Old Friends
There was a picture on the wall; one of Adair with a group of boys and a smile on his face. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at it, trying to take it all in as he examined Adair's home.
"Never seen anything like it," Lestrade said, arms folded as Sherlock walked around the crime scene. "I mean, not that I'm an expert, but a shot like that?" The idiot man let out an admiring whistle. "Military?"
"Sniper," Sherlock corrected as he stared at the neat bullet hold in the glass that was surrounded by a spider web network of tiny cracks, rippling out across the pane. The outline was upon the floor because the morons at Scotland Yard had imposed some sorts of rules to avoid their accountability being called into question again. "Moran was a sniper."
"You know him?" Lestrade asked quietly.
"The man who started Moriarty on the path," Sherlock said, still staring outside. "He was a soldier, advanced quickly and was removed quickly when his predilection for violence and backhanded deals was discovered. He was to be charged with treason but…these days good networking will always save your life."
"Great," Lestrade murmured. "So this thing with Moriarty isn't finished then?"
Sherlock turned back to him. "It doesn't make sense," he said, staring again at the outline. "Moran is opportunistic, he likes power and chaos. London is too civilised for him-"
"Unless he's after someone specific?" Lestrade asked and then cleared his throat. "I know, if he wanted you dead you would be, or you would have seen it three days before in that bloody crystal ball head of yours-"
"It's me," Sherlock said, feeling, well, nothing. Strange. Life had been so grey since he had returned, so meaningless and pointless. He'd half expected to feel a little more engaged with the world now that there was a case, or pleased at the chance of vengeance, or even simply relieved that death was on its way.
But there was still nothing. It was as if he'd experienced all that he could possibly ever feel. No parent was meant to outlive their child, fail to bury him, and then pretend that at least there was something to visit. It was as if the day John had left this world he'd taken everything that made Sherlock with him.
"You?" Lestrade asked. "But- What's your connection to Adair?"
"There is none," Sherlock said with a sniff. "I imagine this was necessity or business."
"And you are?"
"Personal," Sherlock said as he crouched down to the still evident blood stain.
"Because you made his protégée kill himself to win a game?" Lestrade asked doubtfully.
"Because I won," Sherlock agreed and then laughed, unable to keep it all back. "It's no fun unless you can play with your kill."
He'd won.
And lost everything that had mattered.
Xxx
There was probably something ironic about John's residence of choice given the few times that he had caught his father using, and the lecture he'd once had from his mother about why her friend Polly was an idiot and John should stay far away from crack dens for the rest of his life.
It was the easiest and best place though. John lived out of his bag, carrying it with him. He doubted half of the people were even aware that he existed. There was a shitty gym a few streets away and it was an easy walk to duck in, take a run and a shower.
His hand still kept shaking. The annoying tremor that had started while he was on the bus now kept jolting his hand when he was quiet and waiting.
He despised it.
And, he was running out of money quickly. The problem with being gone for almost eighteen months and trying to stay out of sight of Mycroft Holmes was that he had fuck all connections to draw upon. He needed to know where Kavan was and what his plans were and so far, John had nothing to work with other than to risk tailing his entire family for the rest of their lives.
Or…
John smoothed a finger over the ID badge that he'd lifted from one of the cleaners at Scotland Yard.
Or.
Xxx
The annoying thing about police was the fact that they worked late shifts. Getting in was no problem; not when you'd grown up on a diet of theft and confidence tricks and then, later on, watched your father exploit every loop hole in the book for his own amusement.
The problem was finding a way of getting to the information he needed about the Adair case without getting caught on camera or by an officer. Sherlock had never needed to worry about being caught, in fact, he'd seemed to take pride in it.
Shit.
Accepting that there was going to be no quiet way to do it, John snuck through the building, taking the familiar route in a game that he had played far too many times with Sherlock. The one called, how long can you stay in the blind spots?
It got him all the way up to Lestrade's office with ease. The camera in the corner was easily dealt with by picking up some of that disgusting gum that Lestrade still chewed to get over cigarettes and sticking the camera in place.
Someone would likely be along later to take a look when they noticed that the camera was no longer sweeping the room.
Booting up the computer rather than turn on the full lights, John tried the man's password and then frowned when it no longer worked.
A long shot then…
His father's did.
They really needed to clean their systems, he thought, even while grateful that his father's log in worked for every wall that came up as he accessed the network.
Adair. Moran. The bullets used, the gun. The witnesses. Adair had been military, had served years ago in a unit with Moran. Probably knew a few secrets.
Why had Kavan wanted him dead?
Turn it around, his father's voice suggested. Look at a puzzle from all the angles.
Kavan wasn't just linked to Moran but also to Moriarty, the brother who had given him to Moran all those years ago. John doubted that they'd had much more than a passing few comments between them since but Kavan liked an old excuse.
John leaned back, turning the idea over in his mind.
How had Moran and Moriarty met in the first place?
Carl Powers had been Moriarty's first kill. John knew that but how had he gone from a kid killing other kids to a powerful man who could influence criminals and kill-
Don't even go there, he warned himself. It was far too easy to be distracted by the overwhelming pain that Sherlock could still cause.
Adair.
The list of contacts for Adair was long. Clearly he hadn't gone back to a normal civilian life after he had been discharged from the army.
There were a few old, familiar names on that list. Repeating them to himself three times, John stood and logged off the computer, pulling out some baby wipes to wipe down everything he had touched.
It was easy enough to open the window and slip out, keeping his hand covered by the wipes. Harder to shut it from the outside but he pushed it to and then edged along the slight ledge. Not a moment too soon it seemed as the light in Lestrade's office came on.
It was tempting, so so tempting, to peer back in and check if it was Lestrade. To see a familiar face after all this time but…
John jumped, landing on the opposite side on the lower window sill and then let himself drop the rest of the way, wincing as he rolled and distributed his weight rather than risk injuring his knees.
An officer came around the corner as John picked himself up. A frown crossed his face as he stood and raised an eyebrow.
"Palace?" John asked in a heavily Italian accent. "Uh...Queen?" he added hopefully as he dusted himself off.
The eye roll was truly withering. "No," the officer said frankly. "Passport?" he asked with a rough gesture.
John nodded and patted his coat and then his pocket, allowing a frown to cross his features. Muttering to himself in Italian (and being bloody grateful that the officer had no idea that John wasn't even managing complete sentences in the damned language), John let himself stumble upon the fake passport Mary had given him with a relieved, triumphant expression. Eagerly he waved it at the man's face.
There was a narrowed look as the officer looked between John's passport and John before he pulled out his phone and took a picture of it.
Thankfully, the picture looked a lot less like his old self. With any luck it would pass if someone ran it through the system. There was no reason really to even consider linking a random tourist to a missing person's list.
"Come on," the officer said handing it back. "Let's get you back on the right path."
"Uh..." John let a puzzled frown cross his face.
"Palace," the officer said with an exaggerated tone. "This way."
John smiled eagerly even as inside he winced at the idea.
God, he hoped the man didn't walk him up to the front gates. John couldn't stand dealing with tourists.
Xxx
There was an old pub that no-one in their right minds would ever go near. It looked old, uncared for; grass grew up through the cracks in splintered pavement and there was one window that was boarded up. A group usually stood outside with dissuading glares.
John ignored it all as he strode in.
Inside wasn't anywhere near as bad. Couldn't be really, otherwise police or health inspectors would have shut it down. As far as John was aware it was simply used as a meeting ground, all paraphernalia banned to ensure that the place kept on going.
Didn't hurt that it backed onto a house where more private deals could occur.
Suspicious eyes gazed at him as John walked in and sat himself at the bar, waiting patiently.
"You want something?" the barman asked.
"Hello Luca," John said calmly. "Where Robbie Stone?"
There was a long pause as Luca blinked at him, clearly trying to place John's face. "Who's asking?"
"John Watson."
There was another blink as the name seemed to dredge up fuzzy memories and then another one of disbelief. "Fuck me," Luca muttered. "You grew up."
"Kids do that," John agreed. "Robbie?"
"Where have you been?" Luca hissed at him. "Last I heard you'd skipped out your family-"
"I don't need a lecture," John said, avoiding his gaze.
"You need to leave and you need to go home," Luca said, lowering himself down because, Jesus, he was still as tall as a house. "You got a good life to go back to, kid. Robbie ain't a person you want to remind people that you know."
John smiled without humour. "Because of Moran?"
Luca's face went skilfully blank as he pulled back and studied John.
"I'll get you a beer," he said after a moment.
Great. John let out a breath and stared at the optics thoughtfully. Luca returned quickly with a pint, a coaster and a note of paper sandwiched in between the two.
"Kid," Luca said quietly as John lifted the beer to his lips and pocketed the note smoothly. "Whatever you're doing, you need to think twice."
"I've had three years to think about it," John replied as he put the beer down, debating how much he could get away with not drinking.
"But your father…things must have changed now. He can't approve of this."
"Course he can't," John snapped and fuck this because no-one came in here for a quiet drink. Standing, he gave Luca a nod. "You want to help? Keep quiet."
Luca stared at him, disapproval clear in his eyes. "You're a stubborn little shit, do you know that?"
Yeah. It had been mentioned.
"John?" Luca said. "Take some painkillers with you when you see him, would you?"
Painkillers?
John blinked and nodded.
Great.
Xxx
Unsurprisingly, Mycroft was sat in Sherlock's living room when he walked through the door to the flat. Once upon a time, Sherlock would have made a snide remark about his weight or lack of energy or general Mycroftness.
He didn't have the will for anything anymore. Instead, Sherlock waited and drew in a long breath as he folded his arms.
"Look, Sally's picked up the folders. She'll come by in the morning with them so don't even think about…" Lestrade trailed off as he entered the room and caught sight of Mycroft. "Oh," he said, squirming a little. He looked like he wanted to greet Mycroft, ask how he was, but knew the answer already.
Pointless to ask how someone was while they mourned.
"Stay," Mycroft instructed Lestrade as he stood, appearing to have the weight of the world on his shoulders. "I…" he cleared his throat, eyes darting to Sherlock and then away as if he couldn't bear to look but felt that he had to.
"What is it?" Sherlock asked as he stepped forward.
"I…a message to you was intercepted-" Mycroft broke off as if waiting for Sherlock to launch into a belligerent complaint about that, frowning slightly when it didn't happen. "It's…" he swallowed and looked away. "Probably necessary for you to see it," he said still not looking at Sherlock.
A dawning suspicion begun to break. "From Moran?"
A single nod.
"A threat?" Lestrade asked striding forward. "I'll-"
Mycroft shook his head, eyes sliding back to Sherlock. As if steeling himself, he reached to flip up the laptop on the table, entered a password and the screen lit up with a video waiting to be played.
"What is this?" Sherlock asked, feeling something hack at his throat, drop from his stomach, twist up everything inside of him-
"You know what it is," Mycroft whispered.
"Oh God," Lestrade breathed. "You can't let him watch that," he hissed, striding forward. "How can you even consider making him watch-"
"It's not…it's not his death," Mycroft said bluntly. "But…"
But.
Sherlock nodded at Mycroft, trying desperately to control his breathing. If he let his eyes flood with traitorous, useless tears then he wouldn't be able to work out where it had been filmed. He wouldn't have a chance of finding a way to bring his son home before Moran's games were finished.
Lestrade swore quietly as Mycroft pressed play, but he said nothing.
The resolution was poor, an ancient camera phone or something like it. It was dark and the sounds of flesh hitting flesh, of a pained grunt and then spluttered coughing seemed worse somehow because…because…
This was all he was going to get of his son.
"Bet you're feeling a bit stupid now," came a cracked, unclear voice that had an odd accent. Trying to detach himself from what he was hearing, Sherlock focused on the accent. Irish? American? There was something of a different twang in there as well and he narrowed his eyes as he tried to work it out.
The only answer was ragged breathing. Sherlock could just about make out a rough shape against the dark walls in the poorly pixilated picture.
"Bet you wish I could make it quicker. That I wasn't going to enjoy-"
There was the unmistakable sound of someone spitting and then the camera jostled and the sound of a vicious backhand rang out.
"God," Lestrade whispered.
"You're going to die like a stray dog," the man sneered and the camera fumbled again. "Rotting with the garbage."
Sherlock threw up before he even realised he was moving. Heaving gasps that chundered out more water and coffee than anything as he dimly heard Lestrade say something. Mycroft's cool hands held his head for a moment, steadying him as Sherlock fought to regain control.
"Finish it," Sherlock ordered hoarsely as he wiped his mouth and turned back to the screen. "Do it," he snarled when Mycroft hesitated, looking pale himself.
He'd already seen it, Sherlock realised.
"Don't do this to-" Lestrade begun and then let out a pained noise when Sherlock reached out to continue the clip again.
"-last requests," the man was saying and that accent would be his undoing, Sherlock swore to himself. There was no fucking way he was dying before this man had been erased from the earth.
There was a long laugh. Bitter and twisted. And then-
John was blindfolded. The rag was filthy, torn and smeared with grease and drops of something that might have been blood. His hair was flattened a little longer than Sherlock remembered. The puppy fat of youth still clung to his cheeks and there was a jut to his chin that made Sherlock want to scream through the screen, scream into the past to stop John from doing something stupid.
But, even as John's mouth opened and he slightly licked his lips as if gearing up to whatever insult was bubbling away in his throat, the screen went blank.
Sherlock clawed at it, needing to see more. Needing to see the almost-adult version of his child a bit longer, needing to see where he was or gain some clues about the person John had become. Dimly, he was aware of Lestrade and Mycroft pulling him back, and of screaming noises.
Just one second more.
Please.
Xxx
There was a corner of the dilapidated building that was just about free from needles. Kicking them to one side, John sat down, the window by him boarded up and as safe as he could get.
His hand, steady until now, threatened to shake and John tilted his head back against the wall as his mind wouldn't stop spinning what Luca had said to him.
He can't approve of this.
What would his father say to it?
Nothing good probably. There he was, the son of Sherlock Holmes. Killer, criminal. Waste.
He skimmed off his jacket and then the jumper he was wearing. It was too easy to get used to the smell of unwashed bodies and dirty clothes when you lived the way he was. He'd nicked some clean clothes from a laundry place in one of the ancient buildings a few streets away and shoved his spares in a wash figuring someone would probably pick them up.
Best way to avoid patterns in what you wear. Don't let yourself choose anything but what fits.
Sat in a t-shirt and jeans against the chill of the February air, John rubbed at his hands and then frowned at the scars running up his arms from the cigarettes they'd used on him. There was a long scar on his left arm too from a stray knife when he'd been out with Finn. Another slightly thicker scar was on his side from sparring with Vanter, one of Moran's men that had been shot dead when Mary and Finn had stormed the compound.
His back was a mess that he didn't even want to revisit. God only knew what an x-ray would show with the fractures he'd had and the medical care he'd seen.
He can't approve of this.
It was done now though, wasn't it? He wasn't Sherlock's kid anymore, wasn't a child to be cared for or healed. This was what was left.
You're what I forged in the ruins of the great detective's son
The burns were slightly raised from the rest of his skin as he traced his fingers over them. Across, a slightly more aware crack user eyed him up suspiciously, eyes scanning John's things in an obvious way to check if there was anything worth stealing.
He could go to his grandparents. They'd be overjoyed, welcome him home, give him a bed to sleep in…god, a bed. How long had it been since he'd slept in a real bed, in a safe place? In a place where there was breakfast and television and-
His hand spasmed at the very idea and John didn't know whether to smile or cry as he leaned his head back against the wall and stared up at the rotting ceiling, the beams looking precarious with the old wires snaking through to dip down low occasionally.
Jesus, he thought as he stared at his hand that still shook, even his own body was betraying him. Almost as if to remind him how broken he actually was.
You're going to die like a stray dog, rotting with the garbage.
Probably.
But Kavan was going to rot with him.
Jutting out his chin, John pulled the papers close, the lights from outside giving him just enough light to work with. Fuck it if he was tired, it was hardly like he was a normal productive member of society who had to think about those things.
There was one person that he needed to kill, and being tired wasn't even close to being a realistic reason to stop and take a rest now.
Still, the first time he read his father's name he didn't really think about it, used to seeing it in the newspapers before he'd ran away.
…with the help of Sherlock Holmes…
He can't approve of this.
John froze.
Everything in him froze until he felt lightheaded from lack of breath.
For the longest time he felt like he couldn't move, couldn't think.
Without allowing himself to even begin going there, he reached out for his phone and searched Sherlock Holmes, not caring that a few around him perked up at the sight of something they could sell for their next score.
Back from the dead.
He sat and stared at the screen long after it timed out and everything went dark.
Next chapter - History and will be posted on Friday :)
