DEAREST by Hrlyqin
part two – chapter six
(chapter 25)
"Hi, it's Molly! Sorry I can't talk right now but if you leave me a message I'll get back to you in two shakes. Beep!"
"Hey Molly it's me. I just wanted you to know that everyone is okay. I know worrying is your favorite hobby. Um, yeah, so that's kind of a lie. I mean, I wanted you to know we're okay but also I wanted to listen to your voice on the phone. It's not that I'm not still mad because I am, and I don't know if I forgive you yet or not. But I really miss you and I wish you were here with me right now. I'll talk to you when I can. Be careful."
It had been two days since John had left Harry's and gone on the run. All of his planning had been for Molly going with Jamie so he had done a lot of thinking on his feet. There was an old army pal, a surgeon named Paul who had been part of the poker games with John and now owned a little inn with his wife is Dublin. But it wasn't so simple as going straight there, that was too risky. So he and Jamie had gone to Belgium, spent a few hours in the airport and then flown over to Luxembourg where they would bed down tonight and then leave for Limerick in the morning before finally planting their feet down in Dublin. Ludicrous, exhausting, annoying when you spoke almost no German and your French was only passable, but difficult to track and impossible to anticipate. John had started hoping that by the time they actually got to Dublin, Sherlock would be calling him and giving him the all-clear.
While John had felt it was safe to call Molly, as their neighbors could attest to their current estrangement, Sherlock's only communications to him had been obscure text messages every few hours. The content of the messages were mostly nonsensical (one read 'The cows are not what they seem -SH') but it was Sherlock's way of saying that he was okay but it wasn't safe yet. So long as John got the text messages, he knew he couldn't go home but he could also keep his impulse to race to his friend's aid in check. If the messages stopped coming and he didn't get a call... well, it didn't do him any good to think about that right now. The only one that had been remotely coherent said 'Paris was a bust. M still in the wind'.
He hated leaving Sherlock to deal with Moriarty by himself. Even if they hadn't spoken, he knew that the disappointment would be evident in his former flatmate. He was in the hour of his greatest need and John had to skip town and leave him with no one but Mycroft to help. But he hadn't known what else to do. Harry hadn't even been able to stay awake, much less care for a child while dashing across time zones. He would have given anything to be with Sherlock, in the fray, instead of here with his thoughts and a boy who kept asking questions.
Jamie wanted to know where Mum was and if she was coming to join them.
Jamie wanted to know why John was calling him 'Daniel' since that wasn't his name.
Jamie wanted to know why Harriet didn't come out and say hello to him when they were there.
Jamie wanted to know why they couldn't take Sherlock on their vacation with them.
Jamie wanted to know why John was so worried because he could tell he was worried.
Jamie wanted to know why John wouldn't let him out of his sight, even making him pee and shower with the door open.
Jamie had wanted to know if John had a bad dream when he had awoken a few hours ago and Jamie told him he had been screaming. John said it was a bad dream about the war, and that was true, just not the war Jamie thought he meant. It had been years since he had dreamt of the battlefield, of the wounded calling for help and begging to be saved, the bombs exploding and the rat-tat-tat of gun fire ringing in his ears as he put bodies back together. Tonight he had gone back to the solid fear that was forever linked in his mind to the smell of chlorine.
"Be a good hostage and follow instructions. Repeat exactly what I tell you. Do exactly as I tell you. Now isn't the time to be a hero, Dr. Watson, and we both know you're not up to it."
He reached around him to make a slight adjustment, like a tailor would, on the Semtex vest John was wrapped in before putting the heavy coat over him. There were two men with guns in the room and doubtlessly others in the building. John had looked at the floor, green tile and white grout, gray with age in places. He was in the locker room at the public swimming pool being trussed out for slaughter. He had known Sherlock would come and had to live with the fact that he was bait.
"There will be guns on you, and on him. One false move and BAM! Do not pass go, do not collect 2oo quid. Behave yourself and this will all be over soon. Won't that be nice?"
He laughed quietly and the smell of him, a dry and musty smell like old leaves, fought with the smell of pool water and towels filling John's nose. A wave of dizzy nausea came and went as he was pushed gently out of the door towards the pool. Moriarty had said it was showtime.
"Showtime." John had said as his eyes opened.
But this was not that time and this was not that place. He was in a cheap hotel room with bad wallpaper. Jamie was a warm ball curled up next to him in the bed. John had thought that the boy had been deep asleep until he sat up and Jamie said, "You're okay Dad? You were shouting."
"Fine. Going to get some water."
"Did you have a bad dream?"
"Yeah." John admitted, saying it in an offhand way that he hoped would make it no big deal.
"Was it about when you were in the war?"
"Yeah." he repeated. "Need anything to drink?"
Jamie said no and John had gone into the bathroom and gotten a drink from the tap. He left the door open and the light on when he went back into the bedroom, seating himself in the chair by the window when he found he couldn't face sleep again right now. He grabbed his phone and checked for messages, then reread all his old messages again and then when Jamie was soundly sleeping again, he had risked calling Molly. In what John could only think of as 'before', when he had the occasional nighttime scare, Molly would baby him and rub his back and his hair and tell him boring, inane things about the day until he could sleep again. He missed that, he missed her near and warm.
He was finally able to sleep again and when he woke, there was daylight streaming in the window. Jamie was already up and he could hear him in the shower. John checked his phone again as he got up (two next text messages, nothing from Molly), affording himself a stretch and a yawn while he went over to the bathroom.
"Hey Jammer," he knocked lightly, "I said keep the door open."
John turned the knob and pushed the bathroom door open. The room was a steamy, humid swamp and sweat beaded up on his skin. The heat and dampness dulled his senses just enough so that he couldn't react when instead of a small boy, he found a grown man with a glock hiding in the loo. The gun came down on John's face and there was blinding pain as the bones in his nose snapped and something exploded in his temple. He fought the rush of sensation into his body but it overcame him and he blinked dizzily before passing out.
He didn't know how much time had passed but he suspected only a few minutes. The air was chilled a little but the warmth of the water still hung in it. John hoisted himself up onto his knees, looking at the puddle of blood where his face had been. The man with the gun was still there, standing by the bed and looking at someone else in the room. John pushed himself forward just enough to see.
It was him.
It was the man himself.
Moriarty stood in full living color by the door of the hotel room. John couldn't make out if he was stealing luggage or curtains for a second and then he realized what was happening. Jamie was bundled up in his arms, eyes closed (drugged?) but chest still rising and falling. Jamie.
"No." John said as he surged forward. The report of the gun firing in the room was deafening and he was driven back by the hot white heat as a bullet sliced into his leg and struck the kneecap. He landed on his back and fingers slid along the floor, trying to find purchase as he pushed through the pain and got up again, half limping and half dragging himself once more towards the man blocking his way.
"Make sure he doesn't follow, but leave him alive." John heard Moriarty say.
The man with the gun obliged and fired again, the new bullet slamming into the other leg and embedding itself into the thick meat of his thigh. When John passed out again, he did not wake until they were gone.
When his eyes next opened, he could tell the passage of time by the much larger pool of blood surrounding him on the floor. He could still feel his arms and legs but they were cold. Trying to sit up, he found he was once again not alone as a man in a hotel uniform put a supportive hand on his back and while another pressed a cool cloth to his face.
"My son, they took my son." John said urgently, tossing the cloth on the floor.
"Ruhig bleiben. Es gibt einen arzt auf dem weg." said the one helping him sit up.
"No, my son. I've got to go after them."
The closer man looked helplessly at the other one who shrugged and asked, "Sprechen sie deutsch?"
"No, no Deutsch. English?" Where was the clerk from last night, he had spoken English.
They shook their heads and spoke to him with more words he couldn't understand as they pushed him gently back down to the floor and resumed mopping his brow. One took his hand and patted it, trying to be reassuring.
"My son..." John said weakly as he struggled to stay awake, remain conscious. Trying to sit up had given him a good assessment of his body. The stain on the floor was spread three feet around him and his night pants were a wet soaked red except where they had torn curtains and tried to stop the worst of the bleeding. John wasn't going to be able to chase Moriarty, even if he knew where he went and John didn't have the slightest clue. He had come like a thief in the night and now Jamie was gone.
"He took my son."