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Chapter Eight
In which I, John Watson, manage to accidentally convince my flatmate I'm in love with him.
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The man who had been trying to kill me was tall and very good-looking, with a well-trimmed blond mustache and a hawkish nose. He was carrying an assault rifle, and unlike Moriarty he kept it dead fixed on Sherlock's chest, with a professional ease that spoke of military experience. It was another Steyr AUG; Moriarty must have bought them at bulk rate.
"Well, it has been an interesting night, Mr. Holmes," said Moran, sounding perfectly composed. "I have just heard that the police are looking for me in connection with several murders. Most remarkable. Incidentally, I believe a man calling himself Alex Woodbridge came to my home this evening with a mysterious bag. It did strike me as odd. Shall I tell you what he looked like, this Woodbridge?" He stroked the butt of his rifle. "You may find the description familiar."
I nudged Sherlock with my elbow. "Told you I should have gone in," I said. "You're too memorable." Come to think of it, that was a flaw in his whole genius plan: and if those goons could describe him to Moran, they could describe him just as easily to Lestrade and there went the whole thing, unraveling like Mrs. Hudson's knitting (she was a terrible knitter, Mrs. Hudson; too many herbal soothers, I reckoned).
Sherlock sighed. "Don't be ridiculous, John. It doesn't matter - nobody is going to say anything to anybody."
Involuntarily I glanced over at Moran, who smiled politely back at me. "You are entirely correct, Mr. Holmes. I'm not planning on either of you surviving long enough for it to matter."
"Really?" Sherlock raised a single eyebrow. "What a disappointment."
"Oi, how about we don't antagonize – "
"I'll shoot him first," said Moran, indicating me, "while you watch. And then you'll have the chance to make one decision."
Sherlock looked only mildly irritated. "Honestly, not very creative, are you? Your boss said the same thing to me, word for word, not too long ago."
It seemed odd I couldn't remember that conversation - but I suppose there was a period, before I got there, when Sherlock and Moriarty had been alone together. I'd just assumed they'd traded verbal barbs, maybe some obscure puns or something.
Moran raised the rifle. "Yes, well, consider this to be me, finishing his work." It was the kind of thing a person said right before they started shooting, and Sherlock gently tugged my sleeve, pulling me a little behind him which was – strangely chivalrous of him, considering that I was the one with the ruddy gun.
"Idiot," said Sherlock, without heat. "Have you really failed to figure it out?" I realized after a beat that he was talking to Moran – idiot being one of his familiar terms for me, usually. (To be fair, my petnames for him typically featured the words 'daft' and 'git' in various combinations). "I've been covering for you since that foolishness at the police station, but it was difficult. You've got to stop blundering about. We still have need of you."
I got the feeling this was not what the blond man had been expecting to hear. "What are you saying?"
"Your boss gave me a choice," said Sherlock; "Join him, or he'd kill both of us."
Moran licked his lips. "You're saying you chose to join?"
"Of course. I'm not an imbecile. I only apologize that I've never been able to contact you - Jim was insistent that we never have any form of communication whatsoever."
"You've spoken with him? I haven't seen him – haven't heard from him since that night."
"Well, no, you wouldn't have. He's gone off to Switzerland, dealing with the assets," said Sherlock.
Moran looked decidedly suspicious. "He wouldn't have left him alive," he said, looking at me. "Called him an obstacle to be removed – said he'd never help us. He was never meant to leave the warehouse."
"John is my assistant; he assists me," said Sherlock. His fingers tightened briefly on my sleeve. "He does as I say."
I didn't bother objecting: I was afraid to break whatever spell Sherlock was casting. Anyway he was still blocking my shot.
"He did say he wanted you to join us," Moran was saying doubtfully. "But how can I believe you now?" His grip tightened on the rifle. "If you are telling me to the truth, then prove it."
Sherlock rummaged around in his pocket and finally produced what looked like an etched silver ring. "He said you would understand the significance," he said with a shrug, holding it out.
Moran's fingers closed around it, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's face. "He trusts you – this much?"
"I've more than proven my commitment," said Sherlock. "I gave him my brother's last mole within the organization, that night. Moriarty shot him in front of me."
Moran cocked his head, clenching the ring in his fist. "The homeless fellow from the townhouse? They're blaming that one on me, you know."
"Yes, sorry, you're being set up to take the fall at the moment." Sherlock sounded faintly apologetic. "Jim said you'd understand – cleaning house, he called it. He'll be on the continent for a year at least, and he wants a fresh start when he gets back. Somebody has to fall on their sword."
"The Adair murder, of course. One or two others. He wants me to confess to all of it?" Moran made it sound as if this were a perfectly reasonable request.
"Of course," said Sherlock. "You'll be rewarded, obviously. It'll all be sorted out on his return."
Moran nodded shortly and seemed to come to a decision. "I need a little time. A few matters of business to clear up first."
"No more than twenty-four hours," said Sherlock, and his voice was sharp.
Moran's head bobbed briefly in assent. "My apologies, for the – " he motioned vaguely with the gun. "I was operating under the information I had."
"Not at all, not at all, it was to be expected. Commended, in fact. Loyalty of your degree is very rare. Jim sounded rather touched by the whole thing, frankly."
A faint flicker of a smile crossed Moran's face, quickly disappearing. "Well, then. I suppose I shall take my leave of you."
"Goodnight," said Sherlock.
"Until next time." He tucked the rifle under the fold of his flapping coat and turned away to melt into the shadows.
We both waited, silent, to be sure he was really gone. Then I collapsed against the nearest wall, my knees gone suddenly weak. "Good lord," I said.
Sherlock looked merely mildly pleased with himself. "Yes, that did come off rather well, I think." He came to lean next to me, keeping five or six inches between us.
"You're mad," I breathed. "God, you should have gone into the stage. You would have been amazing. I almost believed you myself."
"Only almost?"
"Well, I did see you kill him in front of me," I said. "Plus, I am rather touchingly loyal."
Sherlock's lip quirked.
"The ring," I said – "how the bloody hell did you know that would work?"
"Ah. It was found with the body, in a shirt pocket. Moriarty didn't wear jewelry so it must have been a gift, but he wasn't sentimental so obviously he had another purpose for keeping it. Ergo, a gift from somebody that he needed to manipulate or impress. The list of people who would give him a present is small. Also it was inscribed with the image of a snake – I don't think you had the chance to see it, John – so it was someone who knew his true nature; not Molly, not anyone who only knew one of his public personas. Simple deduction, really."
"I'm impressed," I said - but then, I always was. "Don't you think Moran will eventually figure out what we did? Sooner or later he's got to realize that we set him up, not to mention who that body really is."
"Moran is not the great thinker that Moriarty was," said Sherlock, with somewhat bittersweet nostalgia. "It's unlikely that he would have ever connected the corpse in the townhouse with his own boss – but unanswered questions are far more dangerous than false conclusions. People are always satisfied with false conclusions."
"But he'll be in jail for crimes that he didn't commit. Crimes that we actually committed."
"Only one crime he definitely didn't commit; he demonstrably murdered a good four or five of those people," said Sherlock, reasonably.
I shrugged. That did seem fair.
"There are a few things I don't fully understand, myself," Sherlock continued. "Moriarty was a terrible human being; he cared nothing for the wellbeing of his followers. Moran's loyalty was entirely wasted. He would have done better to use his brain and escape with as much of the financial gains as he could, not waste time trying to enact useless revenge."
"Erm, yeah. Not really the sidekick way," I said. "There's rules, sorry."
Sherlock shook his head, sliding closer to me, and I thought he didn't notice the long line of heat against my side. "He'll go to jail for him, kill for him, even die for him. Of course, Moriarty was a real genius; maybe not as clever as me, as it turns out, most disappointing, but still," –he waved a hand– "close, anyway. And Moran is – not particularly bright. In fact compared to Moriarty he's practically an idiot." His fingers crept back to my coat sleeve, and he was looking at me as though willing me to understand what he was really trying to say. "But he was the better man."
"Sherlock …" It's not that I didn't agree with him, as long as it was only Moriarty he was talking about.
"Moriarty was a genius and a sociopath," he added, his voice low. "I suppose that combination can fool anybody."
My fingers twisted around to find his, and I squeezed. "Sherlock," I said, with extreme patience, "You're not a sociopath."
"Of course I –"
"Stop! I know what a sociopath is, Sherlock, and they don't feel. They don't have emotions for people. Maybe that's what you'd like to be, but that's not you. There's nothing wrong with your lizard brain. It's just your giant cerebellum that trips you up sometimes."
"What are you talking about?"
"Alright. At the pool, when I grabbed Moriarty, why didn't you run? Perfectly logical, throw the dumb stooge under the bus – he's just cannon fodder anyway, right? Would have been the smart play."
"Don't say things like that," Sherlock muttered, looking away.
"But you didn't. You stayed with me."
"Only because I wanted to get Jim!" Sherlock exclaimed, looking scandalized that I was challenging his claims to psychosis.
"Give it up, Sherlock," I said with a sigh. "You're not fooling anyone. Lestrade knows it, Mycroft knows it, and I know it – you're actually kind of a good man. Sorry."
His mouth twisted, I assumed mostly in resistance to my bossing him about. "It's cold out here," he grumbled finally. "Why are we standing about outside the flat like idiots?" He nudged impatiently closer to my side, pulling our coats together like blankets.
"Let's go in, then," I said. I made to moved away but his hand closed around my own, trapping me in place.
"John," he whispered, gruffly. His gaze were fixed on the zipper of my coat.
"What?"
He hesitated, seemingly uncertain. Then one of his fingers brushed clumsily over my cheek, lightning-quick, and was withdrawn before I registered it as a caress. His hand hung in the air for a second, awkwardly, then dropped back down to his side. His other hand tightened in mine.
Oh God. He had never tried to initiate anything like this, except when there was someone around to watch; I had been assuming he was doing it for show, just wanting people to know that somebody could love him.
"John?" He was looking at me, too closely, and I felt my heart rate speed up. I had always been afraid that something like this would happen: he'd try to kiss me and I'd flinch away, or shove him off. So far I'd been able to keep my feelings under the radar because Sherlock evidently had rather strange notions about what constituted being in a relationship, and because he was better with evidence than with emotions. But he was a genius and eventually he was going to figure it out.
"John?" His voice was mild, concerned; my eyes burned. I didn't deserve this, his affection.
"Excuse me, Sherlock," I said, "I just … need a minute … "
"John!" He sounded alarmed now, alarmed and puzzled, and I twisted out of his grip and ducked away from his heavy arm, which came down to grab a hold of me.
"Give me a sec, I just need to – check my phone, I probably ought to call Harry, she must be worried. Haven't checked in in weeks! I'm just going to – take this, but I'll come right back. I'll see you later, yeah?"
"John!"
I fumbled for my phone and made as though I was hitting buttons, clamping the receiver to my ear and making the universal gesture for, hold on, can't talk now, as I stumbled around the corner and broke into a run.
I didn't hear him coming after me, so I pushed blindly on, hearing my own breath panting in my ear. God, what had I done? What was I doing?
I made it as far as the nearest pub and pushed thankfully inside, stuttering out a request for a pint as I buried myself in the furthest, darkest corner booth. Then I buried my face in my hands.
It's not that I wasn't fond of the fellow, obviously – it think it was clear that I was pretty damn fond of him, fonder than any straight man had ever been of his asexual flatmate. I hadn't lied when I said I loved him, although he was a right prat most of the time. It was like I couldn't help it.
And I had had mates before – even best mates, men I would willingly die for and who would do the same for me, in places where nobody else was watching our backs. But I hadn't felt about them the way I felt about Sherlock. I had never felt about anybody the way I felt about Sherlock, not even the various women I had loved and lost throughout the years. I felt like – like if I could just cut open a space for him, I would pull him inside my own chest and keep him tucked away there.
Was that mad? I took a long draught. I couldn't decide.
I just wanted to keep him around, just wanted him safe, wanted him to be happy. I just – wanted to be there for him. I just – wanted. But was that enough? Was that what people were supposed to feel for each other?
Damnit, Sherlock had gotten me so twisted up about what love even was, anyway, that I couldn't make sense of it myself. I had started off one way, pretending to feel another, and now I couldn't remember the difference myself, anymore. Who was I really fooling, exactly?
I pushed my glass away – there wasn't enough beer in the world – then reached for it again; I could still try.
"I must say, I really can't advise this course of action," said Sherlock, sliding inelegantly onto the bench next to me.
Of course he was there. And of course he wouldn't sit across from me like a normal person – he'd squeeze in besides me, blocking my exit. Of course he's scoot up against my side.
I took my glass and drained about half of it.
"John, you shouldn't be drinking," said Sherlock blankly, "you're already thick."
Completely deadpan.
I groaned.
"Plus, alcoholism apparently runs in your family," he continued, "it doesn't seem wise. Come home instead." I reached for the peanuts in the same moment that he reached for my hand, so I flinched abruptly when he seized it.
"I'm not done yet," I managed, my voice dull. "D'you want a pint? Barkeep! Another for my friend."
"I don't like beer," he said, petulantly. His spindly fingers caught hold of my own short, blunt ones. "And this establishment smells like feet."
I couldn't really argue with him there.
"Sherlock …" I broke off as another glass was brought over. I slid our joined hands onto my lap, under the table.
I couldn't believe we were doing this in the same pub where I met with the fellows to watch a match and talk about - well, mostly sex with women, actually.
"What's the matter," he asked, finally, his voice low. "Don't you want this?"
I sighed, rubbing my forehead.
"Go on, John. Just tell me. It's alright." His voice was even, unruffled, but I could see a hint of dread in his eyes, in the rolling pupils.
I didn't answer right away. Instead I thought about Sherlock, trying to summon every affectionate feeling I had for him. I thought about his feet on my pillow; his pathetic attempts to hug me; him, listening to a story I'd never told anybody before. Him and I, running through London together in the middle of the night.
I thought about how unlikely it was that he was here, warm against me, not out being shot at or tricked into poisoning himself or seduced by the drugs or Moriarty or any other godforsaken thing.
I thought about every time that his massive brain must feel like some kind of burden, instead of the incredible gift that it was.
"John?" I looked up. The booth was dark; our faces were close together, only inches apart – had he scrunched down in the seat? I moved in closer and his eyes slid closed. His breath wafted across my face. I knew I probably smelled like stout, but I pushed that out of my mind for now. I looked into his face and his expression was calm and certain.
I felt a tiny flush of – something. Maybe not burning lust exactly, just a faint, warm kind of … something. I hadn't been sure I would.
I inched closer, so that I could feel just the shadow of a touch.
I'd never had those kinds of thoughts about a man before. Was it just because he was so strange, so completely alien? Sherlock was almost closer to an insect than to a normal man …
"John, are you thinking?" asked Sherlock doubtfully, with his eyes still closed. "Only I can smell something burning."
"You prat," I said, smiling, and just that easily I leaned down and gently pressed my lips over his.
I had expected it to feel strange, wrong, but in reality it was just warm and soft, me and Sherlock together the way we always were, but even better, even closer, even more of him than I had before. I had to hold myself back, just holding our lips together in a gentle pucker, not opening our mouths.
He broke away first, but his eyes were soft. "So – not tossing me over, then?"
"I'm sorry," I said. "I had a moment of panic." His fingers twitched in mine and I squeezed them. "I was being ridiculous."
"Yes, you were," he agreed, looping an arm around me to drag me in against his side. "But it's alright, I'm more or less used it by now."
He finally consented to sip slowly at my beer while I finished his, and between us we managed them both as I watched the match over the bar, and he deduced the lives of everyone around us. "Right," I said quickly, just as he was getting a little loud in his conclusions about the two men who were, 'without being aware of it, sharing at least one sexual partner.' "Let's get out of here."
"Good," said Sherlock , "these people are not worth deducing." He stood to let me get out of the bench, but blocked my access to the door. "Are you going to run off again?" he asked plaintively. "I had to think about it for almost ten seconds before I realized you'd be in here."
I used the cover of our coats to link my pinkie finger with his. "No," I promised, my voice low.
"Alright. Come along, then." He tugged me behind him out the door.
So we walked together down Oxford street, him standing a little too close as we walked, our joined hands in one of his voluminous pockets. The streets were full of people – it was a Friday night, I'd come to realize – but none of them gave us a second glance as we walked, and I didn't think I would care even if someone had.
"Oh, hold up!" he said, jogging across the street. "I need to pick up a paper." Of course he did: now that Moriarty was dead, and Moran out of the picture, he'd be looking for another crime to solve.
The light changed as I waited, so I headed down to the crosswalk to join him when the traffic cleared. Sherlock was waiting impatiently, flicking through what I'd bet was the obits.
Standing at the corner was a beautiful woman with a baby in a pram. She was blond and slender, the type of woman I would have gone for, once. I caught up with her as we crossed, and gave her a smile, and she glanced back and smiled too. For a moment the three of us were walking apace, and I thought about how right we must look – her, me, and the baby, a smart little family. Everything I thought I had wanted.
"Come on, John!" Sherlock insisted, standing at the curb. "What on earth are you dragging your feet for?"
I bumped him with my shoulder as we met up, and it occurred to me as we walked away that she looked thin to have had a baby so recently. And although the pram looked to be a very expensive model, she was dressed in quite ordinary clothing. She was probably the nanny for some richer woman; that baby wasn't even hers. And I was in love with my flat mate, so really nothing was as it seemed. Sherlock was right; it was possible to see and fail to observe.
She headed down Regent Street towards Picadilly, and we were headed West, towards home.
"Idiot," said Sherlock, tangling his fingers back in my own.
"Shut it, you," I said.
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