I'm so, so sorry about the wait you guys! Life's been hectic lately, but hopefully it'll never be that long again. Only two chapters after this c:
"Your phone's ringing." Steve remarked, after a full five minutes of silence.
As there was no noise prior, save for the humming of the cab, John could just as clearly hear the vibrating of his own phone, apart from distinctly feeling it. "Yes, I believe it is. However, taking it out requires just a bit more effort then I'm willing to execute at the moment. I'll check it after we get out."
"We're comin' up to it now, gents." the cabbie called out.
The cab came to a halt next to a grungy Laundromat, and just as they were getting out John felt his phone vibrate again. Steve beckoned for John to follow him, and set off for a thin pedestrian road between the Laundromat and the building next to it. John hurried to keep up with Steve's long stride, while at the same time fighting to get his phone out of an awkward space in his pocket.
"Where's this—dammit— place?" John asked, nearly dropping his phone on the pavement as he finally got it out.
Steve murmured something that sounded like "Not far" while keeping up his brisk walk, not looking back.
By this time they were in a little secluded walking road between two lines of uninhabited-looking buildings, grimy windows sparsely dotted along the walls. Rubbish lined the edges and corners, and the whole place generally felt as though it didn't see a lot of human traffic. The only sign of habitation took the form of spray-paint across the mildewed brick. It certainly didn't look to be a place to house a restaurant of any kind, edible food or no, though Steve continued to walk purposely forward, undeterred by the adverse surroundings.
"We could stop for a—" Steve began to say, just as John halted midstep and said "Stop for a moment—".
Steve, who had by this time stopped as well, looked back at John, puzzled. John returned his gaze unblinkingly from a dozen steps back. His expression had drastically changed; it was now tense. In his hand was his phone, Lestrade's text glowing on the screen.
"'Not an inspector from Dublin'." John said, echoing the text. He held up his phone and wiggled it slightly, raising his eyebrows. "Text from Lestrade."
Steve's face did something particular; it stayed the same surprised look, yet it now seemed rigid, almost as though it had frozen in place. It held this for more then a few seconds, before morphing back into his usual inscrutable expression.
"Is it true, Steve?" John asked, keeping his tone casual, though he felt his heart beating fast against his ribs. "Is Lestrade completely gone off, or is it true?"
Steve didn't answer. John clenched his phone tight in his hand. "Nothing? Well then, enlighten me. What the hell does he mean?" No answer. John took a step forward. "If you aren't an inspector, where did you get that information? How did you know about the sniper, the cases?" He felt his voice rise. "Who the bloody hell are you, Steve?"
Steve's glasses flashed as he looked around, ever so slightly. "I suppose this will have to do…" he murmured, almost too quiet for John to catch.
"What? What will do?" John felt his panic spike, though he tamped it down under his sudden fury. It was the anger that kept him in his place, the abrupt feeling of betrayal that even he didn't understand. And then, just clouded underneath was the buzz of fear, the urge to run as he faced this now unknown man who towered over him. It was then that he was also hit with the realisation of their complete isolation. Steve had brought him back here, to this desolate area, where there was clearly no "restaurant"…
John took a step back, at the same time Steve took one forward. John's heart hammered, and for the second time that night he cursed himself for not having his gun. In hindsight it seemed incredibly dense to leave it at home, especially recently—and especially when considering the many, many times that being armed would have been helpful in the past.
Realising then that running was futile, John did the only thing he could. Facing the man in front of him, he firmly stood his ground, with the straight back and set face of a soldier.
Steve didn't take another step. He seemed to now be studying John closely. John glared back, suddenly hating everything about this man; his clothes, his face, his fluty, nasal accent...he clenched his fists tighter, vowing that whatever happened, he would at least give as much hell as he possibly could.
Steve stood still for a few moments more. Then, he let out a sigh that was visible in the windless cold.
"I'm sorry, John," he said in a low voice, and he reached into his inner coat pocket.
John knew he didn't have time to stop him, or leap out of the way, for that matter. He saw the hand go into the pocket and his mind blanked; in fact, the only thing that ran through it, in its half-delusional panic, was when Paul left, I hope he took his bloody milk with him.
Lestrade didn't even bother to fake interest in what the ballistics investigator was saying. For all he knew the man could have been explaining how often he was boffing the Yard's secretary. All Lestrade could think about was the phone in his pocket, and how it had not rung in the ten minutes since he had texted. Every minute or so he'd take it out and check, just in case the ringer magically decided to stop working. And every time he'd shake his head and put it back, feeling his heart sink a little lower.
When John had been shot in Afghanistan, he remembered clearly thinking as he was carried off on a dusty gurney; "Never again. Never ever again." He'd vowed to never again find himself in the path of a bullet.
Of course, the moment he'd thought himself healed he was itching to get back on his feet, back on the field once more, his vow seeming petty and cowardly then. Though, he'd allowed that the loss of blood could have accounted in part for his dampened spirit at the time.
However, once he found out the true extent of his injury, psychosomatic or no, he never had the chance to negate his promise. With his limp crippling his life as well as his leg, he believed that his vow would be fulfilled, unintended as it was. He never dreamed he would ever have to face the barrel of a gun again. After he was discharged, he knew that nothing would ever happen to him, good or bad.
But irony took its liberties on his life then, because it was only after his return to civilian life that he found himself facing the open ends of innumerable guns. Time and time again he'd been pointed at, once with several rifles and a vest of explosives on his chest to boot. And every single time, he'd think back to his original vow, and remember exactly why he made it.
He didn't have time to remember, however, when Steve's hand slipped in his pocket. The shock of the betrayal, and also the general exhaustion from the night, had rendered John immobile. Of course, he had never stood at gunpoint in negative weather before, so perhaps it was partly for literal reasons that he was frozen in place.
As great as the shock was, he managed to feel a second, less powerful wave when Steve brought out not a weapon, but a harmless bundle of paper.
On second glance, John realised it was the very same sheaf of documents that Steve had been reading off his information on the case. He looked from the bundle to Steve's face, which was unreadable as he focused on unfolding the papers and flattening them the best he could without a surface to put them on.
Had he been thinking clearly, John might have noticed the inviting opportunity to tackle Steve to the ground while he was preoccupied, or at least make a good attempt to leg it. But the papers in Steve's gloved hands were a sudden mystery that kept him from doing either.
Steve looked up, meeting John's gaze, and held out the papers. His expression didn't change.
Curiosity was burning through the fear, and John found himself moving forwards. He took the packet, his eyes still locked on the other man's, on guard for any sudden attacks. None. The moment the papers were out of his possession Steve moved back a few paces, taking on his usual stance, his hands in his pockets.
John looked down on the papers in his hand, and his brow furrowed. He stared, perplexed now. What was on the papers was completely off from what he expected. He flipped over the first sheet. It took a few moments of studying before his face abruptly paled. He flipped over the second. Then the third.
"No…" he said in a low voice. He looked up, his face completely ashen. He shook his head. "No…this isn't…"
Steve moved forward, a hand half-raised.
John stepped back, his fingers clenching the papers tight. "No, stop. Don't come near me." he said, his voice cracking. Steve stopped immediately, as though meeting a brick wall.
John looked down again at the papers crumpled in his hand. "You bastard." he said hoarsely. Steve didn't move. John looked up, and his face overtaken with raw and complete rage. He felt the papers drop to the ground, and clenched his fists. "You utter bastard!"
"John—" Steve began to say. But he couldn't finish. John had taken the few necessary steps forward and punched him, sending the larger man backwards. Staggering, Steve fell to the ground, looking dazed.
"You son of a bitch!" John yelled, his blood pumping fast in his veins, pounding in the knuckles that met the side of the other man's skull. I'll do it again, too. He felt himself shaking, and he turned away, grabbing his hair with his hands, trying to calm himself down.
Steve felt the side of his head gingerly, wincing. "John, I'm sorry, it was necessary." he spoke up to John's turned back. "It was necessary."
At those words, John felt his stomach clench tightly, his chest constricting, making it difficult for him to breath. But it wasn't the words that had hit him. Steve's voice had inexplicably changed; the accent had disappeared, the tone had lowered. It was a voice that spoke of vials and blood, of impatience and boredom and lies…
John turned around abruptly, and strode back to where Steve was still sprawled on the frozen concrete. Grabbing the bewildered-looking man by the jacket, John hauled him to his feet, and hardly let him regain his balance before pulling him into a tight hug.
John felt him go rigid with surprise, and John knew he'd been expecting something quite different, more along the lines of John's initial reaction. But after a few seconds, John felt arms around him as well.
It was, as he had said only moments before, necessary.
Lestrade was just dialling in a number for one of his men when his phone beeped with a new message. He quickly ended the call before it could ring, and checked the text. He let out a huge breath of relief and intense irritation.
It's all fine.
Took you bloody long enough. What's going on? What's with Steve?
I'll explain later. Sorry, gotta go, getting a cab.
Lestrade let out another annoyed huff. The officer from ballistics who was holding the snipers rifle in his gloved hands—and had apparently been explaining something about it to Lestrade—looked scandalised. "Not you," Lestrade said impatiently.
The man didn't look convinced. "Pardon me, sir," he said stiffly, "I was just going over the unique qualities of the murderer's weapon, them being partly the reason we found it so hard to track him down. Collapsible parts, lightweight material, digital scope with auto focus and recognition software, custom case made to look like a billiard stick case…"
The man didn't seem to notice that Lestrade was beyond listening. He had sent a few more messages, asking for more information, with no replies. Must be a damn good explanation, he thought crossly, tucking away his phone.
