Chapter Length: 4,253 words
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs
Status: Incomplete

A.N.: I'm so sorry for the delay, everyone. I know it's only one day, but still, I'm sorry for being late. I'm afraid I must fore-warn you that the next chapter may also be a little late; I'm sorry, but I'm still playing catch-up, and with my family situation being as it is right now… Well, I'll be doing my best to get it to you on time, of course. Still, I feel like it's only fair to let you know that it may be a couple of extra days.

As always, thank you so much for all the wonderful feedback – again, I'm sorry I'm behind with my replies, but please don't doubt that each and every kind word means the world to me. I'm doing my best to catch up and reply to everyone, I promise. In the meantime, thank you for all the lovely comments and reviews, and for all the adds this story has received to favourite and alert lists. It's great to know people are still enjoying this scribble of mine!

As ever, a huge thank you has to go to the lovely betas I'm lucky enough to work with – patchsassy, velveteenkitten and infinityuphigh. Their expertise has once again proven invaluable, and their kindness seems boundless. Thank you!

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SURVIVAL – CHAPTER 14

ooo

Even in Anchorage, it is clear that things are different. A week after Sherlock's arrival, Amerson (who has done very well outfitting Sherlock in thick trousers and jumpers, and refrained from mentioning the change of moniker) hurtles into their shared hotel room, soaked to the bone, and tells him, "New Big Bad's here."

It is not a surprise. Both Sherlock and Mycroft have been expecting something along these lines, and Sherlock knows, before his brother can offer even a sigh down the secure line, that he and Amerson will be instructed to continue gathering information, regardless of the increased risk. Sherlock would have refused to obey any other order, considering what a rare and valuable opportunity this is; they will certainly have to be more cautious, particularly Sherlock himself, but they may also be able to glean some insight into Moran's character and habits.

They already have a little to go on. The Network's new leader has taken to following in the footsteps of his predecessor in several ways, including in terms of his preference for using his real name. It took very little effort to find Colonel Sebastian Moran – Sherlock managed to find a decent amount through Google, for goodness' sake, once Mycroft confirmed that 'Moran' is not an alias. Educated at Eton and then Oxford University, he went on to join the military and trained as a sniper with the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards. While he is certainly nowhere near the skill levels of Francis Pegahmagabow or the legendary "Valkoinen Kuolema," he did have the honour of training with Craig Harrison for a short time, and, of course, is skilled enough for Moriarty to have spent time and money recruiting him.

Not that it would have taken much of either: Moran is a gambler and, although his departure from the Carabiniers and Greys is not officially listed as a dishonourable discharge, he and his father have both been involved in dubious business previously. Remarks made by former classmates and colleagues on public platforms and in private emails are certainly not flattering or fond.

In short, he is exactly the sort of man Sherlock has been expecting him to be.

Anchorage is a miserable city, as far as Sherlock is concerned. As he suffers from the cold more than most due to his low blood pressure, he has never been fond of anywhere of a higher latitude than York (Newcastle is a trial, and Inverness is his idea of severe punishment), and Anchorage is already a frozen hell despite it barely being October. The frost has unfortunately arrived a little early this year, making every small task that much more difficult. Thus far, the greatest challenge faced by the two men has been adapting their camera equipment so that the lenses of the five security cameras they have set up around the mark's one-bedroom flat remain clear of frost overnight.

There is no formal office here. The city can easily become partially isolated during the winter months – all it would take is one particularly bad storm to close roads and restrict air and sea travel for a fortnight – so an office would be an unnecessary waste of resources. The tiny flat, however, is a very effective information hub, with seven alternative telephone numbers and the kind of internet bandwidth most commonly found in the head offices of FTSE-100 firms. The young man in charge of it all rarely ventures out, aside from a twenty-minute coffee break at the café three doors down the road every other evening (ex-girlfriend is a waitress – he continues the old habit, half out of hope and half out of spite), so the week prior to Moran's sudden appearance is mostly spent monitoring and documenting calls and data-flow. Sherlock, in particular, spends hours studying what little footage they have of the young man speaking either to himself or into a secured mobile phone, deciphering the individual movements of his mouth.

The footage is adequate for use as evidence, but it is still grainy enough that it takes him a full hour to 'read' a single sentence.

When Moran appears, Sherlock cannot help but feel that his delight is entirely justified. Not only is it obvious that the visit is unplanned (has been undertaken because the Colonel sees 'Robert Clarke/Sigerson' as a threat – Sherlock had been tracked here), it seems like a conclusive sign that the crushing boredom will finally be alleviated; Sherlock carries the hopeful excitement with him for forty-one hours before accepting that he will not meet his expectations.

Moriarty was, above all else, uncommonly interesting, and Sherlock finds himself almost upset at the unexpected mediocrity of the brilliant man's successor. Moran's background is unusual enough to catch Sherlock's attention, and even hold it for a little while, but his decisions (in terms of both action and reaction) are disappointingly predictable.

It is enough to make him pity his former opponent. Had their roles been reversed, had Sherlock been the one to die, he would have been mortified to be replaced by someone so ordinary in their incompetence.

Of course, as far as the public are concerned, Sherlock Holmes did die; he could very well have such a replacement and simply not know it yet. The concept is not a pleasant one, unfortunately taking root in his mind during yet another long, boring period of inactivity over at the flat.

It could be John. John. Who, like Lestrade, sees but does not observe. John, with his seemingly unending need to be on some form of battlefield. Rather than being a source of comfort or pride, the thought is a sickening insult. To have John, who may have been learning but still missed so much every damned time, even think that he could do what Sherlock can…

Even more than that, if Lestrade let him, encouraged him by bringing him into Scotland Yard and allowing him to assist with cases… Sherlock would have to kill either them or himself out of sheer humiliation.

ooo

Observing Moran produces very little new information. Both the Holmes brothers have conducted their own investigations, and although Sherlock's have been limited by his circumstances, there are still fewer than ten new bullet-points on his list. Even then, less than half the new data is of any practical use.

The intelligence gained from monitoring the flat's data-flow and telephone lines, on the other hand, is outright monumental. From the net connection alone they have caught finance reports relating to twelve current operations (and another sixteen minor scams), five personnel files, and numerous hints towards Moran's future plans thanks to the browser history. In fact, the information is so valuable that Sherlock finds himself persuading Amerson to drag things out for an extra fortnight.

Spending more than a month in Anchorage is not an idea that appeals to the shorter man (Sherlock himself is less than keen), and it takes a full day and a bribe of a half-shift and Chinese takeaway before Sherlock has him convinced.

Sitting out in the freezing rain, bundled up in black and gray to blend with the roof he is perched on, Sherlock regrets even thinking of staying a little longer. He is cold and miserable, Amerson is far too like John, and he has a sneaking suspicion that not only does Moran know he is there but also that Sherlock is skirting ever closer to 'the ragged edge' by staying within his range.

He finally trades off with Amerson after a full thirteen hours out in the cold. Whilst it had been only the technician in the flat, leaving the cameras to do their work during the frigid nights had been a perfectly reasonable course of action. With Moran here, however, there are so many more opportunities for error, so many more possible scenarios; failing to have either of them follow him on any late-night wanderings would be a failure of the highest order. If Moran has any contacts here in Anchorage, they need to identify them immediately; Sherlock knows that Mycroft is likely to call him elsewhere soon. Amerson will be a decent safety net, remaining for at least four days after Sherlock's departure, but he has not fooled himself into believing the other man to be anywhere near as effective as Sherlock himself. It is why he has made certain to give the soldier the lower-risk shifts; why he insists upon being the one to transcribe any video of either man speaking.

Amerson is not oblivious to Sherlock's opinion of him, subtle as both men have tried to be. However, insulting as the implication obviously is, it is clear he agrees with Sherlock's assessment of his abilities.

Sensible, reasonable, and able to accept that Sherlock Holmes is more observant than he could be on his very best days. It is no surprise that Sherlock has found himself warming to Amerson, almost to the point of genuine friendship.

He chooses not to acknowledge the many ways in which the shorter man is similar to John.

ooo

The first shots are fired at just before ten in the morning. Amerson is miraculously unharmed, despite being taken by surprise; Moran meant this as a warning rather than a true offensive move. Amerson is twitchy, and gives only vague answers to Sherlock's many and repeated questions about the three minutes before the first bullet ploughed into the wall beside him. It had been close to the end of his shift, and the nervous defensiveness in both his speech patterns and his body language make it all too easy for Sherlock to conclude that the soldier had been dozing off, relying on the cameras to do his job for a few minutes.

He would like to be angry. He would like to shout and complain, to deride him relentlessly and demand that Mycroft send a replacement. If it were anyone else, excepting Douglas, Whykes, and (possibly) Vicker, he would do so immediately, but something about the way Amerson reminds him so much of John always catches the words before they can leave his mouth. It is infuriating, and only made worse by the fact that he is so angry with his former flatmate in the first place.

They agree not to inform Mycroft of the incident until their pre-arranged check-in, just over thirty-six hours away. It is, perhaps, a foolish move, and Sherlock certainly does not enjoy or approve of his ridiculous and sentimental desire to keep the older man out of Mycroft's bad books for as long as possible. There is method to the slight madness, though: sending an urgent communiqué to the elder Holmes would result in an anomalous, partially unsecured signal being sent from the flat, which Sherlock is not yet sure has been pinpointed. Although it is clear that Moran is content to play cat-and-mouse for the time being (he is underestimating them, assuming that they are still here in Anchorage because they are struggling to gather the information they need without even considering that the opposite could be true), sooner or later he will make a move against them, and if the flat is compromised then effective extraction will be that much more difficult. Radio silence is beneficial to their safety, even if it does pander to Sherlock's weaker, more emotional impulses more than he would like.

They resume surveillance immediately, although they do switch to the third-string observation point (the second is too open if Moran found the first). Absolutely nothing has changed. Not that Sherlock expected it to. Moran is a former soldier, with sniper training and more than adequate funds and contacts to ensure he got at least one heavy-duty rifle through whatever security necessary – there is no reason for him to have brought in surplus contacts or, indeed, mercenaries.

By the time they report in to Mycroft the next day, Amerson has half-convinced himself that it was mere coincidence: a case of him being in the wrong place at the wrong time and ending up mistaken for a local gang member, nothing more. After refraining from informing his brother of the full extent of his partner's idiocy, Sherlock feels like throttling him (Anchorage has a reasonably low crime rate and is a rather secluded city, so the gangs know one another).

"Erik?" his brother calls, catching him just before he disconnects. "I have some news regarding the flat. The room is off the market – no further contacts made."

It is a rather obvious way to put it, and he could be offended that Mycroft has not taken the time to encode it properly, but the news is too good for him to feel anything but relief. "The – "

"I am not a messenger, Sigerson," comes the biting interruption, and Amerson sends a sympathetic look his way. "And I believe you have a job to do."

"Yes, sir," Sherlock manages to grit out. The little phrase is one he has become accustomed to forcing out over the past few months, but it still tastes like tea that has been left to stew for too long.

He hangs up before Mycroft can irritate him further, snapping an "I'm fine," to Amerson before stalking into the bathroom.

The flat is tiny in every way, but the bathroom is miniscule. It is also, unfortunately, the only room in which either man can get any level of privacy. The cameras installed in the other two rooms may be a precautionary measure in case the flat is infiltrated, but they are still there, still recording, still showing his every move to one of Mycroft's lackeys. Additionally, the shift system has been adhered to less and less, and the current surveillance point is barely one-hundred and fifteen meters from the bedroom window anyway. There are eyes everywhere, and Sherlock is very aware of the majority resting on him near-constantly.

It is not something he would usually consider a problem – he is the first to admit that he revels in attention of just about any kind. However, he is vacillating between moments of strength and weakness quite regularly as of late (a fact that sickens him and would horrify his brother), and he needs some damned privacy before he snaps and tries to run. Considering his current location, it is doubtful he could manage even twenty miles before Mycroft found him and had him picked up again. The humiliation would be unbearable.

Not that sitting in an empty bath, muttering and brooding like any average idiot, is any more dignified.

ooo

Sherlock spends the remainder of his time in Anchorage almost vibrating with anticipation. In Palermo, he had been ill-prepared for even a minor scuffle, and just the simple escape had been a long-awaited treat. Here, on the other hand, he has a soldier at his side, a knife in his pocket, and a gun tucked between the notebooks in his satchel. He is ready for a confrontation, eager in fact; the fact that he was tucked up in the flat, nibbling at left-over spring rolls and sticky rice while bullets narrowly missed flesh just three hundred yards away is frustrating to the extreme. The lack of a repeat performance keeps him twitchy and more than a little irritable – two days before his departure, he snaps at Amerson so viciously that the shorter man belts him in the jaw.

Mycroft is entirely and characteristically unsympathetic, giving him Dusseldorf, of all places, as his next assignment. By now he has visited the city multiple times, and it is one of the most boring places he has ever has the misfortune of visiting; compared to London, the crime rates are far too low to be the least bit interesting. The streets are disturbingly clean, too, and the locals are almost unfailingly polite and professional in dealing with visitors, due to the frequent trade fairs and the city's continuing rivalry with Cologne. Even with the high quality of music and art both developed and displayed there, Sherlock loathes it. Unfortunately, there is very little he can say with Amerson listening in (not to mention he is, once again, on a cold, wet rooftop, whispering into a headset), so his anger and dread must be left to simmer.

Amerson understands, in a way, and leaves him to it. Sherlock cannot help but like him a little more.

Which is why it is upsetting, as well as infuriating and 'sod's fucking law,' as John would say, when the older man is found dead less than a week after Sherlock leaves him in the frozen hell of Anchorage.

There are no marks on the body to indicate torture, which is a relief to both Holmes brothers – and if part of that for Sherlock is due to the implied lack of suffering, he does not mention it. No drugs, a minor struggle at the very most… It could almost be a random murder of another nameless, faceless civilian, if not for the blatant 'execution' style of it. Sherlock sees the crime scene photographs: the bullet drove through the victim's skull at an acute downward angle, as though he had been forced to kneel before his 'executioner' (speculation substantiated by bruising patterns on the victim's upper arms).

Sherlock could count on one hand the number of corpses he has known personally before death, if he felt so inclined; it is something of a shock to see pictures of Amerson with the back of his skull missing (point-blank shot). They never really made it to being friends, per se, but they worked in exceptionally close quarters on more than one occasion and Sherlock… Sherlock had not found him disagreeable, at least, despite his faults. It is regrettable that he will have to suffer the company of someone unreasonable as well as ordinary in Amerson's stead.

It is, however, truly unfortunate that, of all the 'partners' and 'teammates' Sherlock has been forced to deal with over the past fifteen months, the first to die had to be the one who reminds him of John physically as well as psychologically (military habits and mentalities have been common). Sherlock is perfectly capable of identifying and rationalising his reactions to seeing the body of someone so like his friend, but that does not mean he has any real control over them. Nightmares plague him for almost a fortnight, not helped by Mycroft's refusal to send him a recent photograph of Doctor Watson and 221B.

221B… Oh, it is such a relief to know that he can return there after all.

Mycroft eventually expands on that particular fiasco when Sherlock, having been successful in Dusseldorf, spends a week with him in Vienna in order to go over the information they have amassed and plan a strategy. It takes hours of what even Sherlock would have to confess as juvenile behaviour, but Mycroft finally cracks during their fifth dinner together.

The room had generated a great deal of interest, not only from legitimate potential tenants but from 'undercover' tabloid reporters and fans as well – the interest in Sherlock has not waned even after a full year. John had been miserable and irritable from the outset, often snapping at his potential flatmates and once, memorably, dragging a rude and persistent reporter from the premises by the ankles. Mrs. Hudson had cried through meetings with three of the nicer ones (Mycroft had no part in their prompt decisions to find alternatives), and John finally declared an end to it all after tossing a half-full mug of tea – stoneware and all – at a young man who apparently threatened to repaint Sherlock's bedroom "mauve with turquoise accents."

As much as he is still furious with his former flatmate for allowing the idiocy to begin in the first place, Sherlock feels rather proud of him now he has put a stop to it. The way Mycroft tells it, John seems to have defended Sherlock and his presence in 221B at every turn since his initial mistake.

Still, Sherlock has never understood the ideas of unconditional forgiveness or immediate empathy. The latter is often a lie anyway, albeit usually an unconscious one. As for the former, well, human beings naturally hold grudges over perceived wrongs – it is a part of their biological and evolutionary programming, similar to the way a child will shy away from flames after being burned. It is a survival mechanism: someone who has caused pain, emotional included, will always be treated with subconscious wariness at the very least. He fully expects that reservation to become a feature of his relationship with John.

Until Mycroft shows him the photograph.

It was taken a week after he bodily removed the reporter. Mycroft was able to prevent legal action being taken and, to some extent, shut the man up, but he had not quite been quick enough to silence three of his former colleagues. Derisive articles detailing 'bachelor' John Watson's supposed breakdown appeared in two glossies and The Sun, and the photographs certainly have him looking the part.

His skin still has the dull, grey hue Sherlock remembers from the day he killed Moriarty's hit men; his clothes are almost obsessively well-kept (meticulously and expensively repaired instead of being replaced – sentiment); his hair is longer and messier, and his face a little more lined than Sherlock remembers. Going by the poor light, low foot-traffic, and lack of early morning papers littering the steps, the picture was taken at between five-thirty and six in the morning. John hates to go to work so early, and once refused a job offer because the start time was before nine. Obviously, he did not sleep well (bags under obviously sore eyes – not an isolated incident), and is going out early because he is bored and cannot bear to stay in the flat any longer.

It hurts. Sherlock would never have believed it could, but seeing John like this inspires genuine, near-physical pain. He looks worse than when Sherlock first met him, for goodness' sake; in some ways even worse than when he was strapped to a bomb.

Sherlock expected an emotional reaction, particularly after recent events with Amerson, but nothing prepared him for this. He is shaking, his chest aching and throat tight, and Mycroft is eyeing him with an unflattering mixture of pity and revulsion. The elder Holmes has never really known how to deal with his little brother's rare emotional outbursts – bouts of childish tantrum perhaps, but never true sorrow or anguish – and he is clearly trying to hide his discomfiture behind scorn.

Sherlock passes the photo back to him, pulling on his own inscrutable mask as he does so.

"What's going to happen to the flat?" he asks with forced calm, redirecting the conversation although he already knows the answer.

"I have offered to pay for it, at least for the time being," Mycroft tells him. Sherlock can hear the embarrassment fighting with smug pride for dominance in the older man's voice. "John seemed tempted to decline, but it seems his desire to see me pay for my, ah, my part in all this won out in the end."

"As you knew it would." The words are more biting than Sherlock means them to be, but he cannot take the accusatory tone of the quip back now.

Mycroft's eyes narrow. "I can't tell which offends you more: the fact that I made a mistake, which I have apologised for on more than one occasion, brother; or that I see John and London when you can't." His words turn cruel, twisting into snide barbs meant to wound. "Should I add that I've been taking afternoon tea with Mrs. Hudson once a month for the past eleven, or tell you about my three-hour meeting with Lestrade back in May? He took a swing at me – I'm sure you'd enjoy the story."

When they were children, instances of such cruelty were regular – with Sherlock being the most frequent perpetrator, admittedly, as he had been rather bitter about Mycroft's move to boarding school and apparent abandonment of his baby brother. They know each other too well; it is all too easy for one to hurt the other. Sherlock, however, has always been the only one willing to resort to physical violence if pushed too far, whereas Mycroft balks at the idea of lowering himself to it (unsurprising – Mycroft is not nearly as adept at it, and uses his disinclination as an excuse for his inability to best Sherlock in a fight).

The old urge to take a swing at his brother rises in Sherlock now, beginning with the tiniest twitch in his shoulder and a tingle in his hand; soon it is all he can think of.

He is older now though, and currently relies on his brother's help. For all that he has pretended that it is Mycroft in the weaker position here, honestly the older man could cut him loose at any time. Progress would be slower, certainly, and there would undoubtedly be more casualties, but sooner or later Mycroft would have Moran in custody and Moriarty's legacy on its knees. Sherlock's cooperation is a bonus, not a necessity.

It is not a truth he would choose to face if he had any choice in the matter, but denying it any longer is pointless and potentially dangerous. He needs Mycroft, has been relying on him for more than a year now, and no matter how much he wants to retaliate to those sharp words and that desire to hurt him, he has to walk away.

He stands, determinedly keeping it a fluid, graceful movement, and leaves the room without a word.

ooo

Thank you, as ever, for reading this scribble of mine. If you have the time and inclination, I'd love to know what you thought – no flames please, but con-crit is always appreciated.