Monday, 5 April 2010
Jim's mobile rang at three minutes past five, just as he pulled his Maserati out into traffic. He thumbed the Bluetooth control on the steering wheel and answered, "Hello?"
"Jim. It's me," Moran answered.
Jim let out a relieved sigh and slid the little sports car into a gap three inches longer than the frame. "What happened?"
"Holmes," he growled. "I got caught up in his surveillance op after my dinner with Watson two weeks ago. Apparently, the op ended right before the Easter break."
"And you didn't let me know four days ago?" Jim snapped, aggressively braking at the last moment when the idiot ahead of him didn't ease through the light.
"I was under the impression you wanted to avoid getting on Holmes' radar. If that's changed, I can drop him a note for you."
"Don't fucking test me!" Jim slammed his palm against the steering wheel, taking a deep breath in an effort to steady his temper. Five minutes ago, he'd been in a state of pleasant anticipation, his skin buzzing, every sense alert and awake. Though he'd shown no sign of distraction in any of the day's meetings, a part of his mind had been suspended in a comfortable fog of desire. Now, he wanted to slice every inch of skin off someone — anyone, really.
Anyone but John Watson.
He forced himself to concentrate on what would be happening in one hour, fifty-five minutes. Did he really need Moran tonight? He wanted to trust Watson. His instincts told him he could trust Watson. But he hadn't come this far in the world by being reckless. Every risk he'd ever taken had been mathematically planned, contingencies mapped, exit strategies laid out well in advance.
Tonight was as close to uncertainty as he ever allowed himself to get. Though he and John had conducted the most thorough negotiation Jim had ever experienced, John had simply agreed to Jim's limits, added a couple of his own, and then confirmed the time and date of their scene. He hadn't actually specified what he'd be doing or what he'd expect from Jim.
Grudgingly, Jim's rational mind reasserted itself. "You need to be in position by half-six tonight," he ordered.
"That's in... eighty-three minutes." It came out as a borderline complaint.
"Then you'd better fucking move your arse," Jim said, disconnecting the call.
John leaned against the bathroom counter, very carefully dragging the safety razor over his jaw, not even daring to breathe. There was no tremor, thankfully, but his left hand felt weak and clumsy. At least he'd given himself plenty of time to get ready. It had been raining on and off all day — for the last three weeks, in fact — and he'd taken care to factor in the possibility of traffic.
His mobile rang, making him drop the razor before he could nick himself. Cursing, he picked up the phone, checking to see if it was Jim calling to confirm or cancel. But it was Irene, so he answered and put her on speaker, propping the phone up on the damp, discarded towel. "Hello?" he said, retrieving his razor from the sink with a splash.
"John, love. What are you wearing?" Irene asked.
He arched a brow, looking at the phone. "A towel and shaving foam."
"Goodness. Have you started your date already?"
He rolled his eyes and turned back to the mirror. "It's not a date, Irene. It's a negotiated scene."
She sighed. "Oh, love. This is pleasure, not business. Consider me your personal dominant support network. So let's try this again. What are you wearing to your scene?"
He had to stop shaving so he could laugh. "I hadn't got that far," he admitted. "Probably jeans."
"Boring, but at least it isn't tacky."
"I don't own anything tacky, love. Kate went through my wardrobe, threw out whatever she didn't like, and pronounced everything else either 'suitable' or 'adorable', God help me."
"You could go for leather. The view from the back would just be gorgeous, you know."
He couldn't help but blush at that. He did have leather, and he knew he looked good, but that seemed a little heavy-handed and cliche for a first scene. "Irene. Did you actually call me to criticize my sense of fashion?"
"Someone had to. But no, love." Her voice softened as she asked, "How are you doing? No... concerns about tonight?"
John rinsed his razor, looking down into the sink with a sigh. "I won't lie and say no, but I'm still the same man I was a month ago," he said firmly, though he fumbled his attempt to turn the razor in his fingers. He wanted to tell her how he really felt — how desperately he wished it was Sherlock and not Jim, sweet and appealing as Jim was, that he was seeing tonight — but he didn't dare. Not with the very distinct possibility that the flat was bugged.
"All right, love. Well, then one more thing, and I'll get out of your way. Where are you taking him?"
"I'm going to his flat."
"You can come to the office, if you want. You know the equipment's all safe."
"Irene..." He turned his face, checking both sides of his jaw, and set the razor aside. "I appreciate the concern, but I'm fine."
There was a long pause before Irene laughed softly. "All right, love. Feel free to use Kate as your safe call," she added mischievously.
"Good night, Irene," he said, laughing, and heard her making kissing noises into the phone until he disconnected. God, she was impossible! But she cared, and every time his spirits flagged, she managed what no one else had ever done for him: she made him laugh.
Jim's flat was in a trendy warehouse-turned-loft building, which made John wonder if he'd got the address wrong. His estate agent had shown him similar flats, every one of them out of his price range. How could Jim afford this on a café worker's salary? Did he live with flatmates? Maybe John should've taken Irene up on her offer, if they were going to have privacy issues.
At the top floor, he followed Jim's directions to the last door on the left. He was back to walking with his cane, no longer a threat to himself and any unsuspecting furniture he might pass with that damned crutch. Plus, he could carry a small gym bag over his shoulder with no difficulty.
As he raised his hand to knock, the door opened; Jim must have been waiting. He looked out, his smile shyly charming. "Hi. Come in," he invited, stepping out of the way.
Upon seeing the open space beyond, John's first reaction was that if Jim had roommates, they were both neat and invisible. The flat was gorgeous, with pale hardwood floors and brick walls. The kitchen was white and stainless steel, with high stools lined up before a breakfast bar.
The outer wall was entirely glass, with a pair of sliding doors in the center leading out to a narrow balcony. Beyond, there were no buildings to obscure a fantastic view of the low-hanging clouds glowing with the city lights below. There was no television or entertainment center. Instead, a white sofa faced the windows, with a couple of armchairs to either side.
There was no way he could afford this on a barista's salary. Had he borrowed the keys from a rich friend to impress John?
John noticed stairs leading up to a loft, but his examination of the loft was interrupted by the click of the door lock. He turned back to look at Jim instead, and smiled when he saw Jim was casually dressed in jeans and a plain grey T-shirt that hugged his body.
"So —"
"Give me your safeword," John interrupted, suddenly wanting to see what was under those plain clothes.
Jim's eyes widened. "Pascal," he said, giving the same safeword he had when they'd discussed their likes, dislikes, and limits two weeks ago. John wanted the reminder to be fresh in both their minds.
"I won't play consent games — not for our first time. You can say no, stop, or Pascal, and we'll stop for as long as you need. I won't be upset, and it won't make me leave unless you ask me to. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Jim said a bit breathlessly.
John started counting silently.
He only reached four before a flush rose in Jim's cheeks. Looking down, Jim said, "Yes, sir."
"You remembered," John approved, dropping his bag at his feet. He took off his coat, hesitating when he remembered a moment very much like this a lifetime ago, at his bedsit. Before Jim could move or offer to take it, he said, "Go to the rug. Kneel down, facing the balcony."
He caught the way Jim's eyes went wide with surprise, but also with — he hoped — excitement. With a murmured, "Yes, sir," Jim turned and crossed the room, walking between the sofa and one of the chairs. He hesitated only for a moment as though choosing the precise spot, rather than hurrying to obey. When he did kneel, the movement was graceful and comfortable, and he went still without any fidgeting or shifting his posture.
He really had done this before, John realized, slowly grinning as some of the lingering apprehension finally bled away.
After retrieving his bag, he tossed his jacket over a stool near the breakfast bar. He put the bag on the next stool and unzipped it, glancing back over his shoulder to see Jim watching his reflection in the glass. Amused, he considered what he'd learned about Jim's preferences and limits.
He settled on a heavy leather flogger that he'd had for ages, though it had been in storage in London except when he was on leave. He also chose a signal whip, light and flexible, still new enough to smell of dye and conditioning oil, a gift from Irene. He'd brought restraints, but he left them in the bag, at least for now. Jim would expect to be restrained; John wouldn't push his threshold for pain, not during a first scene, but he would push his self-control.
When he turned and started toward the rug, Jim looked down, shoulders rising and falling with his deeper, slower breaths. John sat down on the couch, leaning his cane against the arm, and set the whips down on the center cushion.
"Stand up. Take off your clothes," he said, intentionally keeping his orders brief and non-specific. He wanted to watch Jim's interpretation, to see him trying to figure out precisely what John wanted.
After a moment, Jim rose steadily, with the same grace he'd shown earlier. Keeping his back to John, he lifted his head and looked at the glass, meeting the reflection of John's eyes again. It was interrupted only when he lifted his shirt over his head, revealing a surprisingly well-muscled back. The reflection showed similar definition to his chest and abdomen.
He walked to the armchair to the left, farther from where John sat, and draped his shirt over one arm. He was barefoot — and hadn't bothered with pants under his jeans, John noted with amusement as he worked them down over his hips. He was already growing hard, and he hadn't shaved, which John had half-expected.
When he was done, he looked back at John, meeting his gaze for a moment before bowing his head just slightly, not enough to hide either his blush or his smirk, a beautiful contrast that worked well for him. He knew just how attractive he was, and wasn't pretending at modesty.
At John's signal, he walked over to the sofa. He knelt without being prompted, letting out another quiet sigh when John touched the side of his face. John sat forward enough to be able to easily trace Jim's shoulders, following each muscle with his fingertips.
There was no hint of impatience in Jim at all. He shivered as John toyed with the hairs at the back of his neck, bowing his head a bit more. When John brought his hands forward, Jim raised his head enough to press a kiss to John's fingertips.
John felt some of his own tension ease, relaxing as Jim relaxed, and he found himself slipping easily into his role.
God, he needed this release. His constant concern for Sherlock, his hyper-awareness that his enemy was still out there, his curiosity about how a barista could afford this flat — all of his worries receded, not forgot but set carefully aside for the duration.
"I don't want to bind you — not yet. Can you hold still for me?" he asked softly.
Jim looked up through his lashes. John could see a flash of calculation in his eyes. The blush receded and the smirk grew as he answered, "For as long as you want, sir."
Some night, he'd test that, but not tonight.
It was past eight before Lestrade stepped out of the lift, one eye on his mobile. The building was hell for getting a signal, and he didn't trust ordering Chinese with fewer than three bars — too easy to confuse dinner special number five (orange chicken) with number nine (spicy Szechuan chicken). He had the takeaway restaurant's menu memorized, which was a pretty pathetic snapshot of his life, and though it was his favorite, he suddenly couldn't face it alone.
He thumbed through his address book as he crossed the lobby, juggling his briefcase, mobile, and umbrella to get himself sorted. At least it wasn't thundering the way it had been yesterday, though at least the violent storms had broken up three solid weeks of rain. (The snow on the first of April had been Mother Nature's version of a cruel joke.)
He dialled Molly's number before he could reconsider. Whenever he thought of her, his mind kept straying out of 'friendship' territory, especially now that he knew his marriage was over.
"Hello? Greg?" Molly's sweet, light voice was full of confusion and curiosity.
Lestrade couldn't help but grin. He'd only spoken with Molly a couple of times since the bridge incident, as they'd taken to calling it, but he hadn't stopped thinking about her. "Evening, Molly."
"Hi. Is something wrong? Are you okay? Is Sherlock?"
Lestrade grimaced, though he supposed the fact she'd mentioned him before Sherlock was worth something, at least. "Everything's fine. I was actually wondering how you felt about —" He cut off as his mobile alerted him to an incoming call. A glance showed Sherlock's name, and he snapped, "Bloody hell!"
"Greg!" Molly gasped.
"Sorry! Christ — that wasn't — Look, Sherlock's ringing. It might be about yesterday's kidnapping case. Can I call you back?"
"Um, sure..." she said uncertainly.
"I will, I swear. Meanwhile, what's your favorite Chinese?"
"Um... Kung pao anything?" she said tentatively, turning it into a question.
"Sounds great. I'll call you right back," he said, quickly switching over to Sherlock's call. "Sherlock?"
"I need your surveillance cameras."
Lestrade stopped in his tracks. "You mean you want me to give you access to classified CCTV feeds."
"It's important."
A month ago, Lestrade would've told him to bugger off. Now, though, he heard something in Sherlock's voice that was either genuine worry or a very, very good act.
Unfortunately, he knew Sherlock was a damned good actor.
Sighing deeply, Lestrade said, "All right. I can give you fifteen minutes, but that's it. I'm bloody starved."
"That's more than enough. I know exactly which cameras —" He went silent, but the line didn't go dead. Lestrade could hear the rumble of traffic behind him. Sherlock was probably right outside the building.
"Sherlock? What is it?"
"Come to the visitor's entrance." The mobile went dead.
Not for the first time in the last month or so, Lestrade reminded himself that Sherlock had probably never been in a relationship, probably because other than John Watson, no one was crazy enough to get that close to Sherlock. Safer to fly too close to the sun the way Icarus had done.
He turned and went back across the lobby to the visitor's side of the building, and then out to the visitor's gate on Broadway. Beyond the security checkpoint, he spotted Sherlock pacing anxiously in the rain, his hair plastered to his skull in wet curls, collar turned up against the wind.
Did the man not own an umbrella?
Lestrade stepped out, nodding to the officer on duty, and opened his umbrella. He headed right to Sherlock, asking, "Are you trying to give yourself the flu?"
Instead of turning back towards Security, Sherlock caught Lestrade's sleeve and tugged him away. Lestrade felt a tug at his pocket. Then Sherlock said, "Meet me inside," and spun back around, leaving Lestrade to watch him, baffled, as he headed back to the checkpoint.
Lestrade's frustrated sigh was cut off when he felt his pocket and recognized the shape of a small pistol. "Christ," he muttered, wondering if this was Sherlock's attempt at getting himself arrested — some sort of Sherlock-style cry for help — or if he'd just been too bloody distracted to consider the wisdom of bringing a gun to New Scotland Yard.
There was a very good chance that unless Sherlock had an excellent explanation, Lestrade wouldn't give it back.
As he headed toward the private entrance, where he wouldn't set off any metal detectors, he dialed Molly. "Sorry about that, Molly. I really am," he said as soon as she answered. "So, I was wondering... Care to have dinner tomorrow night? Chinese?"
Moran shifted position slightly and tried to hold back a yawn, rubbing at his aching neck before he went back to watching through his spotting glasses. His L115A3 sniper rifle was already set up on its bipod, the stock carefully balanced on sandbags, aimed at the lower level of Jim's loft. Moran had already factored in distance, window glass, and the weather (which was bloody cold), and would only have to make minor adjustments to the shot, assuming he took it. For what might be the first time in his career, he didn't want to pull the trigger.
John Watson was one of his men, bound to him by bloodshed, loyalty, and loss. Jim Moriarty offered Moran his best chance at vengeance against the bastard who'd ended his career and locked him into a damned desk job. He'd only take the shot if one of them was about to kill the other, though which one he'd shoot, he couldn't rightly say.
But if things kept going as they were, he wouldn't have to shoot either one. Watson seemed to have pushed Jim into subspace hard and fast, judging by the way Jim was slumped almost bonelessly against the window glass, back bared to the signal whip. Good times for everyone, apparently, except Moran, stuck in a deserted, dark flat watching two men, which was definitely not his thing.
Abruptly, Jim slid down the glass, falling to his knees. Moran leaned forward, resting a hand on the stock of his rifle to keep it steady, just in case he had to take the shot after all. But Watson crouched down with Jim and set the signal whip aside. Jim had refused Moran's suggestion of audio surveillance, so Moran had no idea what the two of them were saying.
Jim arched suddenly, hands splayed against the window. For a moment, both of them seemed to be looking out across the street towards the empty flat where Moran had set up his post. But nothing short of infrared gear would pick out his shape in the cool darkness, and he realized they were looking at each other's reflection in the window glass.
It took a few minutes for Jim to start regaining his composure. Moran recognized the signs and wondered if the scene was ending.
Apparently not. Watson stepped back from Jim, giving a sharp tug to his hair. Bracing himself against the window for balance, Jim got to his feet. When he turned, Moran saw his back was laced with red welts, heaviest at his shoulders, buttocks, and thighs, lightest over his kidneys. That matched what Moran had heard of Watson: always concerned with safety. Probably came from his medical training.
Then they were moving, heading upstairs to the elevated loft bedroom, and Moran had to switch to follow them with his scope as he readjusted his aim. It was probably pointless — if Watson was going to try and kill Jim, he'd had plenty of opportunities already — but still, Moran kept his rifle sighted on the back of Watson's head, carefully holding his finger away from the trigger.
Upstairs, an order from Watson put Jim back on his knees, some distance away from the futon. (Moran had no idea how he could sleep on that thing without wrecking his back, even without the damage from the signal whip and flogger downstairs; it wasn't as if Jim couldn't afford a proper mattress.) Watson set about tying a length of rope to a support at one corner of the low bed. Then, disregarding the ropes, he buckled leather cuffs around Jim's wrists and locked them together behind his back.
Sighing to himself, Moran corrected his aim, looking away long enough to quickly recalculate the change in angle — his target wasn't just three meters higher but almost five meters farther away. He made the necessary fine adjustments and settled back to observe through his spotting glasses, wishing that they'd thought to involve a woman in the scene to make things interesting. Maybe next time.
"So, what's this all about?" Lestrade asked, rifling through his desk until he found a package of crisps that weren't too old. He ripped the plastic open and ate one.
"Someone is following John. I want to find out who." After stripping off his wet overcoat and scarf, Sherlock pushed past Lestrade and claimed his chair.
"Other than you?"
Treating the question as rhetorical, Sherlock pulled out the keyboard tray and looked up at him. "Shall I pretend I don't know your login?"
"Pain in the arse," Lestrade accused, putting down the crisps so he could claim his keyboard and log in. "Who's following him and how do you know?"
"I have informants," Sherlock said evasively. Lestrade stopped typing and stared at him until he sighed and continued, "One of them noticed someone — a 'dangerous bloke' — go into the building across the street from where John is tonight. That building is still under construction. No one has any business being there, especially not at this hour."
"And where is he tonight?" Lestrade asked as he went back to typing.
"A friend's," Sherlock said tersely. After determining that the relationship between John and Moriarty was business, Sherlock had extended his surveillance network to include Moriarty, though information on him was sketchy. The loft's address had been listed in the files Sherlock had reviewed at the café, so he was able to station one of his people there, and that investment had finally paid off tonight.
Finally, Lestrade logged in and opened the program that would get Sherlock access to government CCTV feeds. "If the camera's private —"
"Yes, a warrant. It's not private, or I'd be using my brother's access."
"Can you go one day without breaking a law?"
"Laws." Sherlock sniffed derisively, snatching the keyboard away. "Eat your crisps."
"So who was following John? And why were you following him? Thought you said you couldn't get that close till you knew more."
"And I've learned all I can at a distance." Sherlock fixed his attention on the monitor. "Pogrebnov's bodyguards were killed by a military sniper in the British army — either current or recently discharged. I suspect the man who was following John tonight either is that sniper or is from his group or unit or whatever they call themselves."
"You think a sniper's after John?" Lestrade asked, alarmed. "Why the hell aren't we taking him into protective custody?"
"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock spared a moment to give him a contemptuous glare. "The sniper would just wait until he left custody. We need to identify and neutralize him."
Lestrade's gut went cold as he thought about the pistol in his jacket pocket. "Sherlock, I'm not letting you kill anyone."
"You're being tedious," he accused, attention fixed back on the monitor. "I have no interest in killing someone unless John's life is in immediate danger. Humiliating the sniper by arranging his arrest is much more satisfying."
"And why shouldn't I arrest you?"
Sherlock looked up from the monitor. The glow of the screen turned his eyes silver. "If that's what you want, fine. After John is safe."
"Caucasian, Asian doubtful but possible. Fair-haired — not bald," Sherlock said, using his magnifying glass to bring the blurry, zoomed-in printout of the surveillance footage frame into even greater detail. There was little he could get from the face, so he continued to scan the image. "Trousers, not jeans — note the pleat visible at the cuff — but he's wearing boots, round toe, possibly military given the thick tread."
"Could be carrying anything in that duffel bag," Lestrade added, gesturing to the medium-sized duffel in the man's right hand. In his left hand, he was carrying an umbrella that had interfered with several frames.
Sherlock bit back his retort, reminding himself to be nice. So he nodded and continued searching for subtler clues. "The bag is black, expensive — not something you get free with a gym membership, not military issue. No wedding ring, probably unmarried if he's our sniper, could just choose not to wear one if it interferes with shooting."
"Yeah. Sherlock, speaking —"
"The umbrella's expensive but plain. He's being careful to give away as few details as possible." Torn between irritation and his growing interest at having a clever target, Sherlock moved to the next CCTV frame. No help there — the target had already turned his back to the camera. Sherlock quickly scanned through the next few frames, trying to determine if the target was using a key or lockpicks to enter the building, but his view was completely blocked.
When Sherlock finally looked away from the prints scattered over the desk, Lestrade said quietly, "Why the hell did you slip me a pistol?"
"Forgot I was carrying it."
"All right. Why were you carrying a pistol?"
"Because I'm hunting an assassin, Lestrade. How would you prefer I protect myself? Harsh words?"
Lestrade stared at him, tired and worried, and Sherlock knew he'd won the battle. Now it was just a matter of leading Lestrade through the steps. Estranged from his wife, childless, Lestrade was all but alone. He'd proven an admirable level of loyalty to Sherlock, perhaps one that went all the way back to their earliest encounter, when Lestrade had been so determined to save Sherlock from him boredom-inflicted self-destruction.
"Sherlock —"
"I know how to use it," he said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. Though he was very, very good at negotiation, he loathed it as a waste of time. So he put on a faint smile and said, "I practiced this weekend."
Lestrade hesitated, looking away. "Where'd you get it in the first place?"
"My family has a country estate. My father used to host hunting parties. We have an entire trophy room full of guns."
"God. And you've probably got the keys," Lestrade said despairingly. He sat on the edge of the desk, looking down at Sherlock. "This one's illegal, Sherlock. I realize between you and that government brother of yours, you two probably think laws aren't more than suggestions for other people, but if you get caught carrying this, I can't help you."
Sherlock hid his triumphant smile. "I won't get caught."
"Christ." Lestrade scrubbed his hands across his eyes. "Fine. First, you're going to keep me posted on everything that happens. Second, if you even think you're going to need to shoot someone, you call me first. you don't go into shit without backup. And third, when this is all over, you give this" — he touched the pocket where Sherlock had put the 9mm — "back to me."
Lestrade could be useful if things went badly, but Sherlock doubted he'd have the time to wait for backup. But at least having Lestrade on-call would make it easier for him to avoid actual police involvement; otherwise, he'd have to use Mycroft to deal with any paperwork.
So he nodded, resisting the urge to put on an air of false charm (Lestrade knew better), and said, "Fine. Now help me look through the earlier footage. Perhaps we can find out where he came from."
Author's note: More details of John and Jim's first date can be found at as First Date.