When Mrs. Hudson's phone rang, John stopped trying to read the same paragraph of the old battered book Sherlock had left in his chair and flew down the stairs in a flash of small sure feet. He could hear Mrs. Hudson's soft, sure voice at the phone, his hand hovering to knock. She opened the door before he had a chance to make a decision, biting off a shout, "Joh-! Oh there you are dear, Sherlock's on the phone for you."
"Thank you Mrs. Hudson," he said quickly, trying to politely race past her to pick up her phone. "Sherlock?" he said as soon as he had the phone to his ear. "Are you coming to get me?"
There was a pause and a ragged, swallowed down little breath. "Not quite yet," he said coolly. "I'm almost done with the case. I'll be tying this up very quickly now, then I'll come home."
A needle footed susurration of panic crawled and curled up his spine. "But what about your plan to take longer to learn about-"
"I know everything about his nature I need to know," he spoke absently, the Sherlock version of biting his nails. "We're too much alike, he and I. Too fascinated by the same things. I'll be home soon, John, only a few more hours."
Lists of possibilities rapidly reshuffled in John's head. This was going to affect the whole timeline; he was going to have to call Davey. "Alright," John said faintly. "I'll see you in two hours."
"John," Sherlock said suddenly. "I- You are important."
Suddenly it was harder for John to breathe. "Really?" he asked in a small voice. Sherlock wouldn't send him away if he were important to him. All the things important in his life, his violin, the Work, London, he kept them close. John didn't think Sherlock would leave those three things for anything or anyone. And if John was important to him too then he could stop worrying about being shipped off to some boarding school or safe house.
"You know I hate repetition John," he replied crisply. John fluttered absently through his goodbyes. He said something to Mrs. Hudson before he was upstairs again, in his room. Davey answered the phone on the first ring, voice soft and subdued.
"Davey," John's voice was taut with worry. "What's wrong?"
"There's a mess. An awful mess." His voice had shifted from its usual too knowing slip of razor wire and swinging hammers to a soft shuddery drift, twisting, Baroque and anguished. "What can I do for you?"
"You can't just, is everything fine? Is Roost okay?"
"Yeah, Roost's safe in Scotland with Elsie's babies. What's going on?"
John scrubbed at his face, "Sherlock is not acting on schedule. We need to hurry up and get to the flats with the old woman."
"No," Davey snapped. "I need to get to the flats with the old woman, you don't get to come."
"So it's better if you accidentally die? If you're not sure of it we should try something else."
"Oh," Davey muttered, "death would almost be a relief. I watch people's faces sometimes, what they look like right before. They're eyes are so wide and searching. Sometimes they seem so relieved. I think I might like that, a little relief."
"You wouldn't like being dead for very long," John said quietly clutching his mobile to his ear. "You'd get bored of it. And miss Roost. What's wrong Davey?"
"Elsie's getting married," Davey said very softly. There were file folders of meaning attached to that, and there were sharp things shoved in there, John wasn't certain he wanted to examine it. The phrasing sat wrong.
"You and Elsie are getting married. But you don't like-" John cut himself off. Davey's aversion to sex had nothing to do with his love for Elsie, the tenderness with which he curled his fingers around her shoulders. The bleeding cutting edge of his mouth curling tender and relaxed. The way he paced and tilted the soft sway of her chin with his pale fingers against her dark skin, not clutching but trying to maintain control while he hissed, Who was troubling you? Did they touch you? No one could argue he didn't love Elsie, the way he loved Roost and had affection for John.
"No," Davey muttered petulantly.
That got a sigh and an absent rubbing out of his crinkled forehead. "Ah, you're not going to kill the groom are you?"
"That's what the problem is, I can't just disappear him before the wedding. I- He's-"
"I'll be right over," John's voice was steady and strong.
"I don't care," Davey muttered airily. "You're probably getting married too."
"I'm eight Davey," John spoke calmly.
"That's what they all say," Davey muttered again. John gave a confused look at his phone. Had Davey been drinking? Drunk Davey would probably be able to outsmart the majority of people, but that didn't mean it was a good idea. He was out the window in a flash, texting Elsie for one of Davey's Death Cabs to pick him up a few streets away from Baker Street.
Is there something wrong with Davey? Elsie texted.
Nothing to worry about. -JW John sent back hastily.
Something is wrong. Is he hurt?
No. Stay where you are. –JW
This is about the wedding, isn't it? He said he didn't care.
He said he really liked Hilton.
I can tell he really likes Hilton
Ah, that could be a problem with the groom. Davey didn't do well with liking people. He lined them up like chess pieces in his game of running the London Underworld. He bartered and traded and tricked gangs into doing what he wanted. But actually liking someone was a strange soft, fragile thing for him to hold in his dangerous hands. The Death Cab pulled up the windows strangely fuzzy and shimmery so he couldn't quite get a look inside. He looked up from crawling in the cab to see the driver watching him with startlingly blue shark eyes. The man looked like a character in an American action movie. All chiseled lines, muscled shoulders and plain dark clothing he stared steadily at John. The only thing disturbing the sharp edges of his face was a faint swelling around the left side of his face.
"Um, hi. Thanks for the ride," John tried cautiously. The driver just soundlessly shifted into drive.
Everything is under control. –JW John sent, not entirely sure that was true.
Text me if he starts talking about carbombing again. He's been on a kick.
Well that was mildly worrisome.
John tried a few other lines of conversation with Shark Eyes, but they were rebuffed the way a mountain might ignore him. When they pulled up the kerb Davey was there already, much to the driver's surprise, pulling open the door and seizing his face, kissing his eyebrows.
"You have been drinking," John groused.
"You knew I was drinking and you didn't bring me any more whisky?"
"I'm not sure that's wise," John's words tripped soft and careful.
Shark Eyes seemed to be having a coronary at Bad Davey's sudden flurry of affection. "Come in then," Davey snarked. When the driver didn't pull away fast enough Bad Davey scowled, "What? If you want to hang around and stare you might as well come and keep company."
"No sir," the driver whispered, there were a dark spaces on his upper jaw where several teeth weren't. He dipped his head and disappeared back in traffic.
"What was that Davey?" John rubbed at his forehead even as Davey ushered him in smoothly. He trembled with the horror and the sensibility and the care he had for the two troubled brothers just a step out of pace with the rest of the world.
"I could have killed him," Davey's voice was soft and distant. "You would have liked that even less wouldn't you? I've been reading Rooster's dentistry books. It was clean. And now instead of working for a boss that didn't care about him he's got me. I'm much more careful with my things. I could have broken his bones or water boarded him or had someone rip him up. I just made him cry a little and pulled out a few of his teeth. Once he's over the shock of my hand keeping his mouth open he'll love me for my leniency. Snipers are sensible like that."
And John could understand it. On some level he understood that there were worse ways to break a man and Davey knew most of them. Could probably figure out new ways. He still growled and trembled angrily at it. He was on the edge of pulling his shoulder out from under Davey's hand as he led him into the elevator.
"We need to get to the flats," John said sharply.
"Oh, your righteous anger now. Will you burn me up in your righteous indignation?" he sighed, hissed, bit out a bark like a fox. "Do you understand why I can't have Elsie? Why she can't stay with me?"
"You do love her," John growled, still sharp and angry with Davey.
"I also love being right, doesn't mean I get to be right all the time," Davey wavered, hitting the emergency stop button with one slender finger, and then on second thought sitting against the elevator wall. "Giving things order, being sensible and responsible. It means I have to not have a lot of the things I want."
John stared at him from his corner. "We need to get to the flat."
"I've sent someone to take care of it," he waved negligently.
"You couldn't have mentioned that before?" John's shoulders made an exasperated shrug.
"I have bigger problems," he pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and started fiddling with them.
Not once had John seen Davey so out of sorts; even his fury at injustices done to Roost were primarily matters of low predatory rage. Emotions that stalked back and forth across his body, sudden flurries of furious movement pouncing out from the grass of his seemingly contained temper, everything tightly wound and controlled. This was something different, something vulnerable and nearly confused.
"I like him," Davey said quietly, the precision of his expression moving as delicately as a scalpel. He plucked along the edges of the plastic on his pack of cigarettes. "Elsie's dearest beloved. He's a good man; he's a really good man. He's got a good face. I didn't know people could be so…" he sighed, his head against the emergency phone.
They were quiet for a while.
"So perfect," Davey shivered, pressing his eyes closed. "People that lovely shouldn't exist. It's not right."
Finally John stepped forward, watching Davey's eyes flush with anguish, his teeth white, sharp and glittering like impending death, hands pressed bone white against the elevator floor. "So you like both of them. We should still probably hurry up."
Reaching out, Bad Davey traced a line around John's face. They listened to the sounds of their breath, the rustling of Davey's fine clothes. With a twitch he caught John's ear between the knuckles of his index and middle finger; it stung and John scowled at him. "I like both of them. Hilton thinks I'm his friend. He's nice to me. He invited me to lunch with just him."
John watched him. Let out a breath when Davey released his ear.
"There's something in the air," Davey said with wide eyes. "It feels like things were meant to happen and not happen. Like people are meant to be dead and alive. Like everything is meant to be different. I can feel London scream and stretch, trying to fit into its place. It feels like burning," he closed his eyes; the red sweeps of his eyelashes make him look like he's holding back bloody tears. "But then we already knew I'm mad."
"Are you okay Davey?" John said carefully.
Davey's sprang open, he leaned forward sharply, a kiss that was more teeth than tenderness, "I'm always okay, I'm always fine, always functioning. I just need to smoke. It hurts to love. Hearts break, lives end. People you like marry each other and leave you. What's the advantage of caring about people anyway?"
"I don't know," John said honestly as Davey loomed over him.
"If you don't know," Bad Davey sighed, standing and sharp again, "then I don't stand a chance. Stop fretting. I don't want to trouble you. I have to show you something."
"It better be quick," John narrowed his eyes.
"Don't worry," Davey's long fingers plucked a mobile out of his inside jacket pocket as if he were performing a magic trick. "I have his website on subscription. If he updates anything I'll know immediately. He's still looking up the order forms for Connie Prince's injections," he shook his head in a parody of disappointment. "Beauty kills alright. Oh don't be cross," he rolled his eyes at the angry pinch in John's face. "Humans are lovely and special; I know, I know, no need to lecture little man. You know how I feel about people."
His fingers wisped and pulled at John's hair, fluffing it up like a dandelion. John shivered at the soft prickling like static collecting under his skin. Davey laughed, a honestly pleased sound, it was ragged and rusty, but honest. "I'm living in an empty nest. Roost's gone off to school, Elsie's off to get to married, you're the only one left now. And I figure since your bestie has decided to play around with our favourite madman I thought I'd solve a little problem for you."
John blinked up at him.
Davey swung the door open and ushered John inside, grinning widely, steering him toward the sleek kitchen table, a pale wood with scrawls of Roost's writing in the corners and what John recognized as burns from chemistry equipment. At one side rolled up sheet of paper sat with a business like ominousness, "Oh," Davey said quickly, pulling out his phone, and showing John. "He must have rushed things. He's made his post."
There was a second sound and Davey twisted the phone to thumb open a text before showing John the phone again.
In position call just started will report when done
A soft thankful sound escaped with his exhale.
"I said I'd take care of things dear," Davey said, "and I did, now come look at what I've done."
He rolled out the sheet of paper, the soft precision of it wisping across his palms as he spread it open. He loomed over it, a tiger over its prey, his mouth curled in a perfect pleased grin. It almost looked like a blueprint, but it covered multiple buildings. John's eyes widened when he saw which buildings they were. Precisely typed over the shower stalls was JW HID HERE, there were careful blue dotted lines mapping out MORIARTY SECOND, and then MOR ENTER from the far end of the pool, SH ENTER. And then in the surrounding buildings there was a series of yellow, green and red dots and a colour code POSSIBLE SNIPER SPOTS 1, 2, 3.
"I got my sniper friend to look over the area and mark all the best spots for shooting. There are only a couple folks better than he is. I actually found out about him by accident, he had faked his death to get out for under some army conspiracy to do with stolen jewelry. Unfortunately for him I track every decent pawnbroker in the London area. I'd been saving him up for something fun. The rest is taking what you told me about what you figured out about Moriarty and how he works," Davey gave him a look.
Eyes darting up and away, John made a faint affirmative sound that Davey seemed to store away for later analysis. "Things are going quite how I expected them to," John muttered.
"Is this going to be accurate then?" Davey's voice was as smooth and flawless as the slide of a knife.
"I'm not helping you if you're going to run off and get murdered."
"No," John looked steadily up at him. "It'll happen like I said."
Davey's phone went off again, the low vibration loud over his heart. He gave John a steady look, before drawing out his phone. "Call's just ended. The old lady was cut off before she said anything she shouldn't have."
"Thank you," John said solemnly, seriously.
"This is however as far as I go, as fascinating as it might be to have a man like Moriarty to go at me I am a bit too young to die. And too pretty by half," he slipping a flash drive on the table. "I made the plans up for you. You don't tell anybody who made them up for you and I forget I ever saw them. Do with them whatever you want."
John curled his hand around the flash drive, squeezing at Davey's fingers with his own. "Thank you."
"I'm not going to care about anybody but you four," Davey said. "I don't mind good folks terribly, but they're about one in a million and I'm not really fond to them. Most people though. I'm. Well. Not ever going to care about the low hum of a bunch of filthy animals, clogging up the world with their stupid bleating and their stupid, mean faces. But I love you, and I want you to think kindly of me from time to time for keeping things in order. And you can't do that if you're dead."
There wasn't a single thing John could think to say in response. Grinning sizably, Davey tweaked at his ears.
"Right clever, aren't I?"
"You're brilliant," John blinked into a wide smile.
"Oh," Davey shammed at bashfulness like a panto. "Don't go on like that. I can tell you mean it, and I'll end up keeping you. I'll get you home before I lock you up."
Smiling or not John knew Davey didn't really joke about things like that. "Let's get home then."
The trip home was a flurry of John thinking, tongue creeping across his lip and eyes flipping back and forth, and then texting Dimmock about the information, telling him to watch, and send it to Mycroft if things got dire, telling him where he would hide it while Davey peeled off and reapplied nicotine patches baring his teeth at the rip and pull of it. It was obvious he had left his patches on too long, pulled them off too late.
"Do you really need four?" John asked absently.
"There's my Doctor dearest. I need four just for my head to run quiet. I need to take up something compulsive like bird watching or stamp collecting."
Images of Davey holding spouses ransom for rare stamps danced in his head, "If you're sure."
"Don't be so suspicious," he proclaimed loftily, swanning out of his death cab. John was climbing out after him just as Sherlock pulled up behind them in a cab of his own, launching himself out, face a vision of something terrible before it slipped into a mask of detached disapproval.
"John," he snapped, a deep crack of a chastisement hurtling across the space between them.
Even knowing better, as he did, than to make some unnecessarily patronizing move of protection, John could feel the slight shift in Davey's body as he shifted closer to him. "What is it?
Long fingers catch him and tugged him away from Davey's side, and into the flat. The door was opened in record time by Sherlock, who crouched in front of John, Davey slipping inside after them. Down closer to John's eye level, one would expect Sherlock to appear less threatening, instead of the darkly looming presence hanging over him.
"What are you-?" John started.
"I told you to stay in the flat. Where did you go?" Sherlock snarled, hands tight on John's shoulders.
"Hey," Davey hissed, a knife in a silk glove. He crouched down between the two of them smile large, gleaming white, pale hand like a talon around Sherlock's wrist. "You don't get rough with the little man."
"It's fine Davey," John lay both hands on the closest shoulder, making quick little comforting movements. "He didn't bother me, I'm fine. He was just worried."
The two men stood slowly, long legs unfolding, faces inches apart, Sherlock's wrist in Davey's hand. He made a slow dip and drag of his thumb across Sherlock's pulse point in even little motions. "And I'm just going to hurt him if he gets rough with you again."
"Don't be ridiculous Davey; you know that wasn't really rough," John blurted anxiously.
"No John, do let the dangerous psychopath who stinks of alcohol preach to me how I should treat you," Sherlock snarled. "It's edifying."
"I would never," Davey hissed at him almost bumping noses. "Never hurt Johnny."
"Try not to drown in your delusions of competence," Sherlock bared his teeth. "You're awfully ambitious for a street thug who's occasionally lucky."
"And you're awful proud for an infant who needs big brother to tidy up his fits of boredom induced intemperance."
"Stop," John used his captain voice. "Stop this instant or I will start knee capping you here in the entryway."
Davey flinched and stepped back first. "Sorry little man," he knelt in front of John in and elegant movement, kissing high up on his hairline twice and then once on the softness of his cheek. "Be careful, be smart little man."
"I will," John tugged on a lock of his absurdly orange hair. "You too, don't trouble Sherlock. I'm with him."
Davey threw his hands up, standing in a quick athletic movement, "Forbid I should worry about you constantly when you're in such competent hands."
Sherlock made a darkly furious sound. "John, hand. NOW."
"No," John snapped back. "You do not get to bully me unless I let you. Why are you acting like this?"
"I told you to stay in the flat," Sherlock repeated.
"This was my idea," Davey said quickly. "I was worried about Johnny and wanted him to visit. I had one of my cars pick him up and I escorted him out of said car and into my flat. He was with me the whole time in my flat and I escorted him back into one of my cars to take him back here again. If I can kidnap people without a trace I am capable of watching someone who isn't trying to escape. I didn't think you'd mind since you were off playing with your bestie, leaving the dear doctor here like an old pair of shoes."
"It wasn't like that," John quickly defended.
"What was it like then?" Davey asked, tilting his head in venomous compassion. He snapped his head quickly toward Sherlock. "You see, Johnny has the ability to distance himself from those parts of the people that he loves, which aren't so complimentary. He's able to ignore the things I have to do to keep business running and he's able to ignore the fact you treat him like a toy you can put down and pick up at you leisure."
"Stop playing with him Davey," John stopped short of stomping his foot. "He's my friend. We don't have to be together all the time. We don't have to live in each other's pockets. It's fine."
"Hmm," Davey waggled his head back and forth. An almost friendly, startlingly honestly feral smile, kilometers away from the fake gleeful creeping that went on under Moriarty's skin. "Be safe Johnny. Back to work then. A thug must do as a thug must." He winked at John and slipped silkily out the door.
"I do not like him," Sherlock said darkly. "The flat is safe. Mycroft has it watched, and there's Mrs. Hudson here. And you have places you can hide."
"It's fine," John took a step closer, shaking off the at each other's throats tension that Davey dragged blissfully around behind him. Slowly, as not to cause alarm, John curled his hand in Sherlock's. "Tell me about the case."
"I'm still not happy with you John," Sherlock made a sound just short of a sigh.
"That's fine," John squeezed his hand again. "I didn't mean to upset you. Davey wanted to see me, and I know I'm safe with him. I didn't think it would matter."
Staring steadily at John, Sherlock seemed to hover on the soft edge of saying something.
The phone suddenly rang.
Hand tightening on Sherlock's John watched the slow draw of the phone and Sherlock precise thumbing of the answer button. "Uh- uh –uh -oh, that was awful quick," said a woman's voice. Sounded London, not too posh, she sounded relatively calm, a lot better than the other, only the smallest underlying tremor. There was something about this. It was too soon, something was wrong. "Someone finished that last one awful quick. I hope things have just been going in your favour. I hope that you haven't been," there was an almost comically clunky dramatic pause. "Cheating."
"How exactly am I meant to have been cheating?" Sherlock drawled. "I'm a genius. What do you expect? But then I can imagine it must be the same for you. Everything moving so quickly, beautifully. These are beautiful puzzles."
"Oh," the woman sucked down a juttering breath. "You do flatter me. You'll love this next one. Even though you're so very clever, I'll give you eight hours. I do so like to watch you dance, the waltz as well as the q-q-quick step."
The woman rang off leaving Sherlock smiling vaguely at the phone, thumb keeping time over the back of John's hand.
PIP
PIP
PIP
PIP
PIP
"Open it," John said faintly. "Let me see."
Sherlock thumb shifted over the screen, he looked, scrunched his face in concentration and showed John.
"The Thames," John said, relieved that this was at least the same.
"Yes," Sherlock grinned. "To the late edition."
FROM:
TO: glestrade
Attached: In Case of Emergency [Locked]
Attached: ASSISTANCE [Locked]
DI Lestrade,
Something that might be helpful in case Sherlock disappears tonight.
Please assist Sherlock as much as you are able with this latest case. Do not allow him to become distracted. This is of upmost importance.
Thank you for your cooperation in this matter.
Please remain safe.
FROM: glestrade
TO:
Who is this? What do you want with Sherlock? Why did you send me an attachment I can't open?
FROM:
TO: glestrade
It's just a few calculations I ran. If it becomes necessary, it will open.
Sherlock's safety is a concern. Please help him focus on the case, if you feel the need to share this email with him please wait until after he has solved his final 'puzzle.'
Please continue about your day.