Where You Gonna Run To?

Chapter 3

21 Guns


A variety of different emotions accompanied John as he made his way to the park. He chose to meet Richard in the same place. John wasn't sure if he would ever reach a level of trust to meet him in private. At the moment, his intentions were to relay what information he knew to Richard, and then move on from this incident. To be fair, he didn't think he had much information to tell. Besides the incident at the pool, John had only seen Moriarty at the trial. Yes, he would relay how he brought Sherlock down, but beyond that, John knew very little of Moriarty's criminal empire. They had only encountered it briefly with Irene. (Had there been other times that they didn't recognize?)

Richard sat on the same bench again, holding two cups again. He still looked tired and sad, but something was different. As John approached, his face lit up. He was hopeful, and it made John's heart sink. Everything he was going to tell this man was going to break his heart. During their last meeting, John had gone into some of the details of Moriarty's personality. The way he used his voice, so taunting and strange, and how he was textbook psychopath. He had waited a week to meet up with Richard to prevent overwhelming him. Learning that you used to be a psychopath, and knowing that was just the tip of the iceberg…

"Here." Richard held out the cup. "Hot chocolate, today."

"You really shouldn't," said John as he sat.

"Don't worry, I made it myself. Try it."

John took a sip, surprised at the bite the cocoa had.

"Damn, that's good."

Richard broke out into a smile like he had been praised and given a gold star.

"I don't remember learning the recipe, but I did some snooping. It's Mexican hot chocolate. You add a bit of chili powder into the cocoa. But it's a homemade recipe I have in my head." He pauses. "It's just sort of there in my head. I can't really explain it; but I was craving cocoa, and I just started throwing things together. I knew just the right amount of milk, sugar, cocoa, and chili to put in…it just…it made sense, you know? God, you must think I'm crazy…" (Why do I feel a kinship toward this man?)

"No," said John, "you're not crazy. You're confused. And maybe you picked up that recipe traveling. Some things you've retained, like how to use utensils, are embedded deep within your brain. Maybe that recipe is like second nature to you, so that's why you remember."

Richard nodded.

"That makes sense."

"The brain is very strange. We really don't know that much about it. Your case is odd, but then I've seen stranger things in my time practicing medicine."

"I read your blog, and that post 'The Great Game,' you called it, could you tell me about that?"

John took a long sip of the cocoa, wondering how exactly to respond.

"It's all online. Not much to tell."

"Yes, but I'd like to hear it from you now. All the details and more information on what I was like. How I acted. You said what happened, but nothing else really about me."

"Him," John corrected.

"What?"

"Him. Moriarty. You're Richard now."

Richard smiled weakly and asked, "So what was I like?"

John stared down at the cup. Such a kind man had given him this cocoa. (Is he really not Moriarty anymore?) Such a kind pair of eyes were looking up at him with desperate, naïve hope. But what was the point of telling him? Even if John wasn't being fooled, then all he was going to do was tell Richard the truth about his past. If he really had become a normal person, if his personality was irreparably altered, then he would be devastated, at best. It was clear he had chronic depression, was prone to emotional instability, possibly even had suicidal thoughts, and to throw this shocking information at him could be his undoing. (Am I being cruel?)

"You—err—he was like a reptile," he said quietly. "In the few moments I saw him, a variety of expressions crossed his face, and as each one passed, I grew more and more terrified. When he finally revealed what he really was, why he decided to play this game with him, I couldn't see his face. My back was to him. I only heard his voice. It gave me nightmares that were even more terrifying than the ones I had of fighting in Afghanistan. I knew the war could never get me again. Those were flashbacks. But the flashbacks I had to the night were different; I knew he was still out there, just biding his time. His voice slithered into my dreams and stayed there for a long time. On the worst nights, it's still there, in the back of my head, like some kind of serpent laying in wait. Except, I assumed I'd never hear him again."

John stopped himself suddenly. His words had gotten away from him, and now he was staring at Richard, whose face contained a mixture of horror, fear, sorrow, and confusion, all rolled into one. He looked off into the distance, eyes unmoving, but John could almost see the gears moving behind his dark eyes.

"And when I saw his eyes, it chilled me deep to the bone," he continued, "Because I knew that it didn't matter what happened to me. And it wasn't for some grand purpose or cause. It was because he felt like it. Some killers, however devious, still have some sense of morality, no matter how twisted it ay be. But he had none. Nothing to hold him back, which made his ruthlessness that much more cruel."

Richard buried his face in his hands, taking several deep breaths in and out as if to steady himself, to keep from screaming out loud. (Why do I understand his man so well?) His hands gripped his hair tightly, and as he lowered them, John thought he saw a flash of anger that looked startlingly familiar. A blink, and it was gone. (Did I imagine it?) He shook his head to shake himself off the queasy feeling welling up inside his chest. Of course angry Richard is going to look like Moriarty had when he shouted. John could hear "THAT'S WHAT PEOPLE DO" echoing in his head as if it were happening right in front of him. He shut his eyes to get the awful thoughts to go away, when Richard's phone went off, playing "Staying Alive" as his ringtone.

"Sorry," he said quickly.

John felt bile rise in his throat. (Why is that his ringer?) He reacted without thinking and jumped off the bench, nearly running a few feet away. The cocoa fell to the ground and spilled all over the pavement. His sudden movement startled Richard, who apologized over and over again as he hit the ignore button on his phone. John's heart was beating as if he'd just run a marathon, and his mind didn't see the park in front of him. All he saw was a laser sight pointed at Sherlock's chest, the gun in his hands pointed at the pile of explosives on the ground, and Moriarty's gaze, reveling in the moment, challenging Sherlock.

"John…"

Richard's voice was far and distant at the corners of his conscience. John had experienced flashbacks before. A car backfiring set him off for weeks after he came back from Afghanistan. Even the smell of chlorine still bothered him. But that song coming from that phone of that man, even if it was in a park, and they were safe, was just too much. (Will Sherlock fire the gun?) He can smell the chlorine, even taste it on his tongue. His breath is shallow and ragged, but he is trying to steady himself. Sherlock looks to John for confirmation, and he nods, knowing that they may as well take the criminal down with them if they had to. The look of calm on Sherlock's face eases John's insides. They both know what is going to happen, but it's okay. It's okay. It's okay. It's fine. It's all fine. (How will we survive this?)

"John…"

A voice at the edge of his mind, but he didn't hear Richard. He heard Sherlock. His mind faded away from reality to an old memory.

"John, are you all right?"

"Fine," says John, shutting his eyes.

"We should get out of here in case those snipers come back again."

John hums in response, but he has no desire to move. He can hear Sherlock's voice in the background, speaking with someone rapidly on the phone. It is only as Sherlock wraps up the call that John understands what he is doing.

"Mycroft?" he asks, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"I imagine many governments are keeping tabs on Moriarty," says Sherlock.

The gun is still in his hands. His eyes are roving all over the arena, looking for any kind of hint or clue. But he had been fooled. Moriarty really is the only person who can match him.

"I assumed it would be best to inform Mycroft of this interaction."

"You're helping your brother."

Sherlock makes eye contact with John, but doesn't say anything. His chest is heaving slightly, and he can't seem to catch his breath.

"We need to get out of here."

Sherlock bends down and helps John stand, one arm around his shoulders.

"Lean on me on your bad side."

John puts very little weight on his bad leg as Sherlock helps him limp out of the arena. They move through halls and end up in the lobby, but they keep going. Sherlock doesn't stop until they've reached the front doors, and he is helping John to rest on the steps outside. John takes several shuddering breaths, trying to get as much of the cool night air into his lungs as he can. Several black, unmarked cars, and even a few intimidating vans pull up. Sherlock quickly slips the gun into the band of his pants at his back.

"Best your brother doesn't know I have an illegal firearm," murmurs John.

"He knows, and I daresay he approves," says Sherlock, a slight smirk on his face.

"You do get yourself into some shit."

Sherlock looks at John and opens his mouth to speak, but he is cut off.

"We're sweeping the place right now," says Mycroft.

People in plain uniforms move past them into the building, some carrying fancy forensics equipment. John marvels at how many people Mycroft was able to bring to investigate on such short notice, but then he thinks that someone with a minor government position must be able to amass an army at a moment's notice. Or the army.

"But given Moriarty's previous tendencies, I doubt we'll find anything."

"He was able to get away with murder as a child," says Sherlock, "so I imagine as an adult with incredible financial means, you won't find much."

"Did he leave anything behind?"

"Just the vest, but I doubt it'll hold anything useful. I'm afraid if you ever do catch this man, it'll be because he wants you to. I can only imagine why he would want that."

"We have come quite a bit closer to him in the past few weeks. Do you know what his intentions are, in regards to yourself and Dr. Watson?"

Sherlock shrugs and stares off into the distance.

"Not going to tell me? Really, you did call." Mycroft stares at Sherlock with a scolding look that John is sure Sherlock grew up seeing.

Sherlock sighs and says, "He claims that his intentions are to 'burn the heart out of me.'"

Sherlock looks away almost innocently.

"Whatever that means…"

Mycroft purses his lips and doesn't say anything. He moves his attention to John, who has finally managed to steady his breathing and return some sense of homeostasis.

"Do you need medical attention, Dr. Watson?"

"No, no, I'm fine." John takes another deep breath. "Nothing I haven't dealt with before."

"No matter how much you see in war, it's always unsettling to experience it in the civilian world."

"I'm fine. Really."

"I believe it best that we go home now, Mycroft," says Sherlock suddenly, staring at his brother intently.

"I need the details of everything that happened while they're fresh," counters Mycroft.

"I assure you that the memories of what transpired will remain vividly enshrined in our minds for some time, possibly our entire lives."

"Unfortunately," adds John darkly under his breath.

Sherlock and Mycroft stare at each other fixedly for several moments. No matter how much of a genius Sherlock is, John is quite certain that Mycroft is one of the few people also on his level, or as close to it as someone can get. A silent conversation transpires between the two, before Mycroft suddenly rolls his eyes, waving his umbrella at a car and saying, "I'll be by tomorrow morning."

"Afternoon," says Sherlock. "John needs to rest, and I don't want you interrupting."

"You're not my bloody mother, Sherlock," says John as he stands. "We'll see you tomorrow morning."

"Afternoon."

"Sherlock," says John quietly, his voice warning him.

"I'd be happy to stop by for afternoon tea," says Mycroft, a small smile gracing his face.

John thought Mycroft was trying to be friendly, but the smile is more unsettling to him than anything else.

"Yes, yes, stop by, interrogate, blah, blah, blah. Goodbye."

Sherlock sets off toward the car. He opens the door and then stares at John, looking at him attentively as he ambles over, as if he were observing. His leg bites a bit with pain, but not like it had been a few moments ago. For the life of him, he can't fathom why Sherlock is holding the door open like some sort of valet. However, John doesn't question Sherlock's sudden improvement in common courtesy and slides into the backseat of the car. As soon as the door shuts, the car begins to drive smoothly away, and John stares out the window, disinterested in the passing scenery.

"Are you okay?" asks Sherlock quietly.

"I'm fine," says John, a note of finality in his voice.

He understands why Sherlock keeps asking, but it's starting to irritate him. He's a soldier. He'll get by.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, of course."

John turns to Sherlock, who has turned his gaze to the window.

"Why wouldn't I be?" says Sherlock quietly.

"The same reason I'm not."

Sherlock looks sharply to John. He lays his hand on John's without saying a word, and then resumes staring at the window. John stares at their hands, feeling his pulse begin to race again. The adrenaline is still pumping through his system. In times like these, in Afghanistan, when the action had faded and all that was left was himself and the others who had survived, they needed to do something to remind themselves they were alive.

John had several fantasies about what would happen next. At the time, Sherlock's small gesture had been so startling, and he had been so tired, that he just sat and came down from the adrenaline rush. In his mind, his fantasies manifested weeks after Sherlock left him. Those fantasies were all he had to fill the gaping hole in his heart. In reality, they remain silent in the car until it returns home. John makes tea for them both, and they sit, relishing in the silence of the flat, of the calm of ordinary life.

John scoots over to Sherlock. He raises one hand to slowly turn Sherlock's face toward his. Sherlock says nothing, his brow slightly furrowed, trying to deduce John's actions. It doesn't take long for him to figure it out, since John closes the distance between them. The kiss is tender, chaste, simply lips pressing against lips. Sherlock gasps in surprise, but doesn't pull back. One of his hands comes to rest on John's thigh, the other at his waist. John wraps one arm around Sherlock's neck while the other rests on his shoulder. After a moment, he pulls away, staring at Sherlock's face. Confusion has transformed into understanding.

Their eyes lock briefly, and then John kisses him again, but more fiercely. Sherlock reciprocates, his tongue flicking against John's lower lip, almost shyly, as if he is unsure if this is what John wants. But John wants all of him to keep as a little reminder. So he slips his tongue into Sherlock's mouth as if to consume all of him and nestle himself in Sherlock's chest, so that when Moriarty burns Sherlock, he has to burn John too.

John never took that fantasy much further than desperate snogging. It seems innocent and tender, because it's just the beginning.

"John…"

His eyes snapped open. John's hands gripped a railing, and he stood before a pond. A breeze blew suddenly, catching leaves and swirling the top of the water. He took several deep breaths and turned around. Richard stood just a few feet behind him, looking concerned and scared.

"How long was I like that?"

"Maybe a minute or so," replied Richard.

"Sorry, I—that was—when his phone went off at the pool…"

"That was his ringtone?"

John nods.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"Explains why I love that song so much," he murmured ruefully.


Author's note: Kudos again to Emily for finding all my stupid typos and telling me what sucks and what doesn't. The title of this chapter is by Green Day. I've loved the reviews, and there have been a ton of alerts for this story! It makes me very happy that people want updates emailed to them. It would make me even happier if those people left me comments. :)