Chapter Nine
John frowned as he looked up at the lamp on the table next to the sofa. He looked over into the foyer to see that those lights were off, too. In fact, everywhere he looked, there wasn't a single electrical device that was on. But there wasn't a storm or any other circumstance that would cause the power to go out.
Something's wrong…
John put down the book he had been reading, his body tensing as he listened for anything out of place. He stood and moved slowly towards the door, looking around the room. He suddenly heard footsteps pounding down the stairs and realized.
Sherlock.
He had probably freaked out when the power had gone out. Despite all the progress he had made, he was still unnerved by the dark. And no wonder: there had been no windows in his cell.
John moved towards the doorway when Sherlock appeared there.
"Down!" yelled Sherlock as he rushed forward and pushed John down behind the sofa.
Just as he did, a barrage of bullets slammed into the far wall, following their trail to the sofa. The bullets tore into the sofa as they crouched behind it.
John felt his adrenaline surge as the memories of Afghanistan and their more dangerous cases came forth. "What's happening?"
"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock told him. "Moriarty's second-in-command. He's figured out that I'm not dead, so he's come to uphold Moriarty's end of the bargain."
"What bargain?" asked John, wishing he had his gun on him.
"I kill myself, and you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson get to live," Sherlock explained, holding out a pistol. "You're welcome."
John took the gun. "Thanks." He looked down to check the magazine before it fully registered. His head snapped up to stare at his friend. "Sherlock…"
"What?" asked Sherlock as he looked back and forth around the room.
"You're back…" said John, a smile stretching across his face.
Sherlock looked over at him for a moment and then matched his smile. "I am, but maybe we could celebrate that fact when we're no longer in danger."
John looked down at the gun, checking the magazine. "That's never stopped us before." He slid the magazine back in and looked up at Sherlock.
Sherlock smiled. "That's true." He glanced up at the pillows on the sofa and grabbed one. "He's at your twelve o'clock, one hundred yards."
"Ready when you are," said John, pulling the slide back to load the chamber and releasing it.
Sherlock turned to face the sofa and looked back at John, who nodded to him. Sherlock thrust the pillow out from behind his side of the sofa, and it was immediately sprayed with bullets. At the same time, John straightened up, aimed and fired two shots through the shattered windows and ducked back down for cover. They waited a moment, but no more bullets came. The two of them stood and moved out the front door, John at the ready with the gun. They reached the spot where Moran had taken cover and found him lying there, dead, one shot in his neck and one in his forehead.
"Is that him?" asked John.
Sherlock frowned down at the body. "Something's wrong. This was too easy."
John tucked his gun into his waistband. "Easy?"
"Moran was Moriarty's second-in-command," said Sherlock, kneeling next to the body and searching it. "Nearly as cunning as his boss. He wouldn't go after one target and risk being killed. He would have a plan in place."
"You said something about a deal?" asked John, looking at their surroundings.
"Moriarty's way of getting me to jump," Sherlock explained, still searching. "Either I kill myself, or his gunmen kill the three of you. Since Mycroft hasn't called yet, I assume Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are still alive, which means he came here first. Why? Why would he risk getting taken out by a trained soldier before taking care of an inspector or a landlady?"
"Could he be working with other members of Moriarty's network?" asked John.
"He's the last," said Sherlock. "The rest were at the compound where I was being held."
"How did you know he was here?" asked John, crouching down on the other side of the body.
"A news report tonight mentioned he had been spotted in England," said Sherlock, pulling something out of a pocket and looking it over. "Moran left the compound months ago to finish what Moriarty started on a terrorist plot. He would have no reason to abandon that work unless he had heard the compound had fallen and I had been released." He stared at the small black box in his hand for another moment before he pried it open. His eyes widened before he closed it and sprang to his feet, hurrying back towards the house. "Where did Lestrade go?"
John ran after his friend. "The Yard got a tip that a wanted criminal had been spotted…" He slowed as he realized. "Oh, God…"
"That was why Moran let himself be spotted," said Sherlock as he tore through the front door. "To draw Lestrade off. Divide and conquer. His team is walking into a trap."
"Trap?" asked John, grabbing his coat from the peg near the door.
Sherlock turned and held up the little black box. "A detonator. He planned to activate the charges himself, and should he fail here, the bomb would be set up with motion sensors or a timer." He turned and moved to a closet further down the foyer, flinging it open and pulling his Belstaff coat out. "I'll need your phone."
John went back to the sitting room and found his phone on the floor, thankfully free of bullets. He snatched it up and hurried back to the front door, where Sherlock was heading out. He had his scarf knotted around his throat, and if it weren't for the jeans, t-shirt and stiff right arm where the coat sleeve sat snug against the cast, he would have looked just like his old self. John handed over his phone as they headed for the car parked in the drive.
Sherlock dialed and put the phone to his ear, waiting only a moment. "Moran is making his move. Get Mrs. Hudson to safety. I need the location of Lestrade and his team." He immediately hung up as he reached the car, getting into the driver's seat.
John jumped into the passenger seat, and they were off. Ten minutes later, John's phone chimed, and he picked it up to read the text.
"175 Chesire Road," he read off.
Sherlock frowned. "The Keller Barrister Offices? Why would he pick that location? There's people there at all hours of the day."
"Actually, Keller went under about six months ago," said John. "Now, it's just an empty office building."
Twenty minutes, and they were approaching London, Sherlock weaving his way in and out of traffic until they reached the building. Screeching to a halt on the street next to it, they hurried out of the car and into the building.
Sherlock's narrowed eyes took in the layout of the ground floor. "He'll have put it in the basement so that if they escaped the explosion, then the building collapse would kill them. Go find Lestrade. I'll handle the bomb." He turned to start off.
"Wait, wait," said John. "You'll handle the bomb? What, have you got 'How to Defuse a Bomb' tucked away in that mind palace?"
Sherlock thought for a moment and then shrugged. "Maybe." He smirked and then ran off to find the basement access.
John turned away and shook his head. "Idiot."
Greg moved through the corridor with his officers, his gun at the ready as they silently searched. They reached a corner, and he pressed himself up against the wall next to it. He glanced up at Donovan, who was standing against the opposite wall with several more officers. Donovan nodded, and Greg rounded the corner, aiming his gun into the main area of the office. There were a couple of desks leftover, but otherwise, it was empty. Greg jerked his head to motion to Donovan that it was clear, and they all moved into the room, spreading out.
Greg stepped through the center of the room, his eyes scanning the place. Something didn't feel right. He had made it this far in his career as a detective because he trusted his gut, and right now, his gut was telling him to get out.
Greg turned and started heading towards his right, whispering, "Donovan—"
"Stop!"
Greg turned—as did every other officer—aiming his gun at the source of the noise. John Watson was standing at the corridor that led to the lobby, his hands in the air.
"John?" hissed Greg, lowering his gun and motioning for the others to do the same. "What are you doing here?" He started to take a step towards him.
"Greg, stop!" said John, his eyes wide.
Greg froze, frowning at him.
Moving his gaze to the floor, John made his way to Greg before crouching and shining his torch onto the floor in front of Greg's feet. There in the light about a foot from the floor and six inches from Greg's leg was a tripwire strung between two desks.
Greg's eyes widened as he carefully backed up a few paces, and he sighed, putting his gun in its holster. "Moran isn't here, is he?"
John shook his head and looked around. "Everybody keep your eyes on the floor. There's probably more than one."
"How'd you know?" asked Greg.
"Moran paid us a visit at the house first," John told him. "We're both fine." He lowered his voice. "Sherlock figured it out."
"He did?" asked Greg, surprised. Sherlock was solving cases now?
John smiled. "He did."
Donovan finally reached them after checking for wires on her way. "What are you doing here?"
"Saving your life," John told her.
"Really?" said Donovan, her hand on her hip.
"Donovan," muttered Greg tiredly.
"We finally had a location on a criminal we've been hunting for months, and you may have just let him get away," Donovan spat at him.
John shook his head. "You haven't learned anything, Donovan. Why would Moran put up tripwires for a bomb if he was in the same building?" His phone went off, and he pulled it out of his pocket.
"Because he's a psychopath," said Donovan. "He's insane."
"That's your go-to explanation for everything, isn't it?" John muttered as he opened the text.
Moran hired accomplices.
MH
The sound of a gun being cocked sounded behind him, and John rolled his eyes.
"Great timing, Mycroft," he said as he turned to see a man in the corridor leading to the lobby pointing a gun at him.
The officers all aimed their guns at him.
"Ah, ah, ah!" said the man, holding up a small device in his other hand. "Dead man's switch. I let go, and the bomb blows. Guns over here." He pointed the gun back at John. "And the phone."
John sighed as he set his mobile on the floor and kicked it over as the Yard officers did the same with their guns. "So, you're Moran's henchman."
"He told me to make sure they stayed in the building until the bomb went off," said the man. "He didn't say anything about visitors. Who are you?"
"No one," John told him, eyeing the detonator. Come on, Sherlock.
"Well, you chose the wrong time to be a hero," said the man.
John smirked. "Someone once told me there was no such thing as heroes. But maybe we can prove him wrong." He paused, thinking through his words. If I can just give Sherlock more time… "You don't want to do this."
"Don't I?" said the man.
"The only way to make sure we don't leave this building now is to stay here," said John. "What could he have offered you to make you want to die?"
"Plenty," said the man.
"Let me guess," said John. "You have debts? Family? If the bomb kills us, that's all taken care of?"
"Exactly," said the man. "And I've had enough of this." He raised the detonator and released the trigger.
For a moment, John's heart stopped as he waited for the explosion. And after two seconds went by and the man frowned down at the detonator, John let out a sigh of relief.
The man pressed and released the switch again and again, shaking it in frustration. "This can't be possible…"
"By all means, keep going."
John smiled as the man turned towards the dark corridor behind him. Greg frowned at the familiar voice.
"It didn't work the first time, but who knows? Perhaps it fixed itself."
The man glanced back at John and then into the dark corridor. "What's going on?"
"I would think you would know an arrest when you saw one," said the voice from the darkness. "Based on the scar along your left forearm and the tattoo on your chest—"
The man glanced at his arm and the tattoo peeking out from his collar.
"—you've done time on at least two separate occasions, so surely you're familiar with the process of being taken into custody."
Greg smiled at the sound of the old, familiar Sherlock, and he glanced over to Donovan, whose jaw was starting to drop in realization.
"And my colleague was correct in assuming Moran made provisions to ensure your cooperation. In a rather intriguing twist of irony, the case that ends the game with Moriarty shares the same circumstances as the one that started it: you have an estranged family that will receive money upon detonation of that bomb. Unfortunately, Moran is now dead, so your family won't be getting a single pence."
The man dropped the detonator and used both hands to aim the gun into the dark. "Who are you?"
"A ghost, back from the grave to put an end to Moriarty once and for all. And you are the last piece."
"Then I'll take you with me!" yelled the man.
"Oh, I don't think so. I have an advantage you do not."
"What?!" yelled the man, and Greg could see his hands shaking around the gun.
That was when Sherlock stepped into the light with a smirk on his face and said, "Vatican cameos."
Instantly, John drew the gun that he'd been inching his hand towards from his jacket and fired a round, hitting the man in his thigh. The man yelled and collapsed to the ground. Officers converged on him and wrestled the gun away from him.
Sherlock stepped around the man—as the officers stared at him in shock—and walked towards John. "Well, that went perfectly to plan."
John scoffed. "What plan?"
Sherlock affected an offended expression. "I always have a plan."
"No, you don't," muttered John.
"How'd you disarm the bomb?" asked Greg as he walked over.
"There was an off switch," Sherlock answered.
"What?" said John.
"There's always an off switch," said Sherlock. "Terrorists can get into all kinds of trouble unless there's an off switch."
"What the bloody hell?!"
They all looked over to see Donovan marching towards them, her glare fixed on Sherlock.
"You faked it?" exclaimed Donovan. "This whole time, you were alive? I knew you were selfish, but this…"
"I faked my death so that I could hunt down Moran and the rest of Moriarty's network behind the scenes," Sherlock told her.
"Oh, and that worked so well!" said Donovan, waving her hand at the bomber behind him. "Excellent job!"
"It does get quite hard to hunt down a giant criminal network when one has been captured and tortured for a year," Sherlock muttered sarcastically. "I do apologize about that."
Donovan had stopped, staring at him and looking not quite sure if she had heard that correctly. "Tortured?"
"Yes, tortured," said John, rounding on her with narrowed eyes. "In exchange for saving mine, Lestrade's and Mrs. Hudson's lives, twenty of Moriarty's madmen tortured Sherlock nonstop for the past year."
Donovan hesitated a moment, unsure of what to say, before she sneered at John. "That doesn't mean he can just stroll right in like nothing ever happened. What about everything he put us all through? I got demoted because of him!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away from them.
"You got demoted because you wanted revenge for Sherlock upstaging you at crime scenes," John bit off at her.
Sherlock glanced over at the group of officers detaining the bomber to see that they were all watching the exchange (and him) in amazement and shock. The bomber, however, seemed to have slipped their notice.
"So, you jumped at any chance you could to get it," John went on. "Even if that meant persecuting an innocent man."
"Innocent?" exclaimed Donovan.
"John," said Sherlock.
"According to court records, yes," John shot back. "They found Moriarty guilty of framing him not two days ago. Don't you remember?"
"John," Sherlock repeated.
"What?" John said harshly, looking over at him.
"Shoot," Sherlock told him.
John glanced past him to see the bomber well on his way down the corridor. He raised his gun and fired another round off, hitting the bomber in the other leg. The officers broke out of their stupor and re-detained him.
Sherlock rounded back on Donovan. "Seriously? The culprit starts making a getaway right in front of you, and you don't notice? And you wonder why you need me." He turned and made his way from the building.
John looked back at her as she stared after Sherlock with her jaw dropped. "He's got a point, you know." He turned and followed his friend.