Resurrection Ch 7

A/N: Once again, thank you for reviewing, favouriting, and alerting. This is a huge story for me, a big deal emotionally and as a writer, so I am grateful to everyone who reads it. {Please let me know what you think.

Warning: Violence

And then there was a clatter and a thud in the next room. They froze.

A thin reedy voice rang out.

'Oh, Jooooooohnnnnnyyyyy!'

John felt his guts twist with hate. He had not forgotten that wheedling tone, one he had last heard on the cliffs above the Reichenbach Falls. He pressed a finger to Sherlock's lips and silently rose form the bed.

'Oh Jooooohhhnnnnny! Remember me….' The voice crooned, that sickly old song.

John slipped his hand into the bedside drawer and drew out the pistol Mycroft had given him. He quietly pushed a clip into the handle and drew back the slide to drive a cartridge into the chamber, then cocked it. Sherlock made to get up, but John staid him with an outstretched hand. Slowly, carefully, he opened the bedroom door.

In the middle of the room, Rory was standing, his face red, bent over backwards just enough to destablise him, to deter him from trying anything. His assailant was small, small enough to hide himself behind the huge Scotsman's shoulder. One hand was pinching his neck, another pressing a gun to the back of his skull.

'Oh Johnny,' came the whining brogue again. 'Haven't you been a naughty boy! Picking up homeless drunks and fucking them! How low can you go? You might catch something, you realise? And what would your precious detective say then? OH! I forgot! He's dead, isn't he, Johnny!'

John stepped forward. Rory's eyes caught him, took in his nakedness, and rolled up, the whites showing, his face a picture of fear and pain. The little Irishman tweaked his neck a little, just to keep his attention.

'Mmmm, tasty! I hope you've been using protection, Johnny boy,' he went on. A single, evil eye peeped out from behind the mammoth shoulder, scanned his body, noted the slick of semen on his belly, and came to rest on his reddened penis. 'Oh, well, maybe not.'

John slowly raised his gun.

'Oh, silly, silly. Tut tut tut.'

Then there was movement behind John. Moriarty shifted his angle to see. Sherlock must have emerged from behind the door, stepping forward into the room.

'Hello, Jim,' John heard him say calmly.

The hideous little runt moved just a little more, his eyes wide with horror, raising his head above Rory's shoulder. Just enough.

'No!' He gasped in disbelief.

John's shot hit him squarely between the eyes and he went down like a stone. Rory staggered, trying to regain his balance. John walked past him, stood over Moriarty and emptied his clip into what was left of his skull.

'Jesus, that's cold!' Rory gasped in horror.

John put the gun into his hand, pushed past Sherlock, and slammed the bathroom door behind him. A moment later they both heard the shower turned on.

'Excellently executed,' Mycroft said, sitting elegantly on the sofa, his legs crossed. 'I couldn't have done it better myself. Very thorough. A shame it was necessary, however.' He glanced at Rory, who was leaning against the kitchen units looking dejected.

'It's not fair to blame Rory,' John told him, rather irritated. 'The fault lies in expecting a single man to do the job of a team. Bad strategy, relying on over-confidence on your part.'

There was a sharp intake of breath from both Sherlock and Rory. A slight twitch showed up in the corner of the spymaster's eye.

'Indeed. "Who guards the Guards?" Isn't that the phrase? I apologise.'

'Thank you.'

'Nevertheless-'

'No, Mycroft, the fault is yours. It would take more than one man to patrol the perimeters of this place even in the best of circumstances. And what is more, you should be asking yourself how the hell Moriarty knew we were here.'

Sherlock hissed air out between clenched teeth.

'Oh, I am, I am,' Mycroft said, and refolded his legs on the opposite side.

'He didn't know I was here, though,' Sherlock pointed out. 'Your mole didn't tell him that.'

'Which rules out any of the locals,' John added, glancing at Rory. The big man looked as if he couldn't decide whether to be relieved, or horrified at John's provocation of his boss.

'You can rest assured I shall be thorough in my inquiries. I shall look into it personally. Very personally,' the older brother said, in a voice that sent chills down John's back. He had always known that Mycroft was capable of sending someone to do pretty much anything in the service of the nation, that he had the kind of moral compass that accepted the unacceptable as necessary in certain circumstances, but now it occurred to him that the spymaster would never send a man to do something he himself would not be willing to undertake. There was a harsh glint in his eye that suggested whoever had sold them out to Moriarty was going to experience a long, painful and lingering death at Mycroft's own hands. Still, he was angry and he wasn't going to let this go.

'Whoever did it, Moriarty would have had some serious hold over them, Mycroft,' he said. 'You can't just assume that everyone has their price.'

'I am surprised that you are willing to defend someone who almost murdered the person you love most in the world, John. What a humane man you are!'

'I just don't think you should tar everybody with Moriarty's brush, that's all.'

There was a chilly silence, which Sherlock finally broke.

'What happened about Ireland?'

Mycroft gave a bored sigh. 'Ah, the many-headed Hydra! A substantial cache of arms and drugs, and some useful paperwork, but it was not the den of thieves that I was hoping for. Still, it seems that my concerns have been headed off by your own dear doctor.'

He got up.

'Does this mean we can go home now?' Sherlock asked him, launching out of the sofa, where he had been cuddled up against John's body.

Mycroft gave him a speculative look. 'On the whole, I think not. A few loose ends to clear up. Take the week, enjoy yourselves, have a holiday. I've brought two extra men with me, they will move into the cottage next door with Rory to give you some privacy, since the immediate danger is over.' He looked down at John, who had pointedly not got up as well. 'I'm sure you will appreciate the time together.'

Sherlock saw him out, and closed the door softly. There were a few thuds and shouts from next door as the new men moved their kit in and settled down. John glimpsed Mycroft's strapping frame stride off towards a waiting car. Sherlock stood at the window, watching him go, then came back and sat down next to John.

'John, you know I wouldn't normally say this, but speaking to Mycroft like that just now wasn't one of your brighter ideas.'

'You wouldn't normally say it? You criticise me all the time!'

'Yes, but this is different. There's brave, and then there's asking for it. You saw him. He's not in any mood to be messed with.'

John got up and began to jab at the logs in the wood-burner viciously. He threw another one in, and slammed the doors shut.

'Who does he think he is, coming here, criticising anyway? Whose fault was it in the first place? He was fucking asking to be decked if you ask me!'

Sherlock stared up at him in shock.

'Look, I know he's your brother, but he's such a prick!'

'Utterly,' Sherlock agreed. 'He is, however, an extremely dangerous prick.'

'Alright, alright!' John held his hands up. 'I give in. It was stupid. I promise I won't do it again!'

Sherlock slumped back in the couch and looked up at the doctor, frowning.

'You'd better tell me what's the matter,' he said.

Tomorrow: Sherlock is forced to face up to the damage he has caused…