DISCLAIMER: The show, the characters and so on and so forth all belong to the lovely BBC.
Warnings: Violence and slash, none of it NSFW explicit - I don't think so, anyway. Johnlock, no longer lightly but actually quite heavily implied Mystrade.
Apologies for this chapter being a tad shorter. That's because it's all going down in the next one. I love you all, very sincerely, and I thank you for reading this far and putting up with dead!Sherlock for so long. I really should have mentioned that this one was rather John-centric. Hold on, guys. Just hold on.
Time stretches like elastic as the week passes in fits and starts and John prepares to meet Moriarty.
He spends a lot of time feeling like clay in the hands of the Association. They coach him through everything: what to do and say, how to stand, how to act, which signals mean what, and who to call if everything goes wrong. John tries to listen, honestly he does, but a lot of it goes over his head, mainly because he's too busy quietly fretting to retain most of it.
It's not reassuring in the least that the basic plan doesn't change much from Claude's first description. Turn up, have Moriarty think that John is the assassin, hope the Association's snipers manage to overpower Moriarty's and duck when the bullets start flying. In the deepest, darkest part of his heart there's a voice whispering that Mycroft is too emotional over what happened to Lestrade to have thought this through clearly, but he's got to admit it's a better plan than he could think of. In any event, it's the only one they've got and the clock is ticking down towards the date of the execution.
And it passes quickly, especially when he's busy, which is most of the time. He stays on at the decadent mansion, which he learns that through some bizarre twist of fate actually belongs to some obscure Holmes relative, and divides his time between preparing for the Moriarty meeting and looking after Lestrade, who refuses to gain consciousness. He'd be worried, but the man's vitals are looking healthier and healthier every day and secretly John would rather rid the world of Moriarty before Lestrade wakes up. He thinks a man who has gone through as much as Lestrade has deserves to regain consciousness to a world far nicer than the current one.
Time crawls for him only on the occasions where Claude finds it necessary to interrupt their preparation time to go and consult the Association leaders on some kind of discrepancy, which usually takes far longer than John cares to recall. John thinks it highly unnecessary to do this every time Claude has an idea – that is, up until four days before the execution date when Claude pauses in the middle of a sentence, looks John straight in the eye and asks him very gravely and seriously what he would think about carrying a bomb. He leaves the room while John is still trying to wrap his head around the idea and therefore unable to provide any kind of coherent answer and returns remarkably swiftly with the look of someone who has been severely chewed out. John is inexpressibly relieved that the subject isn't brought up again and sincerely grateful to whoever dissuaded Claude from the idea: he is dedicated to the cause, but he wasn't sure if Claude was discussing suicide bombing and the prospect of giving up his life just like that isn't something he wants to spend too much time thinking about at all. After all, he's seen the effect that close proximity to an explosive can have on a person and it still haunts his nightmares. Or used to, until there were worse things to dream about.
But by and large he's distracted throughout the week. He even gets to see Irene again, once or twice. All of those rescued from the care of the party have been effectively put under house arrest – just in case, Claude says, you never know what one might say – so Kate stays, although the members involved in the mission are allowed home. Technically none of the rescued are allowed visitors, but John's not about to let anything stand between Irene and happiness after all she's done for him so he uses all of his influence to allow Irene to visit.
He's rewarded by being witness to Kate and Irene's reunion. It brings up the same familiar mix of heartbreak and happiness, but he pushes the former aside when he sees the way that Irene's face entirely lights up upon her first sighing of Kate. John's sure he's never seen her smile that way before.
He stays just long enough to quietly congratulate them, and then leaves them to it.
And then time does its funny thing and all too soon it's Monday and it's the day before the execution. John is seated in front of someone else's laptop, logging into his blog so he can lay the bait for Moriarty. For the first time since the plan was first laid out before him he realises what this could mean, this plan, if all goes as it should. Moriarty dead. The Say No party destabilised. And the Sherlock Holmeses all over Great Britain – safe. He allows himself a moment of panic and then sets to writing.
The execution itself is set for six thirty the following evening, but Claude and Mycroft both reasoned that it would be best if they left as little time as possible for Moriarty to prepare for the meeting so it's eleven o'clock at night. All of the instructions that he remembers from Claude's lessons dance in front of his eyes as he types, painstakingly slowly.
Intrigue him. Make him think he's got the upper hand. But make it sound like you're the one out for revenge. Be subtle. Remember the plan.
He sticks out his tongue. Right.
Dear Jim,
You've stolen something very precious to us. But we're prepared to reason with you to try and get it back.
Well, I say we. I mean I. The Association provide the bargaining chips: I negotiate them with you. Figures, since we have so much history. It'll be nice to see you again.
Meet me at the rooftop.
This was John's input. The connotations of meeting there were sure not to be lost on Moriarty.
You know which one. Ten o'clock. Tomorrow morning.
John.
Post.
And then time is speeding up in the odd way it has and John falls into bed but only manages a couple of fractured hours before he wakes screaming and fighting the bedclothes and he dresses despite his shaking hands and he loads his gun and puts the safety on and then he paws through his pockets.
Opens up the notes.
Reads.
Believe me to be, most definitely
Breathes.
Yours.
Remembers who he's doing this for.
SH.
And then there's no time at all and he's riding the car to the hospital, bolstered by the way that after the countryside gives way to the city he can't see London for the Sherlock. It's everywhere, on every street corner and scrawled on every wall. Once or twice, John sees traces of people – he assumes Say No supporters - having tried to clean it off but on the whole it's largely untouched. It makes him sit up in his seat a little straighter, hold his head a little higher.
Then he's all alone and climbing the floors of the suspiciously vacant hospital and he doesn't know who's doing that is – Mycroft's, or Moriarty's, and the not knowing is worse, but he's got more important things to worry about now because he's reached the final floor and he's got to concentrate on not thinking about whose footsteps he's tracing and who he's going to meet because he's finally, finally there –
Outside. Fresh air. London skyline.
Ten o'clock.
Next time: In which it's ten o'clock on a rooftop in London and history is about to be made.
Please, as always, don't hesitate to message me with any complaints or issues. I'm also grateful to everyone who leaves comments; your reviews, especially ones with constructive criticism, are invaluable to helping me improve my work and inspiring me to keep going even when it's five to one in the morning.