The Broken Tango
Chapter 25
Sherlock had never given any credence to the fluffy ideals of romance. The idea that a person's absence could make the heart grow fonder was both inane and saccharine.
Until Irene.
All through the next case, standing in the morgue, looking down on Connie Prince's corpse, he lost himself imagining her there beside him, before snapping himself back to reality.
Back to work.
Her hurt, pained, disappointed eyes haunted him every time he closed his own, if only for a split second. He forced the image away, forced the phantom recollection of her soft body collapsing into his arms away.
Back to work.
When the bomber had phoned again, taunting him, prodding his temper and that tiny shard of a heart he pretended he didn't have, he'd felt a rise of fear that Moriarty had found Irene.
Would Mycroft tell him if something went wrong?
He didn't know.
Feeling John's rebuking eyes on his back, disgusted by what he had done to Irene, no matter the justification.
If it meant she was safe, he could live with that.
In this case, the end did justify the means.
Raoul de Santos was their killer.
Walking into Lestrade's office, announcing it triumphantly, didn't feel as good as it usually did.
There was a distinct lack at his side. He always had two people by his side now, and to feel only one, and a highly disapproving one at that, felt…
Wrong.
He forced his thoughts away, those errant emotions that would break down his resolution and stop him from beating Moriarty.
Stop him from ensuring Irene's safety.
He had failed.
The old woman had died, and Moriarty had won this round. The thought frustrated him to no end.
John and he sat watching the morning news, the lack of Irene sitting beside him like a gaping hole in his consciousness. He struggled to shut it out.
He couldn't succumb to his emotions, he just couldn't.
In this game of life and death, he couldn't afford to be human.
"You're wrong, you know,"
Sometimes Sherlock could have sworn Irene was whispering away, inside his head, his last words to John echoing in the air still, in the disappointed and angry face of his closest friend.
"Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them," he had said coldly, fingertips pressed against one another, as he coolly watched his flatmate, the brave, patriotic soldier who so desperately believed there were heroes in this cold world.
Believed he, Sherlock, was one of them.
But he wasn't.
"You're wrong, you know,"
The soft whisper in his head was accompanied by the phantom pressure of a kiss among his curls, as he felt a shiver ripple down his spine.
He closed his eyes, blocked out the phantom sensations, and got back to doing what he did best.
The pink phone beeped, and he sighed.
At last!
"Excellent," he muttered. "A view of the Thames. South Bank, somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo."
He rifled through his jacket for his phone, all the time conscious of John's eyes boring into him.
"You check the papers, I'll look online," Sherlock continued, glancing up just once to see John, unmoving, unswervingly watching him. "Oh, you're angry with me so you won't help. Not much cop this caring lark."
"Not much cop this…denial lark," John retorted. Sherlock's head snapped up, eyes pinning John where he stood.
"What are you babbling on about?" he demanded, eyes narrowed and burning, an odd pressure in his chest.
"You say you don't care, and that you're not a hero. The second may be true, but the first isn't. You do care, Sherlock, just a little otherwise you wouldn't have done everything in your power to get Irene out of danger," John explained quietly, before walking past a stunned Sherlock to flick through the papers. Sherlock regained his equilibrium, and nothing more was said.
He stood on a cold, wet riverside tip above yet another body, and the lack…that all-consuming lack beside him was back again, like a pervasive ache through his body.
But he was Sherlock Holmes, and he had work to do.
All he cared about was the work.
The sentence became a mantra to wipe away the feelings of guilt and apprehension he felt whenever he stopped thinking about the case, about the game.
And that, he couldn't afford.
So he pushed her out of his mind, out of his pathetic heart, so he could focus. The pain built, but he allowed it to consume him, giving him clarity again where there had only been fog.
The game was not yet over.
The first test came when he was in the gallery, walking away from Miss Wenceslas, disrobing as he went. The thought of Irene, waiting for him in the locker room where he'd left his other clothes, smiling seductively as she leant back on one of the benches, tugging him to her by the nondescript black tie had almost been too much, as the ache started up again.
What she would say…
"You look good in a uniform…maybe we should keep it, for future uses," she would whisper coyly, lips brushing his teasingly.
He shook his curly head, wiping the fantasy from existence. He couldn't think of her now, he refused to.
And Sherlock Holmes never did anything he didn't want to.
Looking up at the stars in the Vauxhall Arches had its inevitable effect.
Fighting the Golem in the planetarium had its inevitable effect.
Standing in front of the fake Vermeer had its inevitable effect.
Irene had studied astrophysics; she might even have spotted the mistake before he did. Possibly.
The thought made his lips quirk as he imagined her reaction to his thoughts.
"Sherlock, I studied astrophysics, not astronomy. I studied the theory behind why the big stars went bang, not when and where!"
It was amazing really, how easily he could conjure her voice, her eyes, her face.
"Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice cut through his daydream, as the police car pulled up outside Scotland Yard. With a sigh, he forced the daydream away, to the depths of his mind where it belonged, and got out.
Looking at Irene's pseudo-uncle gave him one last pang, before he locked it away, with the rest of his emotions.
He knew it, had known it all along, still it was nice to have his knowledge confirmed, even if his triumph had to remain private since John had disappeared to deal with the Bruce-Partington case, and Lestrade didn't know about Moriarty.
It also destroyed the last remnant of doubt in his mind that he had done wrong in drugging Irene, and ensuring she was safe from her brother.
"I was put in touch with people…his people," Miss Wenceslas murmured brokenly, as Sherlock straightened in his seat.
He was right, all along.
"Well, there is never any real contact. Just messages…whispers…" she trailed off again, fear seeping into her voice. Sherlock, triumph and need breaking into his own tone, predatorily leant forward, eyes boring into Miss Wenceslas as if he could pierce into her very soul.
"And did those whispers have a name?" he asked, in a deadly whisper, with no refusal to answer brooked. She would tell him, or heaven help her…
Miss Wenceslas glanced first at him, then at Lestrade before returning her gaze to the floor. "Moriarty."
Sherlock relaxed into his chair, a strange emotion running through him. He looked out the window, eyes unfocussed and distant as Lestrade had Miss Wenceslas taken away, and he pondered this development which confirmed all his suspicions.
This was all just a game, a great game in which all these cases, these puzzles were chess pieces, and he the ultimate target.
Not even Irene. Him.
The Bruce-Partington missile plans were the last puzzle, he was sure of it. The final jigsaw piece to be moved. The final pip.
Irene was safe, now he needed to protect John, and the best way to do that was to go on as he had, pretend there was another case out there while solving this one as a distraction.
No need to tell John the truth, it would only endanger him.
"What you don't know, won't hurt you,"
He sighed, as Irene's voice and words from what felt like centuries ago echoed in his head. He wondered idly if he was developing schizophrenia.
Just typical that it would be Irene's voice he was hearing in his head.
He knew it was only a projection of his guilt, summoning up memories of their past to torment his conscious mind but hearing all his suspicions confirmed helped ease the guilt.
Not the ache in his chest, but the guilt was easing.
He had done the right thing.
He was sitting in their living room, watching a re-run of Jeremy Kyle, the pair of them bundled up to protect them from the glassless windows letting in the cold.
It was moments like these, in the peace and the relative quiet before the storm, that he felt her absence keenly.
It's not like she's died, idiot! the logical part of his brain rolled its eyes derisively, sneering at the more emotional side that was missing her, dare he admit it at last. Oh you are pathetic…you can't even say her name anymore, or think it in case your bleeding heart breaks a little more? Irene, Irene, Irene wherefore art thou Irene! Please! You did her a favour, you prat, and she's safe, isn't she? She was too much of a distraction, you did what you had to…
"Shut up," he growled under his breath, making John, who was seated at the desk typing on his laptop, turn around in his seat.
"What?"
"Nothing," Sherlock grunted, focusing again on the inane television show he was watching. Really, did no one have any common sense anymore? "No, no, no! Course he's not the boy's father! Look at the turn ups on his jeans!"
"I knew it was dangerous," John commented absentmindedly.
"Hm?" his irritable flatmate grunted.
"Getting you into crap telly," he elaborated, at which Sherlock just grunted again.
"Not a patch on Connie Prince," he muttered, huddling deeper into the warmth of the chair again. If he pressed in a certain place, he could just feel the warmth of Irene's skin on the leather, sense the imprint of her limbs there…
No, no, no, no! Don't even go there!
"Have you given Mycroft the memory stick yet?" John asked, and Sherlock was grateful for the distraction from his treacherous thoughts.
"Yep. He was over the moon. Threatened me with a knighthood. Again," he replied easily. The lie was only a small one. What he hadn't told his brother or John was that he had broken the security encryptions, copied the plans onto another, identical memory stick and given the original back to Mycroft.
"You know, I'm still waiting," John began, a slight teasing tone slipping into his voice. Sherlock was grateful for it, this easy banter that had always existed between them, stopping him from slipping into that emotional whirlpool that awaited him every time he allowed himself to think of…her.
"Hm?" he muttered questioningly.
"For you to admit that a little knowledge of the solar system and you'd have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker."
"Didn't do you any good did it?" he retorted back at John, who grinned and leant back in his chair.
"No, but I'm not the world's only consulting detective," John threw the gambit right back at him, teasing a smile from Sherlock's stern mouth.
"True," he sighed, glad for the distraction once more. John's face sobered as he watched his friend, guessing what was on his mind. He had looked a similar way the day Irene had disappeared, drowning in a sea of his own emotions.
"You did the right thing, Sherlock. For Irene, I mean," he elaborated at his friend's questioning look. An odd expression passed over Sherlock's face, before the austere planes eased back into their impassive mask, as he refocused on the TV screen.
But John thought he heard the tiniest mumble of a "Thank you." before he turned away.
"I won't be in for tea. I'm going to Sarah's. There's still some of that risotto left in the fridge," he said while standing from his chair and heading for the door. "Milk, we need milk."
"I'll get some," Sherlock's deep voice suddenly said from behind him, as he turned around in surprise.
"Really?"
"Really."
"And some beans then?" he added hesitantly, unsure how much he could push Sherlock. He really must be lovesick.
Sherlock didn't take his eyes off the TV show, just nodding and grunting in acknowledgement. Muttering about wonders never ceasing, John turned and left the flat.
Out in the cold air, he pulled his jacket closer and started the long walk to Sarah's, enjoying the exercise. He thought over the events of the last few days, and found himself shaking his head in amazement.
And he'd once said nothing ever happened to him.
John also knew he wouldn't have had it any other way.
Looking up at the stars, he sighed as he thought of Irene. He hoped she was alright, hoped she was safe and that she could soon come home. He also hoped she wouldn't hold it against Sherlock too much.
He had only been trying to protect her, in his own warped way. Sherlock had been so alone, emotionally, for so long that he just did not know how to handle these new feelings he had, and tried to hide, without success. At the end of the day, whether Sherlock acknowledged it or not, he was in love with Irene, and she was in love with him.
It was as clear as day.
As he walked into a side alley, a short cut leading to Sarah's flat, he heard a set of footsteps behind him. He slowed, instincts telling him this wasn't good.
The footsteps had stopped.
He walked forward, the footsteps followed.
Trying to control his breathing, John slid easily into the shadows, using his field craft training to blend into the brickwork, melting into the darkness.
How he wished he'd brought his gun with him, but the Browning was back at the flat.
Probably shouldn't have left it anywhere Sherlock could find it, but oh well…
Hindsight is a marvellous thing, but not now, John! a voice scarily like Sherlock's yelled at him in his head as he heard the footsteps come nearer. He easily controlled his breathing.
Waiting.
The footsteps came nearer, stopped.
John lashed out, dropping his shadow with a well-placed punch to the neck, and then followed up with up cut to the base of the jaw. He panted, looking down at the body on the ground when pain blasted away his vision, something hard impacting across the base of his skull.
John Watson crumpled to the ground.
Back at the flat, Sherlock waited until he heard the door close before reaching for his laptop. He quickly brought up his website, and began typing.
This was the only way, with John safe at Sarah's, and Irene in Mycroft's custody, he had to make the final move in this game of theirs.
Time for the final curtain to fall, and the players to take their places for the bow.
Found. The Bruce-Partington Plans. Please collect. The Pool. Midnight.
Sherlock's hand hesitated for a split second over the 'enter' key. Something, some instinct whispered that something was wrong.
Something he couldn't define.
His logical brain shrugged it aside. John was safe on his way to Sarah's, and Irene was safe in a MI6 safe house in the Docklands.
Mycroft would have phoned him if anything had happened.
Confident once more, Sherlock hit the key, snapped the laptop shut and settled to wait for midnight to come.