14: Rondo Capriccioso

"What the hell?"

John turned, staring at the tall figure that burst in through the door, gasping for breath. Sherlock wasn't supposed to be here – but the shock on his flatmate's face was enough to make him worry instead of scold. He set down the book he'd been reading, drawing his brows together. "Forget something? Like an apology?"

It was a cutting remark, but Sherlock didn't even seem to hear it, much less acknowledge it. "John, your blog – have you looked? No, no, of course you haven't. You were reading, probably nothing useful anyway, based on the tall and bolded sans-serif font on the cover and the picture of some sort of explosion. Probably a military or paramilitary action novel, maybe Tom Clancy, judging from that silhouette of a tank in the midst of the explosion.

"But why should you check your blog, anyway?" Sherlock continued. "I'm practically the only one who comments on it, besides your sister the drunk, and even if I weren't, it wasn't as if we've had a case or anything else that you could post on in the last few days. Aside from that whole – " He winced, but kept going. " – 'My flatmate is dead, but I don't believe it' thing. But you should look on your blog now, John, because we've got a problem, a real one, not one of those dull emotional ones."

John couldn't resist a dry joke. "I told you last week that I'd do the dishes for the month."

"Shut up."

"Sherlock, that's not the way to regain my – " But he stopped at the raised hand, shrugging and pushing himself up off the sofa. He was interested despite himself, and could feel his stance shifting to something more anticipatory, leaning forward. All he needed now was a direction, somewhere to go. "What now?"

"He's here. I know."

John knew whom Sherlock meant. "How?"

"A post in your blog. You haven't checked. But I have." Sherlock strode past him, looking up the stairs, and then into the kitchen from the living room, checking the pantry, the broom cupboard, even the refrigerator. John had to bite down on his lip to avoid laughing at the last part. Still, the search was serious, and Sherlock was clearly wide-eyed and panicked, and so when the detective rounded back on the living room, John reached out a hand to grab his arm.

Sherlock hadn't expected it. John could feel the flinch beneath his fingers; he tightened his grip, forcing the other man to look at him. His voice was as calm as he could make it, the same voice he'd used in Afghanistan with injured soldiers and orphaned children. "There's no one here except Mrs. Hudson and me."

"There must be. There was a post."

"Because nobody ever lies on the Internet."

Sherlock drew back, staring at him. "What?"

The lapse in judgment frightened John. The Sherlock that he knew didn't make mistakes like this. His deduction had always been good enough to hide the errors of common sense that he occasionally – more than occasionally – made. Still, John spoke patiently, trying to explain. "It was a lie. Just meant to wind you up and to put you on edge. I'd have heard anyone who tried to break in."

"You fixed the step on the staircase. That was squeaky for a reason."

"I fixed it because it was three months away from falling through. Unless you'd prefer to send a foot through it and break a leg."

"I'd prefer to be notified, no matter the risks. Otherwise, this." A grand, nearly theatrical sweep of a long-fingered hand accompanied the last word. "Why are we not looking already?"

"Because he's not here. You need to calm down, Sherlock, otherwise you'll wind up making mistakes."

"Impossible."

"Because you don't make mistakes?" He couldn't resist the sarcasm.

"No, no, it's impossible that he came inside and neither of us noticed anything."

Thank God, Sherlock believed him. John drew a breath, extending his hands in a gesture of relief. "Thank you for acknowledging that I'm not completely oblivious. So you were tricked." Sherlock shook his head, and John felt at a loss. "Of course you were tricked. If he's not here, then what other options are there?"

"Three. The rooftop, hardly likely as I mentioned repeat performances to him in our last conversation, outside, also unlikely, as there's no personal contact, and it wouldn't be very satisfying to mock someone at a distance from which you couldn't watch them become disoriented. Third – " Sherlock's gaze dropped to the floorboards.

John knew instantly. He retreated to the kitchen, reaching in the top shelf of the broom cupboard. His service revolver was stashed away in the back; he pulled it out, checking to ensure it was loaded. If Mrs. Hudson was in danger, with Sherlock in the state he was in, then they wouldn't be very likely to be able to talk things through.

Sherlock gave him an approving nod upon seeing the gun. "Good."

Not good. But he couldn't say that. The last thing he needed was to have Sherlock distracted right now. He headed for the door, conscious of each step, hearing his footfalls on the floor, in no doubt that they could be heard in the flat downstairs. He had been in Mrs. Hudson's several times before, and tried to remember the layout of the flat. It was smaller than theirs and definitely neater, but had a similar enough floor plan. They could use that. Cut down the angles and escape routes. The best route would be to get Moriarty and Mrs. Hudson into the back room in order to narrow the chances of the criminal escaping. His finger slid to the hammer, cocking the pistol.

As he was just about to head into the stairwell, his mobile chirped. His mobile, not his flatmate's. "Sherlock. My mobile."

"You get it."

"I've got a bloody loaded gun in my hand." He turned, glaring at the detective. "You get it. For once."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but retrieved the mobile anyway, staring at it. His voice was low, as if he didn't want Moriarty to know they were there. Considering the whisper was coming from a man who'd just shouted his name and run up the stairs, it was needless secrecy, too late, but John didn't bother to point that out. "Mycroft. 'I've asked you twice already, John, and you're not answering your phone. Why are sweets tied to a case?' The kidnapped children, Hansel and Gretel."

"I know that."

"He's figured out the message I left him in Birmingham." And, with that, Sherlock tossed the mobile aside carelessly; John winced as it hit the floor, lifting his finger off the trigger to avoid a reflex shot, thinking, You're going to buy me a new one if that's broken. Now wasn't the time, though. Mrs. Hudson mattered more to him, at least, and hopefully to Sherlock.

They descended the staircase, John first, with the gun held up. It was good that he'd repaired the step, he realized. Moriarty wouldn't hear them coming this way. The last step took him to the first-story landing, and he headed to the closed door without pausing, hoping it wasn't locked.

What if there was an explosive device, a trap on the door? He scanned the door cautiously, looking for wires or triggers, but couldn't see any. Now his voice dropped low, too. "Sherlock. The door to her flat. Is it – "

"Perfectly normal. Nothing attached."

John was vaguely impressed that the other man caught on to his train of thought so quickly. "Don't step anywhere I don't." If he was going to isolate where the pair were inside the flat, he'd have to do so very carefully, and move quickly and with some coordination. Sweeping the place required some degree of calibration, and he hoped that the detective realized that.

"Understood."

Nothing exploded as he entered the flat, but John didn't have time to feel relieved. Hoping that Sherlock mimicked his movements, he brought the revolver up in what passed for a foyer, finding only a pink bathrobe and the day's mail. Nothing unexpected. And Mrs. Hudson often forgot to lock her flat. Maybe Moriarty wasn't even here. Maybe, as he had suspected at first, Sherlock was only being manipulated into this search, and would find nothing at all except another post on his blog to taunt him for being so easily hooked.

The dining room was past its prime, and barely used. Mrs. Hudson took her meals in front of the television most nights; he'd watched enough primetime programs with her to know that, nights when Sherlock had banished him from upstairs on some pretext or another. He glanced into the kitchen. Nothing there. The living room, visible past the dining room table, remained likewise undisturbed. The bedroom and bath lay at the back end of the building, and were the only major options left.

Sherlock had figured out Moriarty's probable location as soon as John had, if not sooner, and was striding past him in an instant. For a brief moment, John wryly considered shooting him to slow him down, but that would be counterproductive. Satisfying, though, he thought, and so he sighed and followed, gun at the ready.

As Sherlock stepped aside in the bedroom, John could finally see past his tall frame. What he saw was just as expected as the state of the landlady's flat had been. The suited man who had propped himself up in the bed was watching Coronation Street, and glanced towards them carelessly. "Took you long enough! What were you doing, discussing whether to save her or not?"

Shooting Moriarty would be even more satisfying, John suddenly realized. He kept the gun trained on the lunatic.

"Where is she?" Sherlock's voice was dark, foreboding. There was a note in it John definitely didn't like.

"Oh. Your housekeeper."

"Landlady."

"Whichever!" Moriarty thumbed the remote, and the soap opera disappeared with a flash, the set darkening. "How should I know? She probably went out to fetch some dinner at the sandwich shop next door for the nice gentleman who showed up at her door, offering to go over the insurance claims for the whole property. Did you know you're paying fifty pounds in premiums that you don't need to pay?" He grinned broadly, and then added, "She's all right. Since you care so much about your pets, Sherlock." His gaze settled on John for a moment, before flicking off him dismissively. "Including telling them the truth about everything that's happened over the past few weeks. You have, haven't you?"

Hadn't he? John glanced up towards Sherlock, brows raised.

"Later, John."

"Oh, no, no, no! How about now?" Moriarty suggested. He propped himself up, watching the two of them, but for once, John was the focus of attention more than Sherlock was.

What hadn't Sherlock mentioned? The detective had faked his death. Molly and Mycroft had known about it. Rather than telling John, he had fled to Birmingham and would have stayed underground there if the situation hadn't worsened. Now, he was back, and he was as much of a dick as ever, but he was here, and they could end their problems right here if John just – He felt his finger tense on the trigger. "Sherlock, you'd better tell me what this maniac means, or I swear I'm going to put a bullet right between his eyes."

Sherlock wasn't watching him, though. He was watching the man before them. "A minor detail, John. I swear."

Beside them, Moriarty leaned forward, hunching over, planting his chin on his palms as if watching a fascinating movie. John felt disgusted, but brought the revolver down to his side again, not sure which of the two other men in the room incensed him more. He couldn't fire a shot until he was sure that he was angrier with the criminal than with the detective.

"What minor detail?"

"Hardly significant. Just a matter of waiting him out – " Sherlock nodded towards Moriarty. " – and figuring out our next move. Since I suppose this is his."

Moriarty looked more than interested in the conversation, John noticed. He looked positively elated by it, as if somehow this was all going according to his plan. The Irishman reached into the pocket of his suit jacket, extracting a packet of gum and unwrapping a piece, popping it into his mouth, chewing exaggeratedly.

"What minor detail, Sherlock?" John could feel his voice grow harsh. Despite the revolver already being at his side, he placed his finger away from the trigger again. Just in case.

Sherlock didn't look at him, and probably couldn't bring himself to do so. John wondered about that until his flatmate spoke. "In a manner of speaking, Jim Moriarty has hired me."

The temperature seemed to drop in the room. John wanted to shoot both of them now. Moriarty leaned forward, smacking the stick of gum in his mouth. Sherlock stood there unmoving, the brittleness in his voice drifting to his stance. John stared, first at Sherlock and then at the intruder. Neither of them gave him anything more to go on, as far as he could tell. "Hired you?" he echoed.

"Yes, John. I'll explain later." Sherlock winced, and John realized the recurring pattern. He'd promised to explain at St. Bart's, too, and all the rest of it, and hadn't, and no doubt what Moriarty wanted was for John himself to get angry at the repetition and stalk out.

That wouldn't happen. Not right now. Maybe later. John nodded at Sherlock, taking a step forward, leveling the revolver on Moriarty. "Get out before I shoot you."

Moriarty didn't move at first, not even flinching at the weapon. John had to wonder if he'd even seen it. Given how much Moriarty picked up on, as much as Sherlock if not more, there was no way that the man hadn't noticed that John was armed. At the same time, though, it didn't seem to matter to the madman.

"Your pet trusts you, Sherlock. Pity you don't trust him enough to explain this all to him!" Coronation Street appeared on the television again. Moriarty's voice was distracted, punctuated by chomping on the gum, affectedly airy. "He agreed to help me without pay, out of the goodness of his heart."

Sherlock remained silent. For once. But, for once, John wished that Sherlock had said something. Why didn't the detective say that Moriarty wasn't telling the truth, that he couldn't possibly be telling the truth?

John rounded on Sherlock. "You're joking. I mean, not that you should take money from this guy, but… you're helping him for free. Why the hell would you do that? You said we were safe."

Sherlock's voice was quiet, pointing out where the doctor's expectations had gone wrong, but the statement was utterly devoid of the superiority that John would have expected from such a statement. John didn't like that uncharacteristic sound, either. For once, arrogance would have been incredibly welcome. "You asked for specific names. I told you they were safe. I didn't lie."

"Right. All right. So you've agreed to work for him or someone dies, someone whom I haven't been around, or I hope you would have warned…" Mycroft. "… them." So that was what Sherlock had told his brother. He worked his jaw for a moment, considering this, and then added, "What's he want now?"

Before Sherlock could answer the question, Moriarty's voice piped up from beside them. "He didn't ask." He smoothed down his suit, fingers trailing against it as if he was momentarily distracted by the feeling of silk, adding offhandedly, "I gave him a chance to ask, too. But he was too stunned to think properly. Again. Twice in a row, no less." He looked up, swiveling his head to gaze at Sherlock, smiling with sudden, faked warmth. "I might start to think he was slipping."

John shot a hand out for Sherlock's arm, restraining him even before the detective's cocked fist had pulled back for a punch – though he wouldn't have blamed Sherlock if the punch had landed. John repeated his question: "What do you want, Moriarty?"

Moriarty sighed, as if the question bored him. "The two of you keep asking that. It's not like I haven't told you, repeatedly. I mean, I would have expected it from you, Dr. Watson, since you're always a step or two behind the rest of us – but from him? He's disappointed me lately."

It was uncannily like trying to pry an answer out of Sherlock when his flatmate didn't want to offer one. "What do you want now?"

Moriarty's gaze trailed towards him. He chewed deliberately on the gum for a moment, as if to show John how little he thought of the question, an irritating childishness in the gesture that felt uncomfortably familiar. "Nothing yet. I just wanted to let you know what Sherlock and I agreed to. I figured you might want to know!" His voice was a lilt as he sprang from the bed, stepping into the path of John's revolver without hesitation, and then making a big show as if he'd only realized belatedly that the gun was there. His hands wrung in mock-anxiousness, and the stammer in his voice was just as phony. "Y-y-you're not going to shoot me, are you, Dr. Watson? I don't think your friend the Detective Inspector would like that very much, even if your friend the consulting detective probably would."

Once more, Moriarty hadn't – technically – done anything worth killing. It was frustrating. Besides, he couldn't have killed Moriarty anyway. He had promised to help people, not to kill them, and as much as Moriarty's death would improve London as a whole, and their situation in particular – it wasn't in him to simply shoot without more of a justification. He lowered his revolver and stepped aside.

"That's what I thought," Moriarty said smoothly, nodding at the lowered revolver.

Sherlock would have no such compunctions against killing Moriarty. For a moment, John considered handing his friend the gun. But Sherlock stood there, unmoving, a pensive look on his face. John wanted to ask why Sherlock had fallen silent. Had he realized something? If so, what? But he didn't get the chance. The lunatic before them was starting to slip past them, and John didn't relish the idea of simply letting Moriarty get away.

With a little wordless exclamation of victory slipping from him, Moriarty ran a hand through his hair and straightened his suit, chewing one last time on his gum before spitting it towards them. A look of sheer hatred contorted his face, turning it into something ugly and almost inhuman.

He had already decided that he wasn't going to shoot. Not for that. But his friend might –

"Sherlock," he murmured warningly before he could finish the thought.

The taller man didn't move. Relieved but still puzzled by his friend's sudden reticence, John placed another hand on the revolver, two-handing it and gesturing Moriarty towards the main rooms of the flat. "Go. Now. Before I change my mind and decide I'll take the murder charge."

Moriarty's brows raised at him, the distorted, terrifying look disappearing as if it had never been there. For once, it seemed, Moriarty had a measure of respect for him. John wasn't entirely sure he wanted that type of appreciation. "But your landlady will never get the insurance discount I offered. Pity." A halfhearted shrug, and he strode through the flat as if he hadn't a care in the world, shutting the door quietly behind himself.

At the sound of the closing door, John's attention turned instantly towards Sherlock. He couldn't keep the slightly accusatory tone from his voice, as harsh as it sounded even to him. "What did you freeze up for?"

Sherlock wandered from Mrs. Hudson's bedroom absentmindedly, sinking into the dining room chair. John shrugged and followed, keeping the revolver close. He wouldn't have put it past Moriarty to make a sudden return entrance – but none came. Sherlock's voice was quiet. "I'm not slipping, John. I can't be. I know exactly what he's trying to do, and you should as well, if you've been paying attention at all."

John started to object, but thought better of it. The detective was less than tactful at the best of times, but he could save the argument for later. It didn't matter – not presently.

"He's done his best to discredit me; he's probably succeeded. Now he's…" Sherlock trailed off, sinking into the chair, his arms folding, and glared at John, clearly unaware of the intensity of the expression. "I know what he's trying to do. But I can't stop it. If I do…"

The minor details of Moriarty's plan eluded John, but he knew the overview of it, and that was enough. "You're not going to do what he wants, are you?" He pulled out a chair across from Sherlock, settling at the dining room table as well, placing the revolver on the table. "I mean, I believe you when you say that there's more to the story than simply agreeing to do what he wants. He's going after Mycroft." He caught a brief, unfelt, but still approving grin from Sherlock, and a slight nod of the head to tell him he was right. "But you can't. Even Mycroft would tell you that you can't."

Sherlock's expression fell prey to distaste at the mention of his brother. But he nodded, leaning back in the chair, visibly drifting off into his own thoughts for a few long moments. Just when John would have urged him to speak, the door cracked open. His hand went for the revolver instinctively, and Sherlock brought the legs of the dining room chair down with a thump.

"Yoo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson's warm voice rang through the flat.

John brought his hand away from the revolver, and saw relief flood Sherlock's face.

"I'm back with the fish and chips you asked for, Mr. … oh!" The landlady made her way into the dining room, setting the paper bag on the table and staring at them. "Hello, boys. What happened to that nice insurance man?"

John bit down on his lip, glancing at Sherlock and holding up a hand: Don't speak without thinking. But before he could give the detective any hint of how to reply, Sherlock was on his feet and starting for the door, brushing past Mrs. Hudson, quite brusquely. All John could do was bring himself to his feet as well, whisk the revolver away before the landlady noticed it, smile apologetically at the middle-aged woman, and follow his friend towards the door.

"You really should watch the news more, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock declared, as if it were an order rather than a suggestion. "Too much Coronation Street. If he comes back, don't open the door. Don't let him around anywhere. Understand?"

Mrs. Hudson spoke when they had reached the door, but John felt himself draw sharply to a stop on the threshold. "What happened to my spare keys? They were on the kitchen counter when I left."

Sherlock didn't seem half as taken aback by the news as John felt. He didn't even bother to glance back at the landlady. "Change the locks, unless you fancy watching soap operas with a psychopath." His voice was back to how John remembered – careless, sharp, almost weirdly energized by the news of the missing keys. Of all the things to be relieved about… but, John realized, he felt relieved that his flatmate's too-doubtful mood had vanished as well, and he could only offer Mrs. Hudson a helpless shrug, following Sherlock upstairs again.