The Next Day
A/N - This has been edited quite a bit since first posted...please read & review.
The next morning Lestrade sat at his desk thumbing idly through Anderson's preliminary report on the furniture factory. It didn't tell him much that he didn't already know. Aside from Moriarty (or Brook as Anderson insisted on calling him), there was blood from three other people in the factory. There was a smear and a partial hand print of O+ on one of the columns and several drops of B+ on the floor at the north end of the building. Then there was the large smear of A- from John at the south end. In addition to the two 9 mm slugs that had killed Moriarty and the casings from the 9 mm that had fired on John there where shells and slugs from six more weapons. These were military issue automatics. Fire from these weapons was concentrated at the north end of the building, behind where Moriarty lay. He leafed through the crime scene photos again and sighed. From the pattern of shell casings and bullet holes it was very clear, John had shot Moriarty. The kill was not going to be easy to justify. Moriarty had not been armed, not even a pocket knife, and had apparently not assumed any sort of threatening posture. Damn it, John, why did you have to take things in to your own hands? There was a knock at the door and Anderson and Donovan entered his office.
"I've just released the scene and am about to start a DNA search on the blood, starting with the shooter's. Could get lucky." Anderson tapped at the photo of the puddle of John's blood. Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose and grimaced. Even Anderson could see it.
"That wont be necessary. I know who was in the factory." Both Anderson and Sally Donovan looked stunned. Lestrade took a deep breath before explaining.
"John Watson is in Intensive Care at the Royal London. He's been shot multiple times, his blood type is A-." The DI pulled a second file from his desk, John's file. It contained a copy of John's service record that he had acquired by calling in a favor from a friend a week after John had shown up at Lauriston Gardens plus the reports from the cases he'd worked on with Sherlock. He gave the folder to his detective sergeant.
"What? Watson's the shooter? John Watson?" Anderson sneered holding a hand up at approximately John's head height. "Finally gone 'round the twist, has he." He barked out a laugh.
"Shut it, Anderson." Lestrade and Donovan said together. Sally opened John's file as Lestrade went on.
"We don't know that he is the shooter. We haven't found the gun yet. What I do know is that John has received multiple threats on his life in recent days, that he was targeted and shot in that factory, and that his assailant is still at large. As of right now John is a victim in need of protection. Is that clear?" Anderson looked disbelieving but huffed a grumbled 'yes'. Sally gave a slow, thoughtful nod. She remembered John describing how 'Moriarty' had him dressed in Semtex at the Pool. Clearly John had seen the man as threat but was he? Then again, John was in ICU. She began looking through the file.
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Shortly after dawn Eddie Price received a text from Moran telling him to come and retrieve the girl. He was surprised. Why hadn't Moran just called a cab for her? Or, sent her down to find her own way home. His head still pounding from his own over indulgences, Eddie showered and dressed and prepared to go to the loft. Such was the thankless existance of a professional 'fixer'.
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As usual, Sebastian woke at daybreak. The pain in his side had diminished but his foot throbbed relentlessly. He took some of the oxycodone then texted Price about the girl. He dressed and ate his breakfast in the study as he watched BBC News.
"In a statement released yesterday New Scotland Yard has confirmed that the shootings which occurred late Sunday afternoon appeared to be related to organized crime. Further, the two victims, allegedly shot by hired, professional killers, are known to police but that their names are not being released at this time ..."
Seb was not surprised that they hadn't released Jim's name. After all, they would need to decide whether he was James Moriarty or Richard Brook. Seb smiled at the memory of Jim's master stroke against Holmes. Genius. Pure genius. He was somewhat surprised, however, that they had not identified Watson. He only had the one sister and it was a day and a half later. Why withhold it? This was probably the Iceman's doing, Sebastian guessed. He was still trying to keep his brother's involvement secret. The Iceman. What Sebastian would not give to have a shot at him. But, he knew targeting the elder Holmes directly would be ... unwise.
Turning back to his computer Sebastian logged into Jim's secure server and then clicked open several spread sheets. They showed earnings for three different operating regions over the last three quarters since Holmes' alleged fall. There it was, a systematic decline in profits, especially within Europe. He had spent much of the past year overseeing southeast Asia and his beloved India, he hadn't noticed the Europe numbers. That's how Jim had known, he thought to himself. Well, time to stabilize and get back to business. He could shore-up Asia from here but central Europe was in desperate shape. The infrastructure in Prague was virtually gone. It was going to take a lot of effort to rebuild and he would need to be on site. The question was how best to deal with the Virgin. He was a dead man, that was a given. Should Sebastian go after him and take him out now or bide his time, regroup and come at him in a few months? Finding Holmes again without giving up his own location would probably take a quite while unless he used the old land lady or that cop . Either of those could quickly get messy, and distract him from the repair work to be done. The entry door chimed disrupting Sebastian's musings and he looked at the camera. Price was here. He scanned all the exterior cameras before buzzing him in. At the very least he'd have to move flat soon. Too many people had been here. He would shift over to the townhouse in a few days.
Price knocked on the door to the loft. Sebastian could not help limping a bit as he cross to answer it. The girl was still in a heap on the floor by the wall where he had dropped her. Eddie stopped short at the sight of her upon entering the fabulous flat. It was always a bit dodgy when dealing with Moran face-to-face, he knew that. Eddie prided himself on being a pro but this man brought the term 'cold-blooded killer' to a whole new level. Still, he had not been expecting this.
"Get rid of her." Moran said picking up the newspapers. "Service elevator is through the kitchen. Make sure she's not found. And, be available tomorrow I may need the car." Without glancing at Eddie or the girl, Sebastian returned to the study.
Eddie looked at the girl. Her name had been Sneha. At least he thought that was what she had said. He looked around the loft. What the hell was he supposed to do with her? In the bath he found the linen closet and grabbed a sheet. He wrapped her up and got her over to the service elevator. When the elevator had descended to the basement, Eddie texted Trevor Mannon. He was going to need some help with this.
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After leaving the hospital, Sherlock went back to his rented room. He lay on the lumpy bed staring at the ceiling trying to force the sound of John's desperate, strangled cry from his mind. During their time as flatmates Sherlock had, of course, had occasion to witness John's nightmares. He had catalogued the visible distress followed by forceful awakening and John's disorientation as he blinked his way back to full consciousness. His unwarranted embarrassed avoidance of Sherlock afterwards. Always the same pattern. John was an open book to Sherlock. It was a simple matter to deduce the range and breadth of traumatic events that John must have experienced in his military career. How could his simple ruse have supplanted all that? How? He didn't understand.
Without intending to Sherlock fell asleep in his shirt, trousers and socks. He hadn't slept more than 6 hours over the last 5 days and his body simply gave out. John would have admonished him for postponing sleep for so long. He, or rather Deiter, was awoken early the next morning by an arriving text message from Trevor: Eddie Price had a job for them.
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When John finally woke early the next morning he woke in terror. His well-stocked reel of nightmares had been playing in random order through his morphine laden brain for hours. An endless loop of blood-soaked pavement and raven curls morphing into blood-soaked ground around an eviscerated 20-year old under an endless blue sky. A smiling Jim Moriarty suddenly looking surprised as blood fountained from his chest to spread across his expensive designer suit followed by the sight of blood fountaining from John's own shoulder as Murray pull open his body armour. On and on it went. He clutched at his shoulder and couldn't move his bandaged left arm. Pain ripped through his chest and he gasped raggedly, every breath like breathing fire. His leg was burning, too, and even his head hurt. The nurses were trying to restrain him, to keep him from hurting himself as he struggled desperately to sit up. The called his name over and over trying now to wake him, telling him to open his eyes. He finally did open his eyes. They were unseeing, haunted and afraid. After a minute, reality began to come into focus. He collapsed onto the bed his face contorted in pain as he tried to regain his breath. He remembers being vaguely thankful when someone slipped a cool oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. They were asking him questions now. What was his name? Did he know what year it was? Who was Prime Minister? Was there some one they should call? As his surroundings settled around him he composed himself almost instantly, asserted his stone mask and answered the questions being both concise and polite as he bit back the pain. All the while he scanned the room trying desperately to remember what had happened to Sherlock.
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Sally Donovan had spent over an hour reading through John record. Impressive was the only apt word she could think of. She knew that John had been a doctor in the army, but it had never occurred to her think of John as a career army officer who happened to be a doctor. She puffed out a breath. She needed to focus on finishing the report on the Collins case plus two others besides but her mind kept mulling over the incongruent picture she now had of John Watson. Was he their shooter? He had a motive and he apparently had the skill.
Lestrade hung up the phone and quickly put on his coat. He poked his head out his office door and pointed at Donovan then crooked a finger at her. Wordlessly, she grabbed her coat and followed the DI.
"What is it?" she asked in the elevator.
"John's awake." Lestrade replied.
As they drove toward the hospital Sally finally broke the silence.
"How did he survive. If the other 9mm was this Moran, and he's is a professional like you say, why isn't John dead?" she asked. Lestrade gave her an appraising sideways glance. She was good.
"He was wearing a Kevlar vest" he glanced at her again. "And apparently he was dead. The impact of the some of the shots stopped his heart but they got it going again." Donovan let out a low curse,
"Jesus. Is he going to be alright?"
"So they say. Bloody miracle if you ask me." Lestrade replied. Donovan could sense his worry. John was Lestrade's friend. This was going to be difficult. She turned to look out the window then turned back to her boss. She couldn't believe what she was about to say.
"If he was wearing Kevlar that would imply ... premeditation." Lestrade shot her another quick a look.
"Yeah, I know."
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A/N - This has been edited since first posted...please read & review.
Don't own.
Not beta'd or Brit-picked.