Hi, everyone. Be warned-this chapter, while not super graphic, may have some sort of triggers for some people.
And y'all are probably going to hate me for this chapter. I am so sorry-so very sorry for any excess of feels, anger, or fear. I am not a mean person. I do not like pain or hurting people. If you guys feel like you need some proof of this, please feel free to check out my entire catalogue of fluff and romance. I have a Reichenbach reunion fic and a Parent!lock that isn't terribly sad and is mostly just cute. Consider this evidence that I am not a sadistic fanfiction author.
Please, dear people, stick with me, and this story, if you can. If you can't, I understand. Everyone has their limits when it comes to the characters they love. Have faith if you can. Bless, my dears.
"Where the hell in the building are they hiding everyone?" Lestrade griped as he threw his cruiser into park. He technically was not cleared to drive, but since he was the police, everyone chose to overlook it.
John shook his head, looking tensely ahead through the windshield as rain began to pound on it. He hadn't noticed when it started raining. "Send people everywhere. Scale the tower if you have to, but I promise you, they're here—somewhere. Somewhere dramatic, somewhere hidden."
"Somewhere that could fit at least eight people," Donovan added, jumping out of the car and shielding her face from the rain with her upturned collar. "All right, everyone," she announced to the gathering officers who were parking and loading out, "we're looking for eight captives somewhere in the clock tower. We don't know if they're alive or dead, all together or not, but you've all been briefed and given photographs, so you know who to look for."
Groups nodded and began to enter the tower while others put up crime scene tape around the perimeter. No one bothered John—at this point, he'd achieved a sort of special status that only Sherlock had received before. They let him work.
He stared up through the rain at the clock tower, glowing brightly in the night sky like some laughing face. Sherlock was up there, his Sherlock. The one he'd imagined and done everything for so far. Sherlock had led him here, and John was tired of the games and the confusion.
He was tired of doubt. He was going to bring Sherlock home tonight or he might as well die, because he couldn't keep up with the dark. It was too clever, too quick, and too painful.
John realized there was a curious honesty in darkness. Some quality of shadow, the quality that made it so easy for people to succumb to passion and stupidity, made brazen the basic human desire that was always shrouded in light. Sherlock's desire had been darkness because it wouldn't lie to him and he didn't have to lie to it.
Maybe the solution to all of this would be to stop trying to convince Sherlock that he was lying to one person or another. Maybe the solution was to understand that Sherlock was telling the truth when he said he was tired.
"Where do you figure into this, mate?" Lestrade asked after directing some junior investigators. "Where are you going?"
The key was to show Sherlock he was wrong about what everyone thought of the nature of good and evil. He was wrong because John would accept both, the good in Sherlock and the cruelty, because there was good and cruelty in himself. "I'm going to Sherlock. I'm ending this, if I can."
Lestrade nodded. "Need back-up?"
"You have victims to find and teams to lead. Don't worry about me, mate. We'll get a pint after all this, all right? You, me, and Sherlock. I promise." He trudged, determined, through the quickly accumulating puddles and ducked into the building.
The police were doing a thorough sweep throughout the entire building, and John slipped as best he could past them to the stairs to make his way up to the clock before he heard shouts.
"He's here! They're all here!"
"You're under arrest in the name of—"
"You don't have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if—bloody hell, we need back-up!"
John picked up his pace and took the stairs two at a time as the voices grew panicked.
"Fuck, he's pointing a gun at the captives—lower your weapons!"
"Moriarty," John whispered to himself, bounding up the stairs and pushing through the police. He nearly tripped over himself, jaw flying open, when he saw what was in front of them all.
The hostages, all tied together, were cowering behind the massive ticking machinery in the mechanism room—filthy, with matted hair and ratty clothes and red wrists from the ropes binding them. One woman, quivering and silent, stared up the barrel of a Browning L9A1, held firmly in the hand of Sherlock Holmes.
"Sherlock, no," John breathed.
Sherlock pretended not to hear. Looking as perfectly calm as always, and frankly, rather on the devilish side in a tailored, black Westwood, Sherlock eyed the superior officer without a word.
"Right, then," a voice said from the shadows, "this is a bit tense, isn't it?"
Jim Moriary emerged from the darkness with his hands in his pockets, look every bit as boyish and demonic as when John first met him. His fists curled.
Jim whistled. "Lots of big, noisy guns in the room. While you gents have every power in the world to shoot me, that power presents some problems. One, I am much cleverer than any of you put together. Two, I have a very clever friend with a nice gun that he borrowed from a friend—an army doctor—and another friend, not as clever but more of a brute, with a gun behind all this machinery. His gun's quite a bit bigger, and if you do choose to shoot at me, Sherlock here will pump your little hostages full of bullets faster than you can say 'casualty.' And Moran in the back will use his big gun to get all of you, and he has quite the superior position back there. So let's all just calm down a bit." He rolled his eyes. "Melodramatic lot."
Sherlock smirked.
"Now, you are all going to leave the room in ten seconds or this negotiation gets nasty. That's all this is, now, a negotiation."
Lestrade burst through the door and onto the scene. "Sherlock, what the fuck—"
"Inspector Lestrade, I've made my lone demand," Moriarty said impatiently. "Not my fault you were late. Everyone's to leave the room…except Johnny. He'll be negotiating on your behalf."
Lestrade balked. "You're really—you're barking mad. He doesn't have any negotiating power or skill, he doesn't have any bargaining chips!"
"Tut, tut," scolded Moriarty. "He's not that worthless. He's the one who actually put the pieces together, not that it was hard. It's boring, really, playing to his level. But it's what we've got—maybe you should retire after that little explosion, Greg. It's made you lose your touch. Johnny could replace you."
"You bloody bastard."
"As I said. Johnny's staying. If you want any chance of taking these people home tonight in something other than a body bag, you'll let him stay and send everyone outside the building." Moriarty suddenly glared, dead eyes unrelenting. "NOW."
Lestrade stood his ground and spoke to John without looking at him. "I don't think this is in your power, with all due respect. These are a bunch of nutters."
"If we don't want anyone dead, we have to do as he says," John said firmly. He looked at the woman Sherlock held the Browning to—his Browning, how did he get that… She was a sallow woman with blonde hair in a ponytail. Looking from the gun to John, she gulped and closed her eyes.
Lestrade's face was red, but he nodded and led his team out of the tower. "You get ten minutes."
The police cleared out slowly, shuffling while casting looks on everyone left in the room. John held himself to his full height and felt the weight of his pistol in its holster on his waist. His eyes were fixed on the Browning.
When everyone was gone, Moriarty smiled. "Johnny. I almost didn't think you'd figure it out. I was about to start slicing off fingers."
"Don't know why—how would you climb over your web with less than ten fingers?" John attempted flatly, and Moriarty rewarded him with a chuckle. "What's all this, then? The third game."
"The usual tirade," Moriarty explained. "Terrorizing England, making little messes. You should see what we have lined up for the grand finale. Well, I don't really want you to see it…enjoy it is a better word."
"Enjoy? Enjoy what, exactly?"
Moriarty sniffed, irritated already. "I'm going to make this easy for you to understand, John. Sherlock and I are having a grand time planning all this mayhem, but knowing that you're there with little Lestrade and Sally is sort of putting a damper on all our fun. And for some reason, Sherlock still feels attached to you, though he'd never admit it. Look at him—he didn't know I was going to say all this…"
John's eyes flickered to Sherlock, who betrayed nothing. He looked briefly over at John, who attempted not to weaken after looking back.
"In short, Johnny—we're having a party at Buckingham Palace. And you're invited."
"What?"
"You're invited. To the team. You get a free pass—not only do I promise not to kill you, Captain Watson, but I'd even extend to you the offer of partnership."
John blinked. "You want me—me—to join forces with you? Like Sherlock?"
"Surprising, isn't it?"
"But I'm not—I'm not anything like you."
Moriarty rolled his eyes. "I know. Don't make me change my mind. I don't like things that stand in my way, and I like things that make my life easier. You bring Sherlock clarity in a way that I…can't. Yet. And I can't wait for him to get the spark of genius all the time. You probably never got the chance to find this out, but sex does nothing good for the mind of Sherlock Holmes. But somehow you do."
John winced internally at that. Moriarty could be joking, must be joking, but still…the idea of Moriarty's snakelike arms over Sherlock's body, touching things that John had only ever thought about in fleeting, embarrassed moments and dreams…
"You want me to join you."
"I dislike repetition."
"Sorry—it's just—"
John considered his options. There was no way in hell that he'd ever willingly go to Moriarty's side, to the side that killed and hurt without mercy, but if he could pull a Sherlock Holmes and make him believe that he was on his side...
He wasn't that good of an actor. Not smart enough, nowhere near clever enough, never…
"What's this got to do with the hostages, then?" John asked, gesturing to the eight shuddering figures behind the gears. "This is a negotiation, isn't it?"
"It is—for your service, not for their lives. I didn't specify," Moriarty said with a sly grin. "You really should start paying attention."
John gulped and looked to Sherlock, studying his emotionless eyes for some sort of answer. This had to be a trap of sorts, unless it was only truth and opportunity for him to do something, but he could lose everything if he said yes. There was no way he could say yes.
"Sorry, Jim. I think I'll take my chances," he said.
Moriarty frowned. "That so?"
"Yes."
"Shame, that. That was the easy part." Moriarty coughed and then shrugged. "Right, then, Sherlock—shoot."
"What!? Wait, no—"
"Maybe I didn't mention—I thought this went without saying—that if you didn't join us, you'd lose out on the hostages."
"My life for theirs?" John asked desperately. "If I'd known that, I wouldn't have—"
"Oh, I know. Pity. Sherlock…"
"WAIT!" John screamed. "Just—just wait, all right? Let me—I need to think."
"I don't feel like waiting. I've been waiting all week for you, Captain, and if you're not coming to the party, then you at least have to send us a consolation present. My present is watching you as Sherlock kills these hostages, and you get to know that they died because of your morals."
"Sherlock," John said, appealing directly to his best friend, "Sherlock, you can't—Sherlock. Listen. There's something I wanted to tell you."
"It won't do any good to declare your love for him now, Johnny," Moriarty drawled. "He's a bit attached to me."
"Sherlock, please. I'm out of options now, and there's no other time for me to say it—you already—you already know, everything I could say about how I feel, you've already guessed. And you've used it against me, and you're right, because I do have these feelings, feelings for you that I don't quite understand."
"Oh, this is gorgeous," Moriarty laughed. "Seb, get out your phone—I want this recorded."
"Sherlock," John continued, "I'm not here to tell you how I feel about you. I don't think it would change anything, if I did. I only mean to say…you were right, back at the pool. In the file room. You were right, and I'm sorry."
Sherlock said nothing, didn't move at all—but John looked desperately, pleadingly into the maelstrom of his eyes. They were a color he'd never categorized before and they kept him grounded now.
"I'm so sorry," he choked. "You were right, and it's not just about you. It's about all of us. We all are evil, we're all wrong—to the point where there's, there's no definition of wrong anymore and only what people say is wrong. And the parts we don't like, we box up. I boxed you up—I wanted you to change into something you weren't meant to be." He slipped his own gun out of its holster and placed in on the floor in an admittedly stupid gesture of peace. "You're not meant to be polite all the time or kind all the time or anything, because no one is. Especially you. You're so different, and I didn't realize. I just wanted you to be more like me, like what I thought I was supposed to be.
"But don't you see, Sherlock?" he continued, stepping forward. "I understand that, I can change it. You and me, we've made an arse-load of mistakes, but I'm going to try and stop, and I'm accepting it. You. Now."
"John…" Sherlock began, but he thought the better of it.
"I accept you, Sherlock Holmes, the parts of you that—that want to hurt and see pain. Because that's human, sometimes, and I'm not immune to it. I've had enemies, and I've wanted to see them hurt. I accept the parts of you that want to break boundaries and be alone, and I accept the same parts that love Mrs. Hudson and want to keep her safe, so safe that when you broke into 221B you left her completely safe, the parts that love Lestrade so you let him escape with the bomb, the parts that love me so you can't hurt me. I accept all that—all that, Sherlock—and I will accept it forever if you can take it from me, too." He licked his lips, feeling the air thicken with tension. Moriarty was glaring at him. "You and me, we can end this now. You can do whatever you want, and I'll be with you, no matter what. That's what I'm in for. If you go down, I'll go down, too—just stop. Just—just, look at me, and know that I'm serious. You know me. I can't lie worth a damn, and I wouldn't make up these feelings for a bloke unless they meant something to me."
"Sherlock," Moriarty warned.
Sherlock glanced over at Moriarty, then at John, and blinked once. Twice. "I was right."
"Yes, you were. No more boxes."
"No. Your faith. It dies tonight, like I predicted." And without another word, he swiveled on the spot and shot the blond woman neatly in the head.
The other seven captives screamed and pulled away, but the bullet made its way neatly through the woman's forehead and out, sending blood down her face in a small, almost-black trickle.
Moriarty laughed while John fell to his knees in utter shock. His medical training kicked in, wanting to move toward the woman and help her, but her eyes were vacant and blood gushed from the back of her head.
Bullet wounds to the head from a high-caliber pistol will make a smaller entry wound than the exit wound—the exit would is usually bigger, there's more blood—oh, fuck, FUCK, Sherlock—Sherlock—
"No," he moaned. "No, you can't do this."
"My turn, now, I think? Jim?"
"It's your turn, all right. You've earned it."
"Right, then. It's done, John. The game, it's over. Your ridiculous and ill-deserved belief in me has run its course. And hopefully any love you had for me is gone, because I certainly don't want or need it. I am not good. I am not YOURS. I am Sherlock Holmes, and I don't need you. I never have."
"…Stop…" John begged. "Just stop—I didn't say I'd stopped believing, I said—I said I'd accept—fuck—"
"You can't accept this. This isn't who you are. And sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side," Sherlock said. "There is no way in hell I'm going to let you beat me."
"You can stop…Mycroft will help us, just—don't go down this road, don't make me lose you… Sherlock, you killed her, you're not a killer, you're not."
"We both are, now, Captain. If you can endure that."
"That's different—that's duty."
"So is this." Sherlock dropped the gun and knelt down to move toward John, who recoiled away with a hiss. "I told you not to make me a hero." He smiled wickedly. "Death, though…it's a bit obvious, isn't it?"
"Don't go soft now, Sherly," Moriarty said. "You've come too far tonight."
"I won't disappoint you, Jim. I'm finishing this." He raked his eyes up and down John's body once. "Every soldier needs a scar from the battlefield."
What happened next occurred too fast for John to really comprehend. Suddenly, Sherlock's arms were flying and his elbows landed hard in the middle of his gut, pushing John to the ground.
A sick crunch echoed across the small room, nearly drowned out by the clicks of the clock gears, but then John's screams filled the volume of the room and settled into every crevice, for Sherlock had slammed his foot into John's knee and stomped on it again for good measure, sending bones cracking in all different pieces and directions.
John moaned in pain, clutching at his shattered knee, and gasped as his vision disappeared from him. He tried grasping at it to keep the room in his sight, trying to form words, images, sounds other than whimpers…
Sherlock removed his foot. "That's the bum leg from the war, too. Pity. At least the damage used to be all in his head."
"BASTARD!" John roared, curling to his side to hold in the white hot pain coiling in his body.
Moriarty chuckled. "That might be the most gorgeous thing I've seen in my life. I've been outdone. I need to get a pet I can break, too. I'm jealous."
"Let's get out of here. I want sex," Sherlock said plainly, beckoning to Moran to move. "They can take care of the body and the rest." He stepped over John and made toward the door.
"Liar!" John choked out as he left, and Sherlock paused.
"Liar?"
"You're not…this is too far…too far for anyone—but I don't believe you." Through the torment that burned his leg, he looked up at Sherlock with the smallest, barest smile. "You're…lying to him. He'll see…that soon… You're. Not. Evil."
Sherlock looked genuinely hurt. "No? Perhaps I haven't done a good job of it. Well, Johnny, let's say you're right. Let's say I joined Jim to take him down and everything I've done, from injuring Lestrade to framing you for robbery to murder, was all an elaborate scheme to keep you safe, because I'm in love with you."
"Sounds…like…you…"
"A bloody valentine. Quaint. Well, John, if all that were true," he whispered lovingly, adoringly, as he bent over to speak directly to the writhing soldier, "then why would I do this?'
He slammed his foot once more onto John's leg, and John had twenty seconds of blinding agony before he slipped into blackness.