Hello! So, this chapter was supposed to contain more ermm...plot. But, i write too much, apparently, and we were already hitting 4,500 words so decided to stop it where it is. So, this chapter is either going to make you go 'AHHH' or 'EWW', or both! Also, i didn't spell check or read it through (which is bad never do that lol) so if this is trash you know why...but my chapters are long and i just...nah.
Trigger warning: non-con touching, harassment (basically Moran being horrid), also please beware of use of strong language
"Hello, Sherlock." Says Sebastian Moran.
Sherlock feels as if he is being pulled back into the past, as if the weeks at Mycroft's never existed, that they had been conjured up by his mind in order to escape, in some way, the horrors of his reality. But no, he reminds himself that the feel of John's lips against his and the feel of John's hands on his body had been to tender, too loving to be fake. His John had never felt exactly the same as real John does, and this brings Sherlock some comfort now when the sound of Moran's mocking voice makes him feel like he is down in the dingy basement again, not sitting on a supple leather seat.
When Sherlock does not reply instantaneously, Moran's laughter stops abruptly and he glares at Sherlock, making the other shrink back in his seat, sweat drenching his back. "I said, hello, Sherlock."
Sherlock, so overwhelmed by Moran's unexpected presence in the car and by his fear, cannot help averting his eyes and muttering a "Hello, Sir." Back to him.
Moran smiles again. "Better. Bet you're surprised to see me?"
Sherlock doesn't reply this time, because he knows he doesn't need to; Moran is taunting him, like he so often did before.
"Well don't worry if you are, everything is going to be okay. Jim and I will make sure of it."
Sherlock clenches his hands into fists by his side. He doesn't say anything. Better to not say anything unless told to, he has learnt.
"Everything will be alright now that I've rescued you from your brother and that awful Doctor Watson." Moran continues, and Sherlock presses his jaw shut. He wants to scream, he wants to cry, but instead Sherlock just remains quiet, head down. "Come on, let's go in. I have so much to tell you. Now wait."
Sherlock waits for Moran to exit the car and come around to Sherlock's door. He opens it for him, and then grabs Sherlock's arm in his large hand and pulls him out of the car. Sherlock has never forgot the feel of those hands on his body, and to now feel Moran's hand squeeze his arm like it is salami is horrifying. It is like someone has dumped a bucket of cold water on him. Sherlock has just enough sense of himself to grab his Monet book before the car door is shut behind him.
Moran drags him up to the house, which, though scorched and burned, and in some places caved in, still stands almost solidly sound. The area where the kitchen had been, and on the floor above it the bedroom in which Moran had seen fit to use Sherlock like a thing are destroyed by fire, no more than blackened remains. This brings to Sherlock a little satisfaction, but not much, when the hand of his abuser wrapped around his arm.
The stench of burning fills Sherlock's nostrils as Moran leads him into the house, Sherlock, who is still barefoot, is glad that the police who had been here gathering evidence had seen fit to place a plastic sheet on the ground, which is speckled with brunt patches and in some places charred remains of whatever had stood in the fire's path. Sherlock thinks Moran is going to lead him to the basement, that had been his 'home', but instead he is dragged into the lounge, the setting of his last flashback involving Janine. It is stripped bare of any furnishings, bar the remains of a bookcase and two chairs, which seems, to Sherlock, quite convenient.
Moran indicates that Sherlock should sit in one of the chairs, but before he can do so Moran calls "Wait!" and Sherlock freezes where he is, hand tightening around his book. Moran saunters as close to him as he can get, pressing their bodies together until Sherlock can feel the man's breath against his throat. He wants to be sick.
"You won't be needing that, will you?" Moran says, taking the book from him. He steps back in order to flip through it, looking through like it is worth nothing more than a penny, when to Sherlock it is priceless. "What is this? Why you like this drivel Sherlock I really don't know." Moran throws the book to the floor, and kicks it away with his foot for good measure.
"Now, I've got to search you." Moran says, his voice laced with disgusting desire. He comes close to Sherlock again, and Sherlock clenches his eyes shut, begging to whatever divine power might be listening that Moran does not find that slip of paper with the codes written on it. The gun is a write off, and Sherlock knows this when Moran's meaty fingers run over his legs and stop at the feel of the metal weapon. Moran makes a noise of curiosity before pulling the weapon out of the dressing gown.
"Oh dear, Sherlock. What are you doing with such big boy toys."
Sherlock shudders, and, again, doesn't answer. This patronising voice, it makes him want to curl into a ball, but there is a fire burning inside of him, a fire that wants to stop Moran and burn him where he stands, just like this house has been burned. But he will keep up the scared façade which is more than an act but less than a breaking of willpower.
Moran also throws the gun to the side of the room, which Sherlock takes note of. He braces as Moran's search continues, but by some miracle the man's hands do not feel the piece of paper in Sherlock's pocket, and a breath leaves Sherlock like a tidal wave as Moran steps away.
"Sit." He commands, and Sherlock takes a seat in the nearest chair. Moran sits opposite him, and pulls out his own gun, stroking the barrel and looking at it like he would a lover. Eventually, however, those eyes fix on Sherlock, but the meaning in their gaze doesn't change. "God, I've missed you."
Sherlock decides to try his luck with a question, and says, "I don't understand."
Moran sighs and rolls his eyes. "Be more specific, Sherlock. You don't understand what?"
"Why-Why we're here, I said I would meet Mr Moriarty at St Bart's, I was going to get out, I promise."
Moran sighs, and looks at Sherlock with something bordering on pity. "Oh, Sherlock. You honestly didn't think Jim would believe that you might be willing to meet him somewhere and not have big brother coming with you with all the king's horses and all the king's men? No, Jim did this on his own terms; seeing as you so lovingly offered to come back to us, he wanted to do it properly. We know how you mess things up so. It was a kindness, don't you see."
"But-but I said I would come back with you if Moriarty stopped what he has planned. That's what we promised."
Moran laughs, tipping his head back as if it is hysterical. "Sherlock, so naive! You think you have so much power, but in reality, you have none. No, Jim would never have cancelled what he has planned. Believe me, it's going to be fabulous!"
"Mycroft will stop him!" Sherlock spits, and it is the first time in a very long time he has ever talked back at Moran. The man's face instantly darkens. "What the fuck did you just say? 'Mycroft will stop him'? I don't think so, Sherlock. See, Jim left getting you back all up to me, as he's been far too busy making sure your brother's destruction is as beautiful as it can be. Mycroft has no idea how vulnerable he is. For example, look at you here, sat opposite me, equals. Or so it might seem. But, even though there's a gun just over there, and you're not tied down, still you cannot do anything to stop me; and your brother is in exactly the same position."
Sherlock trembles. Moran is right, Moran is always right, and yet Sherlock thinks the man might be on the edge of revealing a little too much, and giving Sherlock a push in the right direction to doing something to stop them. "You blackmailed Doctor Laurens?"
Moran shrugs and scoffs. "That was as easy as pie; she was weak and far too loving, such an easy person to threaten. Use one of Jim's pseudonyms, she can't report me to the police then, can she? All she knows is someone might kill her little daughter if she doesn't do as she says. Simple."
"But, she was security checked by Mycroft, she must have been, how could you get past that?" Sherlock asks.
"Oh, Jim has much more control over everything than you think. Mycroft has no idea Laurens was ever compromised! Jim has…. shall we say 'spiders'? everywhere. Even in government. Right under Mycroft's nose."
Sherlock feels himself pale, and his stomach turns with this new information. Moriarty has men within the government? This part of what he's been working on for the past five years?
"Now, you're not getting any more from me, I've already spoilt you rotten." Moran says, and gives Sherlock's knee a slap. Sherlock jerks back, skin stinging. "But, I'll give you a clue as to why we're here… You're being kept away until it is done. We're keeping you safe from all the hardship. Now, aren't you grateful? We know how weak you are, Sherlock, dear."
Sherlock fights the impulse to stay quiet, and carefully asks. "Why? What is going on?"
Moran raises his eyebrows, but Sherlock blinks innocently; Moran cannot resist Sherlock's pitiful look, for gloating, that is, and answers with glee. "Jim's bringing this little meeting forward to tonight, no excuses for any absences, and he's going to set his plan into motion. Isn't it exciting? Always one step ahead of your brother. You have no idea how much Jim is going to destroy him! But he's let me keep you company, he knows how jealous you make me. The attention he gives you, god it makes me mad; that attention should be on me!" Moran suddenly turns on Sherlock, anger filling his eyes, a vein in his temple throbbing. He grabs Sherlock's shoulders and shakes him until Sherlock feels dizzy.
"But you are nothing Sherlock!" He continues as Sherlock tries not to fall off his chair. "Jim couldn't even be bothered to kidnap you himself, he left that to me, because he knows how much I love you, and hate you! He's got bigger fish to fry, Sherlock, did you honestly think he would be persuaded to go and meet you when he's finalising his plans for everything? Ha! You're so stupid, Sherlock. So stupid I have to babysit you like this. Don't worry my love though, it will soon be over. Jim doesn't want you dead, but I am so sick of your attitude, that I may not be able to help myself."
Moran pulls out a gun, then, and looks it over like one might gaze at a lover's body. He traces the barrel with his finger, and checks to see if it is loaded like one might check to see if a stapler has staples. That is to say, he is a man in his workplace using his equipment with the casual tediousness of having done this many a time and yet still spending his life doing so.
Sherlock tries to block out Moran's harsh words; Moran has threatened to kill him many times in the past. He does not care for how Moriarty feels about him, either, but he cannot get rid of the fear that, if Moriarty is not bothered about Sherlock, what is he doing with Mycroft? And, more importantly, John?
"Anthea? Confirm that Team A is in place?" Says Mycroft into his earpiece, staring hard at the seat opposite him. They sit, him and John, in the back of a land rover. John shifts on his seat, suddenly feeling as if he might be back in Afghanistan, with the feel of the hard bench beneath him and the protective armour on, even if it is under his shirt and oatmeal jumper, there is still a feel of going into battle. Which, John thinks, is precisely what they are doing.
Mycroft nods at whatever reply Anthea has for him. "Make sure Team B is also prepared to move, you know how likely it is Team A will be taken out. Thank you, Anthea."
Mycroft turns to John. "Team A is in place, but, like I said, I'm fully expecting Moriarty to take them out at any time, so Team B is also ready."
John nods. "Good." He grits his teeth. "Magnussen will be there, yes?"
Mycroft nods. "Miss Hawkins confirmed it."
John nods once again, a stiff and sharp movement of his head. "Good."
"I regret that this could not be on the terms we had agreed. The terms I had planned." Mycroft says, "But I cannot say I am not prepared, and we will get Sherlock back, John, and end this nonsense with Moriarty. The thing that worries me the most is if Moran is there; it will be harder if he is, he is incredibly skilled, and without Miss Aella here, then are chances will be less than if she was."
"I can't believe she did that." John says, tone tight. "Where the hell has she gone? Do you think she's run off?"
"I'm not quite sure, but I cannot work out why she would. She dismantled the tracker I had on her ankle."
John pauses. "You put a tracker on her ankle."
"Do remember she did kill many of my agents, John. She might be working for me but I do not fully trust her. Which might now be a good judge of character. She is threatening to throw away the bargain and the safety I had offered her. I cannot work what actions she is taking."
John shakes his head in denial. "I swear if she's turned back to Moran and Moriarty…"
"I doubt it, John. I really. But, and I hate to say this, I cannot guarantee that she hasn't." Mycroft replies, and he will not meet John's eye.
John leans back, and his head meets the iron shell of the car. It feels like he is simultaneously the most important and most unimportant part of all this; at the centre he is there, as the fates of his lovers past and present, Sherlock and Mary, are revolving around him as he looks to Mycroft to hold everything together. Then again, it is possible that Moriarty stands at the centre, with everything revolving him like planets, and John is only the moon to Sherlock's planet. The former analogy seems the most likely, John decides; in this, Moriarty is the puppet master, apparently.
"Here we are." Mycroft says a little while later. John takes a steeling breath before pulling his gun out of his waistband, checking it is loaded, and, for once, turning the safety off.
"John, I'll warn you that your weapon will be probably be taken off you." Mycroft says, and John rolls his eyes.
"Just, let me do this Mycroft?" He says, meeting Mycroft's eyes. The man stares at him for a moment, almost as if to figure him out, before he nods. He checks his watch.
"We've got five minutes. Here." He says to John, passing him a small earpiece. It is discreet, and John slips it into his ears, hearing an electronical crackle as he does.
'Moriarty has been spotted.' A voice, Anthea, says into John's ear, and Mycroft and all of the agents must be hearing it too.
"Thank you, Anthea. If anything happens to Team A, disconnect all their earpieces so that Moriarty cannot hear our plans."
'Yes, Sir.'
"Alright, let us go." Mycroft says, and with a push at the door they are out of the car and onto the street. John had been expecting to be brought onto the pavement outside Speedy's, but the café is nowhere in sight.
"We are a few streets way again." Mycroft explains, and then gestures for John to follow him. They walk for a few minutes along deserted streets. John peers around, perplexed about the absence of London's many inhabitants. There wasn't even any cabs or cars on the streets.
"I had the surrounding streets evacuated, said it was down to a 'gas leak'. A precaution, you understand." Mycroft explains, as he watches John look around.
"Ah. Right." John says. That does not surprise him.
Finally, they reach Baker Street itself, and as they turn onto it John sees a silver car parked right outside; Moriarty's ride. There is no other car on the street, and John wonders whether Magnussen has arrived yet or not. He relays his query to Mycroft, who frowns slightly but otherwise does not change his face from the passive expression it has put on. He does not reply, and this is when John realises this is Mycroft's game face and the game is, John thinks with a tight squeeze in his chest, on.
Upon reaching the front door of 221 Baker Street, John feels that whoosh of adrenaline flood through him like a thousand needles piercing his skin. Mycroft does not knock, but seems to know the door is unlocked, and pushes it open, entering the house. John follows on his heels.
He has not seen Baker Street in almost two years, and it is like a museum of memories John has held onto and similarly tried to push away because their embrace is laced with poison. Memories of Sherlock and himself coming home victorious from a tricky case solved, him and Sherlock sharing domestic instances. Memories of himself sat in the flat on the night Sherlock had disappeared waiting for his friend to come home, memories of Mycroft coming to him with apologies that meant nothing when he couldn't find any trace of Sherlock.
John pushes this all away as they climb those seventeen steps up to 221B, John and Sherlock's home. Really, it was their home, and always will be; John may have been living with Mary for two years in a different flat, but those walls were just walls, and the floor just a floor. They were not home. 221B was home.
Once again, Mycroft does not knock on the door to 221B, but instead strides in, John just behind him. There, sat in Sherlock's old chair, sits James Moriarty, casually eating an apple, hair slick, suit even slicker. He doesn't bother to look up at them at first when they enter, but instead just continues chomping on his apple, staring at it with the attention John and Mycroft deserve.
"Moriarty." Mycroft finally says, impatient and riled. John coughs, and shifts on his feet. He wants to do so much more, oh how he wants to punch Moriarty, kick Moriarty, hurt Moriarty, as he had hurt Sherlock.
"Oh." Says Moriarty, looking up at Mycroft and John with fake shock. "I didn't see you there."
"Please stop fooling around, Moriarty, and let's get on with this." Mycroft demands.
Moriarty rolls his eyes and pulls the apple away from where he was just about to take another bite. "Oh, fine." He pulls out his phone and takes another bite of the apple as he puts it up to his ear, "Darling, be a dear and take out Mycroft's lovely team? It's really rather an inconvenience."
He slips his phone back into his pocket and throws the apple to a corner of the room. He shrugs, "I've got things to do, sweetheart. Don't try to kill me before I can." He says to Mycroft. "John, so lovely to see you. It's been an age."
"Shut up." John spits. Moriarty laughs and jumps up out of the chair. John reaches for the gun in his pocket, but Mycroft holds out a hand and mutters, "John, I told you could only be here if you were calm."
Moriarty laughs again and swaggers forward, "Oh, is the teacher getting angry at his pupil. Does the pupil need a spanking?"
"Shut the fuck up." John says. Suddenly the humorous glint in Moriarty's eyes disappears and there they are, the cold orbs that had stayed stuck in John's memory.
"I wouldn't speak to me that way, Doctor Watson. Not if you want poor Sherly to be okay."
John starts forward to say something back, anger at boiling point, but one glance from Mycroft and he knows that that would be a very selfish action; he could mess it all up if he were to do that. Therefore, he clenches his fists and stays quiet. "Good boy." Says Moriarty.
'Team A taken out, Sir. I have disabled their earpieces.' Anthea says into the earpieces.
"Shame about your people, Mycroft; another team taken just after Miss Morstan took out so many of your agents before. Is she here, now she is working for you? Or did she lie about that? She's lied about a lot, hasn't she John? She's a naughty girl."
John grits his teeth. This is worse than any endurance tests he's ever had to take.
"What is it about the people you love hurting you? Sherlock left you for five years, and then your girlfriend isn't the person she tells you she is. Weird, isn't it?" Moriarty continues, but Mycroft steps in front of John which, admittedly does more to anger John more than Moriarty, and says, "If you've quite finished with your personal attack on Doctor Watson, then may we please get on with this?"
"Oh? I 'd have thought you'd want to wait for Magnussen?" Moriarty says, but before Mycroft can query how the hell he knows about Magnussen, he continues. "No? Okay, well, let's begin; I'm so excited!"
Mycroft swallows, a barely perceivable tick of nervousness that one would not notice, expect John, and he expects Moriarty too, pick up on. It sets the mood, for, if Mycroft Holmes is nervous, then Moriarty has gained the upper hand already.
'Team B in place, Sir.' Anthea's voice says, and John shifts as this comfort of security is known to them.
Moriarty's phone pings, and he pulls it out, expression transforming into fake shock at the message on the screen. He holds up a finger to Mycroft and John, telling them to wait as he dials a number.
"Oh, darling I don't believe what you're telling me! Mycie has another team at the ready?" John shoots a startled look to Mycroft, who looks like a gaping fish. "I never saw that one coming!" Moriarty's tone is sarcastic. 'Of course he knew', John thinks. "oh, well, take them out, would you? Thank you, love!"
Moriarty ends the call and slips the phone back into his pocket. "Love those little earpieces you've got in, lovely touch. But, oh, so obvious."
'Team B has been taken out as well, Sir.' Says Anthea, tone tighter than it had been previously. 'We are compromised. I shall stop using this channel as a means of communications.'
"What are you doing?" Mycroft demands after Anthea cuts off. "I came here to rationally agree a deal with you, Moriarty. Not to play these stupid games of power."
"Oh, Mycie, darling it's too late for that, now. You've already lost! Now, I must insist you hand over any weapons on your person, both of you. Oh, and your mobiles, and then we can get started!"
Sherlock has his eyes clenched shut, so hard that it starts to hurt, but he cannot look at Moran, cannot listen to his words anymore. They're making the feelings of worthlessness and panic swim to the surface, whilst at the same time pulling Sherlock down in the current they're creating. He scratches at the incision left over from the IV port until Moran stops whatever he is talking about, punching Sherlock, kicking Sherlock, fucking Sherlock, Sherlock could probably take his pick out of those, and berates him for it.
"Sherlock, you shit, you're getting blood on yourself and my carpet!"
Sherlock's eyes jump over and he peers down at the trail of blood he has created over himself that drips off his dressing gown onto the floor. He is reminded, with a jump of his heart, of the blood he had left at Mycroft's, and wonders if maybe, just maybe, someone might have worked it out. But, that person would have to be incredibly clever, and, Sherlock's thinks as his excited heart starts to sink, nobody probably had the time to search for clues, so wrapped up in dealing with Moriarty.
"Sorry." He whispers. Moran makes a noise of disgust and leans forward in his chair, placing his gun on his lap and using both his hands to grab Sherlock's thighs in a firm grip.
"Are you trying to entice me? Is that what this is?" He demands.
Sherlock frowns and tries not to squirm under Moran's grip. "What? No-"
"Oh, don't try to deny it!" Moran spits. "You wanted to come back, didn't you, well lucky you, I'm here now, darling, I rescued you, and now we can fuck to your heart's content!"
Moran leans forward, to do what Sherlock does not want to think about, but before he can do anything there is the sound of the front door opening and closing, quite loudly, too.
"What the fuck?" Moran whispers. He stands up, taking his gun off the safety. "You stay where you are." He says to Sherlock before he edges towards the doorframe. Sherlock breathes in shakily. Who could this be? He really hopes, wishes, that this isn't one of Moran's accomplices, god knows what they'd do to him if it is. God, he wants John, he wants John, John, John.
Footsteps come closer to the lounge, and Sherlock's heart catches in his chest as Moran moves, like a panther, into the area of the doorframe, gun poised to shoot. "Don't!" shouts a voice. It seems familiar, and Sherlock almost shouts in relief when Mary appears in the doorway, hands held up in surrender. "I'm not here to stop you, Sebastian, I'm here to help."
Sherlock's heart freezes in his chest.
Please leave me a review it would be gratefully appreciated! Next chapter next friday (wow a scheduled post? that's pretty impressive from me) Thank you all so much for your support, there are comments i need to get back to and i will do that ASAP so thank you for them
See you next time!
TheBritishBourbon x