Title: Burn The Heart Out Of You - Part Three: Not His Fault
Author: starjenni
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Pairings: Eventual Sherlock/John, and implied Sherlock/Moriarty if you read upside down and squint.
Warnings: Dark, dark happenings. SWEARING, for this chapter.
Rating: T
Spoilers: SPOILERS FOR THE LAST EPISODE. DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVE NOT WATCHED IT. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED
Summary: Sherlock has not backed off. Moriarty follows through on his threat. How much of Sherlock must he destroy before Sherlock lets him go?
Thank you so so much for your lovely reviews, and please don't kill me when you find out what I've done in this chapter! XD
Part Three: Not His Fault
The smoke gets stronger the closer they get to Baker Street, and then, and John will never, never in his life forget it, they turn a corner and they are there and -
221 Baker Street is burning.
And Sherlock's face is stricken.
"Mrs Hudson," he says.
221 Baker Street is burning, and though firemen are swarming around it, it is obvious that the fire is too far gone to be contained now.
And Mrs Hudson…
Time has suddenly slowed down, and for a moment John's mind goes blank and he can only stare at Sherlock, and Sherlock at he.
And then it's as if there is a signal blaring out that only they can hear, and they simultaneously turn and start pushing and shoving their way through the small crowd of people that is building up, elbowing their way towards the blazing building, fiercely, hastily, panicking and trying not to. By the time they've reached the front of the crowd, Sherlock looks so pale that John decides he had better take over, and seizes a nearby policeman.
"Excuse me, this is our place - I mean, we're the tenants, we - " but the policeman is already waving them under the barrier and is taking them across the debris-covered ground to an inspector who John hasn't seen before, and the policeman is explaining quickly to the inspector, and John can see that Sherlock has been momentarily distracted by the burning building that was once his home, and John fights not to get distracted either - the flames are dangerously hypnotic. His heart is pounding so hard that he can barely hear the sound of the fire over it.
The inspector is shaking his hand, and John can faintly hear himself say, "John Watson, Sherlock Holmes - we - our landlady, Mrs Hudson - "
A grave look appears on the inspector's face, and John knows exactly what sort of expression that is, because he has had to show the same one to relatives of patients many times before, relatives of patients he could not save, and - oh no.
His heart beats so quickly that he wonders if he is going to have a heart attack.
Sherlock's gloved fingers slide silently into the crook of John's arm, and cling on so tightly that John knows he is going to have bruises tomorrow.
The inspector says, "I'm sorry, gentlemen but…we found a body."
John's breath escapes him in one long huff; behind him, Sherlock makes a small, weak noise.
The inspector is still so sombre. "We still have the body here," he says, "If one of you wanted to identify it for us - to make sure - "
John knows, without even looking behind him, that Sherlock - genius mastermind though he is - is not up to this. His arm is going numb from the grip Sherlock has on him, and he can feel his shaking from here, the tremor of Sherlock's sleeve against his arm.
"I'll go," he says. Sherlock releases his arm, which John is relieved about, because he didn't want to have to tell him to let go. He glances behind him at Sherlock, but does not say anything, of course because he does not want to patronise him, he doesn't want to talk down to him, but also because there is no need to, Sherlock knows what he wants to say, what he cannot, and just nods, letting John go and turning his gaze back to the burning house.
The building is ablaze, violently, dramatically, viciously ablaze, and Sherlock cannot bear to watch but also cannot bear to tear his eyes away. He knows Moriarty has done this, of course he has, and even if Sherlock didn't know Moriarty existed, he would know it - he can feel it, he can see it, the malice in the flames, the insane, ravenous, gleeful malevolence spitting into the air, swallowing his home whole with greedy abandon. The crackle of the flames is mocking laughter, the red-orange glow a grating, gloating smile, the heat on his face a burning slap. This fire is Moriarty, this fire is Moriarty at his best and at his worst, at his most spectacular.
I will burn the heart out of you.
The building is falling into blood and rubble, and Sherlock did this, he did this, he has done this -
The pink phone in his hand beeps; he almost does not want to look at it, but he is Sherlock Holmes, and he has always been so curious, and so he does.
It is a text message. It reads: BYE BYE MRS HUDSON.
He turns around immediately, quickly, hastily, scanning the crowds of people painfully, but he can't see him anywhere, cannot see that stupid-faced man in his stupid suit lounging in the background, cannot see those flaming dark eyes staring through him.
This does not, of course, mean he is not here.
Sherlock looks back to the fire, his skin prickling, a ball of nausea building up in the depths of his stomach. Oh God. Not Mrs Hudson. Not her.
But John is returning, he has spotted him, and his nausea grows, because John's mouth is set in too tight a line, his eyes glitter just a little too much in the crimson light, and the guilt burns in Sherlock like the fire around his old home.
John approaches him, and their eyes meet, and Sherlock suddenly cannot speak, cannot say a word, doesn't know what to say, and he has never been lost for words before.
"They found her in bed," John says, and his voice has that gruff, croaky quality to it that people have when they are desperately trying to cover up their newfound grief. "It was the smoke, they say. She was asleep - she didn't know, she didn't - she didn't suffer."
Sherlock feels his bottom lip tremble; he breaks eye contact quickly, and for a moment both of them stare silently at the floor, struggle silently, a patch of quiet amidst utter chaos. Pain ripples between them, all the stronger for being unspoken.
"This is my fault," Sherlock says, finally, quietly, no louder than the roar of the engulfing flames close to them, but John hears it.
"What? How can it be - " and then his eyes widen, and he says, numbly, "Moriarty?"
Sherlock nods, still looking at the floor.
"John. I." He coughs, and clears his throat, then raises his head and says, steadily, "He visited me today."
John stares at him. "He did? Why?"
"He said…" Sherlock bites his lip, his insides are swarming with uncomfortable feelings, new feelings, and he hates it, he hates it. "He said that if I didn't leave him alone…there would be deaths."
John's stare intensifies, sudden fury swamping his pupils, and Sherlock welcomes the anger like a balm, because anger feels better than grief, so much better.
"You mean to say," John says coldly, such a contrast to the fire around them, "That he warned you, and you - what? You didn't believe him? Or did you just not care, Sherlock?"
Sherlock's silence is as good as a full confession.
"Jesus Christ," says John. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock!"
"I - I didn't - " starts Sherlock, but John has obviously opted in for anger rather than grief right now, and he is furious.
"You idiot! You bloody idiot, Sherlock! You let her die - and for what? A game? A fucking game with a fucking psychopath - my god - "
"I didn't know it would be her!" Sherlock protests, his insides in turmoil. "I didn't - do you think I would have, if I had known he would - "
"Yes!" John shouts. "Yes, I bloody well think you would have!"
Sherlock blinks, taken aback, not sure what to say, not at all sure what he thinks anymore, but John is beside himself, he cannot stop now.
"You did," he insists loudly. "You did know! He said it, I heard him, he said he would burn the heart out of you Sherlock, and he is, he is and - what? You're going to just let him keep doing this? Until everyone is dead, Sherlock?"
"No, of course not," snaps Sherlock.
"Really?" John snarls back.
Sherlock opens his mouth to answer back, but the words die on his lips. Because John is right, of course he is, Moriarty said he would burn the heart out of him, and then he mentioned deaths - of course they were going to be people Sherlock knew. People he cared for. Sherlock knew this. He knew this.
And he refused to let go. He would not leave it alone. He could not leave it alone. And now, even now, when the street is up in flames and a harmless wonderful old lady is dead for no reason, even now…he cannot even imagine letting it go.
What the hell is he?
His face must show his emotions, because John's expression softens a little and he takes in a little breath.
"Okay," he says quietly. "Let's - let's just…find a hotel or something, okay? There's nothing we can do here. Not now."
Sherlock nods, and lets John lead him away from the burning wreckage, and tries not to think that he can hear Moriarty laughing triumphantly in his ears, in his head, as he does so.
The scummy twin room they eventually find in a rather dubious area of town is not much, but it does have a kettle, and, once John has located a couple of mugs and a dusty box of PG Tips, he falls into that ever-comforting, ever-solid British custom - when in doubt, make tea.
He puts the kettle on to boil. Sherlock sits, silent, on the edge of his bed, his back up against the poisonous green wall, his coat wrapped tightly around him and face as pale as snow. He has said nothing since their fight at the house, and John can read nothing from his expression.
The kettle pings, and he pours out a cup and hands it to Sherlock, who takes it, gingerly, as if he is half convinced John is going to throw it in his face at any moment.
John is in the process of pouring his own cup when Sherlock speaks.
"I never told you the story about Mrs Hudson's husband, did I?" he says quietly.
John glances behind him. Sherlock is staring hard into the tea, and his fingers are twitching just a little on the sides of his cup.
He finishes pouring his own tea. "No," he says. "Not properly."
He clambers on the bed himself and seats himself beside Sherlock, both their backs to the wall, staring into the grimy little room.
Traffic rumbles past. The clock on the mantelpiece tells him that it is ten past two, but he can't imagine going to sleep - every time he closes his eyes, he sees flames gulping up Baker Street.
"Her husband," Sherlock says suddenly, "Wasn't a nice man. Got himself into a lot of drug dealing, a bit of dabbling with dubious people, a few killings, you know." He takes a tentative sip of his tea, and it obviously makes him feel a bit better, because he takes a larger drink. "But he was smart. He was clever. He covered his tracks so well, the Florida police could pin nothing on him. It wasn't long before he was literally getting away with murder."
He falls silent, suddenly silent, and John, because he doesn't know what else to do, prompts him. "Go on."
Sherlock sniffs. "Anyway, one time he wasn't so careful. Got arrested for murder, but he had friends in high places, and I mean high places, and it was obvious he was going to get out of it - and then I got this email." He takes another sip of tea. "I was still in the first year of being a consulting detective, so I didn't have many cases. But Mrs Hudson had heard of me, I'd helped a friend of hers with a case previously. And she said she needed my help."
He swallows, and continues, this time a little more tremulously. "I had nothing on and I was bored, so I went to Florida to see her. She - " and he takes a sudden breath, as if fighting something, and then says quickly, "I thought she was just a crazy old woman at first. I mean, god, she chattered so."
John can't help himself, he lets out a small laugh, and those afternoons, those many long afternoons sitting with Mrs Hudson watching dreadful TV come swimming back to him, and suddenly he finds it hard to swallow his tea.
Sherlock is smiling, but painfully, as if his memories are both cheering and paining him. "She said she was sick of him," he says quietly. "She said she hated it, everything he was doing, that it wasn't right, that he treated people so badly, and that she didn't give a toss for the law, but she didn't like to see innocent people so dreadfully used, that it wasn't right. She said she knew where I could find evidence that would incriminate him, that would get him hanged, but that the way of getting it would be illegal, so she couldn't get the police involved. So she'd called me in."
Sherlock swallows. "She was tough," he says. "She was so tough. And clever. I mean, god, she didn't look it, she didn't sound it, but she was clever." He looks down into his tea, but apparently the idea of drinking it seems to have dissipated. John can sympathise; he is starting to feel ill.
"She was good," Sherlock says, voice hardly above a whisper. "She was so good."
John thinks about Mrs Hudson, about her ability to put up with Sherlock's idiosyncrasies, saying nothing when she found a stuffed leg in the coat-stand, merely tutting when Sherlock blew the door hinges off with his latest experiment, attacking them both with towels when they came in dripping from their latest encounter with the Thames. Sherlock is right. She was good.
He glances across at Sherlock. John and Mrs Hudson had bonded well over their crap TV encounters, but Sherlock was there before him, Sherlock got there first, and he was always, and would always have been, her boy. Sometimes John wondered if perhaps she saw the interesting things about her husband in Sherlock - his adventurousness, his lust for danger, his intelligence, if she was used to that sort of person being around. But no, it was more than that. Sherlock was the son she had never had, and she was the mother Sherlock had probably always needed. She had pampered him, and scolded him, and flattered him, and he, in return, had always been more gentile with her than anyone else John had seen him with. Sherlock had always been careful with Mrs Hudson, Sherlock was always gentlemanly to Mrs Hudson. Sherlock liked Mrs Hudson.
And he has killed her.
Sherlock stares down at his tea. "I'm just like him," he says flatly. "Just like him."
John doesn't have to ask who him is. He clenches his fingers around his mug. "Stop saying that," he says as levelly as he can. "It's not true."
Sherlock stares at him, eyes narrowed. "Of course it's true," he snarls. "Of course it's bloody true - I killed her - "
"No," retorts John, his pulse racing, still fighting to stay calm. "No, you didn't."
"I killed her because I wanted some fun!" Sherlock shouts. "You were right, okay, you were right! I can't let it go! I need it, I need the danger and the excitement, I need it like a bloody drug, and I don't care who dies - for gods sake, John, I'm just like him!"
John stands up, grabs Sherlock's mug and slams them both down on the table. Sherlock flinches back - a sure sign that his emotions are not entirely under his control at the moment - and stares.
John glares at him, breathing heavily, willing himself to remain calm because both of them can't be shouting at the same time. "What is he?" he asks through his teeth.
Sherlock frowns. "I don't - "
"He's a consulting criminal," John growls. "Okay? And what are you? Huh, Sherlock?"
"Uh - "
"You're a consulting detective," John answers for him heavily. He puts his hand to his head; his body is thrumming with stress. "God, Sherlock, don't you see?"
"No," Sherlock replies steadily. "I don't."
John lowers his hand. "Sherlock, you save people. You help them. That's what you do for your fun. But Moriarty - he kills people for fun." He wants to pace but there is no room, to room to swing his arms, no room, so he stays still. "You could kill people, you could use them, you could do it as easily as Moriarty if you wanted - but you don't. You resist, even at your most bored, you resist. And so what if your only motivation for helping people is because you're bored? So what? You're still helping them, and that is more than Moriarty has ever done, and ever will do. That's more than most people would do. Do you see?"
Sherlock's face is like marble, and now its not only his hands that are trembling, but his entire body, and he is almost curled up entirely on himself, his arms tight around his knees.
"I killed her," he says.
"You didn't," John insists. His heart is hammering again, but he has to get this through to Sherlock, he has to. "Moriarty killed her. Moriarty took hold of your weakness and he used it against you, and you can't fight it yet. That's not your fault. How is that your fault? It's an addiction, just like drugs, or alcohol, it's an addiction and he's using that. You're not perfect, Sherlock. And it wasn't your fault."
Sherlock's staring at him again, as if John is an angel, a heavenly messenger come to pronounce what is and isn't to him, and the responsibility comes in a heady mixture of fear and excitement; finally, finally John is making some sort of difference. He's being heard when he speaks.
"You have too much faith in me," Sherlock says eventually, hoarsely.
"And you don't have enough," John retorts.
It's as if he's just swung a hammer and broken straight through Sherlock's defences in one foul swoop. Sherlock's expression crumbles, a marble pillar falling to the ground, and he comes the closest that John has ever seen to letting go completely.
And then he takes in a breath, and another, and forces himself to build it all back up again, but John is already back on the bed and has an arm around his shoulders, a strong, warm arm, and it doesn't take much to carefully pull Sherlock closer to him. Sherlock rests one pale cheek on his shoulder, then takes in a long, low breath and relaxes completely against John's side, burying his face into the uncomfortable fabric of John's coat.
John attempts a comforting rub of Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock sighs into his coat.
Silence reigns.
It is about half an hour later when John realises Sherlock's erratic breathing has levelled out, that he has relaxed utterly, and when John peeks under Sherlock's fallen locks, he sees that the great detective himself has fallen fast asleep on his shoulder, a faint frown line still furrowing his brow.
John rubs his shoulder again and watches the clock tick around to dawn.