"Moran was here in June, and we know he was here last night. It's not unreasonable to assume that he's still in the city. London was Moriarty's base – it's likely Moran's as well."
"If I were a criminal madman, I'd hire an army-trained sniper as a bodyguard, too," John mused, casting an expert eye around Mrs. Hudson's– Sherlock's flat. She'd been gone such a short time – less than forty-eight hours – but it didn't feel like her home anymore. Sherlock had overrun it.
Papers and pencils were scattered everywhere. A map of the city tacked to the wall was already partially hidden by his scrawling handwriting. A teacup – one of Mrs. Hudson's best china – sat forgotten on the mantle, with half a cup of cold tea still in it. The air tasted of expectancy, of crackling energy, rather than a calm warmth.
"No one better," Sherlock agreed. "I'd like your opinion on his service records, particularly the psychiatric evaluations. There's no outright diagnosis of psychopathy but there are a number of 'incidents' that suggest it. Nothing that couldn't be explained away by circumstance, but they do seem to follow him around… And he was moved around with more frequency than I'd expect even for a military man. It seems his brilliance as a marksman– John?"
His name startled him from the tide of words he had barely heard, and he managed a jerky nod, buying time to run through Sherlock's brief monologue.
"I've seen that before," he said before the detective could ask what the problem was. The question was there, right on the tip of Sherlock's tongue – John could see it, and he knew he couldn't hear it. Not right here. Not right now.
He needed something to ground him to the real world.
A psychopathic former army sniper ought to do.
"It's hard to make a case on rumours and coincidences – even if they aren't coincidences – men like him get shunted around, usually in the hopes that they're a problem someone else can fix."
"And someone did," Sherlock mused, attention returned to the case, giving John the space to exhale a slow breath. "The wrong man, unfortunately."
"Moran probably didn't think so," John replied.
"Good point," Sherlock agreed. "That tendency toward unchecked violence isn't generally accepted in the military – who better than to put all of his talents to good use than Moriarty?"
"The army was probably happy to be rid of him. Probably didn't ask too many questions. I've met a few men like that, Sherlock. Psych evaluations aren't a problem for them. Where are the records?"
Sherlock folded himself from standing to seated in that effortless way John still didn't think someone his height should be able to manage and bent over his laptop, fingers clicking rapidly over the keys. The computer was spun toward him, lifted and presented like a prize.
"It's just a game," Sherlock said. "A test in which all the correct answers are known but selecting all the right ones draws suspicion. There's a strategy to which ones need to be answered incorrectly – and how much is necessary to create the illusion of a well-rounded personality, complete with rough edges, insecurities, and minor bad habits."
The stark black-on-white of the words on the monitor were lost to John as he ran through Sherlock's words in his head. Carefully. Picking them apart, one by one, looking for markers.
"You've done it before," he said. It wasn't a question. He knew.
And he knew Sherlock had phrased it that way for him to catch it.
"Of course," Sherlock replied. "It was a challenge – how much could I get away with? A test of sorts – for them."
"That's how people like Moran see it," John said, surprised at how difficult it was to keep his voice level, at the sharp note of heated anger that slipped into his tone.
"Yes," Sherlock agreed. Watching him. Almost expectantly.
Another deep breath and a decision – no he wasn't going to go down that path. He knew Sherlock. It was suddenly not surprising that Sherlock had played the psych tests. Of course he had. Like Moran had. Like Moriarty probably had as well.
John was a doctor. He knew how to read all the little signs that signalled small but significant differences.
And Sherlock was his friend.
Friend. It jarred him to hear himself use the word, even if only internally. It felt like a decision, like closing a door on the past he hadn't wanted open anyway.
"Moriarty was probably the perfect boss," John said, passing the laptop back. "But Moran's got to earn a living now that his boss is dead. You said this was Moriarty's base – Moran would have contacts here, too, right?"
"Highly likely," Sherlock agreed.
"Then people here know him, and those people know other people. I may never have met Moran, but I still have a lot of contacts of my own. And I have an idea."
Sherlock had insisted on walking in that way of his that steamrolled right over any objections and found John on the pavement, moving quickly to keep up. He could have demanded they slow down but he was enjoying the pace – the speed, the sense of possibility, the surge of purpose.
Sherlock was back. Alive.
So was he.
It felt good – amazing. They had a case. A mystery. An adventure. He could feel his nerves tingling with energy, masking any twinges in his not-really-bad leg, feel the life surging through his veins and blazing along the synapses in his brain. The past nine months seemed covered in fog, shadowed by grief, dulled by a slow, predictable routine.
John had forgotten what it was like to want the challenge and the risk – had pushed it all down so far and so deliberately that it had become normal not to think of it. Getting it back was like being allowed to breathe again, and he sucked in a deep breath, trying to swallow the laughter that bubbled up in his chest.
Sherlock folded to the ground before John had even processed the movement. Doctor's instincts kicked in without waiting for the rest of him to catch up; he doubled back and crouched fast, one hand on Sherlock's upper back, the other tilting his head up to search his eyes. Glassy, unfocused, face pale even for him.
"I'm all right," Sherlock murmured.
"No you're bloody not," John shot back, pushing Sherlock's head between his knees, keeping it there with his forearm and hand. Two fingers wrapped around Sherlock's wrist; the detective's pulse was jack-hammering under his touch.
John gave himself the luxury of half a moment to curse his own stupidity – Sherlock probably hadn't eaten at all after Lestrade had concussed him, and had thrown himself into this bloody case. If John had been paying more attention, he'd have seen the signs before they'd even left Baker Street.
"We're going home," he said firmly.
"No," Sherlock replied, shaking his head under John's hand.
"Doctor's orders. You have a concussion–"
"Which is mild at best. You're going to tell me I need to be off my feet and eat something. I can do both those things at the pub. We need to act, John. Now. While Moran might still be in the city."
"Sherlock–"
"John."
With a quick twist of his wrist, Sherlock had snagged John's between his long fingers, raising his head enough to meet John's eyes. John relented with a sigh.
"Fine," he agreed. "But afterwards, we're going home and you are going to get at least seven hours of sleep. At least, Sherlock. I'd be happier with nine."
The unprotesting nod worried him slightly, but John let it pass in favour of getting what he wanted. He eased Sherlock to his feet and hailed a cab to take them the rest of the way.
The pub was precisely the sort of place Sherlock had envisioned for John – warmly lit, honey oak tables clean but with scratched surfaces, a clientele that seemed as comfortable here as they were in their own homes, no one under thirty, no one drinking alone. It whiffed of camaraderie underneath the more pervasive smells of beer and fried food. There were no strangers here.
Apart from him.
John's friend was enough of a shock to derail Sherlock's immediate dislike of the atmosphere, even if only temporarily. He rarely met or dealt with people taller than himself and on the occasions he did, he had mastered the trick of using his intellect to make him seem the bigger man.
There was no question that wouldn't work now.
John's friend – Dave Forsyth, as John introduced him – had two inches on Sherlock and at least a hundred pounds, almost all of it muscle. Affable smile growing into a grin when he shook Sherlock's hand, waving them into the booth he'd managed to secure – here was a man who never had to resort to violence, never had to use his height deliberately to get what he wanted.
Listening would be the better tactic. Let John do the talking. Forsyth would respond well to a friend.
There was that niggling feeling again – Sherlock had felt it while listening to John on the phone, making plans to meet up at this ghastly pub. A moment in which John had turned away from him slightly, smiling as he responded to a one-sided conversation. An easy companionability about the way he interjected, about the laughter in his tone. References to people Sherlock didn't know, whose names he was certain he'd never heard before.
Halfway around the world, tracking elusive shadows and rumours. Working on his own, the distant promise of home holding him up, keeping him going. He'd burned his bridges to his past, isolating himself out of necessity. Wrapping alone so tightly around himself that it had become as normal as breathing, but waiting for the moment when he would shed it again, step back into a life to which he'd become accustomed.
John had disdained that isolation altogether, letting it go long before he should have, vaulting back into a world that had once been his, full of people who had worn the same uniform and shared similar experiences.
It was perfectly reasonable that John should want to interact with them, Sherlock told himself firmly. It was currently serving a purpose and if it became inconvenient, John could be encouraged to manage his time in more profitable ways.
Sherlock was as certain of that as he was in his refusal to eat any of the vile food the waitress – single mother, working two jobs, smoked heavily to deal with the stress but tried to hide it – placed in front of him. Whatever lingering, petty doubts remained could safely be ignored. Small talk was happening – there seemed to be no way to avoid it – but John was also steering the conversation around toward the important matters.
"Truth is, I have a name, someone I'm hoping you met."
"He in trouble?" Forsyth asked.
"Causing trouble for others," John replied.
"Bad apple?" John nodded, and Forsyth took a pensive swig of his beer. "Before or after?"
"Both. He's been out since oh-two but he's found some demand for his skills. Special Ops sniper. Colonel Sebastian Moran."
Forsyth exhaled hard; Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but any real hope vanished even before he spoke again, the response written clearly in his features.
"I've heard once or twice."
"Know him?" John asked.
"More know of him – never ran into him overseas, but you hear stories. Easy to start paying attention when the same name keeps coming up… We were in Afghanistan at the same time, thank God not on the same base. I had a sergeant in my unit then – Ben Masters. He'd run into Moran once. Never said much about it, but he had too much to drink one night. Didn't say what Moran did, just said that some men deserved no more than a single bullet."
"Do you know where he is? Masters I mean."
"Last I heard, he was holed up in Birmingham. Took a bullet, just like you, but to the leg. That was a couple years ago, though. But Kev would know, I bet. They served together in Iraq. Kept in touch, I think. Give him a ring. He was just saying he's been meaning to call you."
"It seems I've been misinformed."
"What?" John asked, fishing for his keys in the weak light from the light over the door.
"Just because you were in the army doesn't mean you know everyone else who was?" Sherlock enquired, arching an eyebrow when John shot him a look. He didn't like the pallor of Sherlock's skin, the darkening circles beneath his eyes.
"A few people is not 'everyone else'," he sighed. "You didn't eat your fish and chips."
"I was under the impression you wanted me to eat food. That didn't qualify."
John's response was lost when Sherlock closed his eyes, holding up a hand for balance – the doctor recognized an attempt to displace dizziness when he saw it, and the fact that Sherlock couldn't hide it meant it was worse than it looked. He slung an arm over his shoulders, murmuring encouragements as he guided them both into the house.
"I'm fine," Sherlock snapped.
"Yes, right, that's why you've got both me and the wall holding you up," John agreed. "Let's go. One step at a time."
This drew no argument or even sarcastic comment, and John swallowed on the sudden increasing worry – Sherlock was probably just getting what he wanted, being allowed back upstairs. It took them a few minutes, but John had Sherlock lying on the sofa without any real protest.
"Shoes," he ordered, rolling his eyes when Sherlock lifted his feet but did nothing else. John unlaced them and dropped them to the side; Sherlock draped an arm over his eyes.
"If Moran–"
"Shut up."
A flicker of surprise and Sherlock pulled his arm away, grey eyes narrowed.
"No deducing, no monologuing, no case talk at all. You need food, water, and sleep. In that order. Stay here, don't bloody move."
He vanished into the kitchen, keeping a sharp ear opening, returning a few minutes later to find – to his surprise – that Sherlock had actually obeyed him. The detective accepted the toast and glass of water almost sheepishly, murmuring a thanks. John allowed him to sit up enough to eat comfortably, taking the free space on the end of the sofa, and watching Sherlock pointedly until the last of the meagre meal had been consumed.
"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded when Sherlock tried to push himself up onto obviously unsteady legs.
"You ordered me to sleep," the detective replied, a caustic note in his tone. "My flat is downstairs."
"You need to really sleep, Sherlock, not read files and call it rest because you're sitting down. I can't keep an eye on you if you're downstairs."
"Bit difficult for you then," Sherlock agreed.
"Which is why," John started, slinging Sherlock's arm over his shoulders again, ignoring the impatient grumbling as he did so, "you'll be sleeping in your old bed tonight and I'll be on the sofa."
