Chapter 10
John had been peacefully sleeping the night away after their flight when he woke from the cold. To John, this was odd. It wasn't odd in the fact that he was cold, but in the fact that the warmth of Sherlock's dragon body was no longer there; there was no more wing to cuddle under like a blanket. Opening his eyes to gaze about the darkened interior of the flat, he tried to seek out Sherlock. It wouldn't be that hard to miss him, but he wasn't there all the same.
"Sherlock?..." He asked as he slowly moved to stand, squinting as he cast his eyes about.
Nearby on the floor lay a letter; a letter that was written by a foreign hand. He knew that Sherlock hadn't written it. He wouldn't be able to write anything in his dragon state. As he bent to pick the letter up from the floor, he felt a bad feeling run throughout his body. No one had been in the flat aside from the two of them since this all had happened, and seeing that letter proved that that statement was now wrong. Someone had been here. This letter was new. With a trembling hand, he clutched the letter tightly and walked into the kitchen where he could turn on a light to be able to read it.
He laid the letter on the kitchen's island before turning and flicking on a light; eyes widening when he saw the initials 'JM' lazily scrawled across the bottom. He knew exactly who that letter had come from even though he would have rather gone on pretending that he didn't.
You seem to be down a dragon. Such a shame. He's a lovely stubborn thing, though tranquilizer darts serve well to sooth him into a state of calm. He was a heavy bugger to get out of your flat, but I have my methods. You slept so heavily that I didn't even need to use the darts upon you. You didn't even notice I was in the flat. This letter will be your only knowledge of my presence. As for the dragon, you won't be seeing him again. I'm sure you already figured that out. I'm not one to share my toys. Have fun being one dragon, and detective, short, John.
JM
The first read through the letter had been in sheer panic. A thousand alarms seemed to go off in his head over and over again; playing him worse scenario cases instead of allowing him to think things through in a logical manner. He forced himself to calm down reading it through a second and third time though. So Moriarty had put two-and-two together and figured out the truth. He hadn't been worried about such an outcome until now. He thought that they had both done relatively well at staying concealed during this time and hiding their secret. It wasn't until the risky flight tonight that John had been worried, and this letter proved him to be right. The part of him that wanted to rub in that fact soon died away though. This wasn't a matter to be proud about. His best friend was in trouble, and he had absolutely no idea how to save him.
"Well, I'm...I'm sure once Sherlock wakes up and the effects of the tranquilizer darts wear off that he'll be able to escape...I mean, he's a dragon…a bloody dragon...I shouldn't have to worry about him…"
He found himself giving himself a pep talk; one in which he would be able to continue hiding and staying away from the rest of the world. He was a coward as a hobbit. He didn't want to venture outside the safety of 221B. It had taken a lot to get Sherlock to convince him it was safe to go on that flight. He didn't want to go outside again. Besides, he only had a few more days until things would go back to normal. Surely everything would be okay until then.
But what if it wasn't?...Knowing James Moriarty, Sherlock could be dead or long gone before the effects wore off. Though every fiber of his being seemed to be screaming out at him to stay put, he find himself ultimately coming to the decision that he would have to go. He had to do this for Sherlock; for his best friend. He had to put aside the fact that he was afraid and that he wasn't going to be as strong as he normally was. He couldn't let his best friend get whisked away like that, especially after all they had gone through to earn each other's trust this way. He couldn't let him down.
Leaving the letter where it was, he walked towards his room and walked over to one of his dressers. He pulled open a drawer and stuck his hand down into the bottom of it, pulling free a gun that was housed there. The metal stung his hand as he held it, staring down at it as his stomach did cart wheels.
"The things I do for you sometimes…" he muttered before tucking the gun away and moving to put on some clothes that would end up aiding to a better disguise. "Don't worry, Sherlock...I'm coming…"
He found some clothes that would suit the purpose, tugging them on over the ones he already had on since he was already cold. Giving himself yet another mental pep talk, he walked towards the door. He wasn't one that was really willing to leave his home in this form, but here he was taking soft steps down the stairs. He tugged the black hat on his head down lower as he walked; the boots he had on feeling stiff and itchy on his feet.
As he descended the stairs into the crisp air outside, he was thankful that he had gotten by unseen for now. Letting out a deep sigh of relief, he had just finished shutting the door when he turned right around and smacked right into someone. With a small 'ouch' leaving his mouth, he tumbled backwards onto the steps and landed on his rear. The person that he had collided with immediately began to apologize; a hand reaching down to help him back onto his feet. It wasn't until he had taken hold of the hand to stand that he realized who the man was and found all the nerves rushing back to him. The man standing in front of him was none other than Detective Inspector Lestrade.