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THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON
CH. 21
Absolute pin (Chess)
A pin against the king, called absolute because the pinned piece cannot legally move as it would expose the king to check.
WARNINGS: Violence; Non-con drug use; Gun-Play; Language; Cold-blooded Murder; Implied Death.
OooOooO
The first time John Watson dies, he destroys an enemy, protects a friend, and saves the life of the One.
But he never remembers any of it.
This is how it happens.
OooOooO
It first comes to him when he is sleeping, nearly awake, in that lovely twilight where he hovers between what was a gentle dream of peace – of Baker Street – and the utter hatefulness of his surroundings.
They are using him to test the drug. And they have without a doubt, sent recordings of his sufferings to Sherlock. Perhaps others, as well.
At least, that is what he would do, John thinks, if he were James Moriarty.
And let's all stop for a second and visualize that scenario.
He almost giggles. But he doesn't. Instead, he lies there and concentrates on his breathing.
He craves their filthy drug…and he's weak and getting weaker from malnutrition and fever – and, yes, his lungs are definitely rasping now when he breathes.
He tries to remember his last meal and seems to recall her spoon-feeding him soup. He can't remember if he managed to keep it down. At the thought of food, his stomach muscles protest. But water would be nice right now.
All righty then. Now for it.
John Watson takes as deep a breath as possible – and opens his eyes to re-enter the utter bastard of a soap opera his life has become.
He lays there, stares at the ceiling, and thinks. Meanwhile the pieces slowly fall into place, locking in their slots like that addictive computer game with the tumbling blocks.
He lets the blocks fall and oh, but they make a lovely pattern when they hit bottom, all neat and tidy and lined up in a row.
"At least some of Sherlock has rubbed off on me," thinks John tiredly.
Moran shot him. But they didn't leave him there to die. They came with the stretcher (yes, he remembers the clinic and Moriarty now, quite clearly) and they took him away, unconscious. Here is where his memory falters.
He presumes CCTV couldn't track him.
But Mycroft and presumably, Lestrade, would have tried.
He winces at how Sherlock would have reacted when he realized that not only the trained professionals at the Met – but also he who is the British Government – couldn't give the detective the information he needed.
Of course, they couldn't track the ambulance; the snarled traffic would have ensured that. The accident – staged of course. Real injuries, but staged nevertheless.
Some part of John is appalled that he isn't morally outraged at the thought of what would have occurred if the injuries had been fatal, instead of the non-life threatening ones he treated.
Moriarty, of course, wouldn't care one way or the other.
John can't care that much himself because – and he is willing to cut himself a little slack here – he's just so damned tired. And this tiredness goes bone deep.
He is a doctor and a soldier and he wonders what the videos showed while he was under the drug. He frowns at the thought but doesn't feel shame. He is well aware of the effect certain medications can have on the human body. He found out once, the hard way, of the effect of sodium pentothal on the human mind and psyche. And there was that other time, north of Kandahar, when he was captured along with some of his own and his captors shot them up with – No.
Now is not the time, John thinks. Pay attention.
Whatever he did or said, or however he acted on those recordings, he was most definitely under the influence. Which he is not now.
Thanks to his little benefactor.
Again, he wonders what her name is and what has become of her.
John tugs gently on his left wrist, then harder, gauging the strength of the restraint there. No joy.
He tries tugging on his left ankle but leaves off when his inflamed thigh muscles protest.
Okay then.
Dizzy, lightheaded, John goes back to staring at the pale ceiling and takes quick stock.
Yes, that is the same hateful ceiling of the same hateful room - here John thinks that if given the chance between this little room that has rapidly become his entire world – and accommodations in Hell, he'd choose the latter. Now, please. And oh, god, yes, bring on Satan, Beelzebub and all his minions. Just get him the hell out of here.
Water. Please let there be water.
John turns his head to stare at the carafe. It appears to be half full.
Gently, he twists around with his right arm and is able, barely to just reach the carafe. Ignoring the cup, he tilts the water toward his mouth and manages to get at least most of it down his throat. What splashes on his neck and shirt merely feels refreshing.
When his stomach begins to protest, he looks at the carafe, and deliberately tilts the small remainder of the water out on the floor. His arm and hand are shaking but he manages to bring the carafe back to his side and lay it there on the bed next to him. It is heavy plastic. Not much of a weapon. But it's all he has at the moment.
He looks back at the clear plastic cup and reaches out again. Snagging it by the lip, he almost throws it against the wall, just to hear the cheap plastic crack and bounce. But he thinks better of it and deposits the cup on the bed next to him as well.
John rests for a moment and tries to catch his breath. It is so hard now – breathing. It takes up all of his flagging energy.
After a minute or two, he lifts himself as much as possible to stare at his left wrist. There is precious little slack in the restraint. It is apparently fastened extremely securely to the bed, probably the bed legs, and the rubbery restraint is fastened so tightly around his wrist, with its own cuff, that it makes it impossible for him to sit up or even scoot up on the bed. It is, literally, holding his body down. He has just enough wiggle room to curl in on himself or reach the water.
John imagines that his captors will be extremely amused at any struggles caused by the partial restraints, particularly once the drug has been withheld.
And now it has.
John experiences the oddest feeling at this point.
It's a sense of renewed purpose born of a near suffocating feeling of urgency. As if he has to make the attempt now or give it up forever. He doesn't understand where this feeling comes from or why but he is determined to act on it.
Balancing on his shaking elbow, he again inspects the band that is not only tied around his wrist but fastened with some sort of lock. It looks like stainless steel. Try as he might, he cannot get a finger of his right hand under the restraint.
John stares at the band and lock. Something about this stupid thing seems so familiar.
When it comes to him, he nearly gags.
Afghanistan was a dangerous place. Dangerous and lonely. People paired up quickly. And whatever helped the loneliness and sense of displacement, well ...
John remembers coming back from a night patrol, wearily making his way to his cot to undress and stumbling in the semi-dark over a rucksack one of the men had tossed down.
He bent over to pick up the few items that had fallen out and came up with what for all the world lookrf like wrist or ankle restraints, with a fancy little steel lock that shone dully in the half light from the bedside lamp.
Oh, great. One of the newbies has bunked down in here and he's brought his charming little sex toys with him. Terrific.
John's memories break off and he looks thoughtfully at the lock and restraint that holds his wrist. The lock is somewhat larger than the one he remembers and the restraint itself made of incredibly stronger stuff. But built along the same lines.
His mind shies away from where James Moriarty got this – if it came from Jim – or what he has done with it and with whom.
Instead, John concentrates on the lock. Locks mean keys.
He wonders whether he would be able to break this stupid restraint under ordinary circumstances, when he is not half starved, dehydrated, his lungs rapidly filling and an infected bullet wound in one leg, not to mention the effects of the hated drug.
His elbow, arm and shoulder are shaking uncontrollably now and he lies back to conserve his strength. His eyes close but he doesn't stop thinking. That he can think more or less clearly now, he owes to the nurse. She put her life on the line by not injecting him with the hateful drug. And these precious few minutes of lucidity are the result.
He is determined not to waste a minute of her gift.
All right then. Locks imply keys.
He has been fully restrained before, both wrists and ankles, he remembers that. Again, probably for the effect it has on whoever views the recordings of his struggles. It certainly wouldn't matter that much to John; he is securely locked in this room, so the restraints, full and partial, would have been for effect only.
The restraints have been special effects, he thinks. And nearly giggles again. Great. His life as movie. Starring the unflappable Doctor John Watson, formerly of Her Majesty's Army and … Baker Street and Sherlock Holmes and – Stop it, you idiot. Just – stop.
Don't waste these minutes. You don't know when they will come back in and give you another shot.
OH PLEASE GOD, YES! JUST YES TO ANOTHER SHOT AND TO ALL OF IT. AND RIGHT NOW IF YOU DON'T MIND. JUST FUCKING YES!
And the cloying heat and absolutely maddening subcutaneous itching, the feeling that he could claw his own skin off given half the chance, and the terrible, utterly baneful feelings of want and need and horrid sense of right now, the violent feelings welling up in his soul will all be gone, and he can dream again and sleep and if he is really, truly lucky…never wake up…
Stop. It. Right. Now.
Shaken by these utterly hateful thoughts, John opens his eyes, narrows them. He painfully brings his mind back to the moment at hand. He takes a breath.
Locks mean keys. And a small lock means a small key.
Would Moriarty or Moran trust those who come in here not to lose a small key like that? What if they dropped it somewhere or forgot it and had to go back?
Moriarty's time schedule would be thrown off.
What if they plain lost the damned thing? Or things. He doubts if these things come with just the one key.
Okay. If they lost it or dropped it or whatever, Jim would be entirely unhappy.
Wouldn't it make sense to keep the key or keys somewhere quite close, somewhere that any of his captors could find in an instant and put back for the next time?
When the answer comes to him, John has to deliberately stop himself from turning his head to look at the small table next to his bed, and its one small drawer.
He shuts his eyes again and lies there for a minute to catch his breath.
Rest. Think. Plan.
He needs help. Quickly.
He wonders again what her name is – and if she's safe.
OooOooO
Sherlock, Mycroft, Lestrade and Donovan will take the SUV to the Wellington Museum of Art.
Several of the original blueprint copies of the Wellington Museum have been distributed to all those participating in the raid. Sherlock warns everyone who gets a copy that although the layout of the museum proper will adhere to the blueprints, undoubtedly sweeping changes have been made to the lower level, which was originally meant to store art not being currently displayed, as well as to provide a room for the repair and restoration of paintings, sculptures and the like. He tells everyone that either the lower level has been greatly expanded or another level has been added below that one. At this point, they cannot be certain of which.
Lestrade tells his people to expect a large crowd of art lovers – the Museum just opened a new wing - and that any unnecessary actions of a more or less "extreme" nature will not be tolerated. There are raised eyebrows at this, but everyone nods that they understand. Several officers are directed to enter the museum as art lovers, keep an eye on the Holmes brothers, as long as possible, and protect the civilians who are there to enjoy the museum.
A few more officers are to be stationed outside the museum, and are directed to be as inconspicuous and appear as harmless as possible. Unless something untoward happens.
The DI is not exactly clear, however, as to what comprises an untoward happening. He is relying on his people's training and professionalism to ensure that Doctor Watson is removed from the lower levels of the museum quickly, with the least disruption to the museum goers as is possible.
While Sherlock loads a blanket and John's things into the back of the SUV, Mycroft takes Lestrade aside.
"Detective Inspector, we are there to get John Watson out – alive. " Lestrade watches Mycroft watch his brother. "This may involve certain acts of a violent nature. We will, of course, try at all costs to avoid such actions."
"Mycroft, if you're trying to stand there and tell me you intend to commit cold-blooded murder –" Lestrade breaks off, as he watches Sherlock slam the back door of the SUV and then stand next to the vehicle, gloved hands in the pockets of his slim jacket. He stares at both of them, his blue eyes cold as the frost on the ground around them.
Lestrade looks back at Sherlock, and his mind goes back to the two videos he watched and the extreme torment and horror that has been visited on John Watson, whom he counts as a good friend and professional colleague.
The DI looks from Sherlock back to Mycroft Holmes, who has been watching his face and has been cataloguing each expression that has crossed the DI's features in the past twenty seconds. Mycroft notes them all: determination to act in a professional manner; determination to uphold the law; concern for Sherlock's state of mind; extreme concern and worry for John Watson's physical and mental condition; horror and, yes, anger at what has been done to Watson; finally reaching the resigned expression the DI is wearing now.
"Just don't tell me," Lestrade says. "And confine your actions to the lower levels until you are ready to bring John out."
Mycroft nods dryly. "Understood."
As Lestrade walks to the car, he thinks, "What the hell. Mycroft and Sherlock will do what they want, when they want – and Mycroft will make it all go away before there are any official repercussions."
He frowns at these thoughts. Just let John be alive.
They walk to the SUV and Lestrade nods at his people, at Anderson and Rodriguez, who are in the unmarked police vehicle directly behind them. He slides into the driver's seat. Donovan gets into the passenger seat and the Holmes brothers sit in the rear seats, Sherlock on the right-hand passenger side.
It is 9:15 am. The Wellington opens at 10:00 am and they have, barely, an hour's ride to get to the part of town that houses the Wellington Art Museum. Make it 45" or less if the traffic is light.
Sherlock remains more or less silent during most of the trip. They have gone over the plan twice, although Sherlock despises repetition. But it is necessary to impress the details with Lestrade's people.
He is more grateful than they will ever know for the turnout to save John. But he has not figured this into his plan and is now busily rethinking his parameters.
Mycroft, who can tell Sherlock's every passing thought just by the way he holds his shoulders or ever so slightly clenches his fists, studies his brother thoughtfully.
OooOooO
"Sweetheart, I don't think you're trying hard enough here, I really don't."
Sebastian Moran lounges back in the leather chair in his quarters, his legs propped up on the end of the bed. He plays with a small digital recorder in one hand; occasionally, he pushes the Play button on the side.
Each time, Lori Hansen's voice comes out as a tiny whisper, small, but still entirely legible on the recording.
"He is coming for you. Sherlock Holmes is coming for you."
He switches the button off and flips the recorder again in his hand, stares down at the pathetic excuse for a distraction currently lying on the floor at his feet.
"No, little girl, Holmes is not coming for anyone. The sod doesn't have a clue as to where we are. You can get that out of your head right now," he says dryly.
And God, the useless jobs that Jim has given him lately. He needs a better distraction.
She doesn't answer. She can't.
Lori Hansen lies in a huddled ball, curled in on herself. She is nude except for her bra and panties and there are bruises already forming along her back, shoulder and arms and the side of her head and cheek. And one really spectacular one on her thigh. The imprint of Moran's thumbs and fingers show up in purple marks on her skin.
She groans softly, once. She tries to clench at the floor with her fists, but there is no carpet there to clench. Her fingers scrabble over the hardwood floor.
She sobs, takes one shuddering breath, then goes limp.
Moran nudges the side of her head with one booted foot. The stupid girl's head lolls to one side, then rolls back. Her face is pasty, and cold sweat stands out on her forehead. Her eyes are closed and she does not react to his movements.
Moran sighs, clearly aggrieved. He is going to have to wait for her to come around, then start all over again.
He flips the little recorder again. Bored now.
The intercom on the bedside table buzzes.
Really, you'd think Jim could do something about the rotten mobile coverage down here in the sodding basement, for Christ's sakes.
"Sebastian, we might have a situation with our good Doctor Franks. I need to see you. Leave your new distraction and get down here, all right?"
Moran grins. He reaches to depress a button on the intercom. "You know it, Jim."
At last. Something he can put his talents too.
The bitch is too ridiculous and there's absolutely no challenge in this. None whatsoever.
Still, she's something to come back to – later. Like dessert after the main course.
Moran grins at the thought. He drops the mobile in his pocket, looks again at the recorder in his hands, and tosses it onto the bed.
He stands, opens the top drawer, retrieves the Sig Sauer, and rams the clip home. He slams the drawer shut and goes over to stand over Hansen again.
She hasn't moved and appears to be barely breathing. A stream of blood wells from the side of her head and is steadily dripping down her face and neck.
He nudges her still form again with one booted foot. No reaction.
"Bad news, Sweetheart, gotta go to work now. Hey, will you stay here and wait for me? When I get back, we can pick up where we left off."
He grins, shakes his head and leaves. Whistling cheerfully, Sebastian Moran strides down the corridor toward the lift.
OooOooO
Lori remains curled up on the floor, trying to regain consciousness. She thinks her mind must be drifting because she can clearly hear her father's voice in her head.
"Get up now, Baby. You have to move. That's an order, Little Soldier."
She sighs. She wants nothing more than to remain there on the floor but she will do anything for her Dad. He always called her his little soldier and would then swing her up in his arms so she could sit perched on the back of his neck, her hands dug into his dark hair, her little legs tucked under his strong arms, as he walked her around the garden or their house. He would tickle her legs behind the knees and she would giggle and laugh.
Her wonderful Dad - who went off to war and never returned to her or her younger sister.
Her mind is going, she's sure of it. She can hear him again, feel his breath on her cheek.
"Lori, you have to get up now. Lori... Lori... Listen to me, for God's sakes, we don't have time. Get up, you stupid cow."
She frowns. Her Dad would never ... The voice changes in timber and she opens her eyes to stare dully into Stephan's brilliant blue ones.
Something warm and liquid drips into her own eyes. Her right arm, shoulder and back hurt like hell. Oh, right. Sebastian Moran. Lori's stomach clenches in fear.
She groans at the thought of moving. Why can't he just leave her alone?
"Lori. I swear to God if you don't wake up now, I'm leaving you here for Moran. Wake up."
Stephan shakes her and she hisses when his rough hands touch the tender spots.
"Okay," she mumbles. "Give us a sec."
"We don't have a second. We don't have a goddamned minute. Franks has been called to Jim. There's something wrong with the damned drug. "
She's aware that Stephan has moved from her side. She hears him moving around. Then he's back and tries to shove something at her hands.
"Here. Put these on. For Gods sakes, woman, move!"
She lifts her head at the urgency in his voice, manages to push herself almost to a sitting position. He shoves her scrubs at her.
"I … I don't think I can stand up." Her voice sounds strange to her ears, weak and strained, as if it's coming from a distance.
"Okay. I'll help you but we have got to get the hell out of here now. If Franks is in trouble and Moran is doing this to you -" He doesn't finish the obvious statement - what is going to happen to him and how soon.
He struggles to help her to a sitting position, then pulls her to her feet.
Lori finally stands, her legs wobbly, and leans against Stephan for support.
He pushes her down on the bed, none too gently, and pulls the scrub bottoms up her legs. She stands again, leaning slightly, and he pulls them up around her waist.
"Okay, here." He yanks the top down over her head and she nearly cries out when the material comes into contact with her shoulders and back.
"I'm sorry, Lori, really I am. But we have got to get out of here!"
She shakes her head slightly, then makes a note not to repeat the movement. Her head pounds. She brushes weakly at whatever is dripping in her eyes. Her left hand comes back and she stares dully at it. Blood. Her blood. Dripping in her eyes. She manages to focus on Stephan, whose blue eyes stare at her, wide with horror.
He puts his arm around her waist and tries to get her to take a few steps. She tries again and nearly falls.
He groans with despair and frustration.
"Listen to me. Are you awake? You have got to listen to me. WE. ARE. GOING. TO DIE. If we don't get out of here right now!"
Lori snaps more awake at the tone of his voice and concentrates on standing upright.
Her legs feel a little stronger now and she finds she can manage it if she doesn't make too many movements too quickly.
"Cameras," she whispers into Stephan's' ear. He is moving them both toward the door.
"No cameras here, Lori. These are Moran's quarters. We can get out of here. If you'll move your bloody arse!"
He tries to steer her toward the door. Lori finally comes upright and manages to stand on her own.
She looks at him, and awkwardly brushes the blood and hair out of her eyes.
"Keys. Watson."
"What the hell?" He stares back at her, lets his arm drop from around her waist.
"No way…no bloody way! Look, if you don't have any self-preservation instincts, I sure as hell do. And we are leaving. Now."
She stares at him, narrows her eyes. "Keys. Watson's room."
"Oh bloody HELL !" He takes a chain from around his neck with several keys on it, thrusts it at her. "I'm leaving. Going up the damned stairs and getting the hell out of this nightmare."
"You can't," she says shakily. She manages to pull the cord around her own neck. The small tangle of keys feel cool against her skin. "They're watching. We can't go upstairs." She struggles for a breath. "Not allowed."
"To hell with what we are or aren't allowed." He is at the door now, where he glances out at the corridor.
"He's up there with Jim, right now. Franks too. Now's our chance." He turns back to her and she sees the wild-eyed desperation in his gaze.
"Look, I'm sorry to do this but you can stand now and well – just get a move on, okay?"
And he leaves her. Just like that.
Lori stands there and stares at the open door. She shakily puts a hand out to steady herself against the side of the bureau. Moran's dresser. Her quarters do not have one. She and Stephan have each been allotted one small footlocker for their clothes and personal things.
She stares at the open door and moves slightly. Mindful of being locked in the horrid room, she bends over, retrieves one of her white shoes with the rubber soles, and places it on the floor between the door and frame.
Lori turns back slowly to look at the room. She wants nothing more than to go into the bathroom and wet a cloth, press it to her head and temples, wipe away the blood.
But a sense of urgency has been born in her, not only brought on by Stephan's frankly terrified voice, but by the small dream of her Father's voice, urging her to get up. Urging her to move.
She thinks back a few minutes, then puts out a hand and touches the side of the bureau.
There are a few things on top, a pack of cigarettes, no lighter, though. A pair of sunglasses. A paperback novel with a lurid cover. And nothing else.
Lori looks toward the open door – toward freedom – and then makes a decision.
Using her left hand, she slowly pulls the top drawer open. She looks at the contents, then begins to rummage around. Nothing. Underwear. Socks. Another paperback. What looks like the clip to a gun.
She picks this up and drops it in the pocket of her scrubs, not sure why. It's useless without a gun. And she knows next to nothing about guns. She assumes this clip goes to the gun that Moran carries. That he undoubtedly has in his possession right now.
Lori hesitates, then opens the second drawer. Jeans. Shirts. Underwear. Nothing else.
The third drawer – more trousers and shirts. One jumper. A London A-Z guide, well thumbed. What looks like plane ticket stubs and various bits of paper, receipts, slips of this and that.
Lori shuts the drawer and turns slowly again to look around the room.
She glances toward the one indulgence that she assumes both Jim and Moran have – a cupboard, full length. Small but at least they can hang up their things. She crosses slowly to open the door, then stands back. Her vision follows the length of the cubbie up to the small shelf at the top. Her eyes widen.
She's short, but she can just see the edge of something lying on the shelf.
It can't be. It just can't.
Lori looks around frantically for something to stand on. Anything. Finally, she tries moving the leather chair in the corner. It takes her an incredibly long time to scoot it across the floor – and she expects that any second, Moran will come back and finish what he started.
She winces at the effort, her right arm and shoulder aflame, but finally has the chair positioned in front of the open closet.
She gasps, leaning over the chair. But then her father's voice comes again to her tired and terrified mind. Now, kiddo. Now or it will be too late.
Lori knows the voice isn't real. And she doesn't believe in ghosts. This, then is her mind picking up on Stephan's sense of urgency – and feeding her exactly what she needs to hear exactly when she needs to hear it. In the most beloved, most trusted voice she can recall.
"All right, Dad. I'm moving."
She pulls herself up on the chair, steadies herself, then reaches up with shaking fingertips.
Thirty seconds later, Lori Hansen hurries out of Moran's room and turns to the right, the exact opposite of the direction that Stephan took earlier.
She clutches the cord round her neck, the one holding the keys, in her right fist. Her right hand and arm are trembling, as is her entire body, but she ignores it and hurries as fast as she is able. She knows it's only a matter of time before someone sees her on the security cameras.
She stumbles once, but doesn't fall. She bites her lip and keeps going.
Lori is frankly terrified, but her fear urges her on. She knows what will happen if Moran comes back now. He'll catch her easily. And kill her. But not right away.
He hurt her almost casually, after making her remove her clothes. But it wasn't rape on his mind, just violence. And causing her as much pain and humiliation as possible before he finally killed her. He grabbed her wrist and swung her around, wrenching her shoulder, slamming her into the side of the dresser where she struck her head and fell, sobbing, at his feet.
And it all meant nothing to him. Nothing. She was just a distraction, something to pass the time until he felt like killing her outright. Wolf batting around a kitten until it becomes bored – and pounces.
Maybe, she thinks, just maybe…if Jim and Moran are busy with Franks… She doesn't allow herself to finish that thought. Hope is what got her into this mess and she can't stand the thought of it being snatched away from her again or from the good man she wants so desperately to help.
She is barefoot and the polished wooden floors feel cool under her feet.
That's fine, she thinks. Less noise.
She passes Stephan's small room, then her own, and finally stops at the door to John Watson's small prison. Thankfully, she finds the right key first time.
Lori Hansen takes a quick breath, then opens the door to Doctor Watson's room, his Browning L9A1 clutched in her left hand, and the one clip she found lying next to it a small heavy weight in her scrubs pocket, against her left thigh.
OooOooO
The corner of a file folder is visible, sticking out of the back pocket of Lestrade's seat.
Mycroft reaches for the folder, opens it, extracts two photographs and hands them across to his brother.
Sherlock takes the photos, studies them, and raises an eyebrow.
The first black and white glossy shows the back exit of a large building. Sherlock assumes it is the Wellington Art Museum. The photo was obviously taken in late evening and from a distance, and a small figure can be seen standing just outside the door. No facial features are clearly visible, other than it seems to be the figure of a man. The next photo is a close-up that has obviously been enhanced and light-blasted. It is a man's face and he is holding a cigarette to his lips.
It's just possible to make out the features. Sebastian Moran.
Sherlock hands the photos back to Mycroft who glances at them, then hands them over the seat to Donovan, along with the file folder.
"Yes, we knew. But it's always nice to have facts corroborated," Mycroft says quietly.
The sound of a mobile and Lestrade pushes a button on the steering wheel.
Anderson's voice rings out from the car speakers.
"Inspector? We just got the results of the autopsy performed on Chris Madison, the third victim. Thought you and Holmes better know."
Lestrade frowns. " We already know he died of an overdose from that damned drug. The tox screen showed that -"
Anderson cuts him off. "Yes sir, but Dr. Perkins requested it after your discussion with him."
In the rear view mirror, Lestrade meets Mycroft's eyes.
"Go ahead," Lestrade says.
"The autopsy confirmed that Madison died of sudden heart failure, consistent of the administered overdose."
There is a moment's silence in the car. "But Inspector –"
"Still here," says Lestrade.
"Dr. Perkins thought you ought to know. The drug has certain extreme side effects. The drug doesn't work, at least, not in the way that Moriarty obviously intended."
Donovan leans slightly toward the car speakers. "What side effects?" she asks.
"Madison's autopsy shows evidence of massive internal bleeding."
Only Mycroft sees the nearly imperceptible tightening of Sherlock's shoulder and spine.
Lestrade clears his throat. "All right, Anderson. Thanks."
Sherlock's eyes meet his brother's.
Then he turns again to stare out the window.
OooOooO
James Moriarty sits in his favorite swivel chair and looks hard at Dr. Marcus Franks.
"Explain this to me again," he says, his voice oily, controlled.
Dr. Franks looks back at Jim and swallows. His eyes dart around the room like a small rodent, looking for a way out of the room, which seems to be closing in on him.
Jim holds a printed report in his hands but ignores it. He has read it – twice – and cannot believe what he has read.
Franks clears his throat.
"The drug – Dr. Reese's drug – doesn't work exactly the way he intended. "
Jim stares at Franks. His eyes narrow. "And you know this how?"
Franks can't help but stare at Jim. Petrified mouse staring at cobra.
"Some of your pharmaceutical houses ran their own long-term tests, on various subjects. I received the results a little while ago."
Behind Franks, the door opens and Sebastian Moran enters the room. He flashes a quick grin at Jim, then crosses behind them both to take his usual seat. He stretches out his legs. Casually, he takes out his Swiss Army Knife, and begins to clean his fingernails.
Franks stares at the knife. He looks back at Jim, whose eyes have narrowed.
"The drug can cause internal bleeding, after several doses." His voice comes almost as a squeak.
Jim studies him as if he were a puzzle to be deciphered. The slow smile sparks terror along Marcus Franks' spine.
"How many doses, Dr. Franks? And please take a seat and explain all of this to me. I need to understand what is going wrong with this project – and why 60 million quid is about to go up in smoke."
Behind them, Sebastian Moran grins and continues to clean his fingernails.
OooOooO
Lori unlocks the door to John's room, opens it, and barely misses being hit by the plastic carafe that John Watson lobs at her from the bed.
"Oh." He says. And again, "Oh."
He is propped on his left elbow, his arm shaking. They stare at each other, and then Lori hurries into the room, stumbling slightly.
She glances around for something to prop the door open with, but finds nothing.
She crosses to his bed hurriedly and before John can say a word, she yanks open the small drawer and rips out the piece of duct tape which holds the small key.
"We have to get out of here, Doctor Watson," she says breathily. She bends over the lock on his wrist and manages to twist the key in the lock. Then she yanks the restraint from his wrist and moves down the bed to his left ankle to do the same.
John looks at her and then looks at his wrist, free now of its restraint. He can't seem to form words.
She straightens and pulls on the restraint on his ankle. All the time she is aware that the red eyes in the corners of the room record every movement.
She looks around, finds the pajama bottoms she laid out on his bed. It seems weeks ago but it's really just been a few days. She grabs them and stops, then looks expectantly at John, her eyes wide.
John frowns. His right arm hugs his rib cage and he tries to control his breathing.
He feels strangely light-headed. It must be the sight of the open door. He stares at it, disbelieving.
Suddenly, he jerks upright, but winces at the pain in his chest and thigh.
Lori straightens her back and comes back to the head of the bed. She bites her lip at his appearance. His eyes are sunken, rimmed with smudged circles of blue and black. His skin is waxy and his breath comes in short gasps. She can't even begin to guess how much weight he has lost.
Quickly, she crosses into the small loo, grabs a cloth and wets it under the sink. She brings it back with her and bends down to wipe his forehead.
John shakes his head, puts out a shaking hand and takes the cloth from Lori. He gently wipes it along the side of her face. It comes away with her blood on it. He looks at it, then drops the cloth on the floor.
"Doctor Watson – John? We have to get out of here. Now."
She holds the pajamas out to John, but he just shakes his head. He swings his legs carefully over the side of the bed to sit up. He is dressed in the dark blue tee shirt and boxer shorts she put on him two days ago. They are, of course, filthy with sweat now.
She can't seem to care about stupid things like that if he doesn't, and lets the flannel pajamas fall to the floor.
John sits on the edge of the bed and looks at her as if he can't quite bring her into focus.
Lori nearly sobs. She bends down as far as her aching limbs will allow her, so her face is more or less level with his.
"Please, Doctor Watson, please! I know you're sick," here she puts out a hand and brushes it over his forehead. His skin is blazing hot to the touch now and his pupil reaction -
She winces at the mental rundown she does of his physical condition. She can only dimly guess at his mental condition.
He looks back at her, nearly uncomprehendingly. He finally nods, once.
"Okay, you'll have to help – help me stand," he says in a ragged voice. Lori flinches at the unfamiliar sound of his voice.
"I'll try." She struggles to help him rise to his feet. He nearly falls forward, then manages to steady himself and puts out one hand to her right shoulder.
She hisses, then shakes her head. "We make a great pair, Doctor Watson."
John realizes he is hurting her and takes his hand away. He glances around the room quickly, then looks back at her.
"What is your name?" John asks tiredly. He looks at her through a haze and cannot – quite – believe she is really there, standing in front of him.
She flashes him a quick grin. "Lori. And now we have to move. Cameras." She doesn't bother to glance at them in the corner of the room. There is no point. They've either been seen or they haven't. At any rate, they have to get out of this room.
She puts an arm around his waist to help him, then stops suddenly and withdraws her arm.
"Oh. Sorry. Here. I don't know how to use this thing." Her voice is unsteady and she winces as the pain of her injuries begin to throb with more consistency.
Almost as an afterthought, she brings her left hand up – and John Watson stares at her shaking palm, which holds his Browning. She hands him the gun and he takes it in his right hand, nearly drops it at the unexpected weight after so many days.
He shakes his head once to try to clear it. He can barely take a deep breath and his stomach muscles have been contracting and releasing, for some time. He assumes it is the result of the water he drank earlier.
"Clip?" he asks quietly.
And to John Watson's everlasting amazement, Lori Hansen's left hand goes into the pocket of her scrubs and comes out with the clip for his gun.
OooOooO
Sherlock and Mycroft stride through the front door of the museum, Mycroft handing the attendant two tickets he has brought out of his pocket. They are waved through and enter the Art Gallery. Sherlock glances around once, then casually begins to move toward the far left of the main gallery, ostensibly to stare at the paintings exhibited on the walls.
His heart is pounding in his chest. At the same time, Sherlock feels utterly focused – and filled with an icy reserve. At that moment, he shares something in common with the marble statues he glimpses in one of the far galleries. Mycroft stands a few feet away, glancing around at paintings, idly walks up to one to bend over and peer at it.
Steadily the Holmes brothers make their way around the gallery to their left, occasionally stopping to stare a painting, then move on. At all times, they attempt to keep their backs to the obvious tiny cameras that live in the corners of the ceilings. It's only a matter of times before someone on security details recognizes Sherlock, but the do the best they can with it. In a few minutes, they are out of the watchful gaze of the main gallery attendant and approach the new wing at the far back.
Sherlock's stride has picked up, as has Mycroft's. Both brothers walk toward the new gallery, filled with purpose and but a single thought.
Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan come through the front doors next, and begin to look around, begin to act as typical art lovers. Sally is more practiced at it then Lestrade, who really wants nothing more than to stride down the far corridor, go to the door that leads to the lower level, hare down the steps and find John Watson.
Sherlock has told them under no circumstances to trust the elevators as Moriarty's people can probably incapacitate them at a moment's notice. So stairs it is.
Lestrade wants to go down those steps … but he does nothing of the sort. Instead he lets Donovan lead him around, occasionally glancing at artwork, once in a while bending over to read a description or card at the bottom of the displays.
A few moments later, Anderson and Rodriguez enter the Wellington, separately, a minute or so apart. They glance around and move away from each other, one on either side of the gallery. They are followed shortly by two more plain clothes officers, then two more.
By now, Lestrade and Sally are only about a hundred feet behind the Holmes brothers. They continue to play the part of museum goers, but both keep an eye on the tall backs of Sherlock and Mycroft as they enter the new wing added on to the back of the museum.
The Saturday crowd is impressive, even at such an early hour, and there are several obvious family groups milling around. Lestrade hears the voices of small children and he winces at the thought of what could occur in the next few moments.
Outside, several more cars arrive shortly, one after the other and the occupants get out of their respective vehicles, stretch, look around, some of them enter the museum casually, talking excitedly amongst themselves, a few of them remain with their vehicles, glance at their watches and at the road, as if waiting for tardy family members.
Lestrade glances down at the card on the bottom frame of a painting – looks back up at Sally's quick intake of breath. He stares quickly toward the new wing. Neither Sherlock or Mycroft are to be seen.
"Oh bloody hell," he murmurs. He and Donovan glance at each other, then move toward the far gallery.
OooOooO
Sherlock and Mycroft take the stairs down, moving quickly. Both of them have drawn their weapons but keep their hands to their sides.
The stairs wind down, one set of stairs, then another, then a third. At the bottom of the third set, another door beckons. At each bend of stairs, Mycroft reaches into his left pocket, pulls out a tiny metallic circle, and slaps it on the wall as they pass, several feet before the security cameras in the far corners. On the third level, he presses another one of the self-adhering disks into the wall, then both brothers move purposefully through the door.
OooOooO
Doctor Marcus Franks is not doing so well. His breathing has become labored as he sits and squirms under James Moriarty's gaze. He is aware when Moran stands, leisurely stretches, then comes around to stand almost behind his chair.
Moriarty glances from Franks' face to Moran's, shakes his head imperceptibly. Moran shrugs, walks around to the far side of the room, his hands in his pockets.
He wanders around, glances at the computer monitors, jingles coins in his pocket. All the while he keeps looking at Marcus Franks, at the sweat that is now pouring into his eyes and the nervous twitch of his fingers and the tiny tic that has appeared over his right eye.
Moran smiles to himself.
Jim leans forward slightly in his chair, continues to stare directly at Franks.
"Okay, Dr. Franks, you can go for the moment. I will talk with you later."
Franks rises to his feet, his eyes wide. "Yes sir."
He pauses at the door, looks back at Moriarty. Wets his lips. "I'm – sorry – about the results. But Dr. Reese is the one who—"
"Yes. Yes. Don't worry about it now," assures Jim.
Franks nods once, leaves through the door behind him.
James Moriarty swivels around to one of his pc monitors, thinking. Finally, he stands and crosses to the map of London on the wall. He does not turn around but says tiredly, "Sebastian, I think Dr. Franks has just about outlived his usefulness. Nearly. I still may need him to help with Watson."
Behind him, Sebastian grins. "You'll let me know when you have no further use for the good doctor? Things are getting a little boring around here right now."
Jim turns around to stare at Moran. Before he can speak, the intercom on his desk beeps at him.
OooOooO
John stumbles toward the door, the Browning a reassuring weight in his left hand. Frankly, he can barely stand. But he'll be god damned if he goes down for the count in that bloody room.
At the door, he leans against the frame, panting. He has his right arm over his chest again. But it's not helping. His vision is spiking and the contractions in his midsection have become more than a distraction. They are rapidly approaching agony. He feels as if his legs are made out of gelatin.
"Dr. Watson?" Lori's voice is quiet by his side. She stares at him worriedly.
He rests his head for a second against the frame, then forces himself to straighten.
"Which way?" he gasps.
"Left" she says. "We have to go left and then up to get out."
John makes it out the door, takes three steps, four, five, then watches himself from above, as if he is having an out of body experience, as he slowly sinks to the ground and sits there, his back against the wall, gasping. Lori bends over him; she looks as if she will burst into tears at any moment.
"I'm sorry," he gasps. "I'm so very sorry." His hand has a death grip on the Browning but he doesn't know if he can raise it now, even if he needs to. His eyes close and he tries, fails, to take a deep breath. His head drops forward.
She sinks down beside him and leans her head back against the wall. The pain in her head is now blinding and she blinks, tries to focus on his face.
"It's all right," she whispers. "I'm sorry too." She pulls her knees up and wraps her arms around them, finally sinking her head onto her arms.
It was a long shot anyway.
OooOooO
Marcus Franks hurries to the lift to take it up to the second level, to his quarters. He is shaking and sweat pools along his temple. He wipes it away with one hand before it can drip into his eyes again. His heart hammers in his chest.
He is going to collect his notes and leave by the front entrance. Cameras be damned. He cannot stay here a moment longer.
He steps off the lift – and stares.
Two very tall men stand there, by the stairway entrance, staring. They both stand in front of the door that leads down the corridor - to the sleeping areas. And his quarters.
The one in front, with the dark curls and cold blue stare, walks up to him. His companion hangs back, watching.
"Who – who the hell are you?" Franks asks, his voice wavering.
The ice blue eyes narrow. "Dr. Franks?" The man's voice is an impossible baritone, smooth as silk and darkly menacing.
"Yes. I'm Franks." His voice shakes now and he really needs to get away. If he can get around these two stupid intruders. They must have gotten away from a museum tour.
Franks stares at the pale blue eyes, mesmerized.
"Dr. Marcus Franks?" the man asks again in the impossibly deep voice. John would have warned Franks about the tone of that voice, if he were there.
Franks nods, impatient now. "Yes, yes. I'm Dr. Marcus Franks. Now who the hell are you and what the hell do you want?"
"Just corroboration," the man with the blue eyes and shaggy hair says.
Sherlock raises John's Makarov – and shoots Franks right between the eyes.
He and Mycroft turn away from the body and walk toward the door. At the door, Mycroft hesitates, looks at his brother, his eyes narrowed. Sherlock nods.
OooOooO
"Sherlock Holmes has entered the building, sir." The security guard's voice shakes as he gives Moriarty the news over the intercom.
"Bloody hell," says Moran. He swivels and turns toward the door.
"Where is he now?" Moriarty demands. His small black eyes narrow at the intercom.
"Sir – we lost him on the cameras. The last time we had him, he was in the new wing."
Jim swears quietly. He'll have every one of their heads on a pike after this.
"What the hell do you mean you lost him on the cameras!"
Moran raises an eyebrow at Jim. He stands there, one hand on the door handle.
"I mean, sir, that our security cameras no longer work on any of the lower levels. Except those leading to the living quarters. Oh."
Jim's voice is barely controlled rage. "Now what?"
"Oh. Sir – all the cameras on the second level just went dark, as well."
Moran turns and walks through the door.
OooOooO
"Doctor Watson?" Lori's voice is small, barely a whisper.
John's body has given out but he hears her and is able to, barely, raise his head.
She kneels in front of him now, her hands on his shoulders. She shakes him gently.
"Doctor Watson, how many bullets does that gun hold?"
Her voice is desperate and he can see her well enough to note the tears that well up in her brown eyes and track silently down her face. His body is failing but his mind is still clear, a little at least.
"How many bullets?" she repeats. Her eyes stare into his and he sees the terror in them.
She swipes her eyes with one shaking hand and puts the other one back on his shoulder.
"Please, Doctor Watson. Please…" her voice sinks to a whisper.
He doesn't even pretend to misunderstand her.
John's eyes widen, then fill with horror.
"I – I can't do that," he croaks. "Please, I can't. I'm a doctor. I—"
He is becoming agitated and she lowers her head, bites her lip.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. She sinks back down now, her hands falling from his shoulders. "Sorry. I shouldn't' have –"
She raises her eyes to his again and John stares back at her, his dark blue eyes filled now with infinite sadness. "I can't," he repeats. "Please don't ask me."
She nods once. Then sits on the ground, and pulls her knees up again to rest her head on them.
"It's just – Moran – he—" Suddenly Lori shuts her eyes and begins to softly cry.
He tries to raise his hand to pat her cheek or to put an arm around her. But he can't. His right arm won't obey his commands any longer.
He shuts his eyes for a second, listens to her quiet sobbing.
This is my fault, John thinks.When Moran comes – not if – when he comes, he'll take me out first. I'm an easy target. And she'll be left for that monster to face alone.
And John knows that Sebastian Moran can make the process of dying last a very, very long time indeed. She's risked everything for him, everything. The thought that soon he'll be dead and leave her to that ... NO. Not going to happen.
A quiet anger begins to fill John. Bygod, it'snotgoingtoendlikethis. He opens his eyes. Stares at the dark head bowed in front of him.
"Lori?" he says, his voice a tad stronger now. "Lori, please…"
She raises her head to stare at him.
"Help me up, okay?" he asks her. He tries to grin at her. He doesn't think he succeeds. But at least he tries.
She swipes at her eyes with one shaking hand, nods. She stands, albeit unsteadily. Then reaches down to help John get to his feet. He pushes against the wall to use it as leverage and finally manages to stand. It's awkward, but at least he's back on his feet.
Hooray for me, he thinks.
He leans against the wall for a few seconds, breathing shallow, his right arm holds onto his ribs and the left has a death grip on the Browning. She moves around to his right side and puts one arm around his waist to help him walk.
John sighs. "Come on," he whispers. "I can manage a few more feet." She nods, her dark hair falling over her face.
They take a few steps together. Somewhere there is the sound of a shot. John's head jerks up and he stares down the long hallway.
Lori hesitates. "Do—do you think that's –"
John can literally hear her heartbeat as it pounds in her chest.
"Don't know," John says. His left hand tightens on the Browning. They look at each other and take another few hesitant steps down the hallway toward the far door. John's energy is nearly gone now. He is acting on sheer instinct. He stops again to lean briefly against the wall and catch his breath. He shuts his eyes.
"Just – give me a sec," he mumbles. She nods, holds on to his waist with a shaking arm.
And that is how Sherlock finds them as he comes down the corridor.
OooOooO
"Sir? It's been 15 minutes. Sherlock and Mycroft said 10, 15 at the most."
Sally Donovan stands in front of a sculpture, of what she could never say. It doesn't look like anything she's ever seen in this life. She bites her lip, glances around the gallery. People are walking all around the new wing, family groups, couples, and several plainclothes police. Once in a while, one of them glances at a watch, frowns, then stares shortly in their direction, hers and Lestrade's. Then looks away again.
Lestrade, who stands to her right, nods, glances at his watch. She's right. They've reached the 15 minute mark.
"We have to give them time," he says. "Five more minutes. Then we go down to find them."
Sally nods.
OooOooO
Moran strides to the lift, then stands in front of it, hesitates. Every security camera on the first and second levels has gone dark. Holmes is in the building and if he knows or has any idea where Watson is housed, then he will be on the second floor. Moran doesn't know if the lift will work or for how long. He turns to take the stairway up to the next level.
OooOooO
Jim Moriarty hits the intercom and waits for someone to answer. Meanwhile, he flips through photos on his computer, pauses at one in particular. Yes, he will do nicely.
"Sir?" The voice is hesitant, filled with dread.
"Send Phillips to me. Now," says Moriarty.
"Yes sir."
Jim glances around the room, moves to pick up a few objects from the desktop, slips them into his pockets. He checks for his wallet and one key in particular. Nods when he finds it.
Finally, he takes out the shiny pen that Sebastian Moran gave him and he starts to flip it, end over end.
He looks toward the door, and smiles.
OooOooO
"John!"
Sherlock strides up to them both, just in time to catch the smaller man as his legs finally give out. He catches John by the shoulders, steadies him as he sinks slowly to the ground.
John's head bows, his eyes close. His breath comes in sharp little gasps. He wonders if this is the delirium that precedes death.
He can hear Sherlock's voice, feel his hands on his shoulders, hell he can smell his spicy aftershave. He manages to open his eyes and stares straight into those he most wants to see in the world. He wants to reach out and touch one of the dark curls. But he can't muster the energy. If this is death, he'll take it any day of the week.
He leans back in order to see the detective better and encounters those strong, lean fingers against the back of his head.
"John, John." Sherlock puts one hand behind John Watson's sandy head to keep John's skull from hitting the wall. He leans forward, stares into the dazed eyes of his partner.
John's eyes stare back, out of focus. But he is trying. That's something anyway.
"Mr. – Holmes?" Lori's voice comes from Sherlock's left and he turns his head briefly to stare at the young woman.
His mind provides the data. Lori Hansen, RN, missing for nearly a month now. Called as a temp to fill in at the clinic of one Dr. Marcus Franks. He frowns at her, notes her obvious injuries.
Lori stares at him, her eyes wide. Blood is dripping through her dark hair again, and down into her eyes. She tries to clear her throat.
"He – Doctor Watson needs an ambulance," she whispers. "He's suffering from—"
"Well if this isn't old home week," comes the drawl behind them.
Sherlock straightens, his fingers tightening in John's sandy locks. John's eyes snap open and he manages, barely, to focus on Sherlock's' face. This isn't a dream then. It's real.
And it's just become a nightmare.
Because Sebastian Moran stands about 30 feet behind Sherlock, his Sig pointed in their direction.
OooOooO
Security Guard Billy Phillips stands in front of James Moriarty, and frowns. He has no idea why he was called on the carpet. But he's done nothing. In fact, he's been a damned reliable member of the team. So he's not overly worried.
Jim studies his face for a moment. He grins.
Phillips swallows at that smile. This is the first time he's been in front of – hell, seen, James Moriarty. When Jim grins, Billy decides he doesn't like this little man, not one little bit.
"Mr. Phillips," says Moriarty slowly, his eyes raking over the other man's face and figure. "Do you know why you were hired as a guard here?"
Phillips shakes his head. "I figured it was because of my experience, sir." He stares back at Jim.
Jim stands up, comes to stand directly in front of Phillips. He is tossing the little gold and silver pen, end over end over end.
It flashes in the overhead lights.
"Wrong," he says quietly. "You were hired because you resemble a certain member of this team."
Phillips swallows, his eyes following the pen. "I – I don't understand, sir. I resemble a member of your team? Who?"
His eyes can't leave the tiny flash / gleam of the pen as Jim tosses it end over end.
"Me," says Jim Moriarty. And he leans forward, pen in hand.
OooOooO
"Well, this is just fine," drawls Moran. "You can stand now, Sherlock," he adds dryly.
Sherlock releases John's head, then comes slowly to his feet. From his left, Lori Hansen's breath hitches. She huddles in on herself, hides her head in her crossed arms at John's side. He can hear her quiet sobbing.
John's eyes are closed and his head leans back against the wall. He appears to be barely breathing. His skin is waxy, pale. His eyes sunken in his head. Dark purple bruises surround his eyes and Sherlock sees a spasm that shakes through John's form, from his spine upward – and back down again. John's breath hitches and he moans softly.
Sherlock frowns. His blood is pure ice water in his veins. But there's a roaring sound in his head, and it threatens to drown out all other sounds around him, including his own heartbeat.
"Gently now," says Moran.
Sherlock turns slowly. He keeps his body between John and Moran, screening the doctor from Moran's gaze, as much as possible. He holds his hands out to the side, palms out.
He stares back at Moran, considering.
From the intercom over their heads, a guard's voice rings out. "Sherlock Holmes has entered the building. All guards to their stations!" The voice breaks off – as if the talker has suddenly lost the capacity of speech. A slight choking sound comes from the speaker.
"I can bloody well take care of Holmes!" growls Moran in the general direction of the intercom. He raises the Sig. His fingers tighten.
Sherlock's eyes narrow.
"And exactly which Holmes would that be?" comes the quiet deadly voice behind him.
Moran freezes.
Mycroft steps up behind Moran, holds his Walther PPK steady against the back of Moran's head. He pushes inward with the barrel.
"Drop it, now," he growls. God, he's waited years to say that. He must remember every bit of this so he can tell Anthea. She'll love it.
"Hey, let's all keep our heads here, okay," says Moran. He opens his fingers, lets the Sig drop. His body tenses, as if to turn.
"None of that," says Mycroft. And he strikes Moran's temple a glancing blow with the Walther.
Moran drops to his knees, swearing.
Mycroft holds the Walther with both hands, steady as a rock. He glances at his brother.
"Sherlock."
Moran is on his knees, panting, but his eyes never leave Sherlock's.
Staring at him, Sherlock steps forward, reaches down for Moran's left hand.
He clamps his strong fingers around Moran's wrist, raises John's Makarov, Moran's eyes widen.
Sherlock hesitates, glances at Moran's face thoughtfully. He slowly slips the Makarov back into his right hand pocket.
Moran grins. "Knew you didn't have the guts, Holmes. At least your pansy lover over there, Watson, knows how to put up a fight."
Taunting words, but there is a fine sheen of sweat on his temple.
Ignoring him, Sherlock glances up at Mycroft, his hand still clamped around Moran's wrist.
"Mycroft."
Mycroft's eyes never leave Moran. "Right," he says.
He steps forward, reaches into the right breast pocket of his coat and draws out a murderously slim blade, at least 9" in length. He waits while Sherlock removes a glove from his jacket pocket, carefully pulls it over the fingers of his right hand.
Mycroft hands the knife over to Sherlock. "Japanese? German?" asks the detective, casually.
"American actually," says Mycroft. "Private knife maker in New Mexico." Sherlock nods, appreciatively.
Mycroft steps back, both hands again grasp the Walter, still aimed at Moran's chest.
The overhead lights flash off the tip. Moran stares at it, swallows.
"Thanks." Sherlock takes the blade, studies the tip for a second, turns it so the overhead lights dance along the surface, then he looks down at Moran.
In his mind's eye, Sherlock replays the first video – and relives again the memory of Sebastian Moran glancing at the camera, saying "Paybacks are hell, Sherlock," and - again - sees Moran swing the metal tube casually at John's ribs, breaking them. He hears, once more, the slight, sickening sound as the metal impacts against John's chest, over his heart.
Sherlock yanks Moran's wrist, forcing the sleeve of his jacket back, exposing the muscled wrist.
"I believe this was the hand?" he says casually.
OooOooO
Lestrade and Donovan stand next to the door in the far gallery, the door that the blueprints say leads down to the lower levels.
There is the sound of a strangled howl – cut off mid scream.
"Right," says Lestrade. He glances at Donovan. "Take charge up here. I'm going down to bring them up." Sally nods.
Lestrade goes through the door.
Sally's mobile rings and she fishes it out of her purse. She listens, then frowns.
She glances at the door that the DI has gone through. Her news will have to wait. She thinks fast, makes a phone call.
"Right. Thanks," she says hurriedly.
Sally drops her mobile back into the corner pocket of her purse and glances around the gallery. Her eyes meet those of Rodriguez, who is standing guard at the far door. She nods in his direction. His nods back and strolls over to where she is standing.
OooOooO
Moran crouches on the floor in a slowly spreading pool of his own blood. His breath comes in harsh gasps.
"You fucking whore!" he shouts at Sherlock's back. "I'll kill you all – I'll cut your throat, Holmes – you and your precious little pet." He huddles over his left arm and groans.
Sherlock ignores him. He bends over John, thumbs at John's eyebrow. John's head lolls to the side. Sherlock glances at Lori Hansen to his side. She looks back at him, her eyes filled with tears. He can see she's reached the end of her endurance. He tries to put a reassuring smile on his face.
"You're safe," Sherlock says. "You're both safe now. We'll get both of you to hospital shortly." She nods once, but doesn't trust herself to speak.
And then everything happens at once.
Mycroft half bends over Moran as he gestures for him to get to his feet. Moran continues to hold his injured left hand and wrist - what is left of it - against himself – then in one smooth motion, yanks the small Beretta from his leg holster and fires upward at Mycroft Holmes.
Sherlock hears his brother grunt, curse as he falls heavily to the side. He remains bent over, to protect John from whatever is happening behind his back. Lori raises her eyes and stares in horror as she sees Moran lunge for his Sig, forgotten on the floor at Mycroft's feet. Mycroft struggles to rise, his hand still grips the Walther.
Moran growls deep in his throat and aims a back-handed blow to Mycroft's right leg, right against the path his bullet has made. Mycroft's breath hitches and he falls backward, scrambling for purchase on the floor. The Walter falls from his grasp.
Moran rises to his feet, his right hand gripped around the Sig. He ignores the elder Holmes who is still struggling to rise but he moves to kick the Walther away from Mycroft's grasp. He takes three steps back so as to keep Mycroft in front of him, glances down at the fallen man with contempt.
Moran raises the Sig and points it straight at Sherlock's back. "Turn around, Holmes I want you fucking facing me. Turn around, goddamn it!"
If there is one thing on earth that can stir the dying embers of John Watson's heart – this is it - a direct threat against the man he loves. John's eyes open, his head tilts back and his gaze focuses upward at Sherlock. Sherlock looks down at John.
John's left hand moves forward slightly, still with its death grip on the Browning. He meets his partner's eyes, and Sherlock nods imperceptibly.
Something about this scene is incredibly familiar to Sherlock but he lets it go for now.
Moran growls again, "I said turn around, Sherlock fucking Holmes! I'm going to shoot you right between those pretty eyes – and then take a long, long time with the other two. And I'm not even going to tell you what's going to happen to your pansy lover."
Sherlock raises his hands, glances again at John, who nods once, then Sherlock Holmes turns toward Moran and pivots quickly to the side - out of John's line of fire.
John Watson raises the Browning in one smooth movement - fires. Sherlock hears twin blasts – and smiles.
Lori's eyes widen. Her breath catches in her throat.
Sebastian Moran's body sways once, then falls heavily to the floor, with two bullets in him, one from John Watson's Browning more or less through his heart – and the other from Greg Lestrade's own Walther PPK, which neatly takes off the back of Moran's head.
Mycroft Holmes struggles to rise to his feet, he is spattered in Moran's blood and brains, stares across the floor at his brother in disgust. He raises one eyebrow. Finally takes out a handkerchief and presses it to his leg, which is streaming blood on the hardwood floor.
Honest to God, Anthea won't believe any of this. And now he has a wound too.
Lestrade raises an eyebrow, takes in the scene. He finally addresses Sherlock across Moran's body.
"Honestly, I can't take you guys anywhere," he says dryly. He fishes his mobile out of his pocket, frowns at the lack of bars. "Be right back," he mutters.
Lestrade goes back up the steps to the main gallery.
Mycroft struggles to his feet, hobbles over to Sherlock.
Sherlock bends over John, brushes his fingers through the sweaty, dark gold spikes. For a moment, he breathes in the sight of a living, breathing John Watson. His heart hammers in his chest.
John does not open his eyes.
Lestrade comes back through the door, the blanket from the SUV in his hands. Sally was coming down the steps with it as he was going up. He hands it to Sherlock, who nods his thanks.
Behind them, there is the sound of a half dozen pair of feet, thundering down the stairs to the lower level. Lestrade glances at Sherlock. "Arresting Moriarty."
Sherlock's eyes narrow, but he dismisses it and immediately turns back to John.
Lori Hansen struggles to her feet. She moves around Sherlock's back and goes to lean up against Mycroft Holmes' solid side. Even wounded, the man exudes safety. Mycroft puts one arm around the tiny nurse and hugs her to him. She shuts her eyes.
Sherlock bends over John, thumbs at an eyebrow.
"John, John," he murmurs. Then more loudly, "Come on, stay with me, okay? John! John Watson!"
At the same time, he gently pulls the Browning out of John's grasp. He has to tug twice before John relinquishes the weapon. Sherlock makes certain the safety is on, then hands it backward over his shoulder to Lestrade, who pretends not to see it. Lestrade hands it back to Mycroft, who takes it and drops it into a pocket of his coat.
John opens his eyes at the voice he loves above all others and manages to blink Sherlock into existence. He stares at the crystalline eyes. Smiles weakly.
"You're late," he whispers.
Sherlock flinches at the hoarse sound of his partner's voice. Then he raises an eyebrow when he is certain John can still see him. He tucks the blanket around John carefully. He leans over, runs his fingers through the dark blonde spikes, then kisses John on the forehead.
Sherlock whispers back, "Always the drama queen."
He smiles into John's eyes, and John tries to smile back but he can't, he really can't. The pain in his abdomen threatens to eclipse his entire universe - and he loses consciousness again before Sherlock can react.
Sherlock raises his head, finds his brother's eyes.
"Hurry," he says, his voice rough. "We have to hurry."
OooOooO
Lestrade's voice comes over the loudspeaker.
"This is Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Please stand back against the walls. There has been an accident. You are in no danger. But we ask you to stand back against the walls so Emergency Services personnel can get in and out. We only require your assistance for a few minutes. Again, you are in absolutely no danger. Thank you."
Kids, parents, various patrons of the arts, all move toward the walls. One little boy, eyes wide, points, "Look there."
His mother raises her head, frowns, just as several people come out of the back gallery, two of the men ridiculously tall, the dark one carrying another man in his arms, with what looks like a quilt tucked around him. The other carries a small woman, whose head lolls back, her eyes shut tight.
The mother's eyes widen as the unlikely duos cross in front of her and her son.
It has gone incredibly quiet in the main hall of the Wellington Art Museum.
The men pass – and several other people hurry after them – one of them a woman with dark curly hair who, along with another man, holds the front doors open.
Once they are out the door, the gravelly voice comes over the speakers again.
"Thank you for your cooperation. Again, you were never in any danger. Enjoy the rest of your morning."
There is a brief silence. And everyone begins to talk at once.
OooOooO
Sherlock hurries to the SUV, his arms full of one unconscious Army doctor. He growls, literally growls at anyone who tries to take John from him to help him into the car.
At the door of the SUV, he glances around. He sees Rodriguez carry Lori Hansen to the unmarked police car. Anderson slides into the driver's seat while Rodriguez holds the little nurse in his arms.
"Where's your fucking ambulance, Lestrade?"
Greg Lestrade frowns, glances around the parking lot. Donovan hurries up to them. She tries to catch her breath.
"There was a massive accident. Multiple wounded and possible fatalities. The ambulance we had standing by was dispatched to the scene immediately."
Mycroft begins to swear as he takes out his Blackberry. Donovan holds up a hand.
"We've called for another ambulance and they're on their way, but they're about twenty minutes out. They'll meet us."
Sherlock glances down at Johns' face, then up at his brother's eyes. "Mycroft."
Mycroft moves around to open the back door of the SUV. Then he hurries around to the other passenger side. He slides in and supports John's body as Sherlock hands him over to his brother, climbs into the car.
Lestrade hurries to the driver's seat and Donovan gets into the front passenger seat, just as before. Lestrade starts the engine and the SUV roars out of the parking lot.
Sherlock pulls John's still body into his embrace, holds on for dear life.
He looks down at John's pale face, at the bluish purple smudges around his eyes, the extreme pallor. Under his shaking hands, he can feel the twin rasps as John attempts to breath. He raises his eyes, meets Mycroft's. The older man is tight-lipped, white around the eyes. Sherlock knows it's not his wound that causes his brother's utter paleness.
Sherlock looks back down at John…and brushes a kiss against Johns' lips, past caring who sees or hears.
"John, John," he whispers. "Please…"
He bends over John's body, seemingly impossibly small, holds it tightly against his chest. He shuts his eyes.
"John … Stay," he breathes into the sandy hair. His voice sounds ragged, fearful.
John's breath comes in tight little gasps. Everyone in the car can hear his labored breathing.
And everyone in the car can hear it when it stops.
OooOooO