Sustain III: Obbligato 11/14
Authors: Onemillionnine and MaybeAmanda
See Chapter One for Details

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John's first instinct was to run after Sherlock.

John's second instinct was to grab all the evidence he could and run as far and as fast in the other direction as he possibly could.

He settled on something in the middle - grab what he could, and then run after Sherlock.

"John," Mycroft said in that oh-so-level tone of his, "I don't know what -"

"It's Moriarty," John said. He threw the note pad and pen in his bag. What else would they need? What else would Sherlock want? He snatched up the sheets Sherlock had printed, strings of numbers and letters, names and dates.

"James Moriarty is dead," Mycroft said calmly. "You saw it yourself."

"I've seen plenty of things that turned out not to be true," John answered.

"But John -"

"Come with, or stay here," John said. "Suit yourself."

John let the door slam shut behind him. The lift was too slow; he ran down the stairs.

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The ringing came from a phone. A very familiar-looking pink mobile phone, sitting atop the telly.

He picked it up and a crime scene blinked onto the screen. A murder.

It sent a thrill through him. And a wave of profoundest dread.

A woman, French, in her mid-fifties, plain, and plainly dressed. Married. Twice. More happily the second time, likely to a tradesman of some sort. Less happy now that her throat had been slit and she'd been disemboweled.

It was only after taking in the more obvious details that he took care to examine her face.

A face he hadn't seen since he was seven.

Evie.

Everything inside him clenched.

He scanned the picture again. Behind the body, on the wall, something was off, something was not right.

He squinted.

A picture had been moved. No, replaced. A picture had been removed and replaced with a generic religious print after the crime was committed. He wondered what could have been so incriminating it needed removal.

No, stupid stupid; that wasn't it at all.

The point had been the replacement. The Sacred Heart of Jesus. A heart wrapped in barbed wire and set aflame.

A message: I will burn the heart out of you, Jim Moriarty said.

Understanding came, the way it did, in a rush of adrenalin and images. Sherlock instantly knew. He simply knew.

Had Moriarty's complaint against him been wholly professional, his response would have been professional as well; swift, efficient, impersonal, and deadly.

Instead, it had been viciously, invasively personal. Intimate, even.

Moriarty wanted him to know what he was doing. And he wanted him to know why. He was also counting on Sherlock to remember him.

Which was asking a bit much, really, as Moriarty had been little more than a buzzing gnat the first time they met. Moriarty had not been his surname, then. James hadn't been his Christian name, either.

If only he had been paying any bleeding attention at the time. It was his own stupid, stupid fault. All of it. Evie. The 'bombings.' The baby farms, because undoubtedly there were more, elsewhere. The vast criminal network. The references, vague and less so, to things Czechoslovakian. Carl Powers. All of it. All because, twenty years earlier, Sherlock couldn't be bothered. But now he remembered.

The giggle should have done it. The giggle and the glimpse of Jim's profile. He marveled that he hadn't recognized him before. He had worked to delete the whole moronic business from his memory, and on that count, he had nearly been successful.

Sherlock had been fourteen at the time and an old hand at psychiatrists. Dr. Pospisil was so barely competent it was horrifying. Like most shrinks, he had a handful of pet diagnoses that he recycled for all his patients. The most memorable thing about Pospisil had been his disastrous notion that Sherlock could gain something from group therapy. It was likely a decision based on fifty weeks of silent sessions spent with a surly teenager completely capable of holding out indefinitely.

Of course, because Pospisil made a point of introducing Sherlock to the group as 'rather shy,' Sherlock, in turn, made a point of speaking in the group. Not that he gave out anything personal. Rather, he commented in ways that likely made Pospisil wish he had continued in his silence.

Some of the brighter members of the group seemed to appreciate a well-placed comment. One session in particular, his last, stood out his memory.

"You know, it occurs to me that child psychologists are rather like paedophiles, inasmuch as they seek out of children because they don't feel quite up to handling adults," young Sherlock had said, crossing his legs in conscious mimicry of a gesture his elder brother would have made after delivery a coup de grace.

One boy, Richard Something, who looked nine but was closer to thirteen, had laughed a strange, high-pitched laugh while the others looked on blankly.

When it had been Dick's turn to tell about himself, a few weeks earlier, Dick had revealed he was in care, having been taken from his mother after his brother died of what the authorities deemed neglect. The mother in question had subsequently been beaten to death by a boyfriend, and it was thought little Dickie could benefit from counseling. He lived with a series of nice families, but he didn't care for them.

It didn't take much, now that Sherlock knew that 'Jim' was Dick, to put together that one had been the Powers family.

What do you feel about the death of your mother? Pospisil had asked.

Not much, Dick had replied in his Irish brogue, trying, Sherlock saw, to sound cool and unaffected, while he seethed and fought back tears. I'd've slit that ugly slag's throat myself if I'd half a chance.

At the time, Sherlock had taken it for the grandiose bragging of a twelve year old with an audience. He had known it was not good when he said it, but he could not bear to hear Dickie's voice breaking any longer.

Everyone dies eventually. Does it really matter when? Sherlock had said. That's what people do.

That's what he told himself about his grandmother. That's what he told himself about himself.

Now that Sherlock knew who Jim Moriarty really was, he had a good idea exactly what he was up to.

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By the time Mycroft and he got to Sherlock's motel room, both Sherlock and his things were gone. But there, on the bureau, was a pink phone and a note.

The note said:

TeLL MYCROFT I'vE GONE TO THE POOL. SEE YOU AT SIX.

"Bugger," John said, and handed it to Mycroft. "He's gone to meet Moriarty."

"Obviously," Mycroft said. "At the pool? There's nothing but rubble there now."

John shook his head and powered up the phone. "No. He wanted me to tell you, so what it says and what it means are two different things. Not necessarily opposites, but different." John thought about it for a moment. "Do you have a swimming pool?"

Mycroft sniffed. "A few, yes."

"Helpful, that, then." The phone came to life in John's hand. "Shit." He showed Mycroft the screen. "Please tell me this isn't someone you know."

Mycroft blinked at the screen. It only took him a few moments to answer. "Evangeline Menard."

John frowned. "And she is?"

"Sherlock's former nanny. Evie," Mycroft said, as if he were talking to a very slow child. He rattled the note at John. "E. V. He wants a three hour headstart, as you've no doubt worked out by now. And he's headed to our mother's home.

"He is?" John asked. "Why?"

Mycroft withdrew is own phone from his pocket and began dialing. "Because," he said, calm as always, "our mother, my wife and daughters, Dr. Hooper, and Edmund are there. And Jim Moriarty intends to kill them all."

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Violet's phone rang.

Kubis, again.

He was becoming persistent. She'd already told him - twice - her family were visiting and she couldn't get away.

"Perhaps we could come to you, no?" he suggested. "A few hours, yes? In, out, practice, practice. Then we will go. Over. Done."

She sighed, but he was right; the violas did need practice, but when didn't they?

"Fine," she said at last. They could come for a rehearsal in the afternoon. After all, the boys weren't at the house, and Pip and Mary wouldn't mind.

Yes, she'd let them know at the gate to let them through.

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Sherlock looked down into the clouds, willing the plane he'd chartered to fly faster. While he knew, objectively, that Moriarty had waited this long for Sherlock's undivided attention and that he would no doubt wait longer, some part of him, some part that served no useful function whatsoever, kept reminding him it might already be too late.

In his mind, he had buried Edmund and Molly both a dozen times since he'd left the runway.

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Genevieve Marguerite Holmes had never before been afraid.

She hadn't known it, of course. She thought she'd been afraid of school exams, those screaming mazes on the internet she and Gemma liked to prank their friends with, and Meredith, the biggest cow in the entire school. But no; that had been something else, not real fear. She knew that now because, for the first time in her life, she was truly afraid.

Four men, dressed entirely in black, stood in the grand hall, each holding a gun. Not hunting rifles, but the sort of guns they had in films Mummy didn't want them watching. Bad guns for bad men.

She was having trouble thinking, having trouble breathing, having trouble not wetting herself. Her insides felt shaky and cold, and everything in her wanted to roll into a ball and cry.

But she remembered something, something important that their father had drilled into them, over and over. Talks from Daddy that the girls were under strictest direction not to discuss with Mummy. Talks they had when they were supposed to be going to the ice cream shop in the village.

Talks that were always the same:

"Remember, girls, in the unlikely event that you are confronted by adults who would do you harm, particularly armed adults, the most important rule is to stay calm. It is perfectly acceptable to be afraid, but it is never acceptable to panic. Co-operate. Keep quiet. And observe. The smallest detail can make the greatest difference. And should something such as this ever happen to either of you, remember, I am on my way, and I will take care of it. Now, please, eat your ice cream so as not to make a liar of me."

Genevieve looked at Gemma, and knew what she was thinking. She knew she was thinking about those talks from Daddy, too. She was thinking he was very good at shooting paper targets and clay pigeons, but four real, live men seemed very different. Daddy was a big, soft man who was a bit afraid of the dentist; how could he possibly save them?

Mummy was white, sweaty, and trembling; that was no good. It's never acceptable to panic. Hadn't Daddy given her the lesson? Hadn't she listened to him?

Genevieve tried to catch Mummy's eye and will her into calming down. Then her hands were tied, tape was placed over her mouth, and the blindfold went on, and it was dark, dark and terrifying, but it was never acceptable to panic. Never. All she could do was sit and listen, do her best to follow Daddy's advice.

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The first thing Gemma saw when they took her blindfold off ages later was Grand-mere, almost stumbling into the lounge. There was a man behind her - he must have pushed Grand-mere in - a little man in a suit, with round black eyes in a small, pale face, and bleached blond hair that was darker close to his head, and that stood up on end, like a pop star. Grand-mere's hair was a fright, and her blouse was torn, missing the two top buttons. Small details, but the smallest detail could make the greatest difference. That's what Daddy said.

Across the gallery, like looking at her own reflection in a pond, was Genevieve, her hands tied, blindfold hanging about her neck, sliver tape across her mouth,. But Genevieve was not looking at her, she was looking at something else, her eyes big as dinner plates. It was only by following her sister's line of sight that she saw -

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

Aunt Mary was tied to the library table in the middle of the room.

Aunt Mary looked like a giant X, arms and legs bound with rope. Smooth, brown rope.

At the other end of the room, near the foot of the staircase, Mummy was tied to a chair. Like Genevieve. Like Gemma, herself. Only Mummy's mouth wasn't taped.

The blond man stood looking round the room, the way Mummy did when she was at her Orphans' Office. He had a strange little smile on his face, like he knew a good secret. "Where's that baby? The guest of honour's on his way and you lot aren't ready. Next time, I'm going with a different event planner if you don't get on it." His voice was strange and high and he talked in a funny sing song sort of way. Then he shouted, in a shrill, angry voice, "Where's that fucking baby!"

Almost as soon as he lost it, it seemed like he pushed his temper back down. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, - his left hand, that might be important - breathed out, smiling.

"Got him," someone called. It was one of the men in the all-black clothes from before. He was leaning over the upstairs gallery rails, dangling Edmund.

"Be careful, you fucking idiot," the blond man said. "He's of no use if you kill him now."

Grand-mere gasped. "Kubis!"

"Please, Jim, please. I'll do anything, anything you ask, just don't hurt my baby, please."

"'Please, Jim, please.'" The blond man mimicked Aunt Mary, making a face.

"Kubis, please," Grand-mere said.

"No, no, Molly has it right, Violet, dear," he said. "It's Jim, actually, Jim Moriarty. Hi!" He waved.

The blond man - Jim, he called himself, Jim Moriarty - said, "Now that we're all acquainted - some of us more intimately than others -" he said that, and began stroking Aunt Mary's hair, then stroking her shoulder, "- tell me ladies, has Sherlock never mentioned me? He and I are such old friends!"

Aunt Mary closed her eyes. Grand-mere looked at Mummy and Genevieve and Gemma.

"You mean that little shit is behind this?" Mummy said. She was as angry as Gemma had ever seen her.

"Oh no, Mrs. Holmes, Mrs. Phillipa Augusta Elizabeth Antonia Sherlock-Holmes - ridiculous name, by the way, you should think about changing it, really, it's easily enough done - no, no, 'I'm' behind this," Jim, said. He knelt down close to Mummy, so he was almost breathing in her face. Mummy tried to turn her head away, but Jim grabbed her under the chin and twisted her head back so she was looking right at him. "Let's just say Sherlock is my inspiration, shall we? The wind beneath my wings!"

Mummy was breathing so hard. "What - what will it take to put an end to this, now?" Mummy asked. "How much do you want?"

Jim giggled, then stood up. "You're confused about who's in charge, aren't you?" he asked, and then crossed back to Aunt Mary. "Kind of cute, you trying to buy me off. I cut loose thirty million quid one time just to get Sherlock's attention, didn't I, Molly?"

Aunt Mary said nothing.

"I said, 'didn't I, Molly?'" He reached out and grabbed Aunt Mary's breast and twisted and twisted. Aunt Mary whimpered and then she sobbed.

"Well, take my word for it, I did. And you can't afford me, darling." He giggled again and licked his lips. "Speaking of cute things, nice twins. They on the blob yet?"

Gemma wasn't sure what that meant. She had a feeling it wasn't nice, though, because Mummy was suddenly very still and very pale.

Jim walked up to Genevieve. He looked her in the eyes, then licked his lips. Gemma could tell Genevieve was trying to keep still, trying not to cry. Quick as anything, Jim bent down and kissed her on the cheek, then popped back up again.

"No worries," he said. "I'm here for Sherlock."

"I told you, Kubis, Sherlock's not even here," Grand-mere said.

"Oh, but he will be," Jim said. He rolled his wide eyes and grinned like a cartoon tiger. "And when he arrives, we're going to have sooo much fun!"

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Before John even had time to gather his things, a team of cleaners arrived at the motel room. Well, they were dressed like cleaners, and carried equipment cleaners might have, but they moved with military efficiency, and the silence of assassins. Very well trained assassins.

Mycroft had been on his phone, texting or talking in short, cryptic bursts, the entire time. "Do leave that, John," he said as John tried to pack up his shaving kit. "All this - " he maked a vague, all-encompassing gesture "- will have to be sterilized."

"Sterilized?" John asked. "My clothes?"

Mycroft looked him up and down quickly, his expression just this side of sour. "Nothing that can't be replaced, surely?"

John sighed. Mycroft wasn't really asking. "I reckon not."

"Good. Now, text your wife, please."

John fished his phone out of his pocket. "Tell her what, exactly?"

"Tell her that you're making no real headway, that this is a wild goose chase, that my brother is a tosser, and that you'll be here at least another three days," Mycroft answered. "Add any embellishments or endearments you deem necessary. Do be sure it sounds as if it's originated with you."

"R-right," John said. He'd sent texts that sounded exactly like that on more than one occasion, so that was easy enough. He composed the message as quickly as he could and sent it. "Done."

Mycroft held out his hand. "Phone, please."

"What for?" John asked, but handed it over, just the same.

Mycroft gave John's phone, and then his own, to one of the 'cleaners,' who dropped it in a covered mop bucket. Instead of simply splashing, the liquid in the bucket began to froth and fume. "Sterilization. I'll replace it, of course."

"Of course," John said.

Mycroft pulled another phone from his pocket, one identical to the one he'd just had dissolved, and sent a short text.

"What happens now?" John asked.

"Now," Mycroft answered, as he crossed to open the door, "we head for the airbase. By the time we arrive, there will be a transonic jet awaiting us. We'll land at Welford in five hours, give or take a few minutes."

John frowned. "Your brother asked for a head start, Mycroft."

Mycroft didn't quite roll his eyes. "Sherlock asks for many things, John. I generally say 'no.'"

"But -"

"It's always with his best interest in mind," Mycroft added.

"Yes, but -"

"He's gone to confront Moriarty. Alone. He thinks he can take on months and months of planning and preparation on the part of that madman with sheer bravado and a Stradivarius." Mycroft paused for a fraction of a second. His left eyelid twitched. "He'll get everyone killed."

John nodded. Sherlock was brilliant, every bit as brilliant as Jim, probably, but Jim was -

Fucking nuts, actually.

"You may come with me, John, or you may remain here. You've done more than I asked of you, and I will consider myself indebted to you, whatever path you choose." As Mycroft said this, a car, very sleek and very black, pulled up outside the door.

John thought about it for perhaps three seconds, then shook his head, and resisted the urge to laugh at himself. As if, Watson, he thought. Who can you possibly think you're fooling?"

"Well?"

"Transonic, eh? What the hell - count me in."

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End 11/14

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