Chapter Six
If I didn't say it before, a special thanks to Ariane DeVere's Sherlock transcripts on Live Journal. I couldn't have done it without you!
And yes, I know, re-reading the show during these memories can get awfully tedious, but...well, I'm the author, so if you don't like it, too bad! I do!
I have cut it down as best I can. There should only be two more chapters of scenes from the show.
John and Molly stepped out of the fog and into a dimly lit pool. Sherlock was standing at the shallow end by the doors, his hand raised as he held a memory stick aloft.
"Oh…" mumbled John, obviously recognizing the memory.
Molly glanced at him as a door opened somewhere in the room. Memory John, wrapped in a thick winter coat, stepped out and turned towards Sherlock. The look that passed over Sherlock's face as he looked towards him was pure hurt and betrayal.
"Evening," said Memory John evenly.
Sherlock's raised hand began to lower slowly, but otherwise, he didn't move, still staring over his shoulder in utter disbelief.
"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" said Memory John.
"John…" blurted Sherlock softly, shocked. "What the hell…"
"Bet you never saw this coming," said Memory John.
Finally, Sherlock managed to move and started to walk slowly forward, still staring at his friend in shock and bewilderment.
With a look of despair that matched Sherlock's own, Memory John took his hands from his pockets and pulled open the coat to reveal a bomb strapped to his chest.
Molly gasped at the sight as a sniper's laser immediately began to dance over the bomb. Sure, she had known something big had happened this early on with Moriarty, but she had never known that John had been that fifth pip. John and Sherlock never talked about it.
"What…would you like me…to make him say…next?" asked Memory John.
Sherlock continued to step towards him, but now, he was looking everywhere but at Memory John as he tried to see who else was in the area.
"Gottle o' geer…" Memory John narrated what he was being told through his ear piece, "gottle o' geer… gottle o' geer—" His voice almost broke at the end.
"Stop it," Sherlock interrupted.
"Nice touch, this: the pool where little Carl died," Memory John narrated. "I stopped him." He tried not to cringe as he listened to the next words. "I can stop John Watson, too." He looked down at the laser point on his chest. "Stop his heart."
Sherlock turned on the spot while he tried to look in all directions. "Who are you?"
A door at the deep end of the pool opened, and a soft Irish accent came lilting into the room.
"I gave you my number. I thought you might call."
Sherlock turned towards the new arrival, who slowly walked out into the open: Jim Moriarty. Molly couldn't help but feel unnerved at the sight of the man. Even though she knew he was dead, she could remember all too well what he had done and put them all through.
With his hands in his pockets, Moriarty casually began to stroll alongside the pool, his voice dropping the plaintive tone. "Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket…"
Sherlock reached down to his trouser pocket and removed a pistol from it.
"…or are you just pleased to see me?" finished Moriarty.
Sherlock raised the pistol and aimed it towards him. "Both."
Moriarty stopped and looked back at him, unafraid. "Jim Moriarty. Hi!"
Sherlock titled his head as he looked more closely at the man.
"Jim?" said Moriarty in a questioning tone, mocking Sherlock. "Jim from the hospital?" He began walking along the deep end again.
Sherlock brought up his other hand to support the one aiming the gun.
Moriarty bit his lip as though disappointed. "Oh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that was rather the point." He turned to face Sherlock just as the sniper's laser flickered over Memory John's upper chest.
Sherlock briefly turned his head towards Memory John, a questioning look on his face.
"Don't be silly," said Moriarty, starting to walk again. "Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty." He reached the corner of the pool and stopped. "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see…" he gave a look of surprise, as if he had only just realized the connection, "like you!"
"'Dear Jim,'" recited Sherlock. "'Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister?'"
Starting to walk forward again, Moriarty grinned.
"'Dear Jim,'" Sherlock continued. "'Please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?'"
Moriarty stopped again. "Just so."
"Consulting criminal," said Sherlock softly. "Brilliant."
Moriarty smiled proudly. "Isn't it? No one ever gets to me…and no one ever will."
Sherlock cocked the pistol. "I did."
"You've come the closest. Now, you're in my way."
"Thank you."
"Didn't mean it as a compliment."
"Yes, you did."
Moriarty shrugged. "Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirting's over, Sherlock." His voice became high-pitched and sing-song. "Daddy's had enough now!" He again started to stroll closer, his voice returning to his normal tone. "I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems—even thirty million quid—just to get you to come out and play."
Sherlock's eyes couldn't help but flicker across to Memory John a couple of times as he closed his eyes briefly from the strain.
"So, take this as a friendly warning, my dear," said Moriarty. "Back off." He smiled. "Although, I have loved this: this little game of ours." He put on his London accent. "Playing Jim from I.T." He switched back to his Irish accent. "Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"
"People have died," Sherlock told him.
"That's what people DO!" Moriarty screamed the last word furiously, his personality changing in an instant.
"I will stop you," said Sherlock softly.
"No, you won't," said Moriarty, calm once again.
Sherlock looked across to Memory John. "You all right?"
Memory John deliberately kept his gaze away from his friend.
Moriarty walked forward again and leaned into his ear. "You can talk, Johnny boy. Go ahead."
Memory John met Sherlock's eyes and nodded once.
Sherlock took one hand off the pistol and held out the memory stick towards Moriarty. "Take it."
"Huh?" said Moriarty. "Oh! That!" He strolled past Memory John and reached out, grinning. "The missile plans!" He took the stick from Sherlock's fingers and kissed it. He lowered the stick and looked at it. "Boring!" He shook his head. "I could have got them anywhere." He nonchalantly tossed the stick into the pool.
Memory John raced forward and slammed himself up against Moriarty's back, wrapping one arm around his neck and the other around his chest. "Sherlock, run!"
Sherlock backed up a step in surprise, but kept his pistol raised and aimed at Moriarty.
Moriarty laughed in delight. "Good! Very good."
Sherlock didn't move, still aiming his gun at Moriarty's head, and he started to look up a little anxiously, as though wondering what action the hidden sniper might take.
"John…" muttered Molly, staring at his sacrificial act to save his best friend.
"If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up," said Memory John.
"Isn't he sweet?" said Moriarty. "I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets."
Grimacing angrily, Memory John pulled him even closer onto the bomb sandwiched between them.
Moriarty scowled round at him. "They're so touchingly loyal. But, oops!" He grinned briefly at Memory John and then looked towards Sherlock. "You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson." He chuckled as a new laser point appeared in the middle of Sherlock's forehead.
Memory John stared in horror as Moriarty looked round at him expectantly. Sherlock shook his head slightly.
"Gotcha!" said Moriarty, his voice sing-song once again. He chuckled as Memory John released his grip on him and stepped back, holding his hands up. Moriarty glanced round at him, turning back to Sherlock as he brushed his hands down his suit. He gestured indignantly to it. "Westwood!" He lowered his hands calmly. "Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?"
"Oh, let me guess: I get killed," said Sherlock, sounding bored.
"Kill you?" Moriarty grimaced. "No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway some day. I don't wanna rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no. If you don't stop prying…I'll burn you." His voice became vicious. "I'll burn the heart out of you." His face was a snarl on the word "heart."
"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one," said Sherlock softly.
"But we both know that's not quite true," said Moriarty with a knowing smile.
The fog encircled them again, taking them to the lab at St. Bart's. John and Molly unconsciously held onto each other as they found their footing.
"Okay, that's starting to make me dizzy," muttered John.
They were standing in front of the cabinets by the door. Sherlock was leaning back against the central bench, all rumpled clothes and red-rimmed eyes and tangled hair. Memory Molly stood at the same bench, running some tests. Memory John stood on the other side of the room across from them, arms crossed. To their left, Bill Wiggins was sitting on another bench, his arm being wrapped by Mary. Isaac Whitney stood next to her.
Memory Molly finished her tests and began removing her gloves with two loud snaps.
"Well?" asked Memory John. "Is he clean?"
Throwing her gloves down, Memory Molly turned to him. "Clean?" She turned and walked over to face Sherlock, slapping him hard across the face. She then slapped him a second time and then a third.
Sherlock blinked, grimacing against the pain.
"How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with," Memory Molly told him firmly. She glanced briefly at Memory John and then looked back at Sherlock. "And how dare you betray the love of your friends. Say you're sorry!"
Sherlock brought a hand up to his face, speaking instead to Memory Molly. "Sorry your engagement's over, though I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a ring."
"Stop it," Memory Molly told him angrily. "Just stop it."
The fog came once more, leaving them in the kitchen of a very fancy-looking restaurant, going by the waiters' tuxedos and dishes the chefs were serving up. John and Molly glanced around, completely lost.
"What the…" muttered Molly, trying to find Sherlock in the organized chaos of the kitchen.
All of a sudden, the doors to the dining room burst open, and Sherlock stepped in, wearing a suit with a bowtie, a pair of glasses and a drawn-on pencil moustache.
"Oh, my God…" John said, lifting a hand to his mouth and starting to laugh a little.
Molly smiled. "What?"
John shook his head. "You'll see."
Molly glanced back up to see that Sherlock had grabbed a bottle of champagne and was headed back to the dining room. The two of them followed him as he hurried through the maze of tables, heading straight for one where Memory John and Mary sat, Memory John with his old moustache. They were smiling and laughing about something.
Suddenly, Sherlock approached the table, holding the bottle out towards Memory John and speaking rapidly in a French accent. "Sir, I think you'll find this vintage exceptionally to your liking."
Mary shielded her face so Sherlock wouldn't see her giggling silently at Memory John.
"It 'as all the qualities of the old with some of the color of the new," continued Sherlock.
Memory John smiled at Mary, still not looking up. "No, sorry, not now please."
"Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers, suddenly one is aware of staring into ze face of an old friend," continued Sherlock, taking off the glasses.
"No, look, seriously…" began Memory John, finally lifting his gaze to meet the waiter's eyes, "could you just…" His face dropped, his entire body jolting as he stared up at Sherlock in utter disbelief.
Sherlock dropped the French accent and slipped into his own voice. "Interesting thing, a tuxedo. Lends distinction to friends and anonymity to waiters."
Memory John turned his head towards Mary, his eyes filling with tears. He ducked his head momentarily before he stumbled clumsily to his feet.
"John?" asked Mary.
Memory John straightened up, looking down at the table and breathing heavily before lifting his head and briefly locking eyes with Sherlock.
"John, what is it?" asked Mary, worried. "What?"
Memory John looked down again, clearly still in shock.
"Well, short version…" said Sherlock.
Memory John raised his eyes to him again.
"…not dead," said Sherlock.
Memory John stared at him, his face full of pain, shock and growing anger.
Sherlock stared to look a little guilty. "Bit mean, springing it on you like that, I know. could have given you a heart attack; probably still will. But in my defense, it was very funny." He laughed nervously, not meeting Memory John's eyes.
Memory John's gaze was slowly turning murderous.
"Okay, it's not a great defense," said Sherlock.
"Oh, no!" said Mary. "You're—"
Sherlock glanced at her. "Oh, yes."
"Oh, my God," said Mary.
"Not quite."
"You died. You jumped off a roof."
"No."
"You're dead!"
"No. I'm quite sure. I checked. Excuse me." Sherlock picked up a napkin from the table, dipping it into Mary's glass of water and starting to wipe off his moustache. He met Memory John's furious gaze. "Does, er, does yours rub off, too?"
Memory John gave him a tight smile.
"Oh, my God, oh, my God," said Mary angrily. "Do you have any idea what you've done to him?"
Sherlock looked down nervously. "Okay, John, I'm suddenly realizing I probably owe you some sort of an apology."
Memory John clenched his left fist and slammed it down onto the table, hunching over it.
"All right, just…John?" said Mary. "Just keep…"
Memory John pulled in a deep, shaky breath before looking up at Sherlock, whispering. "Two years." He shook his head, dragging in another long breath and blowing it out again before starting to straighten up. "Two years." He moaned and slumped down over his hands again.
Sherlock had the decency to look awkward.
Memory John glanced up at him momentarily. "I thought…" He groaned, unable to continue.
Mary stared at him in sympathy.
Memory John finally straightened and turned to Sherlock. "I thought…you were dead." His face began to fill with anger again. "Hmm?" He breathed rapidly. "Now, you let me grieve, hmm? How could you do that?"
Sherlock looked down, biting his lip.
"How?" demanded Memory John furiously.
"Wait—before you do anything that you might regret…" started Sherlock.
Memory John half-groaned again.
"…um, one question," continued Sherlock. "Just let me ask one question. Um…"
Memory John looked at him, his eyes still full of fury.
Sherlock almost giggled as he gestured towards his own top lip. "Are you really gonna keep that?" He grinned as he turned his head to look at Mary as she laughed in disbelief.
Memory John drew in one more long breath and then hurled himself at Sherlock, grabbing his lapels and bundling him back across the floor until Sherlock lost his footing and fell to the floor. Memory John landed on top of Sherlock and tried to throttle him.
The scene suddenly froze and jumped to a café, where Sherlock sat at a table with Memory John and Mary, as though someone had pressed the skip button on a DVD remote.
"You know, for a genius, you can be remarkably thick," said Memory John.
"What?" asked Sherlock.
"I don't care how you faked it, Sherlock," said Memory John tightly. "I wanna know why."
"Why?" said Sherlock, bewildered. "Because Moriarty had to be stopped." He looked at Memory John's expression. "Oh. 'Why,' as in…" He lifted a finger and pointed it in his friend's direction, who nodded. "I see. Yes. 'Why?' That's a little more difficult to explain."
"I've got all night," said Memory John darkly.
Sherlock cleared his throat and looked down. "Actually, um, that was mostly Mycroft's idea."
"Oh, so, it's your brother's plan?" asked Memory John.
Mary pointed at Sherlock. "Oh, he would have needed a confidant."
Sherlock nodded at her in agreement. "Mm-hmm."
Mary trailed off at Memory John's look. "Sorry." She refolded her arms and looked down.
Memory John turned back to Sherlock. "But he was the only one? The only one who knew?"
Sherlock closed his eyes briefly and seemed to force out his words. "Couple of others."
Memory John lowered his head.
Sherlock talked quickly. "It was a very elaborate plan; it had to be. The next of the thirteen possibilities—"
"Who else?" asked Memory John in a despairing whisper. He looked up at Sherlock. "Who else knew?"
Sherlock hesitated.
"Who?" demanded Memory John.
"Molly," said Sherlock.
"Molly?" said Memory John angrily.
"John," said Mary softly.
"Molly Hooper and some of my homeless network, and that's all," replied Sherlock.
"Okay." Memory John sat up a little and glanced round at Mary, who gave him a sympathetic smile. He turned to Sherlock again. "Okay. So, just your brother and Molly Hooper and a hundred tramps."
Sherlock chuckled. "No! Twenty-five, at most."
Memory John hurled himself across the table and attempted to throttle Sherlock again.
Everything around them suddenly did that weird DVD skip thing again, and John and Molly were standing now in a small kebob shop. Memory John and Mary stood leaning back against the counter. Sherlock stood in front of Memory John, a bleeding cut on his lower lip.
Memory John took an aggressive step into Sherlock's face. "One word, Sherlock. That is all I would have needed. One word to let me know that you were alive!" He stepped back, breathing heavily.
"I've nearly been in contact so many times, but…" began Sherlock quietly.
Memory John laughed in disbelief.
"…I worried that, you know, you might say something indiscreet," finished Sherlock.
"What?" said Memory John.
"Well, you know, let the cat out of the bag," said Sherlock.
Memory John stepped closer. "Oh, so, this is my fault?"
Mary laughed with disbelief. "Oh, God!"
Memory John was shouting in anger by this point. "Why am I the only one who thinks that this is wrong? The only one reacting like a human being?"
"Overreacting," corrected Sherlock quietly.
"Overreacting!" yelled Memory John furiously.
"John!" said Mary.
"Overreacting!" yelled Memory John. "So, you fake your own death—"
"Shh!" said Sherlock.
"—and you waltz in here large as bloody life—" Memory John continued shouting.
"Shh!" repeated Sherlock, glancing around at the people watching them in the shop.
Memory John's voice grew quiet again. "—but I'm not supposed to have a problem with that, no, because Sherlock Holmes thinks it's a perfectly OKAY THING TO DO!" His voice rose again.
"Shut up, John!" yelled Sherlock. "I don't want everyone knowing I'm still alive!"
"Oh, so, it's still a secret, is it?" shouted Memory John.
"Yes!" shouted Sherlock. "It's still a secret." He looked round at the other customers, his voice lowered once again. "Promise you won't tell anyone."
"Swear to God!" shouted Memory John, looking round at the customers and backing down a little. He blew out a long breath.
Sherlock stepped closer to him and spoke quietly. "London is in danger, John. There's an imminent terrorist attack, and I need your help."
Memory John stared at him in amazement, turning to throw a disbelieving look at Mary. He turned back to Sherlock. "My help?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed at Memory John before smiling. "You have missed this. Admit it. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world—"
Memory John grabbed his lapels, reared his head back and then moved in for the kill.
The fog spilled in again.
"That's how he told you he was alive?" Molly asked in disbelief.
"Yeah," John told her.
"Oh, my God!" exclaimed Molly. "What was he thinking?"
"Exactly!" said John.
The fog cleared, and John and Molly were now standing on a patio in the twilight. A helicopter was hovering in front of them, and Sherlock and Memory John stood facing it as Charles Augustus Magnussen looked over towards them.
"Here we go, Mr. Holmes!" said Magnussen.
Sherlock stepped forward and walked to Memory John's side, speaking loudly over the noise of the helicopter. "To clarify: Appledore's vaults only exist in your mind, nowhere else, just there."
Magnussen looked towards the helicopter. "They're not real. They never have been."
Sherlock nodded, looking down.
"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, step away," came Mycroft's voice from the helicopter's speakers.
Magnussen stepped forward, waving his hands calmly. "It's fine! They're harmless!"
Memory John looked over at his friend. "Sherlock, what do we do?" He turned to look at the helicopter again.
"Nothing!" said Magnussen, looking around at them. "There's nothing to be done! Oh, I'm not a villain. I have no evil plan. I'm a businessman, acquiring assets. You happen to be one of them!"
While Memory John continued to stare towards the helicopter, Sherlock turned his head and looked at his friend.
"Sorry," said Magnussen. "No chance for you to be a hero this time, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock looked away from Memory John, lowering his gaze with a determined look on his face.
"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson," said Mycroft over the speakers, "stand away from that man. Do it now."
Sherlock looked up, speaking loudly. "Oh, do your research." He stepped closer to Memory John, reaching round behind him and into his coat pocket. He then stepped away again and walked forward towards Magnussen. "I'm not a hero."
Magnussen turned to look at him.
"I'm a high-functioning sociopath." Sherlock widened his eyes in a glare. "Merry Christmas!" He raised Memory John's pistol, aimed it at Magnussen's head and fired. He dropped the gun and raised his hands as Memory John recoiled. "Get away from me, John! Stay well back!" He looked back at him.
"Christ, Sherlock!" shouted Memory John in shock, raising his own hands.
Fog surrounded them once more, cutting off the horrible sight in front of them.
"So sad…" mumbled Molly.
"What?" asked John.
Molly looked up at him. "The memories. They're all only bad memories."
John stared at her for a moment before looking back at the fog, and they wondered just what new nightmare they would be forced to witness next.