."
"Of course I know that." John's ears were burning, but he would defend his action.
"I am not going to report this," Lestrade said calmly, obviously trying to make John see that he was on his side. "I will also not think of previous mysterious shootings in connection to Sherlock Holmes, but I am asking you to not everdo that again."
John nodded. He couldn't promise him and he would carry his gun with him if things were dangerous, and they would be, undoubtedly. He would rather save Sherlock's life and kill for it than live with the knowledge that his friend had died and he could have prevented it. John was aware how insane that was, but deep in his heart he believed that Sherlock's life was worth more than the average human life, much more. That feeling should not have been so absolute, but it was, and John hated himself for it.
"John, before we walk out of here, do we agree to not mention it, ever? Because I trust you with this and if anyone finds out that I knew about it without reporting it, they will have my arse. But you saved Sherlock Holmes' life, so I guess I owe you that much."
"It was pure self-defense," John argued.
"Well, that will probably make a possible trial slightly less exciting than cold-blooded murder." Lestrade smiled, clearly aware that he should not make jokes about this.
He got up and walked to the door where he kept his hand on the handle for a while. "He's good with you, you know? He wasn't like he is now before you came along, and even Sally is glad that you didn't find another hobby."
"You mean he was different before?"
Lestrade laughed. "Different is not even close. If he's offensive now, just imagine him three times as bad. He reduced the entire team to tears once."
"You, too?" John asked, unable to keep the grin off his face.
"It was a cold and windy day," he said gravely, opening the door. They both laughed heartily as they left the office. Sherlock stood next to the door, grabbing John by his arm, pulling him close. John looked up at him, startled.
Sherlock looked really very worried, his eyes fluttering over his face, trying to read him. But seeing John smile seemed to tell him enough to calm down again. They looked at each other for a while, faces too close together, the tips of their shoes touching.
Lestrade coughed nervously.
"Are we done here?" Sherlock's lips twitched as he enjoyed the discomfort their behaviour caused Lestrade. John broke their moment and looked at the DI who was not quite sure whether to stare at them or pretend that nothing was happening.
"I believe so. I'll call you when I need you."
"Good."
Sherlock just walked away, his coat floating around him in a rather dramatic manner. "I'm sorry." John knew that apologising would make matters only more real for Lestrade, but he felt obliged to do it anyway.
When they came home, Sherlock was nervous again. "What did he ask you?"
"Oh, you couldn't deduce it?" John knew that Sherlock was probably not in the mood for sarcasm, but he felt a bit sorry on Lestrade's behalf.
"He knows it was you." He started pacing the room. "He knows you shot him. You told him about Moriarty. He will try to find him."
John looked surprised. Had he listened at the door?
"I had to tell him, Sherlock, I can't lie to him, not to him."
Sherlock stopped in mid-step, his face reflecting his anxiousness. For a few seconds he just stood there, and then he started forward, pulling John in his arms, holding onto him as if it might be the last time he would have the chance to do it.
"He's not going to tell," John mumbled against Sherlock's shoulder. "And he won't be able to go after Moriarty, you know that."
Sherlock pulled away and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm overreacting."
John smiled and gently ran his thumb over Sherlock's cheek and down to his chin, pulling him back down for a longer kiss. "If that is how you overreact, then please keep on doing it."
Sherlock grinned, visibly calmer now. "So Lestrade…knows?"
"About us?" There was no definition, they needed no definition.
Sherlock nodded.
"Yes. And he said I'm good for you. Said you were a proper wanker before you met me."
Sherlock laughed at that and wandered into the kitchen. "I still am, according to reliable sources."