IX
Story
The second year passed just as slowly as the first, marked by a weekly visit to the grave because John finally understood the need to have another to talk to… even if that other person wasn't going to respond. He'd felt awkward talking to the skull on its spot on the mantelpiece, and most people he met didn't understand or were easily disgusted, so he settled for talking to Sherlock's headstone. Molly, once she found out, kept trying to talk him out what she deemed an 'ill habit'. In an extremely childish move of spite, John continued to talk to the headstone right before he went to St. Bart's.
Then Mycroft gave him back Sherlock's old mobile with such an air of finality that John realized that there really was nothing left. Maybe that was the push he needed to listen to Molly Hooper and cut the last of his emotional ties with Sherlock.
Although, with all the events from the last couple of days, his apparent loss of ties with Sherlock Holmes was being severely tested to John's personal limits. It wasn't going to take him a lot to snap soon. He already felt sorry for the poor sod that was going to snap his patience.
"I first met Mycroft Holmes about five years ago, I was on leave from service in Afghanistan and had just married Amy," Falsworth said, suppressing a grunt as John finished tying the makeshift bandage. Shifting to make himself more comfortable, he said, "I'd been trying to acquire citizenship paperwork so that she could live here comfortably without me around. We'd talked about where she was going to live while I was overseas, and we decided that London was easiest, so I'd have a familiar environment to return to." Glancing out the darkened window, he said, "In my defense, I didn't know who he was. He was in the office at the same time, talking with another clerk about forged documents when someone tried to take shot at him."
John grimaced as he began cleaning up the soiled cloths. "I take it didn't end well for the other man?"
Falsworth shook his head. "I had an unregistered weapon and faster reflexes. He died immediately, and I was promptly arrested for what looked like the shooting of a random civilian. Spent two days in prison until Mr. Holmes showed up to talk. He said he'd reviewed the footage of the attack, and alerted Amy that I was with him, just so she wouldn't worry. Holmes said he was impressed with the speed that which I had responded to the threat, and offered me a job on his security staff, primarily as one of his bodyguards."
"I'm actually not surprised that he had a bodyguard," John replied wearily, shaking his head. "I actually thought Anthea was his bodyguard as well as a secretary."
"Anthea is whatever Holmes needs her to be. But he has five other guards, excluding me. He rotates them when he sees fit, enough to give everyone a chance to work and a break after. But he has never hired another one since me, not since he lost his favorite security chief to MI6," Falsworth said, shrugging. "Anyway, he offered to not only wipe away this little 'mark' on my record, but also 'help along' Amy's citizenship process where he could. The scary thing is that Mycroft is excellent with deal–making to the point where he makes it seem like you have options, but you're smart enough to know you don't. Anyway, I accepted. He tweaked my military records to state that I'd had an honorable discharge from injuries, and then next thing I knew, I was training again."
"I did notice that, when Lestrade and I were checking your records at the Yard," John remarked as he carried everything to the kitchen.
Falsworth chuckled before choking it off with a cough, his entire body flinching from the pain. "Figures, I should have known you were going to do that. Anyway, I was with him when you moved in with Sherlock. Mycroft was forever protective of Sherlock, even going as far as to recruit other members of his extended family to help him keep an eye on Sherlock. If you ever get a chance to see Holmes family politics at work, make sure you're an observer, not a participant. The negotiations get so cutthroat that you forget you're watching a family, and you'll think you're watching the latest round of blows from Washington D.C." He sighed, and then said, "Sherlock called Mycroft at one point, after that game of his with Moriarty. Said that he wanted to talk with Mycroft immediately."
John frowned, trying to remember that night, the events after the Pool. He and Sherlock had gone home, and he'd gone to sleep, assuming that Sherlock would do his usual puttering around the flat until three in the morning, at which time he would pull out his violin and start playing. "What did they talk about?" he asked, turning to Falsworth.
The other man shrugged. "I don't know. I was assigned to stand guard outside the door. Anthea is the only other person who knows what went on inside that room. But what I can tell you is that after the younger Holmes left, I was sent to the labs at Baskerville to collect several bottles. Never saw the labels, but I didn't dare ask."
Baskerville. John definitely remembered Baskerville, and not fondly. "What did you end up doing with the bottles?" he asked, coming back into the room with fresh tea.
"Held onto them. The contents still had to be tested, but apparently the results were satisfactory. I was ordered to hand them off with sealed orders to another one of Holmes's minions," Falsworth said, suddenly looking uncomfortable. "Then Moriarty was caught and arrested."
"This is the trial, right?" John asked, frowning as he set the tea down before Falsworth, who gingerly picked up the mug.
Falsworth shook his head. "No, this was some time before then. MI5 had finally caught him, but interrogations were useless. Holmes tried to bargain with Moriarty, exchange information. Each time Moriarty answered a question, Holmes baited him with stuff about his younger brother. I couldn't hear all that well because I was standing guard outside, but it was enough. Then they released Moriarty, theoretically the whole encounter never happened."
"Then Moriarty broke into the Tower of London," John said slowly.
"And that's where things careened out of control. I think Holmes underestimated Moriarty, understandable since he hadn't witnessed first hand the game that the younger Holmes played with Moriarty," Falsworth said, shrugging with one shoulder.
"You know, I thought you said you didn't know who Moriarty was until after the Fall," John remarked.
Falsworth rolled his eyes. "Are you trying to catch me in a lie somewhere? Holmes told me the name after the Fall, right before he sent me off to be at the beck and call of –" Coughs wracked through his frame, cutting off whatever name he'd been about to utter. John moved to keep Falsworth steady, glancing out the window in time to see an ambulance arrive to the curb.
"The cabbie. You've got to remember… to go with the cab driver," Falsworth managed to wheeze out between coughs, hands fluttering around the makeshift bandage as though to press it harder against his side. Gladstone let out a whine as the doorbell rang, and then remained in the living room as John left Falsworth's side to get the door.
"He's upstairs. I tried to slow the bleeding as best I could," John said to the paramedic at the door.
"Of course. Please step aside," the man said before heading upstairs with his team behind him. John remained patiently in front of Mrs. Hudson's flat, watching as the paramedics returned, easing Falsworth down the stairs on a stretcher. The man was paler now, but he was still conscious. He made eye contact with John, as though trying one last time to reinforce his final order.
"He was lucky that you were here. Any more blood loss, and he would have been beyond saving," said the same paramedic from before, suddenly appearing at John's side. He arched an eyebrow and said, "Is there any particular reason why he was here in the first place, with an illegal weapon?"
"Not that I know of. I just came home to find him bleeding on the couch, I'd been out walking Gladstone, my dog," John explained, nodding to the pup that was now hovering at the top of the stairs.
"And you weren't concerned at all for your safety? He had a rather large rifle, we've confiscated that by the way, but he could have shot you," the paramedic said, frowning.
"Well, didn't you see that he had a broken arm? Honestly, I'm impressed that he's kept it together that long while still doing whatever it is he does," John said, leaning back on a foot.
"Well, I have already alerted the police, they will be here soon. Will you remain here long enough to speak with the officers?" the paramedic said, glancing back at the ambulance.
"Of course," John said, sensing his opening. "I'll hail a cab after, it's no problem to clear out so that they can do what they need to do." He didn't mention that aforementioned gunman had given him one last set of instructions, and he'd figured that if he'd made it this far, he might as well as see the venture through to the end. There were too many questions and not enough answers.
The paramedic, surprisingly enough, waited for John to get the proper leash this time, as well as food and other supplies for Gladstone. Then, stuffing a change of clothes into a backpack, he headed back downstairs with the now–overexcited dog. "I'm assuming that the police will also investigate the flat for anything else?" he asked wearily as he came down.
"Most likely. It's not every day we receive a call for an injured gunman camped out in a resident's living room," the paramedic replied, shrugging with one shoulder. "But I must be going now, please don't forget to wait for the police."
"Very well. I'll stay elsewhere for the night after they're here, just in case it's still not safe. I'll check in with the Yard first though, good night," John said, smiling reassuringly at the paramedic, who simply nodded before leaving.
John, remembering Falsworth's words, looked down the street to find not just a cab, but also the same exact cab that had brought him here less than an hour ago.
If the driver's broad-brimmed hat wasn't enough of a clue, then Gladstone's low growling should have been enough of a hint.
John figured that if this man didn't give him the answers, then Gladstone might get a little more exercise for the night.
He said nothing as the cab inched its way up back to the front door after the paramedics left, stopping so that the passenger door was right in front of John. Gladstone twitched, as there was a faint click of the door unlocking, but didn't move, even as John gingerly picked him up and slid into the passenger seat, placing the backpack on the floor at his feet. "I assume you're Falsworth's contact, and that we're heading back to the flat that I was a prisoner in," he said, turning to the other man.
The driver simply nodded before moving the cab away from the curb.
For some time, the two drove in complete silence. While John may have started to feel his exhaustion steadily growing, Gladstone was only growing more agitated. If John didn't stay alert, then Gladstone would try to take a bite out of the driver's arm, which was also the only time the driver would show an emotion as he flinched away from the dog. Almost as though he was afraid of Gladstone, or was wary that Gladstone, a usually calm dog, would attack him. Gladstone never attacked anyone unless said person had been threatening John first, and the only person, well, people, who did that recently was Falsworth and –
That's when it clicked in John's head.
"You're Sigerson, right? Molly's 'assistant' at the morgue," he said, the driver stilling at his words. John heard a ghost of a familiar voice whisper 'Go on', like Sherlock used to do when he was pushing John to make his own deductions. Sighing, John added, "You're also the one that Falsworth, and Tom for that matter, addressed as 'Leader', the one who faked his death in New York City. You did it to avoid Mycroft for a reason I still don't know, and, after having heard the account from the New York Police Captain Gregson and Falsworth, I suspect that it was Falsworth who 'killed' you, somehow the two of you arranged it to make look convincing. Mrs. Falsworth only added to the tableau with her genuine reaction, something Falsworth confessed to afterwards. Although," John said, attracting Sigerson's attention, "I wonder where you got the body to send to London."
Sigerson didn't speak, but shrugged and gestured vaguely in the air with a hand. John got it a moment later. "You got Molly Hooper on that front, didn't you?"
Sigerson nodded, but remained stubbornly silent.
John continued thinking back. Tom had said that the two, Sigerson and Falsworth, had asked about nine men, but later, when the news reporter was doing the count-off, Falsworth had also complained about the numbers being off. "You still have one more man to kill, 'one more left', am I right?"
Sigerson hesitated, and then nodded.
"Out of curiosity, how far do you think you're going to get without Mycroft noticing?" John asked.
Sigerson shrugged with an air about him that seemed to indicate that he just didn't care. He was almost like Sherlock in that respect.
"Why am I involved?" John asked quietly.
This time, Sigerson remained focused completely on the road, not even reacting when Gladstone growled at him again.
John silently bit back his own growl of frustration. He was exhausted; he'd had a very long day of fearing for his life and escaping only to return to custody again. He looked Sigerson over; the man seemed thin enough for John to easily overpower him if the need came to it, and John knew to be careful; while Sherlock was thin, he'd also been wiry, making it a tad harder for John to defeat him while he was prepared. He was also extremely tired of being kept deliberately out of the loop, even more so since his life evidently depended on it. "Are you going to maintain silence around me the whole time?" he asked finally.
Sigerson shook his head, and then gestured with one hand to the world outside the car, which John took to interpret as that they were still too exposed for an open discussion.
Instead of leaving John at the curb, like he thought Sigerson would, Sigerson instead drove the cab past the building and turned the vehicle down the nearest alley and parked it there. He remained silent and hidden as he shut the car off and then smoothly got out of the driver's seat, to which John interpreted as time for him to leave as well. He grabbed his backpack before setting Gladstone on the ground. He kept the leash firm in hand as he followed Sigerson; Gladstone had been growling nonstop for twenty minutes now, and John was still trying to gauge Sigerson's intentions as well as figure out what had led him to trust this stranger in the first place. That of course led to the question of what had led him to trust Falsworth enough in the first place.
The night guard from earlier was gone from the lobby when the two men entered, but the pregnant receptionist was still there, quietly working at her desk. To John's surprise, Sigerson wandered over to where she was sitting and leaned on her desk, pointedly waiting for her attention. John calmly stood off to the side where he could watch and gauge her reactions, primarily to see how well she knew Sigerson.
It took her a few minutes to realize that Sigerson was even standing there, and when she did, she jumped in surprise. "Jerk," she snapped, hazel eyes flashing as she leaned back in her chair. "How many bloody times do I have to tell you not to sneak up on me like that?"
Sigerson merely shrugged. She frowned, and then spotted John. She looked instantly guilty, and John realized that she had been the whistleblower, alerting Falsworth and Sigerson to his and Lestrade's escape from earlier. "Well, you're still a jerk," she finally said after turning back to Sigerson. She opened a drawer and pulled out a brown paper bag. "The only reason I'm giving this to you is because I'm trusting Doctor Watson to monitor your dosage," she said, glaring at Sigerson. "And stop walking around on that damned leg, you're only going to make the injury worse."
"How many people do you have working for you? I feel like I'm facing an invisible army."
"Close, but not really, we have just enough people to cover the problematic areas…we lost Mycroft's support after New York, but we knew people."
This woman was one of those people, John realized. Molly was a pathologist, not a physician. She specialized in the dead, not the living, but someone had been providing prescription medication to Falsworth and Sigerson. A doctor who would have access to medicines and other first aid supplies.
John blamed his exhaustion for not catching on sooner.
"…and for God's sake, be careful! Jeffrey says that the phone was taken from the flat, so don't use that number anymore," the woman was saying in a low voice when John refocused on her again. "He's wiped the phone's memory and erased the registration information, so for all intents and purposes, it's been an unregistered mobile with no calls or texts," she added as Sigerson snatched the brown paper bag from her. Glancing at John, she whispered, "And make things right. Please."
Sigerson leaned in, undoubtedly whispering his response to her. She was evidently displeased by his response, because she used a pen to poke him in the chest and push him away from the desk. Gripping the paper bag, Sigerson turned and gestured for John to follow him.
It was a rather awkward trip in the lift; Gladstone sat directly in front of Sigerson, growling and baring his teeth, John kept sneaking glances at Sigerson, whose face was still covered by the hat, turned-up coat collar, and a tattered checkered scarf, and Sigerson just stared at Gladstone, as though daring the dog to make a move. So John was rather relieved when the lift came to a stop on the same floor as last time, and he ended up having to leave first since Sigerson silently flat out refused to move while Gladstone was in his way. So in the hall, John gently pulled Gladstone to the side so that Sigerson could lead the way and more importantly, unlock the flat door.
"Home sweet home," John muttered under his breath as he entered the flat after Sigerson, shutting the door as he did so.
"Mm, not quite. But it serves its purpose," Sigerson said, speaking for the first time since John had met him in the morgue at St. Bart's.
John may have not heard the distinctive baritone in three years, but it was ingrained in his memory enough that he could pick it out of a crowd if he were to pass the speaker. He could only stare in complete shock as his brain registered Sherlock's voice while he watched 'Sigerson' pull the hat off while yanking the scarf loose at the same time. His old friend (yes, it was definitely him, it's hard to fake those facial features) had cut his hair short and dyed it some odd blond color that didn't suit him at all. He was also alarmingly thin, and John realized the reason behind his odd behavior that day in St. Bart's, the running from Lestrade and Mycroft as they'd entered: he hadn't wanted to be caught just yet. Sherlock had dressed as he normally would, but John hadn't bloody seen it.
You see, but you do not observe.
"Sherlock Holmes," he said slowly, his voice shaking as three years' worth of pain and grief surged up through his chest, his blue eyes meeting the familiar yet foreign hazel, "When I wake up, I am going to murder you. That… that is a promise."
Then the exhaustion, stress and complete shock from the last few days and minutes overwhelmed him, and the last thing he remembered before collapsing was that he accidentally let Gladstone's leash fall free from his slackened grip.
A/N: Yep. Gladstone's free. And we'll see if Sherlock can make through the reunion intact when we next see them. ;)
