It was a few hours until noon, and John sat quietly sipping his tea in the living room, which was drenched with the light of the late morning. He was exhausted, but had not been able to sleep again after the events of the previous night. He had made Sherlock tea as he said, but he had returned to discover his friend leaning against the bathroom wall, looking frightfully pale. John had walked Sherlock to the sofa and deposited him there, where he had thankfully remained for a few quiet hours. He had been in the bathroom for the last hour now, and John wondered if he was feeling ill again. Just as he decided to go check on Sherlock, a gnarled, filthy figure entered the room. Momentarily taken aback, he soon realized it was just Sherlock in the disguise of the old man. John eyes followed him suspiciously as he walked awkwardly to the stairs, not bothering to acknowledge John's presence. Without uttering a single word or giving any indication of where he was going, he descended the stairs and slammed the front door as he left the building. Suppressing a sigh, John returned his attention to the morning papers, a little disgruntled.
Not five minutes later, the deafening sound of shattering glass filled the room, and John jumped from his seat, tea splashing all over the front of his pants. His mouth hung open in shock as he regarded the broken window. A second later, the other window was shattered, and John began to duck, perceiving that an object had crashed through it. He paused as he noticed a brick roll slowly to a halt at his feet. A piece of paper was tied neatly around it. Puzzled, John unfolded the paper and discarded the brick on the floor. Scrawled, in Sherlock's handwriting, was the following: "I'll have someone stop by to repair the windows within the next few hours. If Mrs Hudson or anyone else should inquire, you observed a group of young hooligans running away. It was a hired job. Good morning! –SH"
John regarded the note dumbly for a moment, but then, realizing suddenly the extreme discomfort the hot tea was causing on a sensitive area, tucked the note into a pocket and went in search of a change of clothes, grumbling about unnecessarily mysterious and reckless consulting detectives.
Many hours later, late in the afternoon, Sherlock ran up the steps and burst through the door, startling John, who had been quietly reading a book. Sherlock was dressed as himself, donning his coat, scarf, button-up and all. Striding to the windows, he satisfied himself to the replacements, and drew the shades after looking up and down the street furtively. Regarding him with an expression that could only be annoyance, John lowered his book.
"Why did you have the windows broken?" He demanded, crossing his arms.
Sherlock, who had seated himself at the table, did not turn around to face John, but answered as he stared into the air, steepling his fingers under his chin. "Oh, it was quite necessary."
Narrowing his eyes at this, John seemed to realize for the first time the implications of Sherlock's abandonment of the old man costume. "Moran's people will have seen you," John observed, attempting to bury his horror at the thought.
A slow, self-satisfied grin spread itself over Sherlock's face, and he closed his eyes. "Yes, you are undoubtedly correct," he murmured.
Immediately recognizing the signs of Sherlock retreating deeply into thought, John knew he would likely hear nothing from Sherlock for the foreseeable future. Thankful that he had at least not been killed on the way back, John picked up his book again, only to toss it down a few minutes later. Sherlock had not moved a muscle. Frustrated, John found himself in the kitchen in search of scotch. He had worried about Sherlock all afternoon, and he wondered how he could so easily fall back into his old mannerisms, acting as if the last three years were nothing more than a weekend away on a case.
Leaning against the counter and downing his drink, John thought back to the days following Sherlock's death, and was taken aback at how readily the anxiety, guilt, and bereavement showed that they would not so easily be forgotten. With shaking hands, he poured another glass. He was so lost in thought that he did not notice Sherlock entering the room, and he jumped at the hand whose slender fingers wrapped around his glass, removing it from his grip.
When he glanced at Sherlock's face, he was surprised to find that a soft expression had replaced the arrogant one that had been there before, and John immediately looked down, overwhelmed and fighting to regain his composure. Seeing Sherlock look sincerely apologetic was, in a way, terrifying. John had seen this before, but it had always been an act. Now that it wasn't he felt horribly awkward.
He heard the glass being set on the counter and Sherlock step away. In a soft voice, he said, "Work is the best antidote to sorrow, John." Surprised, John raised his head, but Sherlock was gone, and the glass was empty.
Two hours and a single text to Mycroft and Lestrade later, John and Sherlock stepped out of 221B and onto the sidewalk. John had no idea what the text said, as Sherlock had nonchalantly slid his phone into his jacket pocket. It was a balmy evening, and the heavy, rolling clouds completely shrouded any light that may have been attempting to reach the earth. Sherlock had announced that they were going out and to bring his gun. John almost felt guilty about how glad he was to leave the flat, with the promise of some kind of resolution to the problem of Sebastian Moran. He was forced to grudgingly admit that Sherlock had been correct, because as he felt the familiar thrill of adventure creep up on him, he felt his apprehension and anger, or, as Sherlock as said, his sorrow, fade quickly away. Sherlock hailed a cab, and they ducked inside.
Sherlock's mood had darkened considerably, and he remained silent for the duration of the ride. He was deep in thought, and looked nowhere but out the window. The lights of the city danced across his face, illuminating his stern expression and hardened gaze, and John watched curiously as his lips would twitch upwards every once in a while, but the expression would immediately disappear. He silently wondered what was to become of the unfortunate Colonel Moran before the end of the night.
The driver stopped at a street John was not familiar with, and Sherlock locked arms with his former flatmate, as they got out of the cab. Sherlock whispered to him, "I am going to move very quickly for the next few minutes, and you need to stay with me." John nodded, and Sherlock released his arm. John noticed his friend throwing searching glances in every direction as they walked.
Sherlock had not been exaggerating. His knowledge of London's alleys and abandoned buildings had not ceased to amaze John, and he led them on a dizzying path for quite some time. After almost a half hour of ducking through dark alleys and climbing tall chain link fences, they finally arrived at a street with which John was familiar. He furrowed his brow, because they were very close to Baker Street. He did not question Sherlock, however, as he led them to a dirty, neglected yard with a collapsing wood gate, and to the door of an equally dirty, collapsing, empty house.
He picked the lock to the back door easily, and he gave John a grim smile as he pushed the door open. It was dusty and dark, and the wood floor creaked under their feet. Sherlock grabbed John's wrist, and led him down a hallway and up a flight of rickety stairs. John could make out nothing, as the place was pitch-dark. They approached a single, filthy window, and Sherlock peered out, as did John. The light coming through the window cast an eerie blue tint to the darkness of the room.
Sherlock's mood had lightened somewhat, as he was satisfied that they had not been followed. He leaned over to John and whispered, "Do you know where we are?"
Gazing out the window, John nodded, recognizing the flat as the realization of what they had just done dawned upon him. He spied a tall, thin figure in the window, and his mouth dropped open. He grabbed Sherlock's sleeve.
"Oh, that will be Mycroft," Sherlock whispered, his eyes gleaming at John. He moved away from the window slightly so as to avoid being seen, and indicated for John to do the same. "Did you notice I had the curtains changed as well? Hopefully they will distort Mycroft just enough for Moran to be convinced that he is me. He entered the flat after we left wearing my coat and scarf." John glanced at Sherlock, who was wearing his coat and scarf. "Well, don't be absurd, John. We aren't exactly the same size. He had a wig, too." John sniggered at the image, but inwardly decided that Mycroft was brave indeed to be willing to bear all of the insufferable remarks that were sure to come from his younger brother. He shook his head as Sherlock watched the pedestrians milling around on the street, like a hawk searching for prey. John wondered how he had not noticed how much weight Mycroft had lost in the last few years, since it was enough for him to plausibly pass as Sherlock. Initially, he had attributed it to guilt and grief. But, John supposed, he may not have been entirely wrong.
As the two stood at opposite sides of the window, silently watching people go about their daily business, John thought he saw the same person cross back and forth more than once. A few uneventful minutes passed.
"You're going to let one of the world's most dangerous killers believe your older brother is you." John mused, shrugging. "Seems like a great idea."
Sherlock replied, arching an eyebrow and without removing his eyes from the street, "I only have great ideas."
John chuckled to himself, and whispered back, "Remember when you tried to seduce someone into giving you information? Remember how that ended?" Sherlock grunted, pursing his lips. "Oh, well, in case you don't—"
"I do!" he interrupted, and he could perceive John's shoulders shaking with silent laughter from his peripheral vision.
"You screamed," John continued unfazed in a low voice, giggling quietly. "You screamed so loud, and sounded so scared, that I thought you were dying or something awful had happened." John leaned against the wall, chuckling to himself. Sherlock made an unidentifiable noise of discontent, but John spied a smirk on his face.
John's smile disappeared as he spied the figure that he had seen twice now stop across the street from their old flat, and look curiously up at the curtained window. Shaking his head in reply, Sherlock indicated that he too had observed the figure, and it wasn't what he was looking for. He tapped his fingers impatiently, and John caught him absentmindedly caressing his broken wrist, and made a mental note to drag him in for an x-ray in the near future.
Minutes crawled by, and John watched with increasing apprehension Sherlock's impatient brooding. It was growing late, and the pedestrian crowd had thinned as people returned home. It had also started to rain. Unexpectedly, for nothing had changed outside, Sherlock's eyes lit up and his face broke into an expression of surprised delight. John drew his brows, uncertain of what had just happened. Sherlock suddenly flew to John and put a finger to his lips, backing him quickly into the darkest corner of the room. He whispered excitedly in his ear, "Someone is here!"
Gingerly, he released John and flattened himself against the wall, relying on the complete darkness for concealment. Though John had heard nothing before, he could now perceive soft footsteps making their way up the stairs, as it was quite impossible to walk silently upon those old, creaky boards. The footsteps drew closer, and John pulled his gun from his jacket, wincing at the sound of the safety as he clicked it off.
Sherlock placed a restraining hand on John's chest, shaking his head. Catching John's eye, Sherlock held up a finger, indicating for him to wait, and mouthed the same. Holding his hand out, he motioned for John to give him the gun. John hesitated, but obeyed. It was an odd suggestion from Sherlock. The sound of the footsteps entered the room, drawing the attention of both men. A dark figure appeared in the doorway and then stepped into the room, carrying a large bag. When he stepped into the dim light let in through the dusty window, they saw who they both knew was Sebastian Moran. The man was enormous, tall and thick, with a bald head and a bristly goatee. He kneeled in front of the window, and began to unpack his bag and efficiently assemble a rifle.
Feeling slightly unsettled watching Moran assemble a weapon that had been used on himself once and was now meant to kill his friend, John's eyes wandered to Sherlock's face for an instant. He was reassured by the bright spark in Sherlock's eyes, for this mood John knew well. It meant that Sherlock Holmes had acquired the last necessary shred of evidence or observed the defining event to enable him to close a case. His thinness and pallor suddenly did not seem so alarming, for Sherlock's health could oftentimes depend entirely on the state of his cases. He felt John's gaze, but did not take his eyes from Moran, who was opening the window. He grabbed John's wrist to restrain him further. He still wanted to wait. John glanced worriedly at his gun, as Sherlock held it limply at his side with his right hand, which bore the splint.
This made John nervous, because he was now extremely concerned for Mycroft's life. Sherlock didn't move an inch, and Moran was taking aim. Sherlock's grip on John's wrist tightened considerably: a warning. Don't move. John's breath hitched as he watched Moran make final adjustments. Disregarding Sherlock's warning, John leapt at Moran as he fired a shot. Moran cried out in shock as he and John fell to the ground in a heap.
"Damn it!" Sherlock yelled, and dove after John, who was wrestling with Moran. Sherlock heard an exchange of blows, and raised the gun. "Step away from him!" He ordered, stepping into the light of the open window and aiming it at the tussling bodies. He couldn't make out who was who in the pile because it was so dark. He heard the sound of someone being thrown on the ground—hard. After that, he could only hear a single person breathing heavily.
"John?" He called, but John did not answer him. "Moran! I am armed. Step away from him immediately." Sherlock's voice was sombre and authoritative, and bore a hardened edge, but there was an awkward stiffness in his movements. It was fear. Moran did nothing, and Sherlock leapt toward him, grabbing his collar and pressing the gun into his body. Moran acted quickly, and was much stronger than Sherlock. He knocked the gun out of Sherlock's hand, causing him to groan from the impact on his broken wrist. At the same time the gun had been knocked to the ground, Moran swung his thick arm and smashed Sherlock in the face, causing him to stagger back into the wall.
At that moment, John leapt at Moran, and they disappeared into the shadows, struggling. Sherlock was dazed, and it took him a moment to focus. He sprang into action, however, when he heard John cry out in pain and fall to his knees. He dove after Moran's bulky form, and tried to force him back into the wall. Their arms were locked, and soon, it was evident that Sherlock was not strong enough to hold him. Moran threw Sherlock against the wall, causing his head to crash against the surface, and he tried to get his hands around Sherlock's throat. Sherlock kicked at him and punched him with his bad hand, but it was enough to distract Moran, and he dove for the gun, which was in the line of the meagre amount of light coming through the open window. By the time he had aimed, Moran was retreating out of the room, but he fired without hesitation, scrambling to his feet. He thought he hit Moran, but he had continued running, and was already down the stairs.
Sherlock stumbled, dizzy, and whirled around to find John, who had been silent throughout the last part of the scuffle. He yelled John's name, diving to his knees next to his friend. John was lying face down, perfectly still, his body crumpled and limp. A small pool of blood was forming underneath him. Sherlock could no longer perceive anything except for John. He repeated John's name loudly and urgently, and grabbed his shoulders, turning him so he was lying on his back. There was a knife protruding from his torso. His eyes widened in horror, and all of his breath suddenly left him.
Though Sherlock did not hear the noise, someone ran up the stairs, taking two at a time. It was Lestrade, and he had a flashlight. "My men got him out—oh my god." He stopped upon seeing Sherlock kneeling over an injured John. He was immediately on his radio, calling for an ambulance, and he knelt next to John as well, trying to assess the scene. Sherlock's shaking hands were searching for a pulse, and he seemed frantic.
"He's alive," Sherlock gasped out, and he leaned back a little, regarding Lestrade for the first time. The detective inspector radioed in the new information, and put a restraining hand on Sherlock's shoulders. Ignoring Lestrade, Sherlock leapt up, and began an agitated pacing, running his hands though his hair.
"What the hell happened?" Lestrade demanded, continuing to monitor John and trying to get him to wake up. Seeming unsure, Sherlock paused.
"John—John went after him. Moran wasn't supposed to be here!" He raised his voice, angry. "But I thought the plan would still work."
At that moment, the blessed sound of sirens came from outside and the flashing of blue and red lights filled the room. Kneeling next to his friend, Sherlock saw him start to stir, and his heart leapt. Sherlock grabbed his hand, and squeezed it as John moaned in pain. "Don't talk," Sherlock ordered, searching John's face and struggling to remain composed. John lifted his head and, upon observing the knife wedged under his lower ribs, let his head fall heavily back to the floor in shock. "Don't move, either." Sherlock amended. John groaned in response as the paramedics burst into the room with a stretcher and dragged Sherlock away from John. Scrambling to his feet and leaning back against the wall, Sherlock exhaled forcefully and numbly watched the flurry of activity around John.