A/N: Wow, sorry for the late update! If you're still reading this than I love you a lot. Like a lot a lot. Thank you! I think there will be only one more chapter after this. It took a lot to get this out I'm sorry. Hopefully the next chapter will be a little kinder (Doubt it, be prepared for another wait). Thanks for reading and reviewing. Your comments keep me going guys! Thanks again!
Sherlock stared at the empty space next to him in the bed. There was an emptiness in his chest as his thoughts aimlessly wandered to the last night he and John had spent together; he was nearly desperate to feel John's skin against his again, the graze of stubble on his chin, John's hands feverishly covering his body, John inside of him – God. He closed his eyes and took in a steadying breath. Seven months. Seven months of this every night, this dull aching want. Not just for the sex, but the closeness, the love John offered him. So pure and unconditional. He missed his partner, his best friend.
Sherlock's eyes snapped open as he heard a small shifting upstairs. He glanced at the clock to see 12:15. Lana should not be up. He heard a quiet whimper and launched himself out of his bed. He took the stairs two at a time, but opened Lana's door gently so as to not frighten her.
"Lana, darling, are you all right?" He asked quietly.
"Papa," She said weakly. "My tummy huwts." She sniffled and tried to sit up in the bed.
Sherlock rushed to her side. In his head he ran through anything that could be affecting her. They had had Chinese takeaway but he had gotten her something mild. Perhaps food poisoning? But he was fine. Then again Lana was also so young, her immune system not used to certain things. He had also taken her to the park. A young male child had been coughing and sneezing. Maybe she had caught something from him? He placed a hand on her forehead, no fever.
"Papaaa," The baby whined. An awkward belch erupted from her small body.
Sherlock's eyes widened and he grabbed Lana. They ran down the stairs and into the bathroom, barely making it before bile spilled out of the small girl. Lana sobbed between retches, making confused and scared noises. Sherlock hushed her and rubbed small circles on her back, promising her it would be over soon. Sherlock took a centering breath, though it did little to soothe his internal panic. This was what John had been good at. John had been a doctor. He didn't know what to do when people were sick, he could barely keep himself healthy on the best days. He cursed lightly under his breath, irrationally angry at John for leaving Lana fully in his care when he knew, he fucking knew, Sherlock wouldn't be able to do it on his own. There had to be something – wait, Mrs Hudson! He stood to leave, relief flooding his system, but Lana clutched at his dressing gown, tears streaming down her face, her eyes begging him to stay.
Sherlock felt something in his chest collapse. He gathered her up and cleaned her off in the sink as she whimpered pitifully. He cuddled Lana to his chest as they trekked down to Mrs Hudson's flat. He choked back a frustrated scream when they come across the note on her door.
Sherlock dear,
I've left a note because I knew you'd forget. I'm at my sisters for a long weekend.
Cheers!
Sherlock attempted to keep his breathing normal, tried to stay calm for Lana's sake. But he could feel himself panicking. His baby was hurting and how could he fix it for her? He took them back up to their own flat and into the kitchen. John had always made tea when something was off. Sherlock's brain kicked into overtime. They had some ginger tea and ginger could help with nausea. He steered them into the kitchen and turned on a lamp. He went to set Lana on a chair, but she clung to him desperately, tears starting again. Heaving a sigh, Sherlock clumsily set about his task.
"But Papa, Daddy always makes tea." She whimpered, watching his hands closely.
Sherlock took in a shaking breath. He hadn't made tea in seven months for exactly that reason. "Lana." He warned quietly.
"I want Daddy's tea!" The baby cried.
"Lana," Sherlock pleaded, tension filling his body. Please not with this fixation again! "You know Daddy can't make tea anymore. Please let me make you some. It will help your tummy."
Cranky from her upset stomach and the late hour, Lana began to wail and thrash her arms. "No, Papa. I want Daddy. Where's Daddy?"
Sherlock silently continued to make the tea, shoving any kind of feeling down deep, trying to stay stoic. The baby continued to have her tantrum in his arms and he began to worry what would happen when the boiling water came into the equation.
"Lana, stop your crying." He said sternly as the kettle began to scream.
"Nooo! I dun want you anymore, Papa! I want Daddy! Only Daddy!" She screeched, kicking her legs and nearly knocking the teapot off of the worktop.
Sherlock slammed his hand down and the baby stopped instantly. "Lana Marie Watson, calm yourself right now!" he nearly shouted. Lana trembled in his arms and guilt overtook him. He brought her into the living room and set her in John's chair. She cried pitifully as he finished making her cup. When he brought it over to her she took it quietly.
"I sowwy, Papa." She whispered; crocodile tears still in her eyes.
Sherlock settled next to her in the chair, his own cup in his hands. "It's okay, darling." He told her softly though a small part of him was still fuming from her outburst.
"I miss Daddy." She said like it solved everything. "Do you miss Daddy?" She looked up at Sherlock and her resemblance to John nearly made him choke on his tea.
"Everyday." Sherlock admitted quietly.
Lana nodded and they sipped their tea in silence. Sherlock was glad the little girl seemed to sense when silence was necessary.
"Feeling better?" He asked after a while, finished with his own cup.
"Yes, Papa." Lana yawned. "May I seep by you?"
"Yes. Have you finished your tea?"
Lana showed him her empty cup. He took it from her and they walked to Sherlock's bedroom together, Lana gripping his hand tightly.
John fell back against the floor, breath exploding out of him. He wiped the sweat off of his brow and took a second to rest. He almost couldn't believe that he'd done 125 crunches in one go and after his other work out, too. But it was necessary. He was nearly back to his military physique and probably wouldn't let himself get out of shape again. He looked down at his stomach and saw his muscles pushing up through his skin. He smiled and poked at them. He couldn't wait for Sherlock to see him like this. All he had to do was finish killing the men who were putting his family in danger. He'd already knocked out two of Moriarty's high ranking employees. He hated it, but it gave him a sick, cold and satisfying feeling.
He glanced over to the bedside table and grabbed his wallet. He carefully pulled out his picture of Sherlock and Lana. The picture had been taken when they had been at the park. Sherlock was scooping Lana up into a hug and John had taken the picture just as they were both smiling at the camera.
God, how he missed them.
His phone beeped. The number was unrecognizable, but then again it always was.
-Today would be a good day to set up an appointment with The von Herder Agency I should think. MH
John sighed. One step closer to Moran. One step closer to home. He rolled up off of the floor and took a shower. He was still always shocked when he looked in the mirror, the black hair, kept dutifully trimmed and dyed under Mycroft's direction, the facial hair. They even added smart looking rectangular glasses to the ensemble. He hardly recognized himself, but he supposed it was a good thing.
He called the number Mycroft had texted him and set up an appointment for tomorrow at three no wait! They had a sudden opening in two hours. Surprised and relieved that he could get it all over with sooner, John agreed and gave them "his" name, Percy Reynolds.
-What exactly am I meant to do?
-You will go to them asking, initially, for a custom gun. Then you will mention that you wish you could be rid of someone. As charming as you are I'm sure they will immediately want to help and will put you in touch with Moriarty's people. Good luck. MH
"Right then. No pressure." John breathed, looking at his phone. At least he had become, in his opinion, a much better actor over these months away.
John glanced around the plush hotel room. It was a little expensive for his taste, but then he wasn't paying for it. It was decorated in a modern and monochromatic style which he honestly thought was a little garish. He could still hardly believe that this task had brought him to Shantou, China and why the consulting criminal had chosen to send his second in command here was beyond him. He also wondered if Moriarty knew that the British government always seemed to know where he and Moran were. But then he supposed it didn't matter. John hated all the political games, because that's what it was to these people – games, and the fact that he was now a pawn in one of them. Mycroft, of course, set it up to look like he was protecting their family, but really it was just an excuse to rid the world of James Moriarty and his criminal network.
After today though, with this new information, things would start moving quickly again; his job would be that much closer to being done, good riddance. He pursed his lips and thought about what kind of custom gun he would want.
Lana shifted restlessly in the bed. As she kicked him for the third time, Sherlock thought about moving to the sofa, but decided against it in case the baby woke herself from thrashing about again. Besides, it was nearly four in the morning so Sherlock saw no reason to actually try and sleep. Instead he put his arm around the little girl next to him in an effort to calm her down. He assumed she was having nightmares fueled by her sickness, which he figured, after some time to calm down and think, was a stomach virus.
Lana seemed to relax at his touch and she curled around his arm. She needed a haircut; the dark waves were nearly at her waist again. Neither of them had gotten a haircut since before John's death and Sherlock's hair was really getting out of control itself.
Tomorrow then, well, in a few hours. That could be their task for the day, supposing Lana was up to it.
John walked into the high rise building that housed The von Herder Agency, among other businesses. It was well lit and sparsely decorated. The receptionist directed him to floor three. John traveled up the building in an elevator and went into a room that was decorated in all white coloring. It gave off an antiseptic feel that reminded him of the surgery. He sank down in a big plush chair and waited.
After a few moments a man with a cane walked in. He was blind. John stood and took the man's hand when he got close enough. In the back of his mind John wondered how this man would ever make him a custom weapon.
"Mr Reynolds, good to meet you." The man had a German accent. "You're here for a custom hand gun?"
"Yes, yes. Thank you." John's brain flew at the speed of light. He'd tried to plan out what he was going to say but of course he was fumbling now. "Yeah, I'm…" He chuckled lightly. "I need it for a job."
"And what job might that be Johnny boy?"
John felt his insides freeze in an instant. The Irish voice coming from the hallway made him nearly vomit. Oh GOD.
Moriarty stepped into the room, looking for all the world like he had won the biggest prize at the carnival. His reptilian smile curled onto his face, showing just the right amount of teeth to be completely terrifying. No this was wrong. He was supposed to be set up with Moriarty's people. He was supposed to get at Moran. He wasn't supposed to have gotten caught.
The other man took two more steps forward and John forced his body to stay still. He could feel his knife in his jacket pocket and the small gun strapped to his back.
"You're really him?" John asked stupidly.
"Oh you don't recognize me?" Moriarty frowned a little. "I suppose it has been a long time since we last saw each other. I have missed you."
"Where's Moran?" John asked hotly. This was wrong. So wrong. He fought back panic. Had Mycroft known?
"Oh Sebby?" Moriarty asked slyly. "He's on his way to Baker Street."
"Fuck."
"Please, Johnny. Did you really think we didn't suspect something was up with your 'death'?" Moriarty laughed. "The morning after we threaten your daughter you get into a car with Mycroft and the day after that you just happen to come across mugging that was actually a sham? I'm surprised poor little Sherly didn't see right through it, though he has been so tremendously boring since that baby entered your household. You should see him now, pining away. He's miserable. And that little girl of yours, she is a cutie."
John felt bile rise in his stomach. "Why not just kill me earlier, if you knew I was following you? I've killed two of your operatives."
"Yeess, those dispensable men. That's what helped us find you." The other man shifted on his feet and slid his hands into his pockets. John tensed, prepared for anything. "Mycroft may be good at starting things, but he tends to get sloppy when it's an election year."
John closed his eyes hard and shook his head. Surely there would be snipers watching. He tensed his body, running through the steps in his head.
"What are we to do now, dear doctor?" Moriarty asked slyly taking another step closer.
That was all John needed. He leapt at the psychopath, aiming low. They crashed to the floor just as John heard glass breaking and bullets hitting the wall near him. John flipped out his knife and drug it across Moriarty's throat. The psychopath smiled brightly, red blossoming from the gash in his throat, eyes wide until they lost their light.
Oh God.
It was too easy. There has to be something else.
The blind man stood. "What's happened? James?" Before he could think, John pulled out his gun and sent a bullet through the man's head.
No that wasn't supposed to happen.
Three men burst into the room. John, still running high on adrenaline, shot them all between the eyes before they have their guns fully drawn. The world turned silent. He's sure people have heard. They'll be calling the police. He'd be taken to prison. Maybe even killed. He didn't know the Chinese justice system.
God. Too many dead.
Knowing the snipers would still be watching, John crawled to the back door. He started sprinting as soon as he was out of the room. He shed his jacket and his jumper. Somehow he managed to get his dark khaki trousers off while he was running. Finally he threw off the glasses and was down to plaid shorts and a polo. He was glad he had planned ahead and dressed in extra layers in case something went horribly wrong – like it just had fuck – so he could disguise himself. He found a fire alarm and pulled it using his shirt to cover his hands so he wouldn't leave any fingerprints. He flew down the stairs, alarm screaming in his ears, and searched for a back exit. He slid through the door and found a group of people to file into. He grabbed his phone and dialed the number Mycroft had most recently texted with.
"John," Mycroft's voice was nearly annoyed. "We discussed this. You weren't supposed to call any of these numbers."
"Shut up!" John hissed. He tried to act calm. He was supposed to be in this crowd. Nothing wrong here. "Something has fallen through. I need to get home now."
The phone was silent for a moment. John had reached the main road and inched his way away from the crowd. He hailed a cab. "How do you mean?" Mycroft asked at length.
"I mean I just left a room full of dead people who shouldn't be dead." John got in the cab and showed the driver the address to the hotel. Much easier than speaking.
Mycroft was silent again.
"Jim was there. In the room, Jesus, he was in the room. He – fuck – said Moran was headed to – to Baker Street. Mycroft. There were snipers and the blind German and, Christ what else was I supposed to do?" His voice went up nearly an octave as panic finally flooded him. His heart was beating so hard it hurt. His head was spinning. Oh God he was going to puke.
"Calm down, John." Mycroft said slowly, though John could hear an edge to his voice. "I'll have someone at your hotel room in fifteen minutes. We'll get you out."
John nodded, not even registering that Mycroft couldn't see the movement. He was breathing too hard to answer in any case.
Lana trailed slightly behind him as they arrived home from their haircuts. Her dark brown hair was just below her shoulders now and Sherlock's was back to a manageable length. Lana still wasn't the bouncy girl he was used to seeing, so she still didn't feel well, but she had kept her ginger tea and toast down which was a good sign. He opened the door to the flat and Lana trotted inside and up the stairs. Sherlock paused when he saw the door to Mrs Hudson's flat ajar. It was only Saturday. He walked silently over the black door. The note was gone. His phone rang, Mycroft.
Lana screamed.
Sherlock shoved his phone back into his jacket and sprinted up the stairs, taking them thee at a time. He burst through the door and saw his little girl held tightly in the lap of a muscular blonde man. His hair was longer but Sherlock could still see the military cut. Murderous fire burned in his blue eyes and he had a scar down the left side of his face from some kind of animal attack years ago. One hand covered Lana's mouth; the other held a gun to her head.
"Morning." The man said.