In the Last Dark Hour Chapter III
Response to Prompt: John isn't human he's a guardian angel sent to protect Sherlock and keep him from either dying or becoming to similar to Moriarty (probably spelled that wrong). I would love a scene with Sherlock finding out and getting John to show him his wings, bonus points if their really sensitive.
Disclaimer: Sherlock is property of Mark Gatiss/Stephen Moffat/BBC and of course ACD. Stargate Atlantis is the property of someone else too.
When John woke up on Thursday after a lie-in, his first day off from the Clinic in six and the fourth day Sherlock had gone without a case, he thought it would be an ordinary day, one without surprises. He was wrong. The first surprise was to come downstairs to find Sherlock cleaning the windows in the living room. The extremely vile smell in the kitchen was not wholly unanticipated however. Sherlock it seemed had spent his morning devising a solvent to remove the yellow paint sprayed on the windows and in a short-lived fit of domesticity, but more likely experimentation, had used it to clean the glass. Mrs Hudson would be pleased. He offered to make tea and the hum of the kettle soon filled the flat. The second surprise was the urgent call from Irene before the water had even boiled. He took a deep breath, pressed both palms flat to the countertop and closed his eyes. It was a position Sherlock was not wholly unfamiliar with but he'd deduced logically if incorrectly that John was having some kind of flashback.
"Planned abduction - 221b Baker Street. Tomorrow."
"Who?"
"The Trust - the London Chapter."
"Sheppard said they were primarily based in the U.S."
"Not anymore. Data Acquisitions and Jack in Colorado have confirmed chapters here in London, Paris, Beijing, Frankfurt, Zurich and the Cayman Islands." The theme was obvious,
"It's about money then?"
"Their filtering it around the world. It's a global op. And these are just the upper level operative chapters, they have embedded operatives at much lower levels from Argentina to Angola."
"I take this has more to do with Mycroft's position then Sherlock?"
Irene paused and John wondered what possible interest the Trust could have in a consulting detective on his own merits, smart though he was, unless it was something personal to one of the individuals involved. She continued at a slightly slower pace.
"At the moment, at least three known members of the IOA have been compromised by the Trust. If the UK rep is compromised, the Trust will have a majority for all matters. We can't run that risk again."
"Again?"
"Mycroft replaced a man called Chapman."
"I'm surprised that they haven't taken a more direct route before now." John pictured Mycroft stabbing his Trust assailants with the syringe concealed in his umbrella.
"Oh they tried. They were not successful." Irene sounded grim. "I had to get a special dispensation." Her tone was clipped.
That was the third surprise of the day.
"Mycroft knows what you are?"
"As of two days ago, yes."
"How did he react?"
"A lot better than Sherlock will."
"You really think it could come to that?"
"Michael's already filed your application."
That could only mean one thing. Generally speaking, breaches of the rules on disclosure were considered professional misconduct with all reported instances coming before the Union's Disciplinary Tribunal at the first instance with a de novo appeals procedure available to the Appellate committee. Each consisted of three departmental representatives though none drawn from one's own department and in the case of the Committee none from the same departments as at first instance. Before the Tribunal, one could, of course, raise the defence of exceptional circumstances - giving evidence of the danger to a charge's life. But having a special dispensation granted in advance meant that the matter would never proceed to a disciplinary hearing. Dispensations were obtainable only where the risk of a charge's death was a confirmed probability of 99% from Data Acquisitions. Pre-approved dispensations were never a good sign. John always knew that having a lynchpin for a charge would be a challenge. Their futures were not as sand through an hourglass but as grains of a desert dune. The course of their lives and those they touched was better conceived of as a channel of air than a body of water - shaping and reshaping probabilities with every single choice. Recently it had been quiet, too quiet and John recognised that now for what it was - the calm before the tempest. As John digested this unpleasant realisation Irene indicated that the only way for Sherlock to negate his current risk level was to go somewhere the Trust did not. Irene suggested Belarus and John got in touch with Jude to find a hopeless case there that might draw Sherlock away.
Sherlock's concern spiked along the bond and when John opened his eyes, the man was hovering to his left and a cup of tea was in sitting on the counter in front of him. Sherlock was worried - it was probably the longest 'flashback' he'd ever seen John have. John reached for the tea and almost spat it out. He looked to Sherlock.
"I put in extra sugar."
He was about to thank him for the cup of undrinkable tea when a chime from the laptop drew Sherlock's attention to the other side of the room.
" John! I'm going to Minsk. Got a new case." Well, at least that wasn't a surprise at all.
Sherlock was due back from Minsk at five o'clock. John had found the last thirty-six hours trying. He could sense Sherlock even at his current remove - the bond was strong and yet something was still missing. In Sherlock's absence, the flat had remained spotless after Mrs Hudson cleaned it, with no strange smells or body parts or police evidence lurking around. There were no drugs busts. No plaintive violin solos filled up the silence at two in the morning, and throughout the quiet of the night, John had been unable to sleep even leaving the bond stretched to its maximum. He finally conceded that he may actually be missing his friend and all the noise and excitement that came with him. When his morning shift ended at the clinic, he decided to meet with Andy for a spot of celebratory lunch in the hope it would put him in a better mood. Andy had been cleared by the DFC's internal investigation over his actions in the tunnel. As neither Sherlock nor Sarah had seen him nor suspected anything untoward in John being propelled forward, there had been no breach of the disclosure rules and therefore no disciplinary hearing but the DFC had its own conduct requirements on acting as a causative link to final cessation. Despite being cleared, Andy's workload had been quadrupled following the investigation and he was none too happy about it.
"This week alone I've got sixteen. Sixteen! I've got one in two days time. Chap's going to be shoved down his front steps, bang his head and die. Worst British Winter in thirty years and I'll be outside in it waiting around for him to hit the bottom step."
"What about your uniform? Don't you wear a cloak?"
"Absolutely no protection, John. It's made from a polyester-nylon blend, hardwearing but terrible insulation. I'm hopeful the others will be indoors. But I've got a dozen to collect on one night. A dozen, John and on a Saturday too. As if I don't have plans."
"A dozen?" That seemed rather a lot to John, even taking account of the seasonal increase.
"One blind woman and eleven men. Fortunately, they'll all be in roughly the same location at the same time."
Lunch fulfilled its function, John was adequately distracted and, by the time the bill was signed, it was already three o'clock leaving John plenty of time to get back to the flat, change and head to Gatwick. There was no possible way he would leave his charge unaccompanied for the journey back from the airport.
Sherlock was a consummate actor but there were split-second moments when even he could not hide what he felt on his face. So his surprise and pleasure at the sight of John waiting for him in the arrivals hall was both seen and felt by his guardian. No one had ever waited to meet him before. The moment passed and the next minute, they were striding alongside one another towards the taxi rank, not a word spoken between them. Tomorrow, things would go back to normal. Or at least what counted as normal for a life with Sherlock.
John had finished with his last patient when he got an alert from Michael. He joined him a short time later and from the tone of his voice as he was greeted he knew he wasn't going to like anything that Michael was going to say.
"John."
"Yes?"
"There's much to discuss but not much time. This evening, you'll go home to Baker St. You'll have a disagreement with Sherlock. Stay no longer than four minutes and then you'll walk out. Take your USB key with you and go to Sarah's to discuss one of your patient's symptoms. Stay the night at her place or with Harry. Under no circumstances are you to return until tomorrow morning."
"Disagreement?"
"A row, an argument, a verbal fight."
"Yes I know what it is but about what?"
"I've every confidence in your ability to improvise."
"Why?"
"As you know Sherlock's life is in danger but you also know that as a lynchpin he's at a decisive stage in his life - that must be regulated by his own choice." John nodded - this was nothing new.
Michael's pace slowed as if he were explaining something to a particularly slow child. "And sometimes, John, people don't really know their own strength of heart - it can't be explained to them in words. It can only be proven to them by their own action, or omission, as the case may be."
"What are you trying to say to me?"
"John, it's like this: certain challenging situations must arise, and be allowed to arise in order for Sherlock to be able to choose the right path."
"You expect me, basically, to let my charge be tried by fire? To throw him into the lions' den and let the lions have at him?" John was incredulous.
When Michael next spoke it was with all the authority of years of command behind him.
"You are in the Department of Defence. You have a duty to defend your charge, from his own nature if needs be. But the reason you act as such, why we take on charges in the first place, is not simply for the betterment of the individual, but for society as a whole. You know this. There are choices always to be made between different dangers - allow Sherlock to face a situation that bears a risk of death or deny him that opportunity each time it arises and have a lynchpin fail to achieve their potential or, worse, turn - to the detriment of both charge and society as a whole."
"He won't. He wouldn't turn."
"Your loyalty to Sherlock is admirable and I know I'm not the only one to notice. John, you chose to befriend him - it was your cover - and I don't doubt that you genuinely consider him a friend now, but you are a warrior guardian first. Your obligation to him as your charge outweighs that as a friend and it always will."
And with that, John knew he had lost the argument. "What exactly is this challenging situation?"
"Well, at this point? You are."
"You want me out of the picture."
"I want you to trust me. And it's only for one night. Go to Sarah's."
"Michael. Please... it's not a question of trust but I need to know why I'm doing this."
Michael sighed.
"He has to choose to save you John. That's the choice that will come to define him but he isn't going to make that choice tonight and he can't lose you until he does."
Seething with frustration at the half-explanations from Michael, his task and the inconsistency of protecting his charge by leaving him without protection, John marched home. In this mood, it wouldn't be difficult to feign anger. He considered the arguments he could start. He supposed that the eyeballs in the microwave might have been a source of one but that had been ages ago now or he could claim that he was using his laptop again or that Sherlock had eaten all the food Mrs Hudson had bought. He turned up Baker St. He'd be in the flat in less than a minute: flatmates fought about food most frequently, didn't they? Food it was then. As he opened the door, he was greeted by the sound of gunfire. It sounded like his Browning. He had got no warning from the bond and he doubted that he had any genuine cause of alarm as he ran up the stairs to find Sherlock blasting away into the wall with a pathetic yellow smiley face sprayed upon it that reminded John vaguely of Anderson. He was wearing the same odious, grey pyjamas and dressing gown he'd been wearing when John left in the morning and he doubted Sherlock had changed all day.
"I don't know what's got into the criminal classes. It's a good job I'm not one of them."
John's frustration almost came to a head right but he removed and unloaded the weapon instead. His laptop was open and he subtly removed the USB key as directed by Michael while Sherlock's back was turned.
"So you take it out on the wall."
"Oh, the wall had it coming." and with that Sherlock flopped down onto the couch.
Twenty seconds. John had three minutes and forty seconds to start a row and leave in a huff. In the kitchen, John started the preliminary enquiries as to the food but the state of the dining table covered in Sherlock's bell jar and Bunsen was enough to raise his hands in unspoken thanks. Mess - another good ground for a fight. The severed head in the fridge almost won the day. Sherlock seemed entirely nonplussed by John's discomfort, explained his experiment, then changed the subject and John actually found himself letting it go. A minute had already clocked on when John found himself taking a seat and talking about his blog's latest post. The genuine nature of his friendship coupled with the honest feelings of hurt from Sherlock at being declared "spectacularly ignorant" put John on the defensive.
"It wasn't like that"
"Oh you meant spectacularly ignorant in a nice way!" But Sherlock didn't give into his hurt and lash out in anger instead he tried to explain his manner of information retention which his guardian sensed was driven by a need to be understood and a desire for John to be the one to do so. And John could, he really could but he couldn't let on. He'd less than two minutes left. He threw Sherlock's ignorance back in his face whose facepalm shielded his disappointment in John and frustration which boiled up until it formed words.
"All that matters is the work, without it my brain rots. You can put that in your blog or better yet, stop inflicting your opinions on the world." He smacked the magazine across the table and curled in on himself away from John facing the wall. The frustration and disappointment were acute.
John swallowed. This was it. He needed to get up. He needed to walk away. He thought over Sherlock's words - "All that matters is the work" - and Michael's -"He has to choose to save you John ... but he isn't going to make that choice tonight", got to his feet, put on his coat and left, a comment on needing air thrown over his shoulder to Sherlock's query. Three and a half minutes, Mrs Hudson was on the stairs - he didn't bother with the scarf - and with ten seconds to spare he was striding out of the flat, aware of Sherlock's gaze and unhappiness at his back. He wanted him to come back but John wasn't going to - not tonight.
The night was cold and for a second John wondered if he should have used those spare seconds to grab a scarf. Well, it was too late now. He could feel Sherlock's gaze from the window on his back as he crossed the street feel his sorrow mingling with regret, loss and self-recrimination. He felt for one second the intense urge of his charge to run after him but it was quashed the next. Overlaying it all was John's own discomfort and guilt at starting an argument. He'd didn't care about the blog that much, it was only meant to be part of his PTSD cover anyway, though he did enjoy writing down his adventures, and he never meant to hurt Sherlock over it. He kept his mind away from pondering whether his artful manipulation of his charge was the real reason for his mood. He kept walking; his fingers curled into his palms as he shoved his fists further into his pockets to ward of the chill of the dusk as he lengthened his stride and turned the corner. He hadn't got more than two minutes away when he heard it.
An explosion. And along the bond, Sherlock, he was silent.
Michael's cautions and urging were thrown to the wind as John sprinted round the corner to find Baker St. clouded with grey dust which made his eyes sting and the back of his throat burn. Builder's dust. And inside he felt sick. Sherlock. He had to live. He had to and John would take it all back - he'd repost his blog and he'd say sorry, beg if he had to because his charge, his erratic, brilliant and chaotic charge had to live. And he realised that he wasn't in pain - the bond was still in place. Smoke to his right came from flames licking up the side of the buildings. The windows to the front of 221b had been blown in by the blast but opposite, the buildings no longer had a frontage. And then blessedly he felt Sherlock - panic and worry, but not for himself, for Mrs Hudson. He felt the worry from his charge bubble up inside of him with his own - it was too much and he spent the next ten seconds quelling the dry heaves that wracked his body with deep breaths. He cleared his mind and focused his thoughts. Sherlock was alive and so was Mrs Hudson. Mrs Turner was visiting her sister and her tenants lived in the top floor of 219 which appeared unaffected by the blast. He looked to 221b where Sherlock was taking care of Mrs Hudson and to the ruins of 222 and 224. 224 was vacant - the neighbours had gone on their annual ski-trip. They'd told Mrs Turner, who'd told Mrs Hudson, who had told John yesterday evening while wistfully patted her hip and commented on how skiing wasn't for her. 222 was occupied by one. He pulled his sleeve over his nose and mouth, stepped over the frontdoor and walked through the haze, straight into the hallway of 222.
John was hungry. He hadn't eaten since lunch, over twelve hours ago, he'd walked the two miles to Sarah's flat and he'd used almost all of his energy healing the woman he found in the wreckage at Baker St. She'd been slammed hard against the back wall of her front room by the force of the explosion, had a full bookcase collapse on her and been haemorrhaging internally. Her dusty tousled hair had stuck out amidst the fallen books. Even with his power, she had not regained consciousness and John was loathe to wake her - the shock to her body was something rest would best fix. It was only a matter of minutes before she was stabilised and removed from the building to the pavement. He'd left before he'd been seen, long before the emergency services arrived and Sherlock came out onto the street in his coat and pyjamas to help. The light of the new day filtered past his eyelids and he yawned. It was morning and he could go home. He sat up on the couch and was tying up his shoelaces when Sarah came in and switched on the t.v. As he tilted his head to greet her, he felt a twinge in his neck and shoulder from where he'd hefted the bookcase from the night before. He was about to heal it with the last of his strength but she was by his side and clearly thought the pain was the result of his choice to sleep on the coach and not the lilo. He let it be. If she had picked up on it, Sherlock would too. He flirted at little with her though from her expression he was somewhat out of practice. She wasn't his charge any more but he was thankful to her for taking him in last night. His gratitude warred with his desire to leave asap. As the possibility of breakfast was mooted, the desire increased and he considered how best to leave without looking rushed, guilty or relieved. The morning news blared out from the t.v. - more on the recovered lost Vermeer, old news to John - Sherlock had brought home a magazine on it - and then news of the Baker St. Blast. He grabbed his coat and headed out the door, the twinge in his neck forgotten.
Along the bond John felt the brand of annoyance unique to Sherlock caused only by contact with his brother. Mycroft had come to call. A black car was parked near Baker St. on double yellow lines; it held Irene. She availed herself of her usual means of communication to reach out to him as he pushed his way through the crowd.
"The cameras were blacked out on Baker St. before and after the blast."
"Thanks" At least John didn't have to worry about anyone seeing him go in and out of 222 - not that it was that much of a concern.
"We didn't do it. The bomber did."
"The Trust?"
"That is the most likely explanation."
"They got the wrong building."
"They got Mycroft's attention, which was perhaps all they wanted."
"It was fortunate no one was killed."
"Most fortunate. How's your shoulder?" added Irene and he could sense her smile even if he could not see it.
John allowed himself a few extra seconds to open the door to compose himself. This would be the first time he would meet Mycroft since his awareness of Irene's true nature. While he had been told nothing about John, he would soon figure it out if he had not done so already; whether he would tell his brother was entirely another question. There was no question that Mycroft had already gone back over Irene's paperwork trying to find anything that should have indicated this to him in advance - that suggested some fraud or forgery. He wouldn't find it of course. Paper identities from Tony's department were fool-proof and, therefore, government-proof. He believed they would be Holmes-proof too. He opened the door and found his charge's name on his lips before he was halfway up the stairs - the urgency in his tone and pace lending credence to the idea that he had only just heard the news before rushing home.
As John sat in the backseat of the cab with Sherlock on the way to Scotland Yard to check on a package addressed to the latter, his thoughts ran back to the conversation that had followed his arrival. He'd spotted Mycroft in his seat but chose to check on Sherlock first. The brothers parried petty jabs while John took in the damage to the flat. He could gauge where Sherlock had been standing, as he glanced to the table, his laptop was open, the keyboard covered in a layer of dust and smudged fingerprints. He stretched his neck and shoulder. Unsurprisingly, both men picked up on the neck twinge.
"How's Sarah John? How was the lilo?"
"Sofa, Sherlock. It was the sofa!"
"Oh, yes of course." And they were both wrong.
Unfortunately for John, the tension between the brothers did nothing to hide that between him and them - the elder for his suspicions as to John's true role in Sherlock's life and the younger following their first real argument. He made a conscious effort to meet the Mycroft's gaze as nonchalantly as possible when it fell upon him.
"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became... pals. What's he like to live with? Hellish I imagine."
"I'm never bored." And with that John's resolve crumbled and he looked away.
"Good. That's good isn't it." It wasn't a question.
Mycroft's eyes tracked back and forth between him and Sherlock and John was positive that he knew or had fairly guessed the true nature of the relationship. Sherlock was still doing his best to ignore his brother and had missed the undertone in the conversation, as Mycroft knew he would. Handing a file of national importance to John was as good as an affirmation.
As Mycroft had explained the lost top secret missile plans and the mystery of the agent found dead on the tracks with his head smashed in, a suspected suicide, his eyes were mostly focused on his brother. Sherlock was pointedly avoiding his gaze, seemingly absorbed in his rosining his violin bow and, from the side, John saw what his charge did not. In that look were guilt, relief and love. The man clearly blamed himself for endangering his brother and he had come here to confirm Sherlock's continued existence and perhaps looking for some kind of absolution. He wouldn't get it from Sherlock in this mood and, the case, his peace offering, was not going to be viewed as such by the detective.
Sherlock was predominantly irritated by what he viewed as his brother's patronising attitude. There was a little hurt there too - that Mycroft still didn't trust him to be able to take care of himself and insisted on giving him a case as one gave crumbs to the sparrows in winter. He didn't want his brother's pity. Underneath that though, there was some recognition that this was Mycroft's attempt to demonstrate that he cared. At no level did Sherlock blame Mycroft for the explosion but Mycroft was not privy to this, as John was. Mycroft would never get the absolution he sought because on that count Sherlock didn't have anything from which to absolve him. If Mycroft had admitted his real reason for calling, Sherlock would have told him so and both would have been the better off for it. They were the smartest men John had probably ever met, but they were still men and still impossibly reticent when it came to expressing their feelings. John almost rolled his eyes at the ridiculousness of it all.
"See you very soon." Were Mycroft's last words to him as he took his leave. And John had no doubt he would; it was a conversation he could do without. With Mycroft gone, John had tried to do his best to encourage Sherlock to accept the offering of his brother and when he met the standard Holmes stubbornness he countered it with reverse psychology.
"Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere." Sherlock's desire to prove John wrong would ensure he followed up on the case. No sooner had John said this than Lestrade had called and John found himself hustled out of his seat and into a cab.
"Coming?"
"If you want me to."
"Of course, I'd be lost without my blogger."
And that was as close to an apology has anyone had got from Sherlock and ironically its recipient felt it totally unmerited in the circumstances.
In the cab, John found himself unable to relax, troubled by Sherlock's explanation for the explosion the previous night. The gas leak was a cover story, and if John knew as much, Sherlock and Mycroft did too. John had been on the scene within scant minutes and had smelt no trace of gas in the air. He'd seen enough incendiary devices detonate to know the difference. Why Sherlock would tow the party line was baffling to his guardian. Did he not trust John or had he expected something like that to happen? Was he deliberately concealing his knowledge from John and if so, why? Was he beginning to suspect the truth about John? He always knew there was a particularly high risk of the detective figuring it out and the recent discovery by Mycroft set him even more on edge. It seemed everyone knew more than they were letting on, first Michael, then Mycroft and now his own charge and it was maddening. John tried to unbend his posture but his neck twinged again. His thoughts returned to the young, blond woman from 222. He hoped she was alright. John thought her name might be Charlotte. He'd never spoken to her though Mrs Hudson said she worked for the new London branch of Farrow-Marshall Aeronautics Inc. John's thoughts were disrupted by an urgent call, he closed his eyes on the back seat. To his surprise, it was Tony.
"John - hope you're well."
"Tony. What's up?"
"I need a hand with a couple of cases."
"Sure."
"Woman in her mid-forties, no children - case file just came to me today. She's been sending up urgent prayers for relief since last night. She's got twelve and a half hours before her file is to be automatically transferred to the DFC. And there's a bomb strapped to her."
It was that last sentence that grabbed John's attention - the urgency of the situation and the rapidity by which it had arisen explained why the file had not turned up on Michael's desk - she wasn't the target - anyone would have done but she'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Data acquisitions probably knew the place and the purpose but not the person until the choice was made. The use of the incendiary device coming after last night seemed too close to be a coincidence but John as yet could not perceive a link between the two.
"Where is she?"
"I don't know. Data Acquisitions gave that info to the DFC and they're not saying." Tony's voice was steadily increasing in pitch and tone and John felt the beginnings of an awesome headache.
"Your lynchpin is involved. I think he might be able to save her. And if Data Acquisitions can be biased in favour of the DFC, then I don't have a problem utilising resources from the DOD." Added Tony.
"And the other?"
"A boy, aged ten. Same set up but in two days and with a shorter deadline." John felt an internal chill which sent a shudder down his spine. Guardians were highly defensive over children - their vulnerability appealed to their duty to protect - though the majority of charges were in fact teenagers and adults. Their innocence and unquestioning faith was refreshing and their ability to look on an old world as something new was invigorating although this was by no means universal. While all charges were equal - a threat to the existence of a child tended to rouse the strongest of sentiments in warrior guardians. The makers of those threats almost always ended up under the uncontested jurisdiction of the DFC.
"I'll do what I can."
"That's all I ask." In some ways, Tony was no different from John - they would both do whatever it took to protect those whose care was entrusted to them.
When John opened his eyes, the cab was already pulling into front of Scotland Yard and Sherlock's gaze was on him.
"You're cold."
"I'm fine."
"You were shivering and now you've gone pale." Sherlock's curiosity and concern was peaked. Even with his deductive skills, John doubted the detective would conclude that the reason for his reaction was his response to an unpleasant telepathic communiqué. He turned away from him and got out of the cab. As it drove away, he turned to his charge.
"I think my trust issues have expanded to include London cabbies."
The corner of Sherlock's lip quirked up into a small smile before he twirled around, coat flaring around him, and strided towards the revolving doors. John followed the man on whom two lives now depended without his knowing with a measured degree of optimism. Sherlock could solve this, he could save them and as John recalled, Andy never mentioned collecting a child.
"You like the funny cases, don't you? The surprising ones." Lestrade had commented as he led them both into his office. It threw John for a second because he'd been almost certain that he'd had the edge at that time - that this concerned Tony's two cases. He couldn't imagine Lestrade finding either a woman or a child strapped to a bomb the least bit amusing or strange - sick, perverted and twisted, yes - funny or surprising, definitely not. Which suggested this was unrelated - how John was going to get his charge distracted from this particular case, refocused on to those flagged by Tony, leave him time to solve that of his brother's within the next few hours and keep him safe from the Trust and its machinations he didn't know. He couldn't help but doubt himself - all his best intentions might not be sufficient to keep his charge safe and the stark lack of information from Michael left him feeling off kilter. Michael had made it a question of trust and John wondered if it went both ways. He trusted Michael, in the end, admittedly after much prompting and, even if he did return to Baker St. against Michael's injunction, he hadn't gone to back to his flat but did Michael really trust him to do what was best for his charge and not to be blinded by his friendship for him?
Sherlock's surprise down the bond startled him out of his increasingly depressed line of thought. John replayed the last few seconds of conversation between his charge and Lestrade:
"That explosion."
" Gas Leak."
"No."
"No?"
"Made to look like one."
"What?" Sherlock's surprise was genuine but John noted that it wasn't due to the knowledge of the true nature of the explosion but rather at Lestrade having figured it out. His abrupt query made John wonder if Mycroft had disclosed anything more before John's arrival. It seemed as if Sherlock was feeling out how much Lestrade actually knew.
"Hardly anything left of the place. Except a strong box, a very strong box." But what of Charlotte - she'd been left outside the building and her stuff - the books? John had seen what had survived - maybe Lestrade meant of the structure itself.
The contents of the strong box consisted of an envelope addressed to Sherlock. When Sherlock asserted that the paper was bohemian and the handwriting was from a woman, John started and queried him but his charge was certain.
"She?"
"Obviously."
Oh God! How could he have missed it?
A letter written by a woman found in a strong box at the location of an explosion where a single woman has just moved in, who apparently disappeared afterwards - no comment of her existence had been made in the news or of survivors in the hospital by Lestrade, who was clearly working on the case. She'd vanished and no doubt, from Lestrade's comments, the contents of 222, but for the box, were gone too. John tried to recall if he'd seen the box there but in the smoke and dust, he'd been focused only on finding survivors. John was not like Sherlock but even he could draw some conclusions from the circumstantial evidence. Farrow-Marshall had a branch in the Czech Republic - she could have easily obtained the notepaper while there. She'd done it - this Charlotte woman - she'd been the one to plant the bomb, maybe she made a mistake or maybe she was a loose end to be tied up too that the bomb had gone off while she was there and John had saved her. If he's listened to Michael - he wasn't meant to return but he had - a defiance he'd been so sure was correct, something he had been proud of and in the end, what had it been for? He'd saved the very life that had been trying to destroy the one he was pledged to protect. The anguish at this realisation was acute and John could not help repeating his charge as he struggled to neutralise his expression.
Maybe Michael was right not to trust him; John honestly didn't know if he trusted himself anymore.
Despite the aching void inside, the result of his recent conclusions, John was fairly certain he that the banal curious expression plastered on his face coupled with his open palms, hands by his sides would pass muster. The only person who might see through it had his back to him. Inside his mind, however, he counted his breaths - a technique he learned as a sharp shooter. A count of five on the inhale, five to hold and five out. He wanted to rip the envelope out of Sherlock's hand as he watched the man three feet in front of him carefully cutting it open in the light. He agreed with him - the fact that it's been x-rayed isn't reassuring at all. He knew what these people are - willing to sacrifice one of their own - they would have no problem killing Sherlock with anthrax or some other toxin. He forced himself to stay still, 5-4-3-2-1, and he let the air flow out of his lungs as Sherlock emptied the contents of the envelope into his palm.
It's a phone, a pink phone, just like Jennifer Wilson's. Oh it's not the same phone but it is a message - it draws a connection between the first case of the cabbie and this most recent one. It's a riddle within a conundrum wrapped in an enigma. John hates that sort of thing.
He's almost glad for the distraction that his annoyance at Donovan gives him - she's laughing at his charge and he can feel shame and irritation in Sherlock that feeds into his own. He has made the man a laughing stock with an idle comment. He glances to Sherlock but can't maintain the eye contact. He starts counting his breaths again.
In the next sentence Sherlock sends John's hasty conclusions to the wayside - of course, his blog. The pink phone - it could just be a manufactured connection - and John gave them all the information to do so. It chills John to realise that his post, which gives such a resounding insight into Sherlock's work but also the man himself, has a readership that encompasses Trust operatives. Now is not the time for guilt, he rethinks every post he's made to date and what information he's given out.
On the phone, there's another message for Sherlock. Five pips ring out.
And a picture appears, a picture of a grungy flat which had led Sherlock back to where they'd started only it was 221C, not 221B this time.
The living room in 221C was identical in all but one respect to the photo - a single pair of runners sat solemnly in the centre of the room, facing the doorway, where it was impossible to miss. Sherlock was positive that the party behind the message was intent on causing another explosion. There had been no alerts from Michael or from Irene and John was left relying on his charge for information. The thought that he may have lost Michael's trust stung but John buried the feeling with his determination to keep his charge safe. He was hyper-vigilant and, before Sherlock had gone within three paces of the footwear in question, he reminded him of the modus operandi used to date. When the voice of that terrified woman, the first hostage, had come over the speaker giving out the clues, deadlines and nauseating praise, John recognised it immediately as Tony's girl, the deadline only confirmed it - at least this case and Tony's were one and the same; it was one less thing to worry about. Sherlock had rapidly deduced the situation of the woman and her use in the sordid little ruse. The dingy, damp basement seemed even more confining as the voice cracked towards the end - the tone, the words and the pauses for her breaths breaking the silence into shards. Even if they got to her, when they got to her, John corrected, she would still need help. Right now she sounded broken in ways neither John nor his charge could fix - as if all her hope and all humanity had deserted her - and perhaps they had.
He had wondered at Tony's anxiety over her case at first but now John wondered how he'd handed over all her care to John and to Sherlock, although the latter knew nothing of the matter. John had been unable to let Michael make decisions regulating his conduct to his own charge, even where he knew that Michael had more information. Tony's actions seemed to show extraordinary trust of which John promised he would prove worthy. But in a small corner of his heart, he pondered whether it was in fact quite ordinary trust to one's colleagues especially when all were driven by the same shared motivation. Or was it even a question of trust at all? Was it simply a case of asking for help when needed, which far from being a weakness, was a strength? A strength John had proven to have. John had his pride but he was not so proud that he could not admit his mistakes nor allow it to impede him from seeking assistance. Hearing the utterly disconsolate and shattered vocals echo round the room, John realised he could learn from Tony. He would apologise to Michael, though that almost went without saying, more importantly, he would try to recognise when others could guide him in his conduct with his charge and allow himself to be guided by them, even if and most especially when it went against his own views. The call ended and Sherlock's muttering broke John's train of thought
"The curtain rises." When John had queried what this meant, he'd simply responded that he'd been expecting "this" for some time. "You and me both" thought John.
John cancelled his shift at the clinic and those the next day, ostensibly to clean up the flat but really to keep the man on track, for Tony's sake as well as for the woman. Sherlock and the runners went to Bart's and thither went John also. While Sherlock examined the shoes in the bright, florescent lights of the lab, John pondered the troubling fact that someone had been in their building to leave them there and set up the scene and neither Mrs Hudson nor, more significantly, Sherlock had noticed. They must have been there within the last twelve hours and while Sherlock and Mrs Hudson were either too distracted or not present to notice. They'd come through the door - Sherlock had recognised that the lock had been opened recently - the cameras would have caught them coming in and out. John knew Mycroft was always watching - but not last night. The bomb - it had been a diversion. More worryingly, someone had been watching them go into 221C- how else could the call have come at just that moment? It was possible that a telescopic lens and a basic prediction of how long it would take to enter and go down to the basement, knowledge already in the possession of the other side could answer that leaving no a/v evidence from today to boot.
As Sherlock began his study of the mud from the treads of the shoes, John subtly tried to direct his mind to answering the question of the woman's identity. If Sherlock could figure out who she was, her route could be identified and maybe there would be no need to partake of the puzzle. Sadly, Sherlock had discounted her as a mere hostage and John was reluctantly unable to add the little he knew, which Sherlock had no doubt already deduced. It was stretching even the detective's powers of observation to deduce a name and location from a single phone call lasting less than two minutes.
"No lead there." Sherlock had stated, eyes fixed on the petri dish at the end of his microscope.
John denied that was exactly what he was thinking, but now that Sherlock mentioned it, the possibility of tracing the call came to mind, only to be shot down by the detective. The chime of Sherlock's mobile disrupted the flow of the conversation and John discovered eight texts from Mycroft. As a warrior guardian who'd seen combat, patching warring brothers together should have a cinch but despite John's fraternal feelings for a number of others, he heavily reliant on his empathic bond to gauge the depth and breadth of the sibling rivalry.
"Remember there's a woman here who might die."
John was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn't hear the door open and Molly and another man come into the lab until they were standing a few feet from him. John didn't recognise the male but Molly introduced him as "Jim from IT". The man seemed inordinately interested in Sherlock, like some fangirl. John had missed him slipping the card under the dish near Sherlock but his charge had not. Still, John felt moved to chastise him for his "kindness" to Molly in setting her straight about the orientation of the other half in her office romance. He knew Sherlock spoke the truth - he'd not been motivated by any malice.
John absently caught the runner as Sherlock put it in his hand. Following Sherlock's critique of his deductions, he took it back and proceeded to reel off an impressive list of facts. This was progress and the sooner he could solve the case, the sooner that that poor woman would be safe. But as Sherlock continued John realised that the facts related were already familiar to him - the detective was speaking of the life little James had extinguished - Carl, a swimmer and a bully - one that for his youth, Irene in her own fondness for children had not perceived as a threat. He'd read this in the old report from Data Acquisitions. Sherlock even had the full name "Carl Powers" It was then that the defining realisation sunk into John.
"It's all connected" Irene had said on the first night John had spent at Baker St and it was. Lynchpins were rare, having only occurred in nineteen generations to date, but they were always nucleated. It was unheard of for one to exist by itself. Of the 39 known instances of lynchpins, excluding the current generation, there had been three instances of three born in one generation and fifteen instances of two. The occurrence across the generations was similarly nucleated with no lynchpins occurring for some six hundred years between 400 and 1000AD but heavy clustering occurring between the 14th to 17th centuries, and again from the 19th century to the 20th century. In the case of trios, there seemed to be some indecipherable system of checks and balances governing the division of power between the three that resulted in a degree of self-maintenance and regulation. Although more frequently occurring in pairs, less was understood about the effect of interaction of triumvirates.
Why hadn't John thought of it before now? All those reminders of the nature of lynchpins from Michael and Irene. He really was the idiot his charge claimed him to be - he'd seen but not observed. He had assumed, given what he knew of the IOA's work, that Mycroft had been the other lynchpin - which would have been a reasonable conclusion had not John ignored the blindingly obvious: he already knew who the other lynchpin was in Sherlock's generation. He could even admit the possibility that that if his assumption was correct and Mycroft was also a lynchpin then this was an even rarer instance of a trio. This runner, this old, seemingly innocuous piece of footwear tied his charge to Irene's. What did this mean for Sherlock? John had already accepted that at some future point, he would be in danger and Sherlock would chose to save him, thus cementing his path and ultimately saving himself. Where exactly the other lynchpin fitted into this arrangement, John did not yet know. It could be a mere coincidence that the crime of one lynchpin had been the one selected in the first round of the sick game against another. John didn't think so. This seemed to be beyond the scope of a plot by the Trust to bring Mycroft to heel. But ruling out the involvement of a global multi-million pound criminal alien underworld organisation brought slim comfort to the guardian. What he did need was James' last name, which, in view of the duty of confidentiality, had been redacted from the report, and also his current address. He'd worry about feeding the information to Sherlock without him noticing when he got it. And there were only two people he could get that information from: Irene or Michael.
Unfortunately, Sherlock had already hustled John out of St Bart's and into a cab. As he carried on telling Carl's story, John reluctantly conceded that another zone out could not occur. For a man who was supposedly recovering from PTSD by a return to the battlefield so to speak, another flashback in less than twenty-four hours. The possibility of tying it to the taxi ride was not really an acceptable alternative. No, John would have to let both his apologies and his need for information sit on the back burner. Of course, every minute he did so, he risked Tony's charge, every single maddening second of the waiting but as John flicked his eyes to the dashboard, he reluctantly conceded that he had six hours left. As the cab left them at the flat, Sherlock made immediately for a box of old newspapers in the corner. John headed upstairs - here was the chance to have the conversation he both desired and dreaded.
John sat down on his bed - the weariness of the day only now catching up on him. He glanced around the room, warmed by the soft glow of the uplighter in the corner, taking in his favourite mug which contained the residue of sweet, cold, milky tea, the alarm clock with the alarm turned off and the feminine, patched quilt beneath his legs that Mrs Hudson had provided. On the bookshelf, there were photos of former charges, one of Harriet and Clara and two of himself and Harry in other lifetimes which he passed off as his mother and father and his grandparents. The walls were a pale blue - his favourite colour. He slipped his shoes off and curled up onto the quilt. He'd stayed in hundreds of places during his various lives and they always represented his cover at the time but 221b was more than that - it represented not only his cover but real self as well - it was home, something John hadn't known for three decades. Michael would be entirely acting within the scope of his discretion to ask John to resign as Sherlock's guardian or to simply transfer the file to another - Irene would probably be the best. He would give up his charge, his home and his life - it was so intertwined with Sherlock's own, it was hard for John to conceive of it as something separate. He heard the creaking of the chair downstairs - Sherlock had moved to the table in the living room and while Sherlock was saving a life, he was selfishly contemplating preserving his own. There was no putting off the conversation any longer. He closed his eyes and focused on Michael.
"Michael"
"Ah, John. I've been expecting you."