Chapter Thirteen
He collapsed into his car seat and let out a weary sigh. All he wanted now was a good shot of strong whisky and his bed. He turned the keys in the ignition switch and pulled out onto the road. He had only been driving for about an hour before he felt sleep pull at his eyelids. He shook his head to rouse himself a little.
It didn't work. Ten minutes later and he was drifting dangerously off again so he decided to pull off the road and take a little rest. His sleep was fitful at best that night, he was only able to get a few snatches of it before it slipped through his fingers.
He dreamt too, had nightmares that would probably haunt him even in his waking moments.
The first time he closed his eyes, he found himself in a sterilized white room with an equally clean white chair set in the middle of it, facing away from the door. He had wandered about the perimeters of the room for a few minutes, trying the doorknob to find it locked. Okay, so 'cell' might be a better description of the place rather than 'room'.
The door suddenly clanged open and two suited men entered, wordlessly taking Lestrade by the shoulders and setting him down roughly into the chair. He heard footsteps behind him, pacing. Sharp, even steps, relaxed in such a way that left no doubt that Time itself could not hurry them. "DI Lestrade." Lestrade startled at his name being called out.
It was Mycroft standing at his back. Lestrade strained to turn around to see the man but the restricting grips on his shoulders prevented him. He could not see Mycroft. "What is it, Mister Holmes? What's going on?" he shouted at the man behind him.
He more felt, rather than heard the footsteps halt prescisely behind him and Mycroft leaned down to whisper menancingly. "You tell me." Lestrade shivered at the ice in his voice and remembered the last time Mycroft said those words to him.
It was after Lestrade had first met Moriarty. An unshakable terror seemed to grip his insides with an unforgiving grasp.
"Tell you what?" Lestrade asked him uneasily.
Mycroft resumed his pacing. "You know exactly what I'm talking about, DI Lestrade. Don't waste my time."
Lestrade felt his lower lip tremble a little in fear too strong to hide and saw his hands doing the same although Mycroft's men were holding them down, pinning them against the metal armrests of the chair. "What do you want me to say?" Lestrade spat defiantly.
"I want you to tell me why. Why you're... in bed with the Devil, so to speak." Mycroft sneered condescendingly.
Lestrade's eyes fell closed. So Mycroft, in his darkest of nightmares, knew about Moriarty. Was this his own psyche warning him what might happen if Mycroft ever did find out? "DI Lestrade," Mycroft said, taking Lestrade's silence as stubborn defiance. "don't make this hard on yourself."
There was a hair-raising crackle behind Lestrade and electric agony rushed through his every muscle from the point between his shoulder blades, causing him to convulse and curl into himself whimpering against the pain.
"Jim Moriarty, DI Lestrade." Mycroft said remindingly. "Speak. No need to ask permission." Again the torture device was applied, this time to Lestrade's lower back. Lestrade let out a frightful yell and tried to arch away from the point of contact but the two men holding him made that impossible to do.
Another crackle and pain errupted from Lestrade's left arm, causing him to cry out again and drop his head onto his chest, panting.
Mycroft finally moved into Lestrade's line of vision. He was holding a TASER in his right hand and his umbrella in his left. God, did he not even let go of that thing when he was busy torturing Lestrade?
The torture continued for roughly ten more minutes.
Mycroft sighed at Lestrade impatiently and handed his TASER to one of the two men holding Lestrade down. He leaned in close to the trembling Lestrade. "Very well, seeing as you will not speak, I will."
Lestrade squinted at Mycroft through his pain-induced haze and bit his lip apprehensively. "You are a traitor, DI Lestrade." Mycroft told him imperiously. "A traitor to your profession, to Sherlock, to your own morals, and to me. You are one of the few people on earth Sherlock trusts, I entrusted you with the task to look after him, not to bed his enemies." Mycroft took Lestrade's chin in his unforgiving grasp and forced him to look him in the eye. "You betrayed Sherlock and you betrayed yourself for a few pity shags from a madman who would just as quickly kill you as he would kiss you. Tell me DI Lestrade, was it worth it?"
For some reason, Lestrade's eyes were drawn to the one-way mirror behind Mycroft and he knew, or more, felt who was behind that glass. Like someone had removed the glass for the sole purpose of Lestrade seeing his observers. Donovan and Anderson were watching, both with looks of disgust and grave disappointment on their faces as Sherlock and John stood beside them like vultures waiting to pick apart his bones, laying all his sins bare.
He had never felt more scared or vulnerable in his life.
Lestrade was speechless, unable and unwilling to say anything in his own defense. Mycroft just stepped back with a sigh. Then he pulled out a gun and pressed it to Lestrade's forehead. "I cannot have liabilities so close to Sherlock." Mycroft said. "Pity, we were getting along so well."
He squeezed the trigger.
Lestrade shot up in his car seat, screaming and dripping with sweat. He pressed his forehead into the steering wheel and closed his eyes, whimpering, trying to calm his ragged breaths. He realized tears were streaming down his face.
He hastily brushed them away from his cheeks and calmed his breathing. He checked his watch. Morning was still a long way off. God! John wasn't kidding about the drug's after-effects.
He felt like he never wanted to sleep again. Yet-... his body betrayed him, slouching deeper into his seat, eyelids blinking closed.
Moriarty, Sherlock, New Scotland Yard... He was just a bit tired with all that was going on.
He fell back asleep.
Lestrade opened his eyes and blinked almost uncomprehendingly. He was lying in a warm, comfortable bed with the sun dripping over his skin. He knew this place, this was the hotel room he shared with Moriarty in Venice.
God, Venice. Lestrade's two days of Heaven.
"Morning, love." drawled a sleepy voice next to him as Moriarty rolled sleepily onto his side to throw an arm over Lestrade's chest before promptly falling back asleep.
"Hey, you." Lestrade choked back, almost crying at the sheer wonderfulness of this dream in comparison to his misadventure with his dreamt-up Mycroft. God, he thought, Mycroft could torture me for years and I'd never give up this. He stroked Moriarty's hair softly.
It was always like this with Moriarty. The criminal mastermind was not a morning person by any stretch of imagination while, Lestrade was. And it wasn't uncommon for him to wake up before Moriarty, just relishing their shared body warmth. Lestrade watched Moriarty sleep for a few minutes before getting up to shower.
Lestrade always showered before Moriarty fully woke up and would be back in the room by the time he did. Moriarty always ended up coaxing him back to bed when he returned, saying that it was unfair for Lestrade to come in with his hair still damp and skin smelling of fresh soap, he couldn't resist that.
He looked around for a towel and found one on the floor, corner poking shyly out of the next room lounge. He smiled, Moriarty had probably thrown it there in one of his childish bouts of boredom. It was amusing, really, what he sometimes did for entertainment.
Or maybe it was his doing, to lure Moriarty from the lounge into the bedroom after a shower...
He reached down and picked it up, shaking it out a little. Then he saw it. A silky ribbon of blood on the floor of the lounge only a stone's throw from where he was standing.
He gasped a little, quickly clapping a hand over his mouth to keep any noise from escaping his mouth. He glanced over at Moriarty who was still sleeping like a baby, undisrupted.
He sidled around the furniture to approach the puddle of blood and stopped dead still when he saw a motionless pair of feet poking out from behind the sofa. He knew those smart, tailored shoes.
Sherlock.
Lestrade let out a silent, horrified gasp and rushed over to the body, feeling ill. Sherlock was lying on his back, arms splayed, palms upturned, his eyes open, grey eyes dead and staring, transfixed, at the chandelier suspended above his head. There was a round glass paperweight on the floor beside the body, covered in blood, an illustration of London's landscape under the red coating. Sherlock had been brutally clubbed to death.
Lestrade staggered dazedly and leaned on the back of the sofa for support as he covered his mouth and nose, pressing his lips together, struggling to get his breathing under control.
John probably would've come with him. His mind supplied unhelpfully.
Oh, God, not John. Please not John. Lestrade silently begged as he looked around for any sign of the doctor. The door of the suite was ajar, beckoning Lestrade to proceed through it.
Lestrade gulped and stepped carefully around Sherlock's body.
He found John outside the suite, just down the carpeted hall, propped up against the wall. He was bloody, but breathing, thank God. Lestrade let out a sigh of relief and rushed to the man's aid, no longer caring what anybody would think when they find out about him and Moriarty.
He just wanted-... needed to save John. John who had stumbled onto Sherlock and a life solving crime by accident. John who shouldn't have been involved with someone like Moriarty at all. John who was a decent bloke who had done nothing to deserve an end like this, save meeting Sherlock. John who cared about the bloody consulting detective like nobody else could.
He skidded to a halt in front of John, collapsing to his knees. "John! John, mate! Can you hear me? Respond!" He fought the urge to vomit. Sherlock and John wouldn't be here now, dead and dying, if Lestrade simply had the presence of mind to lock Moriarty away the moment he had separated him from Sebastian.
John gave a weak groan and his eyes flickered open. "Mm, Shr'lck?" he whimpered, causing a few drops of blood to pour out from between his pale lips.
"No, actually, bad idea. Don't talk!" Lestrade said panicking, quickly applying pressure to where he believed the source of all the blood was. "God, John, I'm so sorry! Just wait, I need to call an ambulance!"
He patted his pockets down before realizing that his phone was still on the nightstand by Moriarty's bed. He bit his lip. John needed that ambulance now! There was no phone in the hall, he'd have to risk sneaking back into the bedroom. He sat back on his heels to stand when he felt the barrel of a gun dig suddenly into the flesh between his shoulderblades.
He froze. "What are you doing out of bed, love?" Moriarty drawled lazily into his ear.
Lestrade's head whipped around so quickly that he vaguely wondered if his neck would just snap off in that moment. Moriarty was leaning against him, spooning him almost, his chin resting comfortably on Lestrade's shoulder. He could feel the man's body heat on his back save the slight space preserved for the gun against his spine.
Not half-an-inch away from Moriarty's face and Lestrade still couldn't make out his eye colour. Random thing to think, Lestrade thought. "Mister Moriarty-...!" he choked stiffly.
"Hm, I was bored." Moriarty told him casually, far too casually. "I killed them while you slept." he smiled, staring facinatedly at the blood on John's body. "I like watching you sleep." he admitted absently.
John seemed to sense Moriarty's presence and coughed, prying his eyes open. No, John! Stay still, for God's sakes! Lestrade begged him mentally.
"Oh?" Moriarty blinked. "This one is still alive? He's a stubborn pet, isn't he?" The gun was removed from Lestrade's back.
"Moriarty, please-...!" Lestrade gasped pleadingly.
Moriarty pointed the gun at John's forehead. "Good bye!" he sing-songed.
Lestrade threw his weight suddenly against Moriarty, knocking them both over, Moriarty's shot skimmed the wall and ricocheted into the ceiling. Lestrade took Moriarty's shock as an opportunity and punched him with all his might.
Moriarty responded heatedly by pistol-whipping him hard, rolling them over until he was on top, straddling Lestrade on the ground. "A bit early to be playing rough, isn't it, darling?" he smirked, his tongue flicking out, lapping gingerly at the blood accumulating at the corner of his mouth.
Lestrade kicked and thrashed under his weight, once managing to clip Moriarty upside the head before the consulting criminal pinned both his wrists to the floor, headbutting him for good measure. "That knock some sense into you?" Moriarty then turned his torso away from Lestrade, looking toward John. Lestrade didn't see it, but he certainly heard the gunshot and John's body fall with a muffled thump on the carpet.
White-hot pain exploded in Lestrade's mind and chest and he squeezed his eyes shut against it, still resisting weakly until his strength gave way to shock and greif, numbing him. His body fell limp under Moriarty and he lay gasping for breath for a moment or two.
Moriarty leaned down and kissed the bruise growing on his forehead. "Sorry, darling." he murmured softly, genuinely? Lestrade could never tell with him. He lapped up a bead of sweat on Lestrade's temple. "Sorry, you know how I get when I'm bored."
"You're not sorry about Sherlock." Lestrade spat, straining a little against Moriarty's grip on his wrists. "Or John."
"I'm not sorry for anything else." Moriarty told him with that voice made for sin. "Forgive me?"
"You killed him." Lestrade whispered, full realization finally cutting through his numb haze, replacing it with horror and repulsion. "No - no, get off me, Mister Moriarty! You killed them!" His voice raised a few notches, distress evident in it as he struggled.
"So?" Moriarty asked him innocently, trailing the hot barrel of his gun down Lestrade's heaving chest. "You know I kill people. Why is it such a shock to you?"
Lestrade stilled at that. It was true, he knew Moriarty was a killer, he practically told him himself that either he or Sherlock would be dead at the close of his oncoming game. Lestrade didn't think much of it then, he was so blinded by Moriarty's mellowed voice and his gentle touches, his tender affections.
Fake. All fake. His mind taunted him. And you knew it. You just didn't want to believe it. You bloody fool. Now Sherlock and John are dead because of you.
"No." Lestrade shook his head tiredly with a humorless chuckle. "No, it's not a shock." He then looked Moriarty in the eye. "You're under arrest, Mister Jim Moriarty, for the murder of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."
Moriarty's eyebrows raised a few inches a moment before Lestrade kicked up, catching Moriarty off guard, kneeing him in the back, knocking him off balance just enough to roll them over. Lestrade pulled his fist back before savagely punching Moriarty in the jaw.
Moriarty fell sprawled, his gun skittered across the floor a few feet away. Then he punched right back.
Their scuffle continued for a few seconds before Moriarty flattened Lestrade on the ground again, his hands held a vice-like grip on the DI's throat and his face contorted grossly into an enraged expression like Lestrade had never seen before. It was something horrifying and ugly. Lestrade almost couldn't recognize him.
Lestrade clawed futily at the hands squeezing his neck before realizing the helplessness of his situation. His vision darkened at the edges and he flailed his hands about, cutting Moriarty's eyebrow by luck alone.
Then he felt it. Moriarty's gun was somewhere near his head and he had brushed his hand against it. He turned his head as far as he could and saw it in his peripherals. He shot his hand out and snagged it with the tips of his fingers before turning around, bringing the gun between himself and Moriarty.
Bang!
Lestrade shot up again, wide awake, taking a few moments to remember where he was. He was still in his chilly car on a deserted road in Dartmoor on his way back to London.
No sterile white cell, no Venice. No Mycroft, no Moriarty. Lestrade rested his forehead against his steering wheel with a sob of relief as he watched the sun begin to peek over the hills and brilliant rays of sunlight crawled over the green toward him. It was beautiful, but so very horrible.
We're going to kill each other. We're poison. Moriarty's voice echoed chillingly into his memory. Nothing's to stop us. Nothing at all.
God, he had never wanted to see dreary old London so badly in his life.
Mycroft stepped up to the one-way glass adjoining the cell, carefully watching the criminal mastermind on the other side. Moriarty's eyeballs twitched and shifted slightly under their closed lids. They flickered open when one of Mycroft's men opened the cell door.
"Alright. Let him go." Mycroft ordered with no small displeasure.
Moriarty stared at the one-way glass, not seeing Mycroft, but undeniably knowing he was there. Then he was called out of the cell by Mycroft's subordinate. The madman sent one last smile at the mirror and walked out.
Mycroft pressed his lips together as he traced the scratch marks Moriarty had made on the glass. Sherlock. The consulting criminal's obsession with his little brother was worrying to say in the least.
Moriarty had laid a plan out for Sherlock, for their games, and Mycroft was near helpless to do anything about it.
He hardened his gaze and gripped the handle of his umbrella tight as he pulled his hand away from the cool glass. He took one last look at Moriarty's cell and exited the room.
A/N: Sherlock was killed with a paperweight illustrating London's landscape. I know, horrible, arn't I? Kill me now! Maybe Lestrade's just a little bit prophetic...
And having Moriarty strangle Lestrade before he shot him... something they might've done on their first night in Venice... Anyway! Just me rambling to myself!