Author's Notes: This is a fanfiction-y, alternate world, so if you pick up any mistakes and police procedure or drugs scenes or policy...they're just that, misa
They didn't sit. He remained standing, staring at Sherlock, who was breathing deeply and glaring at St. Claire with a hatred John rarely saw. And when he did, John knew the Sherlock he knew was gone. Despite the slight tremor in his hands, all signs that Sherlock had nearly been drugged into a coma for the second time that week were gone. Instead, his flatmate looked like he was about to tear their captor to shreds.
"Sherlock," John began quietly, not wanting to startle him. "What does he mean?"
There was no answer, and even though he was sympathetic to the situation they were trapped in, he couldn't pretend that he was okay with this.
"Let John go," Sherlock breathed. When he paused for a reaction, the response was a deep laugh from St. Claire. Sherlock tensed, and his voice was darker, unforgiving, when he continued. "Do whatever you want to me- kill me, if you must- but let John go."
A chill went down his spine as he realized just how serious Sherlock was. His flatmate would have taken a bullet for him, right then and there. In the meantime John was staring at him, feeling like he was looking at a stranger.
"No, Sherlock, I think Dr. Watson deserves the truth," St. Claire spat. "After all, he is your flatmate. You two have been working together. And you've probably have told him you're clean."
Sherlock visibly turned a shade paler. John's stomach knotted as he turned to him, his heart pounding.
"Any normal person would be nearly comatose by now with all the drugs that have been pumped through your system this week," St. Claire said. The shadow of a grin appeared on his face, and John was torn between feeling sorry for the way his friend as being persecuted and feeling disgusted. "The amount of tolerance Mr. Holmes has developed for drugs is truly astounding, don't you think Doctor Watson?"
Sherlock's eyes drifted to him, wide and guilt-ridden. But John couldn't help the natural reaction of his hands curling into fist at his side, because even he could see that Sherlock was only sorry that he got caught.
"On the night of his twenty-fifth birthday, Sherlock was so high he couldn't see straight," St. Claire continued, clearly enjoying the tension between him and his flatmate. "So it's no wonder how easily persuaded he was when I presented him with a rather unique opportunity. I was approached with the chance to expand my business abroad. I would be partnering with some of the best, most-wanted dealers in the world. The opportunity would make me rich, richer than I already was. But of course I couldn't just drop everything in my other life and head to the other side of the continent. I was already facing suspicious from people in the corporate world and the police about using. I would need someone who could handle everything."
"You wanted Sherlock to help," John whispered.
Beside him, Sherlock almost looked faint. He was trying to picture it: just turning twenty-five and being told to work with some of the most dangerous men on the continent. He tried to imagine being so removed from reality that he wouldn't understand the danger, the horror of it.
"The only catch was the money I needed to put into the deal up front, to show that I was serious," St. Claire continued. Gone was the air of delight in his voice- his eyes were latched onto Sherlock now. Sherlock remained perfectly still. "I knew the amount was far more than I could withdraw from my accounts without drawing suspicion, and besides I was supposed to be Hugh Boone, who hardly had a penny to spare. Sherlock said he could get it. We were five hours away from the biggest opportunity we would ever see. It was far more exciting than my transportation company, which was being faced with lawsuits left and right. So he left, and I never saw him again…until earlier this week when he found me at Swandam Lane."
He let out a sharp breath as the air finally felt a little thinner.
"What happened?" John asked Sherlock.
"He was infiltrated," St. Claire answered.
"By who?" John said.
Sherlock's eyes darkened.
"Who do you think?"
John swallowed nervously, feeling the icy chill from his tone. Mycroft.
"Sherlock told the police everything," St. Claire said, "I had to disappear for a while. I fully resumed my other identity, leaving my kid and her mother behind. Understandably, they hated me for it. Things have never been the same between us since. It was years before I threw the police off my trail long enough to emerge again. Of course, by then there was more than a little competition. Everything I built was crumbling down."
"Except for your multi-million dollar transportation company," Sherlock spat.
Neither of them had time to act before St. Claire's fist flew through the air, landing with a sickening crack across Sherlock's face. Sherlock stumbled back, grasping at his nose. John swore as he caught him just before he fell.
"I only avoided being sent to prison because one of my friends from the street gave me warning that people were asking questions!" St. Claire exclaimed.
John's heart leapt to his throat as his voice boomed against the walls. He closed his eyes briefly, hoping Mrs. Hudson wouldn't wonder upstairs to investigate. Meanwhile, Sherlock was testing the shattered bones of his nose. Blood poured down his mouth and chin even as he pressed his palm against the wound.
"What is it that you want?" Sherlock snapped.
He brushed off John's hand. Though he stumbled at first, he was able to steady himself.
"What I want, Mr. Holmes, is to destroy you, like you tried to destroy me," St. Claire said. "What I want is to expose you for who you really are. I don't know how you have managed to hide for so long, but everything you know is about to be ruined."
John was relieved to see that Sherlock didn't look the least bit intimidated.
"What will you do?" Sherlock asked.
He wanted to round on Sherlock and demand to know what he was playing at- why he wasn't fighting back. But all he could do was trust Sherlock had a plan.
"What do you think?" St. Claire replied. "By this time tomorrow there will be no Neville St. Claire. There will be no Hugh Boone. All there will be is reporters flocking Baker Street. Investigators picking apart each and every piece of your past. And you too, Dr. Watson. Will people really believe that you have been so in the dark about all of this? After all, most people would assume their best friend would be kind enough to at least mention they're a drug addict."
His blood ran cold. He couldn't be sure which bothered him more: using 'drug addict' in present-tense or the fact that St. Claire was right. But he couldn't get past how much Sherlock was being bullied. He couldn't get past the trace of fear in Sherlock's eyes that John was certain only he could see.
Sherlock himself looked so in shock that he was completely stiff. John knew the wheels were spinning in his mind. He knew he was drafting a plan of attack. His flatmate was adrift somewhere between fear and determination to not be beaten. And though John knew St. Claire was right, it wouldn't change the fact that he would still support him. Any day.
"What makes you think you're getting out of here alive?" John shot.
St. Claire grinned, but instead of replying all John saw was a giant fist flying toward his face.
And then darkness.
Author's Note: This chapter was short, but it was essential for setting up the next part of the story. Don't worry, more explanations are on the way! St. Claire's story will make a little more sense soon, and you'll find out the full story of what happened that night at Swandam Lane. Also, I was overwhelmed from the response for the last chapter! I'm really pleased to see that so many people are enjoying the story. I know this is really drifting from the canon of the original story, but it's been a really interesting scenario to pursue. Thanks so much for reading and reviewing!
