"I'm sorry," John said, confused. "But who're we talking about?" This didn't sound like anything his step-father would have done. Not in a million years. The man was an even bigger coward than Jim.
"And what world would we be living in if those men who died, their families, didn't see justice?"
"I haven't got the foggiest idea what you're on about."
"Why," Jim said in his sing-song voice "Mr Hamish Watson, of course!"
John scowled, quickly scanning Jim's excited face.
"Is that supposed to mean something to me?" John asked, but of course he knew it was supposed to mean something, he wasn't the idiot that everyone kept trying to make him out to be. He already put the surname with his own, and the fact that his middle name was the name couldn't be purely coincidental either.
"It probably should." Jim grinned, waggling his eyebrows as though trying to tempt John into another question.
"Fine. Who is Mr Hamish Watson?" He frowning, feigning interest. Jim accepted it anyway.
"Someone who would be interested in meeting you." Jim smiled. John was getting more and more agitated. He hated this mind games that Jim seemed to love. He wanted straight forward answers, not the dragged out ones.
"Great." John replied, shrugging. "Give him my number. It's 07-" He was cut off as Jim raised his hand in a stop motion, and John was annoyed at himself for actually shutting up.
Jim frowned and pulled out his phone which was vibrating in his hand.
"You're almost as sarcastic as Sherlock. We're done. Mrs Green will show you to your room." Then he turned stalked away, leaving John to navigate his way back to his room, not wanting to distract Mrs Green from her potatoes any further.
He placed the cup back on the saucer and lowered it so that it was resting on his lap. He looked scornfully at the two teenagers sitting in front of him, both of whom were shifting guiltily in their seats and refusing to make eye contact with him.
"Do you realise," he started, moving the cup and saucer to the coffee table next to him "how much you two have compromised the situation?"
The girl shook her head, and in seeing this the boy kicked her lightly. Mycroft raised his eyebrows.
"But we haven't." Molly said, finally looking up and facing Greg. Greg looked skeptical, but kept his mouth shut. So Molly continued talking. "John's Mum phoned the Police saying that John was missing. Harry knows who I am, and she got in touch asking if I knew where John was. Then Greg showed up and explained everything, so we went to that house. After we text you-" she nodded towards Mycroft "the Police came to ask us questions, so we answered."
Greg was proud of Molly. So, incredibly proud. She was most often the shyest little thing, but while Mycroft made his knees buckle; Molly had delivered the explanation smoothly and without fault. He was very proud indeed.
"Jim operates outside of the law. The Police ignore what Sherlock has to say at the best of times, usually because he'd hassling them for cases owing to his boredom."
"They weren't asking about Sherlock though, they were asking about John. They've taken more interest in them both now." Greg said "Sorry if we've ruined your great master plan or something, but John wasn't about to leave Sherlock."
Mycroft reached for his tea again, apparently unsure of how to respond.
"Can we go now?" Greg asked, standing up impatiently and Molly quickly followed.
"I suppose. If you hear anything, let me know. I shall be monitoring the Police."
Greg and Molly were about to leave before Greg suddenly decided against it.
"And if you hear anything, let either me or Molly know. We're not being kept in the dark in this either." Mycroft nodded before waving them out of the room. It was in at that precise moment that Mycroft officially decided that teenagers were too meddlesome and he didn't like them, but slightly loved them at the same time.
–
The house was silent, save for the occasional beeping of a washing machine or the tumble-dryer, John couldn't quite tell. Maybe it was a two in one.
He rolled over, trying to get comfortable. He was never one to get homesick (the number of times he'd stayed at Greg's, Molly's or Mike's was proof enough of that). Yet somehow, being in his current predicament had managed to pull his mind away from sleep.
He blinked at the digital clock as his eyes tried to focus on the illuminated red numbers. It told him that it was nearing two o'clock in the morning. Once he'd finally located his room and stepped inside someone had locked the door behind him, but he did find a new book propped on the bedside table and a set of new clothes (such as pyjamas) on the now made bed. He'd spent a good while reading the book, and had decided to put it down around midnight, where he finally crawled into bed.
He rolled back onto his other side and squeezed his eye lids shut, but his brain was still at work and was refusing to let him sleep. It was too busy trying to work out what Jim had been on about. He knew what it meant, obviously. He just didn't quite know what it meant. His biological father was alive. He didn't know whether to be excited or shit scared. But then what Jim had said about families receiving justice, and he felt slightly ill at the overall implication of it. After getting worked up over trying to work out what was going on, his mind fell to rest on Sherlock. He wondered whether Sherlock was asleep, and whether he'd been locked in his room too. It was highly likely.
John's eyes flew open as the screech of an alarm ripped through the houses silent surroundings. He quickly leapt out of bed and scuttled towards his shoes, pulling them over his feet and hastily doing up the laces. He could hear shouting now too, loud and echoey, making it difficult to understand what was being said.
He crouched low to the floor, pressing his ear against the gap between the floor and the door, listening intently. He still couldn't decipher what was being said though, until the thundering of footsteps came pelting along the corridor, causing John to pull his ear away quickly for fear of being deafened.
It was good job that he did move his head as quickly as he did though, because a few moments later the door was wrenched open and a very large, muscular man stood in its wake.
"Up." He barked, and John quickly obeyed- not fully understanding what was going on. "Turn." Again, John followed instructions and the moment he'd pivoted 180 degrees his arms were pulled behind his back and a pair of handcuffs were secured around his wrists.
John turned around again just as large arms wrapped themselves around him and pulled him into a fireman's lift.
"What's going on?" He asked as he was jostled about while the man strode through the house.
"Police turned up. Moriarty and Moran are out. Under orders. Keep Sherlock and you hidden." John frowned at the man's inability to form complete sentences.
The Police were here? Surely that was Greg's doing. They'd be able to get out of this wretched place for good. John was grinning.
He ignored the alarm, too wrapped up in his cocoon of bedsheets to move. Someone would silence it soon though and then he'd be able to continue the beautiful transformation to morning-Sherlock. The one that was probably most disliked amongst members of the house.
However, the alarm didn't stop, and Sherlock quickly realised that it was one of Jim's many burglar alarms. He groaned and rubbed his eyes, but still not bothering to get out of bed. It would be over soon.
He'd been sleeping in a plain light brown t-shirt, and pin-striped dark and light blue pyjama bottoms, and was saturated in the warmness of his bed, and had no desire to find out what the commotion was all about. He did however wonder quietly to himself how John was handling the alarm.
He didn't have to wait long to find out it turned out, as his door burst opened and a boisterous man who Sherlock knew as Pete stormed into the room, with a smirking John flung over his shoulder.
"Hello." John said cheerily, his waving at Sherlock was made difficult owing to his position, and the handcuffs. He awkwardly raised his elbow and flapped it around like a chicken. Sherlock managed to extract his own arm and waved back.
Pete then dumped John onto the floor, before turning back to the door and slamming it shut.
"Out." He beckoned for Sherlock to relieve himself from the coil of bedsheets. Sherlock just continued lying down, earning himself a grin from John. But he figured that if they were locked in anyway, why would he have to get up? "Now."
Sherlock looked back towards John, who nodded. Sherlock could see that John knew something, so he did as John told him. Not what Pete had ordered.
After the handcuffs were put back on (only this time behind his back, Pete apparently wasn't as trusting as Sebastian), Sherlock was thrown back onto the floor beside John, face pressed against the carpet.
"Nice of you to join me." He grinned. Sherlock sighed in a pleasant tone before readjusting himself so that he was perched on his bum rather than his face. Pete meanwhile took to standing resolutely at the door, keeping guard.
"We can talk." Sherlock said, nudging John's shoulder with his own. "He's deaf in one ear and partially deaf in the other. Not to mention he's also incredibly thick." John's grin broadened, but then it fell.
"It's the Police. I think Mycroft might have..." John realised what he'd said and his eyes widened.
"Who?" Sherlock asked. John knew who Mycroft was? He didn't want to come across as too desperate.
"Mycroft... He... Shit." John hung his head, but Sherlock kept pestering him.
"John? Mycroft who?"
"Mycroft Holmes... He... Fuck it. I'm in shit with him anyway. He'll be really anyway if Greg's gone to him..." He trailed away, frowning at the floor. After a few seconds of silence, he took a sharp intake of breath and steeled himself before talking, and Sherlock was peering at him anxiously.
"When you saw my step-father, I got a text asking me what I knew of you." John laughed lightly. "Such a pretentious sod. Anyway, then the guy showed up at my house. Shit Sherlock, I'm probably the wrong person to be telling you this..."
Sherlock shrugged, shaking his head slightly urging John to continue.
"He asked me if I knew someone called William-" Sherlock's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, which John noticed. "You know something about William?" Sherlock gulped.
"I know... Of him. I asked once and it... It didn't go down to well." John's face contorted to one of sympathy.
"I can imagine... Sherlock, I really don't think I should be telling you this. Someone else should. I'm hopeless." John shook his head.
"No. Please John, just tell me. Right now the only person I trust is you." Sherlock's eyes met John's and John buckled under how desperate they were.
"Mycroft is your brother." John said simply, watching as Sherlock opened his mouth and rested his head against the wall behind him. "He works for MI6." John watched his friend, waiting for the sudden influx of questions but they didn't come, so he continued. "He's been trying to get you back for ages, ever since you were taken-" John stopped again.
"Taken?" Sherlock asked, snapping his head up again. John nodded meekly.
"Hmhm. Moriarty kidnapped you from your-" John cleared his throat and put on a voice attempting to mimic Mycroft's "- family estate when you were nine. I only found out about it on Saturday. After Sebastian dislocated my knee Mycroft told me I wasn't allowed to get involved with you anymore." He stopped, but Sherlock glared at him to continue. "Then I got a text from your number, but I knew it wasn't you because it wasn't the way you type. Have you ever written 'lol' in a text before?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"Didn't think so. It asked me whether I wanted to meet up with you at twelve o'clock, I knew it was a trap, but I couldn't have Mycroft just kick me away from this. I needed to make sure that you were okay.
"So I told Mycroft I'd organise a time and he said he'd have all these people ready to pounce when someone showed, but I knew that that wouldn't work because knowing your lot they'd have refused to talk or just not turned up- especially if Mycroft was involved. I told him a time and then organised a different one.
"It was a stupid plan. I mean, really stupid. I'm such a dickhead. Look at us, for fuck's sake. But I wasn't going to leave you here. Mycroft's a really intelligent bloke but he doesn't know you. After he told me to get lost he started to call you William again, only calling you Sherlock because that's what I know you as. William is you, by the way. That's your name. William Sherlock Scott Holmes or something ridiculous like that. I wasn't going to leave you." He paused. "I like you, Sherlock. I really like you, and I've never let a friend down before and I wasn't about to break my streak."
Sherlock sat there, slightly stunned, and at the same time slightly relieved, because now he finally knew and so much made sense.
"Are you okay?" John asked, peering at him. "You've frozen." Sherlock nodded quickly, still not uttering a word. "Would it be weird if I tried to hug you? Because when people are sad my Mum hugs them and you look sad so I think I should hug you."
A small laugh escaped Sherlock's lips.
"No. No it wouldn't." He smiled. "But it might be a bit difficult." John frowned as he remembered the handcuffs.
"I suppose. I'm gonna try something." John cleared his throat, and Sherlock watched interestedly. "Hey, you. Pete, right? You have a lot of nose hair." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but then he realised what John was doing.
"Is that really the best you can do?" He whispered.
"Leave me alone. I don't normally do insults that would cater for this particular breed. I think mine would be a bit too sophisticated for him." John whispered scornfully back. Sherlock decided to give him a hand.
"Your head looks like a bull's scrotum." Sherlock supplied. John pulled a face at the thought of what a bull's scrotum would look like, and the way his face portrayed the disgusted emotion created by the image in his mind made Sherlock chuckle.
"You what?" Pete turned to them now.
"A bull's scrotum." Sherlock said simply. "You look like one." John was trying to contain his giggles and was failing miserably. Once he'd stifled them however, he continued.
"Bull's scrotums aside, your nose hair is truly magnificent. Can I plait it?" Sherlock just gawped at him. "Too far?" John whispered.
"Little bit." Sherlock whispered back, but then they both started laughing again. The pair of them somehow managed to send themselves into a giggling fit and Pete just rolled his eyes.
Suddenly, the door burst open and several Policemen and women burst into the room, Pete was unable to handle so many and was quickly detained. Sherlock and John stopped laughing and both sighed a deep sigh of relief, which also acted as them getting their breath back. A woman crouched down next to them.
"Are you two alright?" They both nodded as someone helped them to their feet. "How many people are here?" John shook his head, not knowing the answer, but, of course, Sherlock knew.
"There's nine here tonight I believe, not including John and I." The woman nodded, barking the information at someone else.
"Jones here will escort you both downstairs and into a Police car. You'll both be leaving here as quickly as we can manage." John and Sherlock muttered their thanks as they were lead from the room, Sherlock casting a backwards glance over his shoulder, finally glad to be leaving.
Then they were standing outside, Sherlock's mind was slightly fuzzy. He was leaving a large part of himself behind. A whole part of himself. His whole life that he remembered. But now there was the prospect of a new life beckoning to him. He had a brother to torment. A brother who had spent seven years trying to get him back. Maybe he even had parents. Maybe he had friends from before that would still want to know him now. But then he looked over at John. What would happen to John now? His mother was still the alcoholic that she was before, and now the Police were more informed of John, who was to say that social services wouldn't get involved?
Sherlock was taken away from his thoughts as he started gulping in the crisp night air as it infiltrated their lungs. But it wasn't all that that made him drop his thoughts, it was the deafening sound of a gunshot ripping through the air that helped.
The man who had been escorting them lay dead on the floor; a trickle of blood seeping into the pebbled driveway. Now there was shouting to match the almighty bang, and Sherlock registered the higher intensity shouting being John's, as many a colourful word fell from his mouth. But Sherlock wasn't paying attention.
A single bullet hole, in the exact centre of the forehead, from a rifle, going by the noise made.
That looked awfully like a Sebastian shot.
Suddenly Sherlock found himself joining in John's yells as another Policeman grabbed him by the arm and dragged him towards a Police car, he dumped him inside and shut the door. Where was John?
He peered out of the window and watched on in horror as he saw several of Jim's men wrestling with the Police, and John in the centre of it all. He needed to get to John.
Using his chin, he pulled the handle and opened the car door, getting out and running back up the drive towards John. Another bang filled the air and Sherlock ducked instinctively, but with his hands tied behind his back he lost balance and fell over. Awkwardly he returned to standing just in time to see a suit clad man picking up John around the middle, and taking off with him. At the same time, someone was doing the same to Sherlock.
Sherlock yelled out and John's eyes locked with Sherlock's.
"John!"
"Fucking go! Sherlock! Leave!" John shouted, flailing about madly under the man's grip. None of the Policemen had noticed what was happening with John in their kerfuffle with Jim's men. Only the one who was dragging Sherlock back to the Police car knew what was happening. He tried to calm him down, but Sherlock was having none of it.
"John!" He continued to yell. "Let go of me! They've got John! Please! John!" He fell over again.
"No, c'mon, son. We're getting you out of here. Someone will be there to help John." The man said soothingly as he helped the grappling Sherlock up.
"No they won't! Please! They're- John!" Sherlock thought his head was about to explode as he caught sight of John being loaded into the back of a black van, and Sebastian turning around smirking straight at him. Sherlock didn't know whether he wanted to scream or cry or punch someone. Sebastian had thrown John into the van and had grinned at Sherlock. His hatred for the man increased ten-fold.
"John! Please! No!" Sherlock continued yelling, panic washing over the anger as the van did a wheel spin and took off down the drive, taking John with it.
"Please..." The van was gone, and Sherlock found himself lying on the floor, being pulled up by the same Policeman as before. He couldn't stand. He felt sick. He allowed himself to be directed towards the Police car before dissolving entirely.
So... How was that? Nay or Yay? Sorry this chapter took longer than usual, I've been seriously busy. Anyway... All feedback is welcome :)