Disclaimer: Yeah, I still don't own it.
AN: I took a little creative licence with the workings of pawn shops, I really know nothing about them so I would be grateful if you could overlook any inconsistencies...and apologies in advance. I can't believe this is the last chapter! I hope you enjoy it.
With practised skill Sherlock quickly examines the ring, dropping the plastic bottle to the ground. He turns the little golden band over in his long fingers, inspecting its surface closely, peering at it through his magnifying lens and squinting so minutely at it that he might for all his concentration be trying to dissect it down to atoms by sheer willpower alone.
It is old – very old, several decades at least, and equally dirty on both sides, so it is unlikely to be worn on a regular basis. This coupled with the age seem to indicate a family heirloom – there are minute scratches on the inside which suggest it has been hung on a necklace for some time. Important heirloom then, emotional attachments to the deceased family member...miniscule numbers have been etched onto the inner surface, some sort of identification marking? Or perhaps a message to him? But no, the marks are not fresh, the metal exposed by them is not shining or clean...
Old fashioned pawn shops spring to mind. Identifying markings, more reliable than a receipt or label, less modern than a computer but still used...
Lestrade or Mycroft? Sherlock suffers a moment of indecision, but is saved the trouble of making it himself when the Detective Inspector strides up to him, looking irate.
'You're not going to tell me that this Moriarty had something to do with this, too?' He asks immediately; Sherlock holds up the ring by way of reply.
'I need to find the pawn shop this was sold to.'
'I'll take that as a yes,' says Lestrade with a sigh. He runs his hand through his hair, tired, frustrated and impatient with this whole case, this whole Moriarty business – by God it would do wonders for his career if he caught the man but currently he can't muster up the ambition to find this especially attractive. He just wants the man gone, he wants this over, and he doesn't care who solves the case or who makes the arrest; London cannot stand much more of this. It needs to be finished. He fishes his mobile out of his pocket. 'Read out the number,' he tells Sherlock.
Some fifteen minutes later, Sherlock and Lestrade are once more in the car together, this time heading towards a run-down pawn shop near Aldersgate. Sherlock fidgets for the entire journey, all traces of weariness vanished now that he knows how close they must be, he is itching for the chase. They are so close.
The shop is not an impressive sight, set back slightly from the road and hardly welcoming, dimly lit and just closing when they arrive. The teenaged shop assistant, a slouching boy with one earphone in, ripped jeans and a small camera hanging around his neck, blanches at the sight of Lestrade's badge, looking quite unnerved, and hurries to find the manager.
'How may I help you Sirs?' The man asks as soon as he sees them, smiling jovially but seeming nervous at the sight of them. He has thinning, brilliantly red hair and small, searching eyes, which he passes over Sherlock and Lestrade quickly.
'Mr Jabez Wilson?' Says Lestrade, more of a statement than a question; the manager nods.
'This ring,' Sherlock holds it out. Lestrade contents himself with only a small tightening of the jaw to show his disapproval, knowing that whether or not he appreciates Sherlock's methods, his help is invaluable to solving this case. 'We need to know who it belonged to.'
'Certainly – nothing wrong, I hope?' He gives a nervous almost-laugh as he looks up the name; Sherlock's eyes remain fixed on him and neither he nor Lestrade reply, but their grim expressions are all the confirmation the man needs. Biting his lip, he searches as fast as he can. 'Ah, here we are!' He exclaims self-importantly after a moment, scribbling down the relevant information onto a piece of paper, which he hands to Sherlock. Lestrade tries not to feel too undercut by the action.
'Miss Jasmine Broadhurst, a somewhat regular client,' says Wilson,
'Did you sell this ring? Or did she come back for it?' Sherlock asks.
'She came back for it – well, only yesterday,' Wilson replies, 'do you mind if I ask what this is about?'
'Was she alone? Did she come in alone?'
'N – no,' the shopkeeper stutters, quite alarmed by Sherlock's outburst, 'she – she came in with a –'
'A young man,' Sherlock finishes; he stops himself short of describing Moriarty, knowing that if it was him, he would most likely have been in a disguise.
He thinks of meeting Jim at the hospital, and has to work hard to bury the frustration he feels with himself at the memory...if only he had thought, if he had seen, if he had known, this wouldn't be happening – to Hell with boredom, John –
'Yes, he was; friend of hers, she said, lent her some money so she could have it back...her Grandmother's I believe –'
'Was she comfortable with him? This friend, did it seem like they'd known each other long?'
'Well, I don't see how that's much of your business Sir,' Wilson puffs out his chest in what he evidently hopes is an intimidating manner; Lestrade steps forwards, showing his badge once more,
'This is a murder investigation Mr Wilson, I'm sure you can appreciate that.'
Wilson turns white and stumbles, mopping a thin sheen of sweat from his forehead.
'M – murder? And you think it has something to do with my shop? I run a perfectly legal establishment, you can check –'
'I don't care,' Sherlock interrupts, 'just tell me about the man, quickly.'
'Well – well, he was...charming. Couldn't stop smiling, said it was a special present...I suppose now you mention it she seemed a little awkward, but I thought maybe it was just embarrassment, you know, at having to be bailed out like that. He didn't seem sinister at all, if that's what you mean.'
'No, I'm sure he didn't,' says Sherlock dryly as he turns to leave, the paper clutched in his hand.
'We'll be in touch,' Lestrade assures the still flustered manager, before hurrying after Sherlock. 'So what does this mean? You think that was Moriarty, you think he actually went to the shop with her? Why would he do that - ?'
'To get my attention,' Sherlock replies,
'But – I mean, what does he have to gain from getting this woman her jewellery back?'
'Consulting criminal, he doesn't get his hands dirty, he has people to do his work for him –'
'All the more reason not to show himself in connection with the crime –'
'- but he must have a way of getting people to work for him,' Sherlock continues as if Lestrade had not interrupted, 'half of them probably already criminals, in need of a little organisation, he brings order to the chaos, but he needs more, and where does he get them from? Money has to be the number one reason for committing crime – apart from jealousy, obviously, and he's got money, he's got plenty, so he preys on the desperate – this woman, she gets herself into financial difficulty, can't see a way out, someone talks to someone who gets her in contact with him, and she ends up acting under his influence in exchange for the funds.'
'Right,' Lestrade agrees slowly, 'so what's her relevance to this case?'
'No idea. I'll get back to you,' he lies. Lestrade calls after him and tries to follow as he darts across the road, but by the time the cars have cleared enough for him to see, Sherlock has vanished, and he can't be wasting his time trying to chase down the amateur detective...he turns and heads back towards the shop, intending to pick up a second copy of the information.
Two streets away by the time Lestrade exits the shop for a second time, Sherlock slows his pace and looks at the paper – name, address, contact details...the address is the only part which interests Sherlock. He pictures the map, adding and deleting lines in his head until the pattern emerges; he places this woman's house on the map too – and it's clear.
The locations do, indeed, form a crude arrow if lines are drawn between them – and with mounting excitement, Sherlock realises that the arrow is pointing directly towards Battersea Park.
Jasmine Broadhurst lives on Battersea Park Road, above an empty shop.
This is where Sherlock instructs the taxi driver to take him.
There is a frankly dangerous look on Mycroft Holmes's face when Lestrade tells him what happened, made worse by the fact that Lestrade knows that in the time it took him to double back, retrieve a second set of information, come to conclusion that this address has to be where Sherlock stormed off to, find Mycroft and tell him – Sherlock could very well already have reached the house.
Mycroft does not reply to the news though; he stares at Lestrade for what are some of the most frightening seconds of the Detective Inspector's life, then turns swiftly away and raises his phone to his ear.
Lestrade stands still, struck dumb as waves of desperation sweep over him, then swiftly gathers himself and begins punching numbers into his own phone, barking orders down the line to get together backup now – infuriating they both may be, but he'll be damned if he won't have some part in helping Sherlock and John. It's his duty.
Sherlock drums his fingers on the door, shifts in his seat, incessantly checks his phone, turning it over and over in his hands – he considers texting Mycroft, disregards the thought – he knows Moriarty will want to face him alone. He wants to face the man alone. He snaps at the driver more than once, demands higher speeds, fewer traffic-light stops and less banal and distracting thought from him – the man takes offence and begins to lecture Sherlock on workplace harassment or some such nonsense, but the ferocity of Sherlock's rebuttal is enough to silence him for the rest of the tense, achingly long journey.
This is it. This has to be it – all the other cases have literally pointed in this direction and they have no more letters – he has been given so little time on this particular puzzle that it cannot, it cannot be anything more than the address he was supposed to uncover – this is where he will find John, where he will find Moriarty and put a bullet through his head, where he will correct his stupid, stupid blindness at the hospital and he will end this.
Excitement – fear – anger – they swell up so strongly that to attempt to hide them now is a pointless waste of time and brain power, choking him, making him feel sick and short of breath, stopping him thinking straight – he has no plan, he has never really had a plan, the plan is to find Moriarty and to get John away from wherever he is...the plan is to use the gun Lestrade does not even know he has taken yet and put a stop to the game, now – the rest is just details.
This is his fault, all his fault, but it won't last much longer and then everything will be – the way it was. He will not use the dreaded normal word, but he will be back solving crimes, shooting holes in the wall and complaining of boredom; John will be back rolling his eyes, wearing his ridiculous jumpers and just being there. Mycroft will be following him – not personally of course – Anderson will be irritable and useless, Lestrade will be tolerable, Mrs Hudson will be fussing and Moriarty will be gone. This game is finished.
It takes far, far too long to get there, but when they arrive they are at least within the two hour limit. Sherlock has no idea whether or not he pays the cabbie enough, but the man doesn't complain as he drives away, as fast as the speed limit will allow.
It is an anticlimactic moment, seeing Jasmine Broadhurst's home. Plain rectangle, boarded up windows face out onto the street above a derelict shop, which doesn't look as though anyone has entered or left in...weeks, months, at the least. Sherlock knows better; either Moriarty is being extremely careful, or there is another entrance.
Finding another way in does not interest Sherlock, it would take much too long – the street is quiet, lamps just beginning to turn on; some shops are closed, others are open, but few people remain to see him.
The door is unlocked. Nobody stops him as he pushes it open, painfully slowly in case there is a trap.
Nothing.
A cold, empty room with – yes, Sherlock can see it now – a door at the back which must lead outside. Another door, hidden in a recess in the wall, is plain and covered with cracked, white paint, mirroring the depressed atmosphere of the building...the woman clearly had not had much choice when searching for a place to live. Surely Moriarty could have found a better location? But hiding in plain sight is very much the man's specialty...maybe that is the attraction.
Sherlock steps carefully across the room towards the plain white door and tests the handle, knowing that doing so is stupidity of the highest level – Moriarty has a liking for bombs, after all, and this must be his something special or the effort is not worth it...nevertheless, Sherlock ploughs on. Finding John – stopping Moriarty – both are more important right now than worrying unduly about possible threats...
The door opens without an explosion, and Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief. There is a staircase beyond, which he climbs steadily, hating the slowness with which he must move...he wonders vaguely if Lestrade or Mycroft are coming, not particularly caring if they are.
John's here, John's here, John's here...the mantra repeats itself in his head in time with his footsteps, thudding just as emptily in the dark silence. He feels the cold metal of the gun in his hand, smells dust and damp, hears his own heart pounding in his ears.
The first prickling of doubt surfaces as he climbs, a hot, uncomfortable feeling...what if he is wrong? He's wasting time, what if this isn't where John is? He won't have a chance to correct his mistake if John isn't here – there isn't enough of the countdown left.
With this thought, he jumps the last few steps, noticing only peripherally the sharp pain of his still healing wounds, and barely manages to stop, just short of the trip wire stretched almost imperceptibly across the top of the staircase.
A bomb, no doubt.
Holding his breath, Sherlock steps over it, making sure to keep his feet high in the air.
Did Moriarty really expect him to fall for that? The flood of relief is enormous, entirely eclipsing any fear he might have for the explosives – their presence means he is in the right place, after all.
But the building remains eerily quiet as he treads across the thin carpet to another set of stairs – he freezes halfway up.
Voices.
He can hear voices. Familiar ones.
He runs up the last few stairs, leaping over the second and third trip wires – he can hear them getting closer, his breathing is shallow, his heartbeat is deafening - this is it, this has to be – there's a door at the end of the corridor, thick, laden with heavy bolts, all of which are unlocked and he knows, he knows it is a trap, but he can hear that voice and he cannot keep away, he can hear John –
He throws open the door with the gun raised and ready – he sees Moriarty, he hears John shout a warning and he feels a sickening pain, reels sideways – his finger squeezes the trigger automatically but the bullet goes astray, burying itself in the opposing wall – the man who hit him receives a sharp blow from the butt of the gun as Sherlock whirls around, he hears John shouting and Moriarty clapping, he swings his foot out and catches one of his attackers in the chest – the door has been slammed shut behind him, they are trapped – another man, Sherlock has lost count of how many there are, brings a ham-like fist down on his arm with incredible strength – the gun falls from his grip and skitters across the floor, he feels another fist lurch forwards and tastes blood – he has just long enough to register his own stupidity at acting so rashly before both arms are caught in a vice like grip and he is forced to come to a halt.
Moriarty is grinning. This is all Sherlock cares to notice about the man before his gaze is drawn to John.
John is slumped to the floor against the wall, sporting a vivid bruise above his eye and several cuts across his face, some fresh and some left over from the explosion at the pool. He still has a cast on his wrist, but it is filthy. He has dried blood on his face. He is breathing heavily, looking pale, exhausted and desperate; as he stares at Sherlock, hope seems to fade from his eyes, that righteous anger that was present only moments ago has transformed into fear and resignation, now Sherlock is trapped as well. He is trembling.
Sherlock's chest hurts at the sight, but he doesn't know why. His face is set like stone. His breathing is carefully regulated to be even and he stands still and tall – the only give-aways are his eyes, which are burning with fury.
He glances upwards and sees thin, high windows – no real light filters through them, except the shimmering red dots which are once again trained on him and John.
He will not panic. He will not let Moriarty win. He casts around for a plan, remaining stock still. John is watching him.
Is it wishful thinking, or does he hear the faintest, distant sounds of police sirens?
'Well well, Sherlock, this has worked out better than I could have hoped!' Moriarty says, 'this is really priceless.'
Sherlock does not reply.
'Nothing to say, my dear? You haven't even worked out my final plan yet.'
Sherlock's eyes flicker towards John, but it is too painful to remain looking at him for long. He glances towards the high windows but cannot see far enough beyond to make out more than indistinct shapes.
'To kill me, no doubt,' Sherlock says, sounding rather bored. Moriarty smiles.
'But how, Sherlock? Haven't you figured it out?'
'I'm assuming those trip wires were a somewhat unimaginative way –'
'Oh no, Sherlock, this is too precious,' he claps his hands and beams, before his face falls into an ugly grimace. 'No, no...those were just a distraction; you know, you really should have looked for another entrance.' Sherlock, for a split second, tries to pull his arms from the men holding him – they let go, but one of the red lights drifts almost lazily from John's chest to his forehead, and Sherlock freezes with three of them still circling his own heart.
'What – what are you talking about?' John forces himself to speak, struggling to stay conscious under the combined influences of injuries, drugs, grief, anger and sheer desperation. It is even worse now that Sherlock is here, and he cannot see a way out for either of them.
'I'm disappointed, really I am,' Moriarty tuts, shaking his head; Sherlock watches him from the corner of his eye, focusing on John. 'The door, Sherlock, that was the trigger,'
'For what?' Sherlock asks coldly, brain working at top speed – he is certain he can hear sirens...
'You see that light up there?' Sherlock nods. John's eyes snap towards the blinking light in the corner and back again, 'That's where the gas is going to get released from. In...approximately half an hour.'
Horror. Pure, cold, absolute horror floods Sherlock's brain so that for a moment he cannot think – how could he have missed this? How could he have been so stupid as to not notice, as to presume that Moriarty's only plan relied on a few plainly obvious and laughably inadequate trip wires?
John's eyes have widened but otherwise his expression has not changed. He has already been through too much to allow this to shake him further – Sherlock knows that his own facade has slipped, and far too much emotion is being allowed to play on his face.
'I do so wish I could stay,' Moriarty continues, with a reptilian smirk, 'it would be so entertaining to see.' He draws out the so agonisingly.
'You won't get out of here,' says Sherlock – John is the one looking around now – his eyes rake over the gun, laid unattended on the floor...too far away, much too far away...but...he thinks, if he really strains his ears, he thinks he can hear cars pulling to screeching halts in a street that seems a thousand miles away.
'You can't stop me,' Moriarty says, 'you're well and truly trapped, Sherlock Holmes.'
'Then I've nothing to lose, have I?'
'I wouldn't say that. After all – there's still the question of who dies first...would you like to watch your little pet die, Sherlock?'
Sherlock doesn't make a move towards Moriarty, but he desperately wants to. His eyes are wide as he looks towards John, and the sight frightens John more than anything so far – because Sherlock is shaking. Visibly shaking. John's eyes find the gun once more. Moriarty is in front of him, to the left slightly...too close to the gun, he'd get there first...
One of the lights trained on Sherlock blinks out in time with the sound of a faint thud – then another, and another – John doesn't think as he lunges forwards, the sound of bullets rips the air, two of Moriarty's men fall – Sherlock takes out another with a blow to the chin and John's fingers close around the gun wrested from Sherlock when he entered the room – he barely takes the time to aim before he pulls the trigger – once – twice – and more yelling echoes around the room, shouts of pain and rage – Moriarty collapses to the floor, screaming, his face contorted with fury and agony. Both knees are pouring blood.
Then it is over. The sniper lights are gone, Sherlock is standing coolly before Moriarty, who is hissing and swearing, close to passing out, Sherlock's mask almost completely back as he mutters Mycroft under his breath.
John doesn't have the energy left to process how fast it happened or the danger they are still in. He is barely standing, his legs threatening to give way at any moment, eyes blazing with fury, the gun still in his hand and still pointed at Moriarty.
Sherlock looks at John.
'Why the knees?' He asks calmly, and there is a detached and fatal danger to his voice as he regards the fallen criminal with disdain. John smiles humourlessly and coldly, inexplicably overjoyed to hear Sherlock's old tones despite the storm which is raging in his grey eyes.
'This way he has to live with what he's done,' John replies – he hadn't thought about it, not really, but it makes sense, and he doesn't regret allowing Moriarty to live. Sherlock looks nearly sympathetic, closer to incredulous.
'You really think that he's likely to feel anything close to remorse for –?'
'Not that,' John assures Sherlock in a voice which leaves no room for argument, though he is weak with emotions he hasn't the concentration to name. Relief barely registers, this whole thing is so unreal and in the agony of the last few days there seems no room for it. 'I meant; he's going to have to live knowing that he lost.'
Sherlock raises his eyebrows and opens his mouth – he actually looks like he might be about to say something complimentary, but John's world is tilting dizzyingly to the side as exhaustion sweeps over him – the ceiling comes slowly into view even as he hears a stampede of men enter the room – police, perhaps, or Mycroft's, from Sherlock's comment – he feels himself landing on something much softer than he expects, and listens to the voice from a long way off as blackness covers his vision.
'I meant; he's going to have to live knowing that he lost.'
Sherlock has to admit that John's logic is sound...how he would love to shoot Moriarty, right now, right in the head...but for Jim Moriarty, there can be no worse punishment, no worse torture, than living with the knowledge that he has failed. Sherlock knows. Oh, yes, he knows. And it is perfect.
John's face has – if possible – paled further – and Sherlock rushes forwards, wrapping his arms around the doctor before he falls and lowering him slowly as he passes out.
'John – John...' he mutters, knowing that his calls will go unanswered. For the first time in his memory, the sheer pressure and overwhelming emotions that he has long since lost a proper hold on, threaten to spill over and his throat is strangely tight, his eyes feel oddly prickly, but they stay perfectly dry. Then, even though he knows it is pointless, it is ridiculous, it is clichéd and it will do no one any amount good, mostly because no one hears him say it, he whispers, 'it's over.'
Mycroft's people were the first to arrive. They scouted the building carefully before they entered. They were swift, silent and precise as they took out the snipers who had had their rifles pointed at John and Sherlock. By the time they had descended to the room below, John had shot Moriarty in the back of both knees and was teetering on the edge of unconsciousness - the police by now put in an appearance and any of Moriarty's henchmen in a fit state were arrested, the others carted to hospital.
Sherlock was, now, sat on the floor with John in his arms, somewhere between elated and disbelieving. He had objected, loudly, to the paramedics' attempts to treat him and insisted they focus on John – he was the injured one after all. He had travelled with him in the ambulance, under the condition that he, too, was checked over on the way.
John has not woken up since then, and Sherlock has not left his side, except when forced to by the doctors as they tend to him.
Sherlock knows for a fact that Mycroft took Moriarty to an entirely separate hospital. He doesn't think about what is going to happen – for now it is enough that he has won, he arrived in time, John is alive...
Alive to hate him.
He should, he really should, Sherlock is to blame for all of this – guilt does not help and Sherlock knows it will never help, but he cannot bury it as effectively as he once could.
Sarah Sawyer is dead because of him. John will hate him for that.
John is laid in a hospital bed with tubes and wires running from his body, attaching him to humming, bleeping, winking machines. John will hate him for that.
Sherlock has still not eaten, or slept. John will hate him for that.
But he feels like he is breathing for the first time, like only now is he surfacing from the water at the swimming pool – Moriarty is gone, and John is here, he's breathing and his heart is beating, the machines are telling him that, his eyes are telling him that – his finger on John's pulse is telling him that.
Yet he cannot keep his eyes off the doctor's unconscious form, as if to look away will mean that John will disappear once more...he hardly even cares about the small, knowing smile from Lestrade when he visited, or the veiled comments from Mycroft. He just doesn't care at the moment. He is breathing deeply, as though he only has a limited time to do so – as though he is breathing for both of them.
He thinks of the gas, he thinks of John, injured, trembling, terrified – he thinks of being trapped in that room, waiting for their deaths – he jerks his head up as it threatens to droop with sleep. He must keep his eyes open. He must keep them fixed on John, or, irrational as the thought is, none of this will be real and John will be gone again.
It can't be over, this can't be it...there must be more. He feels like something is unfinished...
And he is so tired.
First, John realises that he is warm. This is new.
Then he finds that the surface on which he is laying is soft, and clean. He is neither hungry nor thirsty, nor is the room damp or dark or deafeningly silent.
It smells of antiseptic, coffee and nicotine.
The sound of beeping brings him gently back to the waking world and he blinks slowly, squinting against the light.
He is in hospital...in hospital.
Not with Moriarty.
It wasn't a hallucination.
He is safe.
With a massive sigh of disbelief, of relief, of fatigue, grief, resignation, joy, of everything, he turns his head to the side and sees a tangle of dark hair on the white sheets. He manages a weak smile.
Sherlock is half in the plastic chair beside him, half leaning forwards so that his arms, shoulders and head are on the bed, chest rising and falling slowly. One arm is tucked beneath his torso - that will hurt later – one is flung across John's own chest to where the doctor's wrist is laid, holding it loosely as though trying to reassure himself that John's heart is still beating.
Sleeping.
Safe.
AN: Terrible ending. Sorry. But yes – that's the end!
This has been an incredibly challenging, difficult and enjoyable story to write. I'm quite sorry it's over, actually.
Once again, a MASSIVE thank you to every single person who has reviewed, alerted, favourited, or even just plain read this story, you are all amazing and I really hope I didn't disappoint. That was an exhausting chapter to write, I feel like I've just run a marathon! I almost cut it to two chapters, but decided to leave it as an extra long one as a reward to all of you wonderful, brilliant people.
One more time, reviews are love.
PS: Please vote in my poll, see profile for details (directly relates to this story)...
