A/N - i am so sorry its taken so long to get this done but im doing a level exams at the moment and also this chapter was HELLISH jesus christ i think ive managed to write 4.5k words of filler
anyway, i hope you enjoy
PS. this hasnt been proofread. im not really feeling it atm
Chapter 12 – Do Me a Favour
Emma felt light headed, though she wasn't sure why. She had briefly lost consciousness in the taxi on the way back to 221B, her head lolling heavily against Sherlock's shoulder. Her knee had seized up, making it difficult to get out of the cab once it pulled up outside of the flat, and John had to help her climb out – half dragging her across the pavement to the door. Emma's vision was dark and blurring, and her head swam. John was talking to her, trying to keep her awake but she didn't know what he was saying, just that he was tutting a lot. She could feel something dripping down her left hand and a glance told her that it was covered in blood. It took her a while but she eventually pieced together the idea that the vein her IV had been placed in had started bleeding again.
Mrs Hudson was angrier that Emma had ever seen her before, and Emma had seen her in the aftermath of the intestines in the bathtub incident. She was shouting at Sherlock, her voice shill, ringing in Emma's ears. Sherlock was explaining something to her. Emma coughed, her ribs stabbing at her lungs as she did so, and groaned loudly. John shouted something at Sherlock and he hurried to pull open the door to the flat as John dragged her up the stairs.
She was dropped heavily into Sherlock's armchair, and John disappeared from Emma's eye line for a few moments, before retuning and crouching in front of her, taking her hand and wrapping it tightly with bandages. She moaned, complaining without words that the bandages were too tight. John looked up at her, his brow furrowed,
"They have to be that tight to stop the bleeding. You've lost a lot of blood already."
Emma screwed her eyes shut and shook her head at him, "'M fine," she waved her right hand at him, as he stuck down her bandages with bandage tape. John almost laughed,
"Emma, you're half-dead."
He got up and disappeared into the kitchen, and Emma looked over to the door, where Sherlock stood, twitching his fingers fretfully as he had done in the street. He looked worried, or deep in thought, Emma couldn't tell which; he was too blurry.
"What's up with you?" She asked him, stretching her shaking fingers in an attempt to stop them. Sherlock looked up at her for a moment, before making his way past her to his laptop, pulling off his scarf and coat as he went and dumping them in her lap.
"Four assassins living right on our doorstep –"
"Wait what?" Emma interrupted, and Sherlock looked up from the laptop at her, pausing mid sentence,
"Yes, four assassins – keep up – they've moved in over the past two months; who do you think just got shot? Who do you think shot them?" He sighed at her, and then continued, "They're not here to kill me, they're here to keep me alive."
John came back into the room, handing Emma a packet of biscuits. Emma looked at him quizzically, and he sighed,
"Eat them, you need energy – you're exhausted."
She nodded, before he helped her stand up and turned to Mrs Hudson, "Can you help her get some proper clothes on, please?"
The woman nodded, before moving to help Emma up the stairs to her bedroom. As they left, they heard Sherlock and John discussing what had just happened,
"I've got something that all of them want, but if one of them approaches me..."
"The others kill them before they can get their hands on it."
Mrs Hudson sat Emma down on her bed, before going over to her drawers and pulling out articles of clothing. Emma hadn't previously realised how hungry she was – she had rejected any offer of food from the hospital – and her fingers fumbled at the wrapping of the biscuits before she ripped it open and began devouring its contents. The old woman tutted at her,
"Anyone would think you haven't eaten in days." She shook her head, placing the pile of neatly folded clothes on the bed next to Emma, who began undoing the buttons on her coat,
"I don't think I have, to be honest," She slipped her coat off, lying it next to her on the duvet, before attempting to reach up to untie the knots tying her hospital gown closed. She hissed as her shoulders stung, and Mrs Hudson batted her hands away, pulling at the bows herself. The woman made a sound of dismay when she saw the thick layer of bandages around Emma's ribs,
"You know," She started angrily, "That father of yours is terrible – just look what's happened to you!" She handed Emma a t-shirt, which she pulled over her head with some difficulty. Emma half laughed at the woman,
"And this is only after, what, three months?" She hissed as the fabric went over her ribs, "Just imagine where I'll be in six years."
"Don't say that," Mrs Hudson said sadly as Emma pulled on a pair of dark jeans. The girl screwed her eyes up as she pulled them over her knee to stop herself from crying, the pain shooting up her leg as it bent.
As Emma stood up, pulling her coat back around her shoulders, she looked up at Mrs Hudson, her eyes watering and her knee shaking, "Get me every painkiller in this building and get me them quickly."
Mrs Hudson looked taken aback, but nodded and rushed out of the room. Emma picked up the packet of biscuits and shoved another in her mouth, before turning towards the door and making her way slowly from her room and back down the stairs to the living room, where Sherlock was stood on the table, peering in the bookshelf.
"Cameras," He said, clearly continuing a conversation that had been occurring when Emma had been upstairs, "We're being watched."
Emma stopped in her tracks. Being watched? By who? What if it was –
What if it was Jim?
She felt herself begin to panic, her breathing quickening. She had to steady herself with a hand on the doorframe to stay upright as her legs began to shake, "Watched? By who?" She managed to ask.
"John, hug Emma." Sherlock said shortly, as the doorbell rand and Mrs Hudson rushed from the room to answer the door. Emma waved away the blogger before he approached her, and Sherlock began moving books around, "It's not him, don't worry."
Emma nodded, before being pushed out of the doorway by Lestrade, who entered the room, his expression hard. Sherlock didn't look round at the new arrival,
"No, inspector," He said, pulling something small and dark from between books in the shelf.
"What?" Lestrade asked, glancing round at John quickly, looking confused.
Sherlock stepped down, a camera clutched in his fingers, "The answer's no."
"But you haven't heard the question!" Lestrade shouted incredulously. Emma was tapped on the shoulder by Mrs Hudson silently, who pressed three different boxes of pills into her hands, along with a bottle of water. She nodded to the woman in thanks, before moving into the living room and sitting on the sofa, opening the first packet and taking three of the painkillers inside.
"You want to take me to the station; I'm just saving you the trouble of asking." He walked closer to Greg, who pulled in a breath.
"Sherlock –" He started, but he was interrupted by the detective, who asked,
"The scream?"
"Yeah." Lestrade admitted quickly, sighing. Emma swallowed three more pills.
"Who was it? Was it Donovan? I bet it was Donovan," Sherlock shook his head slightly, "Am I somehow responsible for the kidnapping? Oh, Moriarty is smart," Emma looked up, suddenly more interested in the conversation, "He planted that doubt in your head; that little nagging sensation. You're going to have to be strong to resist – you can't kill an idea, can you? Not when it's made a home," Sherlock reached and pressed a finger above the space between his eyebrows on his forehead, "there." He shook his head once more and stepped away from Greg, furrowing his brow, "You think I would kidnap my own daughter and murder her family?"
"No, but –" Lestrade sighed, "Will you come?" He asked. Sherlock turned and sat at his laptop, starting to type. Emma took some more painkillers, before setting the boxes down on the coffee table and taking another swig of water.
"One photograph – that's his next move. Moriarty's game: first the scream, then a photograph of me being taken in for questioning." Emma watched him as he spoke, his face illuminated by the glow of the laptop screen, "He wants to destroy me; inch by inch." He picked up the camera he had taken from the bookshelf and looked at it for a moment, before raising his eyes to Lestrade, "It is a game, Lestrade, and not one I am willing to play."
Sherlock looked back down at the laptop and spoke without raising his head, "Give my regards to Sergeant Donovan." He said. Greg sighed and exchanged a look with John before nodding to Emma and heading off towards the door. He stopped, his brow furrowing, and turned back to the girl, who screwed the lid back on her bottle of water,
"What are you doing here? You're supposed to be in hospital." He asked, anger bubbling in his voice.
"Am I? I didn't realise." Emma shrugged at him, "I'll be sure to get back there right away, Inspector, don't you worry."
He narrowed his eyes at her as she gave him a smile, but left the flat regardless.
John moved over to the window to watch him go, his hands linked behind his back, and Emma lay back on the sofa, thankful for a bit of quiet so she could finally relax.
"They'll be deciding." Sherlock stated.
"Deciding?" John queried.
"Whether to come back with a warrant and arrest me."
"You think?" John turned back to face Sherlock, who shrugged,
"Standard procedure."
John sighed, "You should've gone with him, people will think –"
"I don't care what people think." Sherlock interrupted quickly, his eyes narrowing at John.
John raised his eyebrows, "You'd care if they thought you were stupid, or wrong."
"No," Sherlock said quickly, brushing off the statement, "That would just make them stupid or wrong."
John was angry now, and raised his voice as he took as step toward the detective, "Sherlock, I don't want the world believing you're..." He broke off as Sherlock's eyes met his. There was a long pause.
"That I am what?"
John's shoulders dropped slightly, and he was quiet once more, "A fraud."
Emma narrowed her eyes at John, searching his face, "You're scared," She started, "You're scared that they're right."
"What?" John looked at her where she lay, shaking his head.
"She's right; you're worried that they're right about me." Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking back at the laptop, "That's why you're so upset, you can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You're afraid you've been taken in as well."
John shook his head, his voice tainted with light laughter, as he turned back towards the window, "No I'm not." Sherlock leaned towards him, still sat in front of the laptop,
"Moriarty is playing with your mind as well," He raised his voice, furious, slamming his fist down on the table heavily as he shouted, "Can't you see what's going on?!"
The bang as Sherlock's fist hit the table made Emma jump, and she whimpered quietly – remembering Moran punching her, over and over. Sherlock ignored her, staring at John, who turned at returned his gaze for a few moments before speaking,
"No; I know you're for real."
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, "A hundred percent?"
"Well, no one could fake being such an annoying dick all the time." He seemed to wait until Sherlock smiled, before turning away once more, silence falling over the flat.
Once it seemed like no one was going reignite the conversation, Emma pulled headphones from her pocket and placed them in her ears with shaking fingers, suddenly realising that it had been almost four days since she had listened to any music at all. She shut her eyes to the scene around her, shutting everything out but the layers of instruments in her ears, relishing this short chance to hear a song or two. She figured she wouldn't have time again for a while.
'She walked away, well her shoes were untied / and the eyes were all red, you could see that we'd cried / and I watched and I waited 'till she was inside / forcing a smile and waving goodbye'
She sat there, lost in the music, for what seemed to her like half an hour, before John's phone rang, pulling her from her meditation. She pulled the headphones from her ears and watched as John left the room, leaving Emma and Sherlock alone. He was still typing furiously at his laptop, and so Emma got up slowly, her hands at her ribcage, and made her way over to him, glancing over his shoulder at the screen.
There were several windows open – one showing a live, black and white image of Sherlock's face, which Emma realised was the feed from the tiny camera found in the bookshelf, which was now propped up on the desk – he seemed to be searching up on the both the assassins and himself.
Sherlock glanced up at her for a fraction of a second, before continuing his searching, "This is why I need you here – I need you to see what he's doing. He's ruining my reputation, he's going to show the world that I am a fake and I need you here so that you don't go on believing that it's true."
"I wouldn't believe it anyway." Emma frowned at him, but he didn't look around.
"He's playing with your mind as well, that's what he did when he kidnapped you. He's planting thoughts in your mind so that he can control you," Sherlock opened a new window and started searching up on a person whose name Emma did not recognise – Kitty Riley, "One day you may well believe it, Emma." He looked up at her, his fingers pausing above the keyboard.
Emma smirked at him, "Jim'll never control me – no one's managed it before."
"He's already started."
Emma's smirk dropped, "What?"
"He's already got inside your head." Sherlock's eyes bore into Emma's, hard and serious, "What do you call him?"
"Who?"
"Who do you think?"
"Well, Jim – that's his name." Emma frowned, shrugging her shoulders.
"You never used to call him that." Sherlock looked back down at the laptop, continuing his typing, "Odd, isn't it, how little things change."
Emma raised an eyebrow, "Just because I don't call him by his last name doesn't mean he's got any sort of control over me. It doesn't mean –"
"What doesn't it mean?" Sherlock turned back towards her, his voice low and his words fast, "Because, if my thinking is correct, and it usually is, people don't usually refer to people who want them dead by their nicknames."
Emma was about to retort, but the words wouldn't come out. She didn't know what to say to that. Sherlock watched her for a few moments before standing and moving over to his armchair, and John came back into the room, his phone still at his ear,
"Yeah, thanks, Greg." He lowered the mobile and hung up the call, then turned back to Sherlock, "So, still got some friends on the force," He gestured with the phone, "It's Lestrade, says their all coming over here right now, queuing to slap on the handcuffs: every single officer you ever made feel like a tit, which is a lot of people."
Sherlock ignored him, and Emma went to sit back in her spot on the sofa, as Mrs Hudson knocked on the door and entered the room,
"Oh, sorry; am I interrupting?" She asked, before turning her attention to John. Emma saw Sherlock roll his eyes before catching her gaze in smiling half-heartedly, "Some chap delivered a parcel, marked 'perishable'. I had to sign for it." She held out a brown envelope with a red wax seal to John, who took it as Emma stood up quickly – it looked exactly like the one she had received at the hospital, "Funny name – German, like the fairy tales."
Emma looked over to Sherlock, who stood and made his way over to look at the contents on the envelope. The detective shook his head at the girl who stared, her stomach twisting.
"Every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain." She said. Sherlock frowned at her, then inspected the seal.
"Magpie, not pig." He shot her a glance, before looking down at the object John had taken from the envelope. It was a gingerbread man, but it was blackened and charred, "Burnt to a crisp."
Sirens in the street indicated that Greg was back, this time bringing a warrant and backup. Emma looked to the window, where the flashing lights from the police cars painted dancing patterns on the curtains, before moving over to where Sherlock and John stood, taking the gingerbread man in her fist.
"What does it mean?" John directed his question at Sherlock, who said nothing. Emma raised her eyes to the blogger,
"Run, run, run as fast as you can."
The doorbell rang as somebody began repeatedly slamming the knocker, yelling "Police!"
Mrs Hudson looked flustered, "I'll go." She said quickly, before hurrying away down the stairs as Emma handed the gingerbread man back to John, who slipped it back into the envelope.
Footsteps thundered up the stairs, accompanied by a woman's voice, "We need to talk to you!"
John shoved the envelope into Emma's hands before exiting the flat, standing at the top of the stairs to block the police officers' way.
"Have you got a warrant? Have you?"
Emma went back to place the envelope on the table, before shooting a glance at Sherlock. She could feel anxiety bubbling inside of her stomach – what would she do once Sherlock was arrested? He was all she had left, where was she supposed to go once she was alone?
The rest happened in a blur – Lestrade entered, reading Sherlock his rights before arresting him. Emma just stood, watching, not speaking, wanting very much to vomit. He was taken from the room, led down the stairs while John and Mrs Hudson protested.
Emma just watched, feeling numb.
John came over to where she stood, placing a hand on her shoulder. He was so close, yet he seemed so far away.
"You alright?" He asked quietly, police officers still milling around the flat, chatting as if Emma's whole world wasn't crumbling around her. Emma paused, trying to think of a good answer,
"Stupid question." She muttered, and John sighed, his grip on her shoulder tightening for a moment, before he released it and moved away towards the policewoman who stood in the doorway.
"You done?" He asked her; she looked smug,
"Oh, I said it," She smiled, her head inclining to the side.
"Mm hmm?" John's eyebrows were raised; he looked as if he was trying very hard not to slap the woman in the face.
"First time we met," The woman continued,
"Don't bother," John shook his head, "Not in front of her," He gestured back towards Emma with a hand half heartedly.
"No, I said it, didn't I? 'Solving crimes won't be enough – one day he'll cross the line'." She took a step toward John, her eyebrows raised, "Now, ask yourself, what kind of a man would murder his own daughter's family, what kind of a man would kidnap those kids just so he could impress us all by finding them?"
John balled his hands into fists. Emma could feel the emptiness that had overcome her dripping away, her gut twisting and her blood pounding. This woman, whoever she was, was definitely asking for a slap. Or worse.
The chief superintendant entered the room. He was a portly man with a cheap suit and a receding hairline.
"Donovan?" He questioned. His voice was nasal and sharp.
"Sir?" The woman's smug smile dropped, preferring an air of professionalism to one of bichiness, seemingly.
"Got our man?" The superintendent's eyes swept over the room, grazing past Emma, his eyes narrowing slightly as he addressed Donovan.
"Er, yes, sir."
The superintendent was still watching Emma, who could practically feel the anger in her throat, lingering like vomit. He spoke harshly, "Looked a bit of a weirdo if you ask me," Emma saw John turn toward the man in the corner of her eye. She stared the superintendent out, and his eyes swept away once more, "Often are, these vigilante types." He seemed to notice John, and turned pointedly towards him, "What are you looking at?"
John could obviously take the insults no longer, his anger winning out. He punched the superintendent across the face – hard.
What happened next was fast – much faster than Sherlock's arrest. Two police officers ran in from the hall and grabbed John by the arms, dragging him out of the room as they told him he was under arrest for assaulting an officer. Emma couldn't help but laugh as the superintendent followed them down the stairs, a handkerchief at his nose to stop the boodflow. Donovan scoffed,
"Why am I surprised? The first sound I've heard from you all night and it's in favour of someone getting hurt," She raised an eyebrow, "I don't even have to ask who you're related to."
Emma's laughter stopped and her smile dropped, "Is that because of the looks, or because of the general air of intelligence and wit coming from this side of the room?" She asked flatly.
"No," Donovan took a step towards Emma, smirking once more. Emma's fingers flexed. "It's because you're a smug little bitch and a freak, just like your dad."
Emma's voice was low and quiet, her eyes hard, "What did you just call him?"
"A freak, because that's what he is – and it seems you two are quite similar in that sense."
Before she knew what she was doing Emma's fist collided with the woman's face, her knuckles cracking against her cheekbone. She almost shocked herself, and pulled her hand back into her chest, clutching at her fingers, which ached violently.
As she watched Donovan steady herself, she felt hands grabbing at her arms, pulling them round to her back. There was a moment of panic when she remembered Moran clutching at her, forcing her to watch while Jim... What did he do again?
"Emma Holmes –"
"Stoneheart." Emma interrupted Donovan, who paused, before shaking her head and continuing,
"Emma Stoneheart, I am arresting you on suspicion of assaulting a police officer,"
"There's no suspicion about it, really, is there?"
"Take her downstairs." Donovan said to the officer holding Emma bitterly, her cheek bright red. Emma smirked at her as she left the room.
"There's no need to push," She told the officer as he shoved her down the stairs, "My knee's super bad, anyway, I might fall and die and then who'll be liable?"
The officer grunted, but tightened his grip on her arms – it was a silent threat, Emma observed, that they wouldn't condone any more quips from her. She was satisfied anyway; punching Donovan had been an excellent stress reliever.
The cold wind whipped around her as she was pushed out onto the darkened street, where police officers were hanging around, the flashing lights of their cars lighting up the street and dancing on the sides of the buildings.
"What is she doing here?" Greg half-jogged up to Emma and the police officer. He looked flustered, more upset than angry, and was holding a mobile phone away from his face, as if he was pausing a conversation to intervene.
"Punched Donovan." The police officer was blunt, and Greg nodded once, slowly, as if he didn't believe it.
"Really?" He directed the question to Emma rather than the policeman, his eyebrows raised.
Emma shrugged, half smiling, "She called my dad a freak."
Greg sighed, then waved the two of them off. Emma was almost dragged over to a police car, her bad knee causing her to limp slightly, pain shooting up her leg whenever she put a bit too much weight on it. She was slammed against the car by the policeman, who ignored her cursing, and was promptly handcuffed to the man next to her,
"I was wondering how long it would take for you to join us." Sherlock drawled, looking down at her.
"I was banking more on ten minutes," John sighed,
"You owe me a fiver," Sherlock directed the comment toward the blogger, who laughed lightly.
"Not to interrupt or anything but, in case you hadn't noticed there's no one to bail us."
Sherlock looked at Emma, his brow furrowed, "What are you talking about?"
Emma's eyebrows shot up, "We've been arrested!" She said incredulously. Sherlock shook his head at her,
"You're definitely focussing on the wrong thing here."
"What else is there to focus on?" She asked, her voice becoming shrill and panicked.
"Why, our imminent and daring escape, of course."
Emma heard John begin to question Sherlock, before she saw Sherlock's hand disappear inside the police car and squeeze the radio lying on the dashboard and she couldn't hear anything other than the screech of feedback. The police officer who lingered behind the three of them doubled over, his earpiece screaming, the sound filling his head. Sherlock reached over with the hand that was handcuffed to John's and took the officer's gun, raising it towards the hoard of police,
"Ladies and gentlemen, will you please all get on your knees?"
No one reacted to Sherlock's command, save Greg rolling his eyes. Emma's eyes were glued to the gun in Sherlock's hand, and she could feel herself start to shake.
Two shots – Sherlock had fired in the air, though that made no difference. Emma screamed, screwing her eyes up, trying to move away from the detective, however she couldn't, being handcuffed to him.
"NOW would be good." The gun was back on the police officers, and Emma watched it, her eyes wide and glassy. Her breathing was heavy and deep, shuddering. Sherlock wordlessly grabbed her hand in effort to calm her down – to let her know he wasn't going to hurt her? Emma though maybe it was something more...
They were going to run.
Just like Jim wanted them to.
"Everyone do as he says!" Greg yelled, gesturing for all of the officers to get down. They obeyed him, kneeling down on the pavement, their hands up.
John spoke up, his voice loud but wavering slightly, "Just – just so you're aware, the gun was his idea, I'm just a, y'know –"
"My hostage." Sherlock dropped Emma's hand but it was dragged with his as he took hold of the pistol and pointed it at John's head.
"What the fuck are you doing?" She hissed, becoming rather short of breath, her heart pounding in her chest.
"Hostage, yes, that works – that works." John muttered, sarcasm mixing with panic in his voice.
The three of them backed away from the police slowly, not turning around. Emma had to focus very hard not to fall, her knee aching more and more with every step. She glanced behind them to check the road was clear, and her eyes fell on something which made her stop in her tracks.
Graffiti, three feet tall and bright red. Elaborate angel wings surrounding three letters.
I.O.U.
Sherlock tugged back on the handcuffs slightly to bring her attention back to what was going on, and Emma shook her head to clear it, before continuing away from the police.
"So," John started, "What now?"
Sherlock began quickening the pace, "Doing what Moriarty wants – I'm becoming a fugitive," The hand holding the gun dropped and they began to turn away from the hoard of officers, "Run."
A/N - reviews would be fab as fuck
