A/N: Warning! Here's where it starts to get dark. If you don't like it, just turn round and head back to the more fun chapters. "Fairly warned be thee, says I."
"There are certain things I won't be able to tell you," Sam continued as the car made its way through the London traffic. The constable glanced out the window, and then back. "Understand, it isn't because I don't want to, but because I'm not allowed to."
Sherlock stayed silent for a moment, considering his new situation. He did not believe himself to be in any danger, and he suspected Sam Waters would return him to his flat if he so much as asked, but that would be giving up a golden opportunity, one that even Mycroft couldn't access. He still had his phone, and it was on, so he drew it out and rested it on his thigh. Sam noted the movement with his eyes, but didn't say anything.
"Who was the woman?" Sherlock enquired.
Sam chuckled softly.
"Veronique," he said. No surname. At least, none provided. "I apologize on her behalf; she is not overly fond of this country, but tolerates it for my sake. And she was very upset when you accessed my file, particularly because it took four days for anyone to figure it out."
Sherlock withheld comment, but wondered if he hadn't alerted Mycroft, if anyone would ever have known.
"Why for your sake?" he asked. Certainly, she and Sam couldn't be lovers or even particularly close; he never smelled of cigarette smoke. Sherlock would have noticed that immediately, if only for the cravings it would have given him.
"She's my handler," Sam replied. He wrinkled his nose somewhat. "And I see she was smoking." He chuckled then, green eyes sparkling. "You really pissed her off, then, detective. She only really does that when she's upset. Mind you, I think she considers being in England reason enough to be upset."
"You're undercover," Sherlock said.
"In a manner of speaking," Sam agreed.
"What manner?" Sherlock pressed. "Who are you, really? Who are you with?"
Sam held up a hand, as if indicating that he could only take one question at a time. The car slowed to a stop briefly for a traffic light, then sped up again after a short wait.
"You need to understand, I really am Sam Waters," he replied. "I'm a constable with the London Metro Police."
"Bollocks," Sherlock replied. Sam chuckled again. "No constable needs a handler, particularly not a French one."
"No, that's true," Sam agreed. "But Sam Waters is a Metro police officer. That's all there is to him, do you understand? Young, but moving up in his career. He got where he is because he worked hard and he shows promise. Maybe one day he'll make sergeant, who knows?" He shrugged, as if this were inconsequential. "Certainly he has no designs on being a detective, but if he keeps up the way he is, when he's old enough, he'll be in command in some form."
He paused, rubbing his hands together absently and Sherlock waited, letting the silence grow. The atmosphere in the car had shifted; Sam was no longer smiling or chuckling and his gaze had turned inward. He made a fist with his right hand and pressed it into the palm of his left, as if grounding himself in something physical, or displacing some old pain. Sherlock stretched his left leg gently, trying to relieve some of the dull ache. They were paralleling the river now, heading east toward Greenwich.
"When I was twenty, I'd been on the job for a little over a year," he finally said, and his voice was distant, looking back into memory. "I can't tell you where, and even with some of the details, it will take you some time to find it. Not that I don't expect you to try, or succeed, you understand. Although-" he paused and met Sherlock's gaze again, lips twitching wryly. "I'd prefer it if you didn't; it would save me inhaling more of Veronique's smoke."
He sighed and looked away a moment and Sherlock was struck, and momentarily distracted, by his profile in the lights from the street lamps. Sam Waters, as Sherlock had known him up until that evening, had always appeared young and unconcerned, but now there were shadows in his eyes, similar to those Sherlock had sometimes seen in John's expression when the doctor spoke of Afghanistan and some of the things he'd seen there. It made Sam look somehow breakable. Sherlock had seen that before, on many people, because there was almost always something that could be used as leverage to force someone wide open, to shatter them. But he had never seen it appear so quickly.
It also made him look more attractive, which was distracting and the detective reined himself in. If John knew… well, John would tease him even more, which was actually worse than anything else John could throw at him.
"My partner was local," Sam continued. "He had no idea I wasn't. No one but the top brass did, and even then, it was pretty limited. We were working on some skin traders operating out of Eastern Europe and Turkey, trying to pin them down once they got out west here. It was hard, and no one liked that a green officer my age was involved, but it wasn't direct. I was dropped into the area and ordered to keep an eye out and report back what I could. There were others, higher up, older, who were already in place. I had no idea who. There was a trail of us stretching all the way back to the old Block countries, as far as I knew. I had someone to report to, and that was it."
He paused again, leaning back in his seat, gazing out the window for a moment.
"Just watch and wait," he said after a minute. "We patrolled our beat, which was pretty bad, lots of smaller scale drug trafficking, local prostitution, blue collar stuff. Lots of domestics. It was depressing. I wished to hell they'd just hurry us up, but it was slow going; informants were hard to come by, especially since we generally couldn't use women with these people. They'd get swallowed up and shipped into exactly the kind of conditions we were trying to prevent.
"One day, we got a break-and-enter call for a local warehouse. Abandoned, like pretty much everything there, because the economy was in the tank and had been since – forever it felt like. I don't know. Before my time. So we went to check it out, called for some back up when we arrived just in case, but we both thought it would be kids – teenagers who used these places all the time for parties, to get high, whatever. Probably more trouble than it was worth for us to bust them up, but someone did own the building and paid for a security system."
Sam stopped talking again, taking a deep breath, resting his forehead in his right hand. Sherlock watched, waiting. He had the sense the younger man had told this story many times before, but never to someone not directly related to his work. He watched for signs that the younger man's hands were shaking, the PTSD indicators John had never exhibited, because John had never had it. But Sam's hands were steady as well, even if the breath he exhaled wasn't.
He glanced over at Sherlock and gave a mirthless laugh.
"It was two of the men we were looking for. Right there. They had two girls with them, Polish I think, I couldn't tell, but that's what it sounded like. My partner had gone in first and I'd hung back, just out of sight, just in case." He closed his eyes.
"They shot him. Just shot him. Right here," he tapped his forehead, then opened his eyes. "I was close enough that it hit me. Not the bullet. The blood. I couldn't see, but I fired back. Didn't even think about it, because I couldn't at that point. I hit someone, because I heard yelling and screaming. The screaming was the girls, but I could tell it wasn't them. The man I'd hit, I hadn't hit well, because he was still conscious and cursing."
He looked out the window toward the river as they headed toward the Blackwall Tunnel. London faded from around them as they were swallowed up by the passage under the river.
"I remember reaching up to wipe off the blood from my face and ducking behind something, I don't know what. Crates? Pallets? I heard one of them say 'Jesus Christ, you just shot a cop!' and then laughter. I had no idea how many there were; I could hear two, and the girls, but who knows? It was a big place. I tried to remember when we'd called for back up, figure out how long we'd been in there. Then I heard sirens. It was like manna from heaven. I thought if I could just stay down, I could get through it. I heard one of them, the same one who had made the comment about shooting the cop, say that they had to get out. The girls were still screaming, and my partner's body was bleeding all over the concrete.
"I realized I couldn't let them get away with the girls – that was precisely why I'd been put there. Yes, it wasn't supposed to be me that brought them in, but it was me, I was there, and they had god only knows how many girls stashed in that warehouse. I remember listening, trying to figure out where they were, then pushing my back against the crates so I could stand with some cover.
"And then – then there was a gun at my throat. Right here." He tapped his right index and middle fingers against the pulse on his throat, then rubbed his forehead with a quick, agitated movement.
"I'd heard people say that time seems to slow down right before you think you're going to die, but I'd never really believed it. I did then. Everything just jumped into sharp detail; the dust in the air, the smell of my partner's blood, the texture of the light and the shadows, the differences in pitches in the girls' voices. There was a hand in my hair, pulling my head back."
Sam made a fist with his left hand, holding it near his temple.
"And it's funny, what I remember. I could tell the bloke was wearing gloves, he was gripping too much of my hair not to be. And it hurt, but on my scalp, you understand. He wasn't pulling so far back that he was hyper extending my neck muscles. Almost like he was trying to be careful.
"And my first thought wasn't 'bloody hell, I'm going to die'. It was something like 'two dead cops, they will crucify these bastards when they catch them'. For a second, I wasn't even scared, because it didn't seem real. Then, then I realized that was it. I can still remember the beams in the warehouse, because I was looking up now, not by choice. I remember thinking, that's the last thing I'll see. Those beams. They were so dusty."
Sam stopped again and was silent for long minutes. They were heading north now, near the Limehouse cut. The traffic was somewhat lighter.
"The one holding me, he said that he'd gotten the other one. One of the others told him to finish me, because they had to go, the sirens were just about on top of us at that point. I remember hoping they'd get there in time, that someone would drop this bloke from behind and he'd never know what hit him. It was so close, I could tell. He shoved the barrel of his gun into my neck and laughed, low and right in my ear. Then he said 'no, not this one, he's far too pretty. It'd be a shame to waste it.'"
Sam took a deep breath. Sherlock shifted his phone back to his pocket, shutting it off as he did so; he doubted he'd need it now, and he didn't want to interrupt the younger man. Sam watched the movement, but absently, as if not really seeing it.
"That's what really scared me. Not that I was going to die. That he was going to rape me, then kill me." He let out the deep breath slowly. "But then, one of his mates said that they didn't have time, they had to get out now. The one holding me, he laughed, and then kissed me. Actually kissed me. Hard. I should have bitten him, but I couldn't move, it was too quick and then there was no chance. He laughed; I must have looked terrified. I was terrified. I figured he was just going to shoot me then. But he pulled my head back so I could see his eyes – couldn't tell the colour, because of the low lighting, but they were shining."
He paused, locking his gaze with Sherlock's.
"Then he said: 'Pity. But there's always tomorrow.'"
The shock was like a bolt down his spine. For a moment, there was only remembered greyness and the sound of Moriarty's voice in the MRI room, and the morphine-accentuated terror that accompanied them.
Sam nodded.
"Yes, I thought that would sound familiar," he said softly, his voice worn. "It's been seven years and I still hear that every time I go to sleep."
Sherlock's eyes refocused quickly.
"Seven years ago you were eighteen," he said.
"Seven years ago, Sam Waters would have been eighteen," Sam corrected. "I wasn't. I was twenty. And now I'm twenty-five. I gained two years back, I suppose. I also died. Not much of a bargain for me, I think. The next thing he said to me was 'good-bye, beautiful', right up against my ear, and struck me with the butt of his gun. After that, I remember nothing until I woke up in the hospital five days later. They told me they'd found two of the men we were looking for only the day before, both of them shot and dumped. We hadn't caught them – he had disposed of them when they were no longer necessary, or too much of a risk. They told me I'd died, too. I was out of commission for two years, because I couldn't sleep through the night."
He smiled wanly, but there was no humour in it.
"I don't remember the first couple of months very well, but Veronique told me they were the worst. I'd wake up screaming every night, because I thought was covered in blood. I thought that was it, I was never coming back. He'd killed me and I was still breathing. I wished he had actually killed me, saved me the trouble. But then it started improving, but degrees. Then, one day, it wasn't fear anymore, it was anger, but directed, you understand. Not just rage, not something that would switch back into fear, but something with purpose behind it. So they sent me here."
"Why would you come back to this?" Sherlock demanded. "Why would they let you?"
"Have you ever asked John why he joined the army?"
"No," Sherlock admitted. Sam spread his hands.
"You should. It's the same reason. James Moriarty is a one-man terrorist organization, all by himself. Wherever he is, whatever he's into, he's doing it because he wants to terrify people. He'd done it to me, but I didn't want him to win. And he wanted me; he made that very clear. So they started keeping an ear to the ground for him, because we'd lost his trail after that, and then he resurfaced, in London. Where I already was."
"You transferred to Scotland Yard."
"Yes. After they'd established that you were his focus. He's – intelligent would be too simple a word. What he wants from you isn't what he wants from me. I'm not that smart, nowhere near. But I am good at my job and I'm not a fool. He wants you as an opponent, but he just wants me."
Sherlock stared at Sam a moment.
"And you'd simply let him have you?"
The younger man shook his head.
"No, of course not," he said. "We were hoping to avoid it, that you'd trip him up before he ran down my location. For the first three and a half years, they kept me under tight wraps, even when I came to work in the city. Minimal contact with anyone, head down, basic beat job. They'd known enough, I'm not sure from whom, to know he was looking for me. It was me who insisted on the transfer to the Yard, to work with Lestrade. Even then, they weren't happy. They wanted me to stay out of it, to let you do it, because they'd figured out that you're probably the only person who can."
He leaned back in his seat, shaking his head.
"But after the Merkley case, we started getting pressure too. That was bad." He held up a hand, forestalling any argument. "Not your fault, that isn't what I'm saying. Not the police's fault. But still bad. So I told them, let me do to him what he does with everyone else."
"Bait," Sherlock said.
"Yes," Sam said simply. "Distraction. He can focus on both of us at the same time, but not as fully as if there were only one. Seven years he's been looking for me. It will be too much to pass up."
Sherlock wondered what John would say about this if he knew. It seemed rational to him, and may have been precisely what he was looking for. Something that James Moriarty wanted but didn't have. Something he had lost and was attempting to recover. Sherlock was certain John wouldn't see it that way, but it didn't matter.
It also removed John from some of the risk. He didn't care a whit how selfish that was; anything that decreased the threat to John was worth it. He'd be damned if he was going to see a bomb strapped to his husband again.
"He took my life even more surely than if he'd put a bullet in my skull," Sam said. "I'd like the chance to return the favour."
"What do you propose?" Sherlock asked.
"For now, nothing," Sam said. "Let him find me. We've been dropping hints where he can pick them up. It's just a matter of time."
"He will know it isn't a coincidence," Sherlock pointed out.
Sam nodded.
"I know, and that's what he needs to think. Let him believe it. Let him think this distraction is yours, not his." He paused again, regarding Sherlock wryly. "Detective, he's already killed me."
"You're too dangerous if you have a death wish," Sherlock said plainly.
"I don't," Sam replied. "Not for myself. I'm not so naïve that I think I can go back to my old life at the end of this, but I would like to stop looking over my shoulder. I'd like to take back the control he stole from me. And with him, there's only one way to do that. I know what he wants, and let it be me rather than another poor sap who has nothing to do with this."
His voice was matter-of-fact, with no hot anger, but Sherlock could see a flash of it beneath the surface in Sam's eyes. He was actually glad for that – if the man had shown absolutely no emotion, Sherlock would have had to turn him down. There was simply no way that Sam could truly feel indifferent about this, but he could have – and had – learned to control it, to channel it to something useful.
"He's run loose for far, far too long. It's time for him to start playing by our rules."
John pulled out the headphones and pressed the stop button on the tiny recorder Sam Waters had given to Sherlock to give to him. He held it up and Sherlock took it, long fingers closing momentarily over John's. He checked to see that John had run out the entire tape, the whole conversation that Sam had recorded and instructed Sherlock to play for John, adding he knew that the detective would have told his husband anyway, and this way, the doctor was getting the full story. He set the recorder on the table beside the couch so he could destroy the tape later and take apart the player before disposing of it.
When he turned back to John, his husband shifted, gathering Sherlock into his arms and more or less wrapping his whole body about the detective's. Sherlock hesitated a moment, then snaked his arms around John's waist.
"John, I am all right," he murmured.
"Yes, well, I'm not doing this for you," John replied, and his voice was tense and thick. Sherlock shifted then, pulling John closer to him, hooking one knee over one of John's, so he felt like they were joined like a puzzle. John hissed at the pressure on his left shoulder.
"Sorry," Sherlock murmured.
"It's all right," John replied. Sherlock rested his cheek carefully against John's left shoulder, listening to the sound of John's heartbeat. The doctor hadn't protested anything Sam had said yet, but Sherlock waited for it. John laced a hand into the thick curls on the back of Sherlock's head and the detective closed his eyes. The sensation awakened every nerve and relaxed every muscle in his body at the same time, making him hover somewhere between desire and ease. He knew John knew that, but wondered if John also knew that the gesture made him feel utterly safe.
They stayed that way for some minutes before John said:
"When you find him, I hope he requires you to put a bullet in his brain."
Sherlock raised his head quickly, startled, and met John's gaze. Behind the brown eyes was a John he didn't know very well, one who had mostly stayed behind in Afghanistan, but who had resurfaced occasionally. He was harder, more practical and less compassionate than the normal John. Sherlock had encountered him most recently during the Merkley case, when John had refused to go to the hospital after being attacked. He was glad this version came to the fore only infrequently, because Sherlock generally didn't know what to do with it, and Sherlock disliked not knowing what to do.
"I'm sorry," John said and the expression softened but didn't disappear. "But with him, it's the only way. Do you imagine if we sent him to prison, he'd stop, even from there?"
"Not in the least," Sherlock replied. John stroked the back of his head with his thumb and Sherlock closed his eyes again, focusing on the sensation.
"I fully intend to make it to our first anniversary," John said. "And then to the next fifty. Your young friend is right; this is the best way. Barring Moriarty just turning himself in, or saving us the trouble and throwing himself off of a bridge."
"You don't like it," Sherlock commented.
"Of course I don't like it, Sherlock," John said. "Nor do you, not really, even if you think it's best because it doesn't involve me." Sherlock opened his eyes again and John's lips twitched. "I know you well enough by now," he said. "It's a bad situation, but it was always going to be. Ever since The Pool."
"No," Sherlock said. "Long before that."
John sighed.
"True."
Sherlock lowered his head again, resting his cheek back on John's shoulder. They were both silent for another long moment, and Sherlock found himself wondering how Sam Waters dealt with any of this on his own. It difficult to imagine what it would be like to be facing Moriarty alone, without anything to back him up, and was surprised at the sensation and how deep it ran. He had told John during the Merkley case that the doctor was his strength and he had meant it, but he had not realized how much. He could picture himself on Moriarty's trail without John, but the image seemed hollow and grey, and Sherlock knew that alone, it would only be another game, which made him a pale reflection of Moriarty himself. With John, everything was brighter and so much more present.
He wondered if John had any idea.
He kissed his husband's neck and felt the muscles in his neck move as John smiled slightly.
"I love you," Sherlock murmured. He could feel the vibrations in John's vocal chords as the doctor gave a small chuckle.
"I know, Sherlock," he said, leaning down to kiss Sherlock's forehead, then tilt his head up to kiss his lips. "I love you, too."
