CHAPTER XIV:

WHAT WE WISH

"I'm going to Switzerland with Moriarty." That last word was a mere whisper, and Sherlock wished he could go back in time and stop what he had started.

After a few seconds of silence, Mycroft Holmes assured the corrupt DI of The New Scotland Yard he could buy him some time. He was going to diminish the flow of information and certainly, they were going to have enough time until Sherlock meet Moriarty. Harriet Watson and Sherlock were clean and the only ones left were Greg and John.

Little information they could get out of Sherlock. The only thing the consulting accountant told them was that he'd been invited by the Irishman to Switzerland and that there were some bank accounts that needed to be managed and some financial plans to be sorted out.

Mycroft knew when his little brother was lying. Even more when he was hiding something from him. It was so obvious. Sherlock was so obvious sometimes. But maybe buying Greg Lestrade some time could be efficacious, why not, perfect for the plan.

Yes, there was a plan.

"I'm sorry to leave this enchanting meeting, but there is work to be done and I certainly cannot afford a day off." Mycroft stood up from his place on the armchair and waited for his assistant to get as ready as he was to leave. "You all will have some news from me in a couple of hours and you, Detective Inspector," The older Holmes pointed at him with his umbrella "I'll buy you some hours, some days indeed. Tomorrow, when you arrive at your work, act normally. Don't show any emotion nor any signals that may incriminate you."
Half relieved, half surprised Greg nodded and Mycroft left the living room and then the Adler-Holmes house in silence.

When Sherlock stood up from his place it was quickly occupied by John's lesbian sister who had run to Irene and Sarah immediately, not caring about anyone's opinion at all. Molly, the faithful and patient Molly Hooper murmured something into her employer's ears and he nodded. Johnny Boy was there, still sitting in his original place and lots of things were on his mind. But one of them had a name, and it was Sherlock Holmes. John didn't like the way Sherlock touched people. He didn't like how he placed a hand over his wife's legs. He didn't like how he touched Molly's hands or neck. He didn't like how his fingers brushed the maid's when she handed him the cup of tea. Something inside John burned. It was a tiny little flame burning inside his stomach, stirring the darkest and most violent feelings inside him. He wanted to jump over Sherlock and claim how much his he was. He wanted to tell the entire world that the only consulting accountant was his and only his, that Sherlock had screamed his name lots of times just days before and that he was the only one who could save him and find a way out this awful hell with a distinctively characteristic Irish smell on it.

"Excuse me, Mr. Watson. There are a few things I need to discuss with you and Mr. Holmes about the security procedures from now on. Could you come with us to the office, please?" Molly asked him, smiling shyly, dragging him back to reality.

John nodded and then he found himself trailing after Sherlock Holmes, who walked in front of him with his back straight and his curly, dark-haired head high. Hell, that man had pride.

When they arrived at the famous office, Molly opened the door and gestured them to enter. "I can buy you ten minutes. Fifteen if I'm good. Irene is talking to Sarah and Harriet about the payment of the files and I think I can distract Greg Lestrade," Molly said, half smiling, half serious and closed the door behind her.

However, when she left, John was immediately slammed against the closed door. Sherlock Holmes was towering over him, kissing him passionately and fiercely, claiming his mouth like if his own life depended on it. The blonde thief gratefully took advantage of this, of course. He did not reject the kiss, but replied with the same strength and force. John's hands traveled to Sherlock's pale neck,caressing the white and soft skin there and then he moved upwards, feeling those dark curls and then massaging his scalp. The taller man moaned when he finally felt John's touch again. He had missed that so much. The thief's fingertips were so soft and so warm to the touch. His long hands travelled down to John's back, then to his arse and finally to his front part, to his lower part. Both men rubbed their erections together, fighting for who had the biggest and hardest erection when Sherlock suddenly broke the kiss.

"What's going on?" John asked, confused, straightening his clothes and looked at the taller man worriedly.

"We have sorted my, Harriet's and Greg's situations. My brother and I will take care of yours. In two days you will be able to walk freely around the streets of this city."

There was a moment of silence in which Sherlock looked at 'The Falls', the famous and marvelous painting John had given to him several days ago, after their first sexual encounter. It only took him seconds to know that the painting had been stolen from his original owner and if he wasn't wrong (he never was) it worth more than anyone could ever imagine.

But then John decided to ask what both men had wanted to ask. "What about us, Sherlock?"

"There's no us, John," Sherlock replied coolly, his gaze still fixed on 'The Falls'. His back was turned to the thief who began to feel more desperate every second.

"What do you mean there's no us?" John was not completely angry yet, but he was hurt. Even Sherlock who wasn't good with emotions knew and recognised the hints of bitterness and pain that mingled through his voice.

"First person of the plural in the English language, we. Subject, us. The patronizing we is used sometimes instead of 'you' to address a second party, hinting a facetious assurance that the one asked is not alone in his situation, that 'I am with you, we are in this together'. We may be involved in this together, John. But beyond this mess, there's no us. I have a wife and an appearance up, and you have a gang to take care of."

"Of course we are together in this but, contrary to what you claim, even beyond this fucking mess there's a place for us, Sherlock. There damn well is. And you can divorce Irene, or or... you are nothing more than her beard for fuck's sake!," John hissed, angry now.

Sherlock turned around and met his blue eyes. "We are both beards. Think of your gang, John, ple-"

John cut him off and pointed at him with a finger "Oh, I see. This is because I'm a thief, right?"

"No, Jo-"

"Don't you John me. I should've thought about this. How could I imagine the great, posh, clever Sherlock Holmes would like to have something with me? I'm just a thief," John said, trying his might to stop his tears from spilling. "You've made it so perfectly clear, Mr. Holmes. I apologise for my stupidi-"

"This has nothing to do with what you are or what you do, John. Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."

John stared at him, confused. "What do you mean? Friends protect people- I can protect you. My gang and I can protect you."

"You're the only thing I ever wanted, John. You're the only person I want and the only person I care about, but I can never be with you," the consulting accountant replied coldly.

"Why? I'm here, Sherlock, you can have me! I have enough money to last twenty lifetimes! We can run to some deserted island in the middle of nowhere and be together."

The taller man covered the painting with the dark fabric and faced John. "Is not that simple, John. I have to take care of Moriarty."

"We can kill him! I-I have Greg! He can trace his steps and we can kill him…"

"And then what?" Sherlock asked, half defeated by the stressful situation.

"And then, you and I run far away from here. We'll rock the world," John replied, half smiling.

Sherlock smiled, truly and heartily for the first time that day. And for the first time that day, he saw a silver lining through the dark cloudy sky that hung over his life. Everything was a fucking mess in which he had led lots of people only to play a little game with the wrong man in order to fight his boredom. He knew he had put everyone's lives on the stakes, but most of them were free now. It was only a matter of hours or, if he were lucky, days to meet the Irishman and save John. He knew the Irish oligarch was going to kill him. And if Moriarty knew he had been the brains behind the stolen fourteen million, he also knew John had been the working hands.

Holmes was going to save John. Even if it meant he had to fall.

"You better be going. It has been twelve minutes and I'm sure Harriet has settled the way of payment back to Irene and she's staying tonight. And Molly doesn't know how to handle men," Sherlock said while fixing his clothes from their previous passionate kiss.

John mimicked him in his actions. "Is a bit not good to tell me my sister is having sex tonight, and Molly doesn't know how to handle men? I thought she was good."

"She only knows how to handle me."

With a quick but still soft kiss both men said their goodbyes and John walked back to the living room, where he found Molly chatting with Greg. The silver haired man had sparkles in his eyes, and the head of the gang smiled at Molly, who was blushing.

"Mr. Watson, did you sign the papers I left you?" Molly asked with a very well-hidden hint in her voice.

"Ah yes, of course. Shall we, Greg?" The blonde thief made a gesture with his head and the corrupt DI nodded, standing up and kissing Molly's hand.

"See you later, sweetie."

"Bye, Greg," Molly nodded, a blush painting her lovely cheeks.

Miss Hooper helped the maid with assembling the empty cups left in the living room. It was late, almost dinner time before she realised it was time to go home. Her soft, slender hands prepared all the files and her employer's will which she had been working on and when she hung her purse over her shoulder, a warm hand took hers.

"Thank you, Molly."

She turned around to see Sherlock Holmes. His face, as always, was expressionless. However, she knew he was being heartily honest and that he really meant it.
She nodded "Mr. Holmes, if there's anything you need... you can have me. Well, not me- Yes. I mean-" She took a deep breath and continued as soon as she found the proper words to say "If there's anything you need, you can ask me and I'll be here for you."
Sherlock nodded and she smiled back.

"I better be going. I need to classify these," Molly looked down at the files she was carrying "Oh, Irene asked me to tell you you're very much welcome to-"

A moan was heard from the room upstairs. Molly flushed from head to toes, but her employer didn't say anything.

However, as soon as Molly left the house, Sherlock fell down on the sofa and stuck three nicotine patches to his right forearm. Not paying any attention to the audible noises and moans coming from upstairs, the man owner of the highest intelligence in the whole country closed his eyes, and surrendered to sleep. Maybe when he was asleep he could find some peace before jumping off to meet his own death.

"Sebby, any news about my painting? I'm getting impatient. You know what happens when I get impatient," Jim Moriarty purred. Both Irishmen were having dinner in a posh restaurant somewhere in London. Although it was a very impolite thing to do, Sebastian Moran was furiously typing, without looking at Jim, on the keys of his Smartphone.

"Yes, I do, Sir. I have people after 'The Falls'. It looks like they have located it," Seb assured his employer with a bright smile.

James smiled. "And where is it, according to your sources?"

Sebastian enjoyed every time, every moment he had to use the consulting accountant's name. He hated him so much, so much. He always knew Sherlock Holmes was a man who didn't deserve the trust his employer, the millionaire and criminal mastermind James Moriarty, had given to him. Of course not. So you wonder why he loved to pronounce his name even when he hated him? Easy. Moran had everything to make Sherlock Holmes disappear from the face of the Earth. He knew he had been the brains, the manipulator in the fourteen million Euros lost, and now he knew he had the painting.

"Excuse me Sir, but we are picking up Mister Sherlock Holmes in two days, aren't we?"

Moriarty nodded "Yes! Early, so we catch the first flight to Switzerland. I'm dying to eat some chocolate, aren't you excited?" the Irishman asked with a grin.

"Well, I guess my information can wait then," Seb said while he sipped more of his wine.

"What do you mean? Is this a surprise? If it is, I want a good one, Sebby," Moriarty warned his assistant, half serious, half joking.

Of course it was a going to be a very good, a very nice surprise indeed. Sebastian wanted to go inside with his employer, into Sherlock Holmes's house when they picked him up to go to Heathrow and then to Switzerland. He wanted to see Moriarty's face when he looked at his lucky painting, 'The Falls', hanging on one of the invidious Sherlock Holmes's walls. Oh yes, he was going to enjoy it.

Such a lovely show, filled to the brim with blood and revenge. Oh yes.

"Is indeed a good one, Mr. Moriarty. But you know how this works, if it a surprise I can't give too much away. I'll ruin it," Seb told his employer and the oligarch smiled.

"Ah! Let's change the subject. Have you hired the three snipers?"

Seb nodded "Of course. Should I keep the targets?"

James nodded "Yes. I want the three of them aiming directly to the faithful assistant, the hot wife-y and finally at the lover."

"Whatever you want, sir. Whatever you want," Sebastian Moran agreed as he made a few phone calls and arranged what his employer wanted.

Until Sherlock Holmes's body hit the sharp rocks of the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland, three snipers were going to follow Molly, Irene and John's steps. If the consulting accountant decided to make a bad move, the snipers will kill the only people who really cared about him and the only people he cared about.

Sherlock Holmes had to die to pay for his mistake, and that mistake was playing with James Moriarty. He looked for excitement in all the wrong places.

However, the real Rocknrolla is still waiting. He's still waiting for the perfect moment to attack and beat the demon. Of course he will, because he rocks the fucking world.