Chapter Twelve
John felt his forehead. The fever was still there, but he couldn't tell how bad it was. If the paracetamol had worked, the effect was long gone.
He walked back into the library, being stopped now at the door, but only, because the man in front of him had to open his bags so the security team could check it. He forced himself not to check for his gun.
As he walked up the stairs again, his eyes fell on a display. It was a few collected self reflexive phrases by Darwin and as John read over them his breath caught. A scientific man ought to have no wishes, no affections, - a mere heart of stone. A few lines below he read another quote: I am turned into a sort of machine for observing facts and grinding out conclusions. It was uncanny. It was almost exactly what Sherlock had said about himself the few times that they had talked about where he saw himself in life. The first line made John incredibly sad, but he also knew that it was not entirely true, the second one however, fit perfectly. When Sherlock was on a case, he was unstoppable. Nothing could drag him away from a case that he had dug his teeth in, no hunger, no exhaustion, no better judgment, not even John.
His heart heavy, he tried to take in his surroundings. The last preparations were finished, everything seemed in order. Then he spotted Miss Romanov wiping the displays with a cotton cloth, all the while reading over the descriptions on the showcases. He could see her swallow nervously, and then, in one fluid movement she passed the door, stuck in a key and locked it. Without breaking her stride, she moved on to the next display.
She's good, John thought. Now that he knew that she was Anthea's sister he understood better why she had kept her cool. Thinking of it, he had never seen Anthea so much as flinch at anything that happened in his presence. Miss Romanov seemed nervous, but considering she was the curator of an exhibition that would open in a few minutes, it was to be expected. Just before she went to take away the cloth, she looked at him and gave a short nod. He inhaled and walked to the right where he had sat when he had been on the phone to Sarah.
She had not tried to contact him again and he was thankful for that. There was too much going on in his head already. He ran his fingers over his phone, remembering the first day when Sherlock had explained his deduction to him. He had been incredibly impressed, and even though he was by now much better at guessing, it was still beyond him how Sherlock was able to perceive so much information in so little time and draw conclusions that were, most of the time, correct. He wondered whether Sherlock knew what he was doing now. This whole episode made no sense to him at all, and he grew weary of trying to find an answer. When this was over he would take a break. He would just go away somewhere, leave London behind for a while and catch his breath.
With a grin he shook his head at himself. There was no way he would be leaving Sherlock alone once they returned home. What he needed was normalcy, he needed to be home and watch Sherlock pacing the room, staring at the skull inquiringly, create a mess that John would clean up and that would leave Sherlock giddily happy because then he had room again to bring in new experiments that would take up most of the space in the kitchen. Yes, that sounded incredibly relaxing.
A headache started to pulse behind his temples. He amused himself with thoughts of Sherlock trying to take care of him. He couldn't remember that Sherlock had ever cooked anything, well, except for severed body parts and chemicals. Somehow the thought of Sherlock looking worried and bringing him tea to the couch that he was now - but only now - allowed to occupy in its entirety made him feel much better.
As he watched a crowd gathering in a half circle around Miss Romanov, he also saw people leaving the manuscript reading room. A staff member closed the door behind them, locked it with a key card and walked down the stairs to join the group. A few photographers were present, but also interested visitors and intellectuals, as well as people in expensive clothes, probably investors or undercover security.
Miss Romanov coughed nervously, and then started to speak. She welcomed everyone, explained briefly who she was and then started talking about the importance of Darwin's work two hundred years after his birth, his influence on the modern way of thinking and his personal struggle with the science that had not only altered the world's thinking, but also his own life.
John thought she was doing a great job. There was no trace of anxiety, no nervous hands, no fidgeting. Definitely Anthea's sister. She was now talking about the pride which the library took in being able to present the handwritten documents and thoughts, grouped together with illustrations, either by Darwin himself or his contemporaries, pointing to her left and right, but nowhere in particular. When she thanked everybody for their coming and handed the word over to the director of the library who shortly thanked the investors and everyone involved, especially Mr Chamberlain, who could sadly not be here to join them for the opening, John realised that she did not intend to mention the unseen paper.
It seemed a little strange, considering that it would definitely surprise the press and give them something special to write about, but she was being safe, just as she had told him. And there was more. His theory about the criminals stealing the manuscript was wrong. The exhibition was being opened and the page was still there, somewhere, so it was not about owning something before anyone had had the chance to see it. They wanted to own something that people had seen - they needed eye witnesses so it would not only be a myth, but a fact. By not mentioning the paper, however, Miss Romanov was making sure that the fact would remain a myth for now.
After the opening speech, the visitors spread out to look at the showcases, and John joined them, trying to figure out which one might be the special case. He noticed that Miss Romanov had not changed the order of the cases as he had suggested, but he had seen her remove some of the descriptions on them to make sure that the new sheet would not stand out. He made his way towards her, where people were congratulating her. She had blushed, obviously embarrassed by the attention she got for something that she barely had any part in. John smiled and took her hand. "Great job, really." He said it, looking her straight in the eye, nodding lightly. Only in his hand he could feel a nervous tremor, not unlike the one he used to have. "Thank you," she answered, her voice steady.
He turned around to stand in front of the showcase that should have shown the finches, and he was surprised to find that it had been exchanged with a page full of handwritten lines explaining Darwin's thoughts on rotting cadavers. He almost laughed out loud as he wondered whether Sherlock was actually a reincarnation of Darwin.
"Congratulations." He flew around, almost knocking himself off his feet. He would notice that voice anywhere. Moriarty! His heart was racing. If he made himself known now, it would be the death of him, he was sure about that. But he must have seen him already, he must have known that he was here, lingering around, watching the exhibition.
Of course, he should have known right away. Moriarty would be the kind of man to make things complicated. He knew that Sherlock couldn't resist his call. He needed to get out of here. Don't run, he told himself. Don't draw any attention to yourself. He now cursed the locked door in front of him. Maybe he had advised Miss Romanov to do the exact wrong thing. Sherlock, where are you when I need you? His mind was racing, but a part of him was glad that Sherlock wasn't here, wasn't in immediate danger.
John closed his eyes and counted to ten. Just as he wanted to turn around, he could feel Moriarty's presence next to him. "What do we have here?" His voice was high pitched, brimming with excitement, and yet not the full blown shrill that had possessed his voice back when John had met the real James Moriarty for the first time. "An unpublished manuscript."
John inhaled slowly, and, knowing that it was too late to escape unnoticed, turned towards him.
"Jim."
"John, who would have thought that we'd meet again? And here, of all places."
John fought down a shudder. He did not want to be here with this man standing next to him, planning God knows what to torture and kill him and then Sherlock.
"Why are you here?"
"Why are you here?"
The sarcasm in his voice was dripping.
"I'm visiting a friend."
Moriarty turned towards Miss Romanov. "She's really kind of sweet, isn't she? Such a shame."
John spun around, grabbing him by the collar. "Security!" he called, hoping someone would hear him. "Security!"
Two large men walked towards him and towered behind Moriarty. "Is there a problem, boss?" one of them asked, and John's heart sank.
"No, John Watson was just very happy to see me."
John wanted to grab his gun, he wanted to shoot the man that was threatening the life he had, him, Sherlock, and now also Miss Romanov. He let go of the collar, catching movement somewhere in the corner of his eye. Miss Romanov was walking out of the library, the night watch walking towards her, and, taking her arm, leading her away from the building.
He did not allow himself to relax. He knew that Moriarty had a similar gift for observation that Sherlock had, and he needed her to be safe. Therefore, he tried to focus his contempt on the man in front of him. "What do you want?"
Jim Moriarty raised one eyebrow in disgust. "I don't want, I take." With that he turned around, taking his two bodyguards with him.
John felt his knees give. He fell against the wall and just struggled with standing for a few seconds until the trusted himself enough to move away. The only safe place was in the crowd, and so he tried to mingle, but Moriarty was always there, watching him, enjoying the panic that his presence caused John. Then he saw a woman slowly make her way up the stairs toward the manuscript room. She opened the door without difficulty and slipped inside. Cursing his inability to take action, he pulled out his phone and started writing a text.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Moriarty was standing behind him, close enough that he could feel his breath. John prayed that he would not grab his gun.
"I want to say good bye." He said in all seriousness, turning around. "You will let me do that, at least."
"To whom in the world would you want to say good bye? Do you really think you matter to anyone?" He laughed, and John's urge to hurt him grew.
"All you do is hurt people. Your ignorance is disgusting, which delights me greatly."
John exhaled audibly. "I still want to say good bye to Sarah."
Moriarty moved around to face him, staring at him with inquiring dark eyes. "Sarah." It sounded like an insult. "I think we both know that she hates you now, after you so elegantly asked her all the wrong questions."
John decided to block out the disgust that seemed to haul him towards a place that he did not want to go. "I know you don't understand what it means to actually care, but even hating someone means caring."
Jim Moriarty laughed in his face. He took John's phone from him and started typing a message. Lovely Sarah, what I told you earlier was wrong. I lied to myself. I love you, always have, always will. John. He pressed send while John looked on, barely managing to not hit him square in the face. The only thought that kept him from acting out was the fact that he would actually enjoy being hit by him.
"There's your good bye," he said, dropping the phone to the floor and stepping on it with his heel, glass and plastic splintering. "Oops." He smiled at John, who started wondering why nobody seemed to be paying attention. For one second he felt transported back to his childhood, to one of the reasons why he couldn't sleep and needed a drink of milk in the middle of the night. He was being mocked for his size, for his home made sweaters, for his quiet character; there was always something the older kids found to mock him about. And they had always found his weaker points, new toys that he had gotten for his birthday, floating away in the river, cookies that his mum had made especially for him, crumbled in the dirt outside.
And now his phone, the phone his sister had given to him, the phone that Sherlock had used to unravel the case that was John, the phone that had texts of Sherlock on it, asking for him to come home, luring him into a case by promising danger, nagging him about buying milk, cursing randomly, because he knew that John wouldn't mind.
He was still staring at the mess on the ground in front of him when he could see blue light flashing outside. It was almost completely dark by now and the light reflected on the walls of the entrance hall. Dumbfounded, he stared at the flash of blue light that seemed to calm him down somewhat, but at the same time made him panic. The police could not be involved. How did they know? What was happening? John felt out of control. Everything he had thought he knew about this was slowly dissolving in that light. He saw dark figures moving towards the building.
Moriarty was gone. He looked around himself, his eyes wide. He and his bodyguards were not to be seen anywhere, but he would not be fooled. His knelt down on the floor, watching people get nervous because of the police presence outside, and many of them made their way down to the exit, looking around themselves nervously. No panic yet, which was good, he noted. With slightly shaking hands he picked his sim card out of the mess that had been his phone and pocketed it. Slightly relieved he got up again and moved back to stand between show cases, so we would not be immediately seen by anyone who came up to him from the side.
A single shot exploded close to him and it shook him as if it had been him that was hit. Within a second, the crowd was screaming, running for the doors, streaming outside. There was a dead man on the ground, close to where his phone lay. The man had his hair colour and wore a jacket similar to his. "No, no, please no."
He knew he should be in shock. Someone had actually tried to kill him, and succeeded, but it was not him, again, it had not hit him. He did not believe in luck, not after living with Sherlock and his mathematics, but this seemed almost too much of whatever it was for a life time. And yet his heart was breaking over the fact that somebody else had been shot, somebody who just came to look at some Darwin manuscripts.
