AJ Elfhawk
On The Way Down
Chapter 21 – Theft and deceit
I've bathed in sunshine but cherished the fading light
And I heard my heartbeat falter on a winter's night
No tears for the life that you led
All the things that you've seen,
All the things that could have been.
Well, I've been everything I want to be.
Save your tears for the ones left behind.
No Tears – James Blunt
Within a few steps, blood was congealing into the gauze as the fresh scab stretched and split. A first-aid bag below the bathroom sink had provided enough basics to redress his leg after the shower, but he didn't want to assume the opportunity to change it would be offered again.
With a groan he stopped limping, and shuffled to the wall. Sweat prickled John's back as he leant to rearrange the ill-fitting bandage. Driving him to distraction with the need to itch, he plucked it away from the skin through his trousers, but where the plasma had crusted dry it stung more to move than leave alone.
John sighed and dropped his head, trying to muster enough discipline to continue. The worn carpet beneath him was briefly distracting, a more appalling pattern he was certain he'd never witnessed before. It could have made Mary Poppins' carpet bag look stylish in comparison.
Before long, the African escort enforced progress on his ever-lengthening journey with a heavy pat on the shoulder, and John resumed his walk. This time, he walked through the pain, refusing to let them see how affected he still was, days later. A slate-tiled kitchen succeeded the hallway and John paused against a large dining table in the centre, his chest expanded shakily from the effort of mimicking normal movement.
A murmur of voices drifted through a doorway behind him on the right, John drew himself up straighter as he caught sight of Moran watching from the sitting room's far end. The Albanian who'd ditched him in the drive that morning, stood talking a few feet away, but the Colonel seemed more interested in him than what the other guy had to say.
John glanced down at his shaking arm, thinking the tremor had returned only to see a white-knuckled grip on the table had more to do with it than stress. He rubbed the wrist cathartically, scouting the kitchen while he had the chance. Given the semi-furnished state of the bungalow, one or two knives might still remain if he could get close enough to search the units.
Moran waved the Albanian aside, gesturing for John to come closer. The other man faced the kitchen, his expression conveyed an obvious interest in liberating John's front teeth.
'Go.' The African urged from behind and John crossed the tiles passively, imagining most of men had ducked to pass under the low beam. Usually, John's sensible side would present strong reservations at moments like these, but he'd somehow lost inclination to question the wisdom of involvement with Sherlock anymore¸ perhaps justifiably after the graveyard incident. He could hardly deny this was his own fault now, despite wondering at which moment prevailing good sense had finally taken leave.
The sitting room itself might once have been considered homely but now the fringed curtains and moth-eaten lampshades stood relic to dust and damp.
Sherlock was reclined on a cracked-leather sofa, staring into the distance like a rude dinner guest who'd prefer to be elsewhere. The scene might have looked credible, but Sherlock's blood stained, dirt-ridden clothes put pay to that. He hadn't realised the extent of Sherlock's condition when he'd passed by in the corridor, the only light had come indirectly from the bedroom doorway.
As John entered, Sherlock's veneer of apathy dissolved into action, lunging sideways from the sofa, he dodged around the two men who'd stood behind him. The black man added an unenthusiastic attempt to block him but even with hands tied, Sherlock reached his target first, digging his chin possessively against John's shoulder to enforce the embrace he couldn't otherwise accomplish.
'I thought they'd left you there…' Sherlock murmured, the words 'to die' implied by the dramatic reception. John returned an awkward, one-armed hug as a hard object dug into his rib, supporting a natural cynicism about the animated public display. John concealed the evidence of Sherlock's larceny quickly under his right sleeve.
'When you're quite finished.' Moran interjected, his hands thumping the armrests simultaneously as they unfolded. Realising the best chance to examine Sherlock's injury was about to pass by, John reached up to where the dark curls rested at the top of his long, pale neck.
'Don't.' Sherlock warned sternly, pulling away as he understood John's intention, but not quickly enough to conceal a distinctive shadow behind his right ear.
'Bastards.' John whispered coldly, wishing he had more time to assess the damage. A crescent-shaped bruise, known as Battle's sign, was almost certain indication that Sherlock's skull had been fractured. John turned his head slowly towards Moran, controlling the anger that would become far too observable if he got closer to the man.
It took significant trauma to inflict an injury like that, no one allowed themselves to be struck repeatedly if it was in any way avoidable. Even if he hadn't known about Moran's military past, he would have guessed it from the violence of such a brutal attack. He'd overpowered Sherlock without mercy or regard for the harm he inflicted. Not that Sherlock was a pushover by any means either.
After the blackout in the basement, John had expected he might have a severe concussion but, somewhat typically, the detective seemed to have ended up in the worst case scenario.
John wasn't entirely surprised after seeing the state they'd left him in. The blood in Sherlock's hair wasn't remarkably obvious given how dark it was already, but there had been a fair amount judging by the starched appearance of his hair on that side, whilst the rest of it had reverted to its natural state of wiry disorder after several days' neglect.
It was a morbid form of hair gel, and without warning John felt the thought stirring carefully supressed emotions. He tried to think of something else quickly, Moran's tan suede jacket, the pack of cigarettes he was unwrapping, the shrug of Sherlock's shoulders to find a comfortable angle, the Albanian watching from beside Moran's chair, waiting for the right moment. It wasn't enough, the memories rose up to flood him as though he'd fallen in a lake and John was back there again, the same afternoon he always saw as if three months had never even passed… the still-warm blood trailing horizontally across Sherlock's eyes like a masquerade mask, running from his nose, glossy wet hair, and almost-black curls frozen in motion never to move again, all the while a shadowy, sinister halo glowed on the pavement around him as the blood seeped away…
John opened his eyes, pressed his knuckles in hard until white flashes overtook the grotesque imagery. He felt the phone shift inside his sleeve and gripped the edge of it tightly to stop it falling out, pressing his arms back against his sides.
Hearing words spoken but not understanding, John looked up and forced himself to focus. This wasn't the time for flashbacks, he had to concentrate, to find some way to make use of the chance Sherlock had secured for them.
'Cigarette?' Moran offered, flicking open the lid of the pack he thrust out in offering. Sherlock remained statuesque, feet parted and standing guard.
'Smoking kills.' He answered firmly, to a small chuckle from their grim-faced captor.
'That's the idea, Sherlock. Now have a fucking fag and stop ruining my fun.'
'Currently indisposed.' Sherlock smiled back, raising his tied wrists but Sebastian waved off the excuse, holding one in his mouth as he lit it.
'I know for a fact that greater difficulties haven't stopped you in the past.' Moran inhaled deeply, but didn't press the matter further.
As they talked, a fair-haired, long-stubbled man stalked the length of the room's left side towards them. Easily a match for Sherlock's height, he tipped forward the lid of an old piano against the wall with enough force to leave the high-carbon steel wires vibrating as he sat down against it a few metres away.
'That's hardly appropriate treatment for an antique Monington and Weston, particularly an iconic 1930's model,' Sherlock's conversational tone concealed an intrinsic inability to withhold criticism.
'Go fuck yourself.' The man replied, equally casual as he withdrew a gun from his coat.
'Austen.' Moran cautioned, and a foot swung spitefully up onto the piano lid instead.
'So I hear we're mutual fans of the game,' Sherlock began and Moran leant forward on one knee, granting the detective his complete attention. John might as well have been invisible, yet the phone pinned between his arm and side felt like a glowing beacon. Most people would have been debilitated with such an injury; he could only imagine the pain Sherlock was having to control. He needed immobility and rest, yet here he was intimidating a room of armed men with his hands still bound.
'It took so long for you to hear, I got bored waiting. I would have expected us to meet sooner, given your close association with my opponent. Was he too scared to let you play?'
'I play exceptionally well,' Sherlock asserted, opting for neutrality John noted wryly. 'Although I admit I'm joining the party late. It would explain why you've been allowed to enjoy such loose reigns.'
Sebastian's moustache quirked up at one side. 'I hadn't expected your brother to fall victim to complacency so easily. After being drip fed rumours for so long, I suppose Mycroft knows no better anymore. It must have come as quite a shock, thinking himself two steps ahead all this time only to realise that the advantage had already slipped through his fingers.'
'And did it not occur to you, Sebastian, how suspiciously easy it was to get this far?' For a moment, they contemplated each other silently, Sherlock judged the other man to be moderately concerned by the statement, apparent only by his lack of reaction.
'I've played longer than Mycroft has been alive.' Moran seemed affronted by the suggestion.
'Well, I suppose playing often and badly is better than not at all.' Austen shifted his leg again and Sherlock glanced at him obliquely against the wall, suspicious of foul play.
'I hardly need to mention that by taking you both, the stakes have risen beyond Mycroft's means to afford.' Moran explained patiently, as if he were addressing children.
'It would be nice to hear what it was you did have in mind at this point. From where I stand, I only see your attempts to complete what our mutually departed acquaintance started and couldn't finish.'
'I'm sure you intend that as an insult, but I shan't take it as one. We are only talking out of my own curiosity.'
'It's not much of a game if you believe you've won already is it? As winnings go, I'm a pretty lame prize.'
'It depends on the purpose you're intended to serve, Sherlock. I haven't decided yet. I could make a lot of money from you both, but it wouldn't give the same satisfaction as spoiling you myself.'
'And you say the motive isn't revenge?' Sherlock asked quizzically, frown and smile meeting halfway.
'As revenge happens to coincide with the general strategy, I can't say I'm bothered either way. Not everything has to be complicated.'
'So Jim was keen to convey at our last meeting.' Sherlock provoked, noting the deliberate detachment Moran practiced whenever he mentioned Moriarty. Piecing together their ages and personas, the words 'father-figure' recited through his mind as he finally determined that yes, Jim's death had genuinely injured Sebastian. Perhaps because it had been suicide.
Moran picked at the thin jumper he wore under the open jacket, smoothing the fabric repeatedly over his solar plexus until finally he rose, fetching a folded chair from a stack at the back of the room. Evidently left redundant by the men he'd lost in the shooting, he extended it in front John in a gesture that might have been considerate had it not served to draw awareness to the doctor's compromised condition.
'Colonel.' John acknowledged cynically, hardly needing a reminder of his injury. Sebastian returned past Sherlock, deliberately forcing him aside with his larger presence.
John took a seat carefully, sliding a hand under his right sleeve. The outline felt like an iPhone, and was moderately disappointing given the trouble he'd had with a second-hand Nokia when he first got it. He could probably work an iPhone out, but it wasn't an ideal time for expanding technological horizons. Irene Adler's had needed a pin, he'd bet money this one bloody would too.
'I've left a message for your brother.' Sebastian said quietly, perched on the arm of the chair. 'Buyer found.' The tone of his voice was beginning to grate on John's nerves.
'Buyer for what?' he asked innocently, interrupting despite knowing full well.
'It's not polite to discuss particulars; they simply solve a problem if other prospects don't work out.'
'Do you think you're the first to try and use me as leverage?' Sherlock asked coolly.
'I'll certainly be the last.' Sebastian replied arrogantly. 'You're going to help me.'
'How lovely.'
'You've contrived a reputation through systematic selfishness and attempts to prove yourself above the population.'
Sherlock looked up lazily, as if bored to be having the conversation. 'You can hardly say I'm attempting anything when I don't even try.' In a different light, John thought Sherlock's disinterest might have passed for the borderline stages of sleep.
'Your act is translucent, Sherlock. The part I'm interested in is discovering what hold Dr. Watson has over you. He may be an assistant, but is he something more? Or perhaps you have us all fooled, and he's nothing more than a toy. We'll find out soon enough, I suppose.'
Clenching his hands rhythmically to help keep his nerve, John turned his focus towards ways in which he might diffuse the discussion. Sherlock couldn't protect them both with words indefinitely; he barely seemed able to stay conscious and although he detested interference, John had seen the fallout from Mycroft's jibes often enough to now know what happened if intellectuals were left to wind each other up. Sherlock was probably making things worse entertaining this criminal, and Moran looked too content for John's liking; the thought of finding a fissure crack in Sherlock's defences had clearly delighted him, whether or not it was an act.
John liked to believe he provided a little muscle and propriety, when he wasn't maintaining Sherlock's balance between reality and hypothesis. But what the hell was he supposed to do now he'd been reduced to a limping convalescent, besides becoming Moran's brokering piece? With no knowledge about these people and no idea what Sherlock intended, he'd put up about as much resistance as a punch bag. Less, considering a punch bag at least remained upright.
'Sher-locked…' He tried, enunciating the final consonants as loud as he dared, hoping Sherlock would remember the issue of the phone he still needed to hack into. There was no point trying to make an emergency call when he couldn't actually talk, he had to be able to text. His outburst had inevitably drawn Sebastian's attention, but when nothing more was forthcoming, that scrutiny returned expectantly to the detective, awaiting his reaction. Sherlock held John's focus with an apprehensive expression before turning away again, studiously ignoring the interruption.
'As this conversation doesn't appear to be going anywhere, would you mind if we retire for the evening? I could really do with freshening up...' Sherlock said, mocking Moran with his feigned tone of weariness.
'You have a big heart. You don't even try to conceal it anymore.' Leaning back, Moran's legs crossed with a leisurely motion; satisfied his point was now made.
'I hope you're not implying a clinical defect.' Sherlock returned flippantly. He took a step back towards John, and suddenly looked down as he realised the involuntarily error.
'And so the theory is substantiated.' Sebastian extinguished the remnants of the cigarette butt into the armrest as he rose. In four strides, he grabbed one of Sherlock's wrists in his left hand, and a fist full of shirt in the other.
'I want agents, hierarchies and codes.' He growled, dragging the detective closer as Sherlock attempted to dislodge the hold, shaking him once to emphasise control. 'I want you to keep talking until you've exhausted your repertoire of intelligence or I tell you to shut up.'