8:00 pm
John tried not to slump in the chair as he stared at Mycroft. Was it only 24 hours ago that he'd sat right here drinking tea? He opened his mouth to say as much. "I hope you're not planning on offering tea again."
The man across from him sighed. "I'm well aware you wouldn't accept. However, I am going to insist on your letting yourself be examined by my medical staff—and you will accept whatever medications they prescribe."
John lifted his eyebrows. "I'll not deny that I could use a bandage or two—for the sake of the carpet, if nothing else—but I'm a doctor. I'm not taking anything I don't approve of. I don't trust you, Mycroft."
"I'm crushed, John. I thought we'd agreed to a mutual-benefit pact to rescue Sherlock. Why would I jeopardize that?"
"I've no idea, Mycroft, but I still don't trust you. I need to think clearly and the concussion's making it hard enough. I'm not adding suspect pharmaceuticals to the mix." He kept his face neutral—calm but unyielding—and finally Mycroft nodded. "Very well. We'll make plans when we know how bad the damage is."
#
Well, it could have been worse, John supposed. Somehow he'd managed to avoid any broken bones, though the bruising on his hip and leg was going to be quite spectacular. His concussion was a mild one (as these things went) and John had to be grateful that he was mobile at all after being hit by the car.
If he was going to be of any use going after Sherlock, though, he needed to be more than just somewhat mobile. He'd accepted an anti-inflammatory and a mild painkiller from Mycroft's doctor (after examining the original packaging). Afterward, he was given a cane and a pair of fresh ice packs and brought back to the conference room next to Mycroft's office.
It was almost unrecognizable. The table was covered with maps and surveillance photos and the wall of monitors he hadn't realized hid behind the paneling were all showing live footage of wherever he imagined Sherlock was. There was also a spread of food along one wall, which he looked at thoughtfully for several minutes before going over and helping himself. He might not trust Mycroft, but the man wanted his brother back and John didn't think drugging him insensible again would help that goal, so … the food must be safe.
(He tried not to think about the paradox of being paranoid about meds or a cup of tea, but assuming the food was clean. It's a matter of trust, he told himself. Besides, he was too hungry and too tired to bypass a chance at a meal. He was going to need these calories.)
He felt the man's eyes on him and looked up to catch his gaze. He couldn't begin to imagine the calculations going on in his head, but thought he caught a glimpse of approval that he was eating the food. He just hoped it was because Mycroft was proud of John's analysis and trust and not because he was feeling smugly superior for sneaking something past him.
Carrying his plate, he limped over to the table and took a chair, reaching out to check the nearest photos of Sherlock entering an office building—half an hour ago, judging by the time stamp. He just shook his head. "Idiot," he muttered. Really, what was Sherlock thinking, going in alone?
"He did have the sense to send me the address, Dr. Watson," Mycroft's voice interrupted his thoughts.
"That's something, I suppose, but still daft. Your men are outside where they can't be much help, can they?"
Mycroft just did that slow, thoughtful blink of his and said, "Unless we had somebody who had been invited in."
John just smiled. "See? You do need me."
Mycroft matched the smile and said, "I thought that was the entire point of the last 24 hours, John. I already told you we needed you."
"No, Mycroft. I didn't mean the government. I meant you. You know you're happy with me looking after your little brother, and this has all just been some weird, twisted test. It's just that this particular caper is one that benefits all of us." He looked back at the map. "So, that's where he is?"
Mycroft's eyes narrowed as he considered the doctor—apparently finding him more insightful than he'd expected. "And how do I know that, if I tell you the address, you won't go running off on your own?"
John just lifted his eyebrows. "Mutual-benefit pact? Besides, not running anywhere today." He gestured with the cane. "Did you find anything about those poor saps Moriarty's got tied up? Anything from Lestra… damn. I need to tell him I'm okay. Do you know where my phone is?"
"I believe you left your jacket in my office. It's in the pocket, I presume?" Mycroft nodded at Anthea and moments later she placed John's phone in his hand.
He powered it up. "You didn't add any bugs, did you?"
"Oh, please, we did that months ago," she told him with a smile and then went back to her Blackberry.
Trying not to think about that, John sent a quick text to Lestrade so he wouldn't worry—well, not about John's current health, anyway—and then he turned to recent incoming messages. There was a new invite from Moriarty, telling him to come with his 'master,' and … the phone chimed with a new message.
" -Poor pet, did the vet make you all better? Your master is so worried. If you're loyal, you'll come join him."
This was followed by an address, and then a photo of Sherlock sitting in a chair in the middle of a festive room, looking bored.
"Um, Mycroft?" He passed over the phone. "Seems like Moriarty knows about my accident."
"This could work to our benefit, doctor. He already knows you've been hurt—just not how badly."
Mycroft looked at Anthea and she nodded. "Dummy records were submitted at the nearest hospital."
"Excellent," he told her. "So this is what we'll do.'
#
9:30 p.m.
Sherlock sat back in his chair and sipped his tea. Except for the handcuff chaining his left wrist to the chair, it was all very civilized, with Moriarty making a point of waiting patiently for John to arrive. ("I understand, I do, that you want me all to yourself, but the invitation was for both of you. Just because the poor pet is sick doesn't mean he should ignore his manners. How else will the poor boy learn?")
Sherlock didn't know whether he should hope John was too badly injured to leave hospital, or if he wanted him well enough to come charging to the rescue as he knew he would be foolish enough to do.
In the meantime, here they sat, drinking tea (which Sherlock was 94.8% certain was undrugged). He tried not to look at Moriarty's two hostages—possibly even more terrified watching this bizarre tea party than they had been when he arrived. He tried to think kind or considerate thoughts about them because he knew that's what John would have wanted, but they were so boring and desperate, he couldn't concentrate on them for more than a few seconds at a time.
No, the topic that absorbed his attention was, surprisingly, John. It was not unusual for him to think about John, of course, but when sharing the same room as Jim Moriarty? A genius like him, the yin to his yang? Shouldn't that equal-but-opposite comparison be demanding all his attention? Just over a week ago, he could think of little else.
But now, well, there was John. Not brilliant, perhaps, but fascinating, and not just because of his unique and impossible gift. John, who was injured in hospital because Sherlock had tried to leave him behind again—just one week after he had promised he would stop doing that.
How badly was he hurt? It was hard to tell from the video. He had regained consciousness quickly, which was reassuring, but even if he had managed to avoid broken bones or internal injuries, nobody could be struck unconscious by a moving car without suffering some damage. Yet Moriarty expected him to … what? Come rolling up to the door in a wheelchair? It was ludicrous.
Except … Sherlock couldn't believe his eyes. The surveillance camera filming the street outside clearly showed John being pushed in a wheelchair, right up to the door. The idiot! What could Moriarty possibly have said to him that would have forced John here in that condition?
Oh. He had probably threatened Sherlock and John had lost all sense of reason. How had he gotten out of hospital? Didn't they frown on patients stealing their wheelchairs?
Moriarty had practically danced into the room. "Isn't this so delicious! I'm so glad John decided to answer my invitation—though, of course, I didn't say he could bring a plus-one, but the more the merrier, my mother always said. And, of course," he added to Sherlock, "This way he can't be jealous, which will be so much more pleasant, don't you think?"
Sherlock started to rise to his feet, but paused when Moriarty sent him warning look. Fine. He settled back. "Sadly, it looks like she just brought him to the door," he said. "He's alone on the lift."
Moriarty turned and pouted at the video feed. "And it would have been so much fun with an extra player." The lift chimed and before long John came in, laboriously wheeling his chair down the hallway, wincing with every turn of the wheels.
Finally, he was in the room. Sherlock ran his eyes over him, cataloguing his injuries. A bandage on the head, one pupil slightly enlarged, so concussion. There was a cast on one leg, and it was obvious there was at least some bruising around the ribs, judging by the difficulty John had had wheeling the chair. His friend was obviously in pain, but there was something about the set, focused look on his face that Sherlock found … interesting. "Well, Mr. Moriarty," John was saying, "Here I am. Sorry I'm late. I was a bit … indisposed earlier."
"I'll let it slide just this once, Dr. Watson. You're not too badly hurt?"
"So kind of you to ask. Broken leg and a concussion," John said, staring at Sherlock. "Nothing too serious, but it makes getting around a little difficult. Frankly, I'd rather be in bed, so why am I here, exactly?"
Moriarty pouted. "Well, for my party, of course. You're my guest of honor. I didn't plan on you being damaged."
"Yes, well, that was Sherlock's fault," John said with a glare at his friend. "Thanks for abandoning me back there, by the way, and then leaving me unconscious on the pavement. You really stink at this 'friend' thing, you know."
Sherlock caught a ghost of a wink and answered, "I never claimed differently, John. I told you I was a high-functioning sociopath the night we met."
"Yes, yes you did, but somehow, I thought you were exaggerating. Frankly, I'm surprised you bothered to bring me with you when you escaped from the pool last week."
Sherlock sniffed. "I never said you weren't useful. Who else would I get to pay the rent? I'm apparently very bad as a flatmate. Besides, I didn't want Jim here to think he'd won. It was the logical choice at the time."
"Oh, right. Logic. How could I forget. Heaven forbid you do anything that isn't logical," John said, looking angry—though Sherlock could tell it wasn't authentic. John obviously had a plan. "So explain to me how taking tea with a psychopathic consulting criminal who wants to kill you islogical?"
"Don't be silly, John. He's not going to kill me over tea. That would be very un-British of him. And I knew he wouldn't do anything final until you got here—though it took you long enough." He waved his hand over John's protests and turned to Moriarty. "So, you've got a complete complement of guests. When does the entertainment start?"
Moriarty had been standing speechless as the two of them bickered but now, recalled to the task at hand, he practically clapped his hands. "I'm so glad you asked," he said. "It was thoughtful of Dr. Watson to bring his own chair, but it really wasn't necessary." With a grand gesture, he grabbed the curtain behind him and swept it open to reveal a chair out of a sci-fi horror movie—chains, electric cables, leather belts, all topped by a huge, metal hood. It was a monstrosity and Sherlock's stomach turned at the thought of John anywhere near it.
John seemed to think so, too, because he automatically started moving his chair back, away from it, as Moriarty started to laugh.
#