Chapter 12

Redemption

The sky had grown bright and was littered with sculpted cumulous clouds. John wove down a single lane country road. The driveways were so long, the mailboxes so few and the wood was so thick that John was worried he might miss his turn. The street signs had gotten smaller and smaller the deeper he'd gotten into the area. Light dappled the ground though the branches of the bare, hibernating trees. John drove slowly, looking out for some indication that he was even on the right road. Up ahead John saw headlights and pulled over, letting a stout, light green four door Honda pass him. John turned his head away and lowered his cap as the car passed, not wanting to be seen.

After what had seemed like an eternity John saw the mailbox marked #91 and turned into the long, wavy driveway. He drove until the house came into view and put the car in neutral, coming to a stop. He let his foot off the break and slowly rolled backwards down the hill until he was sure that the car was hidden from sight. With that, he put the emergency brake on, checked to make sure his weapon was secure and got out of the car. As he approached the house he checked to make sure his phone was on silent.

It was a single story, classic country home that in its hay day had must have been beautiful. Time and neglect had worn the place down. It had eaten away at the paint, tarnished the doorknobs, left cobwebs in the veranda rafters and let the yard become an untamed mess. There were two cars parked in the grass. The windows on the house were clean, the porch was swept and the pathways from the driveway to the front door was clear. It was obvious that the person living here didn't completely neglect the place. John stepped onto the porch and approached the front door. He drew his weapon and reached for the nob. It was unlocked.

John gritted his teeth and swung it open. It creaked loudly, making John wince. Slowly, he crept inside. The entryway was small and led into a commonwealth sitting room. It had a blue sofa, a black coffee table, a bookshelf and television and horrid purple and orange curtains with blue flowers. The floor creaked as he walked. John felt like each step he took was thunderous.

His finger was steady on the trigger as he swung around the corner. Light poured through the window. John looked out into the back yard. Even more overgrown than the front. He stepped through the kitchen and looked around. There was an empty pan sitting on the stove. John stared at it for a moment then reached his hand out.

A chill went down his spine when he felt the heat coming off it. The stove was off. There was a carton of eggs on the counter. John spun around. The house was eerily quiet. John's eyes narrowed. Carefully he stepped back through the living room to the front door and closed it, ensuring that if anyone came in he would hear them.

Quickly and efficiently he began to search as he had been trained to, keeping his head on a swivel all the while. He checked the closet by the front door, all through the sitting room, in the pantry, in the dining room adjacent to the sitting room and even looked under the coffee table in front of the sofa. When he was certain that the front of the house was empty he stepped into the hallway. He flipped on the lights. It had four rooms, two on each side. The first room was locked. He looked at it. There was a deadbolt above the first lock. He unlocked it and tried the nob again. Still locked. This he would need a key for. Lightly, he knocked. There was no answer. He took a step forward, ready to move onto the next room and froze, listening.

He heard a very light knock. He turned back to the door and knocked again. He waited. Another light knock back. John's heart rate jumped. He wanted to say something but didn't dare until he knew the house was clear. He turned around. The door directly behind him was unlocked. He swung it open. A bathroom with a clear shower curtain. Nothing there.

The door on the right hand end was open halfway. Weapon raised, he stepped up to it.

John stuck his foot our and gave the door a push. It swung open wide and he stepped in, sweeping the gun across. A twin bed in the corner of the room was unmade. There were clothes littering the floor. John doubted that the murdered who maimed the Hawthorn family that night would be one to hide inside closets, but he wasn't prone to leaving any stone unturned. He walked towards the closed closet door. A quick glance behind him told him that no one was there, standing in the doorway, sneaking up behind him. He slid the closet door open to find_

Trousers, shirts, a bathrobe…. John realized he'd been holding his breath and exhaled slowly.

A gentle creak coming from behind John made him whip around, pointing the gun at the open bedroom door. There was no source to the sound… John stepped out of the bedroom and reached for the door opposite of it. It was unlocked. He swung it open and stepped inside. Empty. It was an office. John looked around.

John remembered the green car who had passed him on the way and wondered if that could have been the person could have been Jim Gary. The house was seemingly empty. He'd checked every place that a man of that size could have hidden, save for behind the two locked doors, both of which looked like they could only be opened from the outside.

John went back to the door he'd heard the knocking come from. Unlike Sherlock, he did not carry a number of lock picks on her person at all times. He holstered his gun, trying to think of how to proceed. He knocked on the door again, louder this time.

"Hullo? Maxime Roselander?" he called, through the door. There was a frantic thumping in answer. John's heard leaped.

"Just hang on, I'm going to get you out." John called. He ran back to the study and began rifling through the drawers, looking for the spare key. It was something that Sherlock had taught him. A man carried his important keys on his person at all times and always had a spare hiding somewhere. The most likely place would be the office. At this point, John thought that the odds were good that the man driving away had been Jim Gary. He slid open the shallow drawer in the middle of the desk and reached inside. Something metal slid under his fingers. He pulled it forward. It was a key.

John hurried back to the door and quickly inserted the key into the lock, giving it a twist. He reached for the nob just as a voice behind him cried_

"Stop!"

John whipped around. Running towards him from through the kitchen with both hands up with a tiny, thin faced blond woman with a big round belly and limp blonde hair. She had a look of horror in her eyes. In the same instant, the door that John had just unlocked flew open and a tall man with dark curly hair shoulder checked John, slamming him into the opposite wall. John tried to swear all that he could manage was a strangled gasp. The wind had been knocked out of him. The man grabbed John by the shoulders and threw him across the kitchen floor as the woman screamed. She turned and ran.

John reached for his weapon, drawing it and firing as Jim Gary kicked. John fired three rounds. Two of them hit the big man in the shoulder, the other hit him in the arm. The top of Jim Gary's foot caught John's wrist, sending the gun flying. It hit a cabinet and discharged. John didn't have time to think about where the bullet had gone. He log rolled, hitting Jim Gary's shins and toppling him over backwards. The tall man grunted as he hit the ground. John scrambled to his feet and searched the ground for his gun. It was landed in the living room. He jumped over the counter and landed on the coffee table. It snapped under John's weight and he fell forward onto the ground.

Jim Gary got to his feet, swearing in a deep, harsh voice. He dove at John as John tried to get to his feet. John stepped back and brought a knee up, catching the big man on the chin. Jim Gary swung a hard uppercut into the side of John's face and a burst of light flashed in John's eyes. He stumbled backwards into the kitchen again and the man jumped on top of him. Now John managed to swear loudly before Jim Gary reached out a massive dinner plate sized hand and wrapped it around John's throat, squeezing.

John grabbed at one of the man's fingers, pulling it back. Blood was gushing from the man's open wounds. He saw that Jim Gary had blood matted in his hair as well. John twisted but the tall man was stronger than he looked and pinned him easily, tightening him grip and grabbing one of John's wrists with his other hand. It didn't matter that he'd been shot three times. John had seen men continue fighting after being shot five or six times. It wasn't uncommon. Jim Gary would be likely die in the next twenty minutes or so without medical attention. John struggled like an animal, writhing and kicking. He was trying so hard to escape the hold but it was useless. Jim Gary had long arms and the reach made it difficult for John to do much at this point. At least if he died the woman would be free and the murderer would die too… That was all he had wanted really….

John felt himself weakening. He saw that the tile on the floor was a dirty, sea foam green.

Odd thing to notice. John thought. He looked at the man who was killing him and wondered briefly how any of the people in that mansion could have mistaken this man for Sherlock. This mad had a pale, thin face with dark curly hair and absolutely none of Sherlock's cutting intelligence in his eyes. He didn't have Sherlock's mouth or even close to his nose. His body was taller, thicker, more sturdy. He had none of Sherlock's grace. John felt himself fading, relaxing.

It's fine. It will all be fine. He thought. His eyes fluttered, starting to close.

Out of the corner of his eye John saw a shadow pass overhead and heard a sickening crack. Jim Gary's grip loosened and John took in a gasping breath. He rolled backwards as the big man went limp, sliding down and falling beside the stove. Blood was pouring down his face.

John felt himself choking and heaving but there was nothing in his stomach to throw up. His spit onto the kitchen floor, leaning to the side.

"John? John! Are you alright?" a voice said. Hands grabbed his shoulders firmly, helping him sit up. John coughed.

"Fine," he rasped, forcing himself to look up. His mouth dropped open. Time stopped. John was scared to move, breathe or speak. He gritted his teeth and began to hyperventilate as he stared into Sherlock's worried grey-green eyes. He could see that John was struggling to overcome an overwhelming level of emotion. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"How did you get here before me?" he asked. His expression was bemused. "How are you here at all?"

"I should be asking you the same thing_" John's voice was a horse whisper. He was breathing hard. "_you complete and utter dickhead."

"Ah," Sherlock looked deeply uncomfortable. "I apologize for that. You were supposed to remain subdued for another day or so until I had_"

"Subdued?" John hissed, sitting up. Sherlock leaned back, looking alarmed.

"Can I explain?" Sherlock asked anxiously. "Perhaps after I phone Lestrade and_"

"He's on his way, you clod. I called him hours ago. Unlike you I call the police before I break into a home and_"

"You are angry with me." Sherlock stared blankly.

"Mmm? Brilliant deduction. Yes I am. Of course I'm angry. You_ do you have any idea what_" John's voice cut off as his eyes filled with tears and he struggled to take in a painful breath. He looked away, breathing hard.

Sherlock stared at him, the alarmed expression returning to his face. He stood, went to the cupboard, set the gun on the counter and pulled out a clean glass. He proceeded to fill it with water and set it on the ground beside John. He stood back, waiting. John glanced down at the water, looked up at Sherlock and let out a bitter laugh. He looked away again.

"I thought_" he started, trying to force out the words through the wave of overwhelming emotions. "I thought you were dead. I really did."

"I know and I'm sorry. You were supposed to be kept out cold for another day or so until I'd solved the case. I had a dozen of Mycroft's men stationed at that hospital and a man there to administer a sedative if you woke up for too long. The purpose was to keep you from thinking that I was dead. How did you get out?"

John thought back to the man he'd choked out and left lying on the ground with most likely fractured ribs.

"Hmm." He said, grimacing as he thought about it.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "What did you do?"

"Hang on," John said, looking around. "Where did the woman go? Was that Maxime Roselander?"

Sherlock nodded. "I met her on the way in and gave her my keys. She's locked herself inside the car. I told her that if she saw the train conductor come out of the house she was to drive away immediately. If not, wait there."

"Okay." John said, nodding.

"So, what_" Sherlock started to ask again.

"I may have damaged the man who was supposed to be sedating me. In my defense, I thought he was trying to kill me." John admitted.

"After that?"

"I just left out the back door. Borrowed some supplies from Lestrade and went to see the man who shot you off the edge of a waterfall_"

"Who, by the way, saved my life in doing so." Sherlock paused. "You didn't kill him_ I hope?"

"I nearly did." John said sternly, glaring at Sherlock. He got to his feet. "Then he told me that the mountain pass was closed off with snow during the time the body was moved. I thought that the only way to have moved the body was by train but that was impossible. Then I remembered that if you've ruled out every other option, whatever is left, no matter how impossible it may seem_"

"Must be true. Brilliant." Sherlock said, smiling at him.

John huffed. "So, I went to the train station and checked out the operations log, got onto the computer, found Jim Gary's address and drove here. How did you figure it out?"

Sherlock's cheeks turned faintly pink. "I have to admit, your way was_ simpler. You remember the tetrafluoroethane? I was able to trace it back to the railroad. That's when I made the connection."

John stared at Sherlock. He was dressed in his usual black trousers, crisp white shirt and long wool coat. Sherlock stared back. His eyes were searching.

"I'm sorry." He said. "Once I realize what was happening, really realized there was no time to find you. I had to act. I found Scott up stairs with Elaine. She woke up and was convinced that I had attacked her. I realized what Moriarty's angle was. To destroy my reputation. He unjammed the phones and texted Scott, threatening him. Maxime would have been killed if I had lived. I pitched a quick plan to him. I would die and go after Maxime from behind the grave. Moriarty would think he had won. I would solve the case, bring her back, she would testify as witness against Jim Gary and everything would be fine."

"You were shot off a waterfall." John said, shaking his head.

"If I had been shot, that fall may have killed me. As it is, I was not shot. Scott fired two rounds past me and I pretended to fall over backwards. It was a sixty foot drop into a cold pool and you were not the only one who had followed us down there. This man was there too. We needed him to witness my death." Sherlock said, giving Jim Gary a kick. He groaned.

"Good. Alive." Sherlock said.

"Erm, why was he locked in the other room?" John asked.

"Maxime had managed to hit him over the head when he came in to her room. She locked him in there and was in the middle of cooking her own breakfast when you showed up. She was going to eat and then call the police. Your presence scared her and she hid behind the blinds and went out the front door when you walked past her."

There was a loud whipping noise coming from outside. A helicopter. John sighed with relief.

"Huh." John said, wondering how he could have missed the woman standing behind the god awful purple and orange curtains. "You had time to ask her all of that when you saw her running from the house?"

Sherlock ruffled his hair. "She's pregnant. She was hungry. The eggs are sitting on the counter." Sherlock explained, pointing at the carton sitting out next to the pan.

"The pan was warm when I got here." John remembered.

"I know you would have been looking for a large man, not a five foot tall woman. You wouldn't have checked behind the curtains. Only place she could have hidden that you wouldn't have noticed."

John nodded. "Okay, I can see it. Why'd she come back?"

"She heard you call her name perhaps?"

"I did call her name."

"It's a good thing we got here when we did. The phone lines are down. He's got the car keys. He has a cell phone. It didn't take him long to wake up. She would have panicked when she realized there was no one she could call and he most likely would have broken down the door by then."

John and Sherlock jumped when the front door crashed open. The both turned to see Detective Inspector Lestrade lowering his weapon as he stared at Sherlock open mouthed. He glanced down at the man on the floor.

"Jim Gary?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock nodded. Lestrade barked orders at the officers who had come in with him and they moved to get him. John and Sherlock stepped into the living room to let them through. Lestrade stared at Sherlock, shaking his head.

"You bastard." He said, looking irritated.

"Sorry Inspector. It was necessary. All of it." Sherlock replied smoothly, hands behind his back.

"What happened?" Lestrade snapped.

"To sum it up, Scott Hawthorn and Maxime Roselander were riding the train back from a weekend away and happened to be on the same train as Jim Gary. Jim Gary recognized Scott and started stalking Maxime. He kidnapped her and didn't know what to do with her. He tried having Mr. Roselander dig up the evidence against the Hawthorns that would help him get his life back but Mr. Roselander failed. Jim Gary sought help with his revenge plot and was put in touch with our very own Consulting Criminal. Moriarty was interested. He saw a fun opportunity to kill me and ruin my reputation. He directed Jim Gary. Mr. Roselander killed himself of his own free will but he did it in the wrong place. He was supposed to kill himself in London. Sentiment got the better of him. That's where Moriarty made his mistake, letting Jim Gary take the body on the train. Moriarty needed me to be on the case."

"You weren't though. We thought it was a normal suicide." Lestrade said, putting up his hands.

"Yes. An anonymous commenter on John's blog talked me into doing a suicide study. I'm guessing that was Moriarty after realizing that you idiots hadn't noticed the unusual circumstances of the death. I can just see him face-palming…."

"The rest of it was just a game of cat and mouse." John muttered, looking around the room. "He used a lot of people and a big house to play puppet master."

Lestrade looked disgustedly at the unconscious, bloody man being removed from the house.

Sherlock reached for his phone and called Scott as John went outside. John ran a hand through his hair, thinking. He was going his best to cope with the overwhelming emotions assaulting him from every angle but there was no way around it. Losing Sherlock had been perhaps the most traumatic thing that had ever happened in his life and he was going to need to get over it. John couldn't recall a time in his life that he had ever felt out of control the way he had from the time he'd woken up in the hospital until he realized that Sherlock was alive. He'd felt wild in a way that made him sick to think about. He'd come very close to killing two innocent people. The thought made him shudder.

Time passed as more police officers showed up on scene. Sherlock had several loud, rude words with Detective Inspector Marvin Ezell that made John smile. Lestrade looked pleased. Maxime Roselander was taken away in an ambulance. She'd become hysteric. A couple of reporters showed up and spoke to Sherlock. John leaned against the railing. His body grew heavy as the adrenaline left him and his mind began to wander. He closed his eyes, listening to the scene around him. He felt someone put a blanket around his shoulders and glanced up to see Sherlock walked away. John breathed evenly, tired enough to relax but not enough to sleep.

He felt a hand rest gently on his shoulder and looked up. Sherlock was staring down at him.

"You're sure you're alright?" he asked quietly, letting his hand fall.

John chuckled lightly. "Never been better." His stomach growled loudly. He wanted to stand but was afraid his legs wouldn't hold him.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "When was the last time you've eaten?" He looked John over.

Trembling. Heightened anxiety. Exhaustion. Still recovering from injury. In pain. Weak. Sherlock thought, staring at him. He felt a wave of emotion come over him. Sentiment. Caring.

Carefully, he reached out and grabbed both of John's wrists, pulling him to his feet. John swayed from the effort and Sherlock wrapped an arm around his waist and kept hold on his other arm. John looked up at him. His eyes were grateful.

A bright flash made both of them turn. Another flash.

John and Sherlock spoke at the same time.

"Piss off!" John snapped at the photographer.

"Have a bit of respect!" Sherlock said, outraged. He let go of John, his cheeks colored.

The photographer darted away like a startled deer.

Lestrade sniggered, walking up to them. "Good luck ever hearing the end of that photograph after it hits the news."

John shook his head. "Whatever."

"No, we're not_" Sherlock started to say, blushing deeper. He stopped himself when John looked at him askew, one eyebrow high on his forehead.

"Now you care if people talk." John said, bemused.

Sherlock looked aloof, made a complicated hand gesture and turned to walk away. Lestrade raised both eyebrows at John.

John shrugged.

"Try and get him to lie low for a few days while we sort this out," Lestrade said, crossing his arms. "It's going to take some time."