Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
Sherlock was free. Oh god did it feel…far too easy. Lifting a fingerprint and unlocking the restraint was just too simple. There had to be more to it.
As Sherlock ran down the hallway, he was beginning to realize that every corner he turned, every door he passed was exactly the same. Not even the same the way that most people would look into an office and see sameness. They were perfectly identical. There was no variation in wall colour or length. There was the same slight gash on the left edge of every door. There was even a little bit of pulled carpet in the same spot down every hallway.
The whole floor was an exact replica of the one before it. She had to start marking where he'd been. No doubt in a maze this elegant built by a very dangerous man that there would be some specific setback. Sherlock had yet to find it. He was still running in circles and becoming more and more frustrated with every passing turn into more identical hallways.
Sherlock started pushing into doors. Each opened to an empty room. More perfectly identical empty rooms. His impeccable internal clock told him that thirty minutes had passed since lifting the fingerprint and running out of his room. That room was apparently the only one that was different. Sherlock wondered briefly which door led to the room furnished for a child and which room led to the Dark Room.
He didn't dwell on it, rather he kept moving.
Then, like a miracle, Sherlock pushed out and was on a rooftop.
Indonesia, Sherlock's mind supplied, I'm in Indonesia. Oh not another bloody rooftop. Doesn't the same thing get tiring?
"Have fun?" came a voice from the edge. An impossible voice.
Sherlock whirled around and saw someone he never expected to see again.
"Victor," Sherlock breathed.
"Hello, love. Did you miss me?" Victor crooned. Beside him stood Moran, arms folded and holding what looked like a walkie-talkie.
"Why are you here?" Sherlock demanded. He hadn't seen Victor since university. He gladly had not seen him since then.
Victor gave a coy little wave and winked. "Did you miss me Sherlock?"
"Why are you here?"
"You see, darling, after out fun little stint at university, I missed you. I kept with the drugs and got mixed up with some nasty people."
Sherlock cringed. "What, did he bail you out?" He waited searched Victor Trevor's face. "He did. He gave you money. A lot of it. How did you repay him? Moriarty is not a man who liked to give things away for free. Oh! He owns you. He owns you and you like it. At least Moran over here has some sort of relationship with that fucked up man. You, however. He just uses you."
Sherlock stood taller. He had hit it spot on. He could see it in Victor's face.
Then Victor shifted, almost imperceptibly, to the left. Closer to Moran.
"Have you forgotten about the bombs, darling?" Victor prodded.
No, Sherlock thought, how could I forget about the bombs. How could I forget about anything that important? Never. Sherlock was thinking of a plan. He assumed Mycroft was still tracking him. How long would it take for one of Mycroft's goons to realize that Sherlock was on top of a rooftop?
Sherlock guessed about ten minutes. He needed to keep these morons talking for ten minutes so Mycroft could deal with everything.
"Poor Victor," Sherlock teased, "You really did love me, didn't you?"
Victor visibly set his shoulders, as though he was gearing up for one hell of a fight. "I loved you as much as one person could love such an incredible fuck up."
Sherlock didn't so much as flinch. He was used to Victor's words. Even when they were young, Victor was all bark (and a fair bit of bite if Sherlock was to be entirely honest).
"I have to say, I'm disappointed in your methods. I expected far harsher from the likes of you." Sherlock was now addressing Moran. It was true; he was anticipating more intense efforts to break him. Such high expectations were to be met when dealing with a man like Moran. Instead, he got three rooms and a startling easy to open tether.
"I'll be straightforward with you, Mr Holmes. If it was up to me you'd be dead by now, and the problem solved. However, some part of Victor's contract with Jim limits me," Moran said behind the smoke of his fag.
"Still Jim's whipping boy, then?" Sherlock asked. He turned again to Victor. "But you, Jim was the one who bailed you out. What did you give him that would result in such a touch?"
Sherlock's mind dusted off the files that he had long buried about Victor Trevor. He hadn't deleted the files, some part of him knowing that this man would come back to him. He mentally pulled out files that could be considered unreliable due to their history of substance abuse and the ones that were only them having sex; he didn't need those ever again.
Still, Sherlock wasn't deleting these files. He was setting them aside. Another corner of his mind that was free to gather dust.
Sherlock sifted through pillow talk. Even the times when he had hardly been listening. Victor was the most pliant when he was high and had just come, a fact Sherlock knew to take advantage of. On these occasions, Sherlock had asked about Victor's family. How could one not when sharing the bed of London's most powerful drug lord.
That was it.
Drugs were the connection.
Sherlock knew of fewer businesses more lucrative than drugs. He knew of fewer people who had mastered such a massive enterprise. Victor's father, William, had built his kingdom from the ground up. He started as a regular dealer, keeping his nose down and avoiding the likes of Curtis Warren's men. William started getting into dealing harder drugs; cocaine, heroin, ecstasy, and methamphetamines.
When William died (Sherlock knew "died" meant "killed by son") Victor took over the family business. Of course, he had already gotten his hands dirty, a trait that first brought him onto Sherlock's the radar. Victor had grown and grown and had quickly expanded his father's empire to be greater than Curtis Warren's even had potential for.
Sherlock's mind was still racing through his files on Victor. He was pulling out little titbits that seemed important. Complaints about his father here, the tail end of a phone conversation there, a few spots of complaints about clients; Sherlock was pulling them all trying to piece together the scenario.
"When I met you your father was still the king of that little kingdom. Then he accidentally happened to fall on a knife-," Sherlock said, heavy on the sarcasm.
"My poor old man," Victor made the sign of the cross and cast his eyes upwards.
"-five times."
Victor rolled his eyes and the corner of his lip curved into a smile reminiscent of a fish hook.
"Darling," he drolled, "We must not stand on ceremony. What would happen if we dwelled on the past rather than sought a future?"
"I have no intention to seek a future with you."
"That's not entirely true. I remember a time when all you wanted was me." Victor rolled his shoulders and leaned his elbows back against the railing. The cement of the rooftop jutted out about two feet past the railing. Now one came up here unless they were looking to die. Sherlock didn't know that, but Moran did. The railing was a public service, a courtesy that someone thought to give to someone else. Moran knew this as well. Knew they were seeing the last view of a desperate man.
A lazy smile spread across Victor's face. His hair whipped a bit with the wind and his eyes never strayed from Sherlock's frame. He was cocky in a way that made girls want to look at him and guys want to be him.
Sherlock watched him, his mind was grasping for an answer.
"I never truly wanted you," was all Sherlock's brain could come up with.
"No, darling. You wanted the high I could give you. You wanted all that lovely cocaine and all the promises that came with it. Tell me, did you like my gift? I knew how much you used to love it. But big brother kept you so careful. You'd never admit it, but you know it's true." Victor shifted, muscles flexing like a panther pushing the limits. "You were so careful with mixing pleasures. How much did you miss the high, darling?"
Sherlock didn't even condescend to respond.
Victor could see it in his face. Another thing that Sherlock couldn't help but acknowledge: Victor had an uncanny ability to read people. Even if the people included Sherlock. There was a visible glint in Victor's emerald eyes before he pushed himself away from the rails. Sauntering forwards, he clicked the screen of his mobile on.
"I have this fun little app that Jim made me. Each little icon has a picture of one of your little buddies. I just have to tap their face and it goes boom!" He looked gleeful. Sickeningly gleeful.
Sherlock was counting down the seconds. By his estimations, there were four minutes until Mycroft would know of Sherlock's whereabouts. Another three for helicopter dispatch and travel time.
Oh what a world, what a world.
"Yes. I'm familiar with Jim's charades. What I don't get is how you went from begging Jim for money to bail your people out all the way up to being in his good graces enough to earn the detonator." It was true. Sherlock was still puzzling over the middle bit. He understood the beginning and end.
"Would you like me to tell you the story? It is quite riveting, I must admit. You did so love my little stories." Victor sat on the concrete facing Sherlock. He crossed his legs in his lap and set the phone down on one knee; keeping a finger hovering right over Mrs. Hudson's face.
Sherlock stayed standing. Moran stayed standing. Neither made any move to change that. Victor pressed on regardless.
"Well, I was in a bit of a situation. Drug cartels in South America are very powerful. Far more powerful than I like. So I needed a man to help me fix that. At the time, I was also in a bit of debt; expanding is expensive work. I branched out to the old well-established opium dens somewhere in Asia, I can't honestly remember. That cost a pretty penny. At the same time, Cuba and Mexico were getting a little rowdy.
I didn't have the money to investigate, so I called on a name that I was assured would help me out. Jim was a darling and was more than willing to assist me. It did come at a cost, though. I had to give him half of the work. I didn't want to. All that my dear daddy worked for handed to some stranger. But I'm sure you know that Jim is excellent as pushing the perfect buttons. He wanted my work, sooner or later he would get it. When he did, he made sure to keep me high up. People knew me, you see. It was a matter of keeping customers confident in a face that delivers.
Jim and I have been working closely for years now. I bet you didn't know it, but you've been on the fringes of my operation for ages. We used to get excited when you got properly close. What a dance that would be; Jim and I pulling poor little Sherlock and the doctor along."
Victor was beaming. He was so proud.
"The more time I spend with Jim the more I realized something," Victor continued. He looked right into Sherlock's eyes, voice hard as diamonds. "He was better than you."
Sherlock scoffed at the notion. "If he was so much better, why is he the one dead and I'm still around?"
"It was a slight flaw, I'll admit," Victor conceded just a tiny bit. "But he was far cleverer than you. And he could shag better." Victor's gloating little smile was vastly converse to the dark scowl that had settled over Moran's features the longer Victor had spoken.
Sherlock thought it time to acknowledge trouble in paradise.
"Moran. How did you like Jim bringing a new pet home?" Sherlock made an exaggerated pout and shook his head. "Was the kitty unhappy with daddy?"
Moran stayed on the wall and refused to rise to the bait. Victor, on the other hand, needed such things. He craved it.
"Sherlock, you can't be serious. Like my Jim would shag him. Moran is muscle. Jim left me everything. I'm far cleverer than you ever realized, Sherlock. Certainly far more clever than the Tiger."
The sound exploded through the air a mere instant before the bullet exploded through Victor's head.
Sherlock crouched low as John had taught him to do upon hearing gunshots. They had argued over Sherlock's lack of self-preservation and in the end Sherlock had allowed John to each him various things; one of them was to duck down at the sound of a gunshot when the source of said shot is not known. Previously, Sherlock would just whirl about and search for the source.
Victor's body had collapsed in a heap, blood leaking steadily from his head.
Moran reminded Sherlock of John. He stood with the same measure of calm. He held his gun with the same firm grip and quiet confidence.
Sherlock's head snapped up to the man still standing. He had to squint against the sunlight.
"Why?" Sherlock demanded. "Why now? Why not wait. Tell me."
Moran lit a fag. "I hated him. Jim told me I could kill him if I got bored or too annoyed with him." Moran was blasé about the entire ordeal. As if flicking his ashes onto the corpse of a man you just killed was something he had grown accustomed to. He probably was.
"Why did you keep him around so much? He was irrelevant."
"I like to watch them dance." Moran knelt to pick up the mobile. "This is mine, now."
His thumb caressed the side before racing to press every single icon on the screen.
Nothing happened, but Moran didn't know that. He didn't know that bombs went off at a testing facility rather than on the foundations of buildings. Sherlock had an inkling that nothing happened when a red dot flashed twice on Moran's forehead and then vanished. A small signal to Sherlock that the cavalry had arrived.
Victor still lie bleeding out between them.
"All this, Sherlock. Moriarty never wanted you to go insane. He-We knew that you could outlast nearly everything we put to you. He was flipping back and forth as to whether to give you the drugs or not. You know how changeable he could be." Moran shook his head. "This all was just killing time. Waiting to make sure every bomb was in its place and everything was set up. That's why it was so mild a containment. The real fun starts now that they're all dead and you've nothing left to live for.
I have a breaking wheel. I wonder how well you'd hold up on that. The Russians used to love it. Poor little Cossacks. Jim also bought me this fun drug that'll keep you awake for ages. I already know that you don't sleep on Doctor Watson's schedule. How would it feel if you didn't sleep at all?"
There was a slow build of eagerness in Moran's voice. Sherlock knew the man would take pleasure in torture.
"And don't even get me started on sensory deprivation." Moran rolled the R's like a purr. "A man so reliant on his senses would be useless without such things."
The red light flashed twice again on Moran's forehead. Mycroft's own little get a move on nudge.
"I'm terribly sorry to chat and run, but I do think I need to be getting home," Sherlock said.
No sooner had the words left this mouth than Moran flattened himself against the rail. He heaved himself backwards as the second gunshot that day rang out. It clipped Moran's foot, but he was already on the other side of the rail.
With a last wink he flung himself over the side.
Sherlock rushed past Victor to the edge. He crossed the railing and looked down, careful to not actually fall off of the rooftop this time. He saw only stretches of the building and nothing beneath. There was no falling Moran. No body. It was as though Moran had evaporated.
A denizen ran up to Sherlock and handed him a mobile.
Pressing it to his ear, Sherlock snapped, "What is it Mycroft? I'm busy."
"Brother, good to see you too. No, you're very welcome for saving the lives of everyone you care about and helping you break out of a high security facility. What was that? You appreciate me rushing o your aid once again? Not to worry, that is what brothers are for," Mycroft said. Sherlock could practically hear the self-satisfied grin. "Or I'm sure you were going to say something along those lines, Sherlock."
"What do you want? I'm busy, Mycroft."
"It's John."
That's all it took. Sherlock was following and climbing into the helicopter ready to be whisked back to London. When he arrived at Mycroft's home, a small card was placed in his hand. Everything came crashing down.
Sign No More
It was such a rare day of sunshine over fair London Town.
A good day to die, John thought.
He had woken up that morning and pet Pumpkin. He made tea and put on the oatmeal coloured jumper he knew Sherlock used to secretly love.
John wrote a brief note, addressed it to Sherlock, and left the flat.
He went to the grave first accompanied by a foldable lawn chair. One that he had been using for the past few months now.
John sat and talked to Sherlock, right hand fiddling with his wedding ring.
"I still love you. I know you knew I'd always love you, but I like reminding you every once in a while. I hoped you noticed that I did that. Told you I loved you every day. It's true. I guess I also didn't want you to forget about me."
More fiddling. A bit of quiet.
"Though you never did forget me. Even on the days when you were in a bloody awful hurry and my leg was giving me trouble. You didn't leave me behind. I love you for that."
John knew the next bit by heart. He told the headstone every time he came.
"I love you for your eyes and your hair and the way you can smile with half of your face. I love you for the violin in the middle of the night and that piece you wrote just for my birthday. I love helping you work and watching you work. I love talking to you in the middle of the night and that first time you kissed me in front of the Yard. I'll tell you I love you every day for the rest of my life."
And John did. Even if it wasn't a Sunday and therefore a designated time to visit Sherlock's grave, John made sure to tell the open air that he loved Sherlock.
It was like a penance the soldier was happy to serve. It was also a call to come home. For Sherlock to hear the impossible plea and return.
John stood and folded up the chair. He laid it on the ground parallel to Sherlock's grave and left. He wouldn't need it anymore.
Next John went to Bart's. He kept his head down and his face turned away from CCTV. Fat lot of good it would do him, but he still wanted Mycroft to know. He wanted the bastard to see where he was going, to work out for himself why.
John took the elevator to the top and then climbed out onto the roof.
There was a barely-there stain where Moriarty's blood had spread across white cement. John pointedly walked right over it on his path to the edge.
He stood where Sherlock had stood.
John's nightmares had gotten steadily worse. His PTSD was becoming unmanageable. His limp was creeping back up on him, and his shoulder ached constantly.
John looked down and saw what Sherlock must've last seen. He didn't cry. He was calm and still and ignored that part of his brain that screamed that he was giving up.
John leaned forwards. He raised his left foot and-
John was jerked sharply backwards and he fell into a heap on top of another person. Said person let out a squeak as she was covered in a body twice her weight.
"Molly?" John asked, "Why are you up here."
"Don't. I don't know what you're playing at but stay off of this roof," Molly gasped. She was still in her white lab coat and looked scared. For all she was worth, Molly was still trying to stare John down.
John just sat up on and leaned his back against the raised ledge. Molly scooted over so that she was next to him.
"I miss him, too," she offered. Molly rested her head on John's shoulder.
The pair sat on the roof ignoring the wind and the cold and the setting sun.