Map


Trainers were very much appreciated.

It was difficult enough roaming the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night handcuffed behind her back in nothing but underwear with bruises and blood littering her body. At least with trainers she could run.

Lucky enough for her, the first people she ran into were a group of young uni girls out on a night of celebration. They rushed her to the nearest hospital, staying with her until the nurses shooed them all back home. John owed them all a drink.

Thinking of drinks just made her want one of her own. The doctors were forcing her to stay for the rest of the night or until someone picked her up. Everyone on her ICE list had been contacted which meant she could only wait.

Tim was her main concern. She had to trust someone on their team, Lestrade or whoever was available, was on their way to picking him up. Moriarty seemed not to care about him. That was as good as she could ask for.

The kidnapping was old news. Nothing she couldn't process. But Moriarty always added a special flair to hers. She knew. Moriarty knew that she and Sherlock had… fuck.

No, not fuck. But… bloody hell.

Was there a sign over John's lips? Now open to women? Why the hell was this happening?

Best to sleep it off.

The next person John woke up to was a looming figure hovering in the corner of the room. "I recieved your text."

John sucked in a breath and grunted. "Were you able to track the phone?"

"Yes." Mycroft entered the room fully and pulled up a chair beside the bed. "I did assume that was why you texted me and not Sherlock."

John groaned. "Please tell me you didn't rub her nose in it."

Moriarty sniffed, which meant he most definitely had. "Sherlock has all the pieces to her map."

John squinted her eyes at the ceiling, sussing out what what she remembered of the billiards table. Obviously it was a map. The piece missing was the painting. Of course. God, she could hit herself, but she did not need any more marks.

"Is that where she is then?" John asked, ignoring the tinge of disappointment she felt creeping up her throat.

"She knows of your condition and wishes you her sincerest regards," Mycroft deadpanned.

John snorted. That meant Mycroft told her, she probably hummed, and then immediately dove her nose back into her puzzle. John expected nothing less.

"Are you here for my debriefing then?"

Mycroft adjusted his umbrella and shook his head sharply. "That will not be necessary. My team has located the mansion at which you were held. It was owned by Richard Speal, drug mogul. Found deceased. His wife is safe in their summer home in Italy. His lover, the housemaid Jessica, was found alive, though badly shaken. Moriarty vacated the premises before our arrival."

John clenched her fist and glared at the ceiling. "What about Tim?"

"Timothy Miller, I presume?" Mycroft asked rhetorically. "I'm afraid she relocated him as well. It is beneficial to know he is alive."

Beneficial. Yeah. Great. Words like that meant Mycroft had a new pawn to play with.

"I'm guessing you already know his mother is alive too." John fumbled for the button to push her bed upright so she could sit properly.

"Indeed," Mycroft nodded.

John sighed out loud. There was a headache pounding its way down her neck. "Can you hand me my-"

Mycroft was already holding out her chart, that smug smile directly in place.

John took it with a grunt. Concussion was not surprising. She had the bruising she expected, though she felt it in a few more places than she would have liked. They gave her stitches after pulling the chunks of glass out of her and those all seemed to be holding well. She only jumped from the first story, so she had not broken anything, though there was a bit of swelling around her ankle. At least it was not sprained.

"So." She read back over her blood pressure with a frown. "You don't need the debrief and you already know about Tim. Why are you here?"

Mycroft leaned back in his seat as much as he would allow himself without wrinkling his pristine suit. His Holmes eyes darted up and down her body and no doubt glanced at her chart as well. "Joan, it may surprise you to know, but you are a friend of the family. I take that responsibility very seriously."

John glanced at him from the corner of her eyes. Friend of the family? Did London have a mafia? Could it be possible that Mycroft had a side job as kingpin? Or would that be something from his juvenile days? Did he ever have juvenile days?

"Thanks," she muttered.

"Besides. What would Sherlock do without her minder?"

There it was. Making sure John was back on her feet as soon as possible so she could babysit her charge seemed much more Mycroft than simply checking in.

"Can I assume you have something specific in mind?" John asked.

"All in due time," he replied brusquely. "If we are done, your clothes are on the counter and I will be sure your paperwork is processed within the quarter hour. There will be a car to take you back to Baker Street waiting."

"Ta," John replied but Mycroft was already exiting the room.

It was time to get home and get to work on the map before Moriarty found a way to get the last piece.


Mrs. Hudson fretted over John the minute she walked in the door. Immediately there was a piece of pound cake and hot tea ready for her. John protested the polite amount but was glad to hear Mrs. Hudson was going to bringing her up a bowl of hot soup. She was absolutely starving.

The flat was empty.

The weight of disappointment that niggled at Mycroft's appearance sank heavy on her shoulders. Before going for the jog that included a two day holiday to hell she could remember quite clearly wishing she would not have to see Sherlock for a very long time. Now, it felt wrong to come home to her absence.

Moriarty kidnapped her and did some fucked up things. John escaped. It was all in a day's work. Yes, there was the added layer of playing pooch, but Moriarty was a madwoman. It was nothing like what she and Sherlock did. It was violating and demeaning.

When Sherlock told her what to do, commanded her with that hidden smirk or eyes filled with awe, it was out of trust and companionship. There was a give and take on both ends. It was trusting and fun.

After what happened between them though, would Sherlock ever want to do it again? They had crossed the line that they had drawn in the sand. They stomped it into nothing with open mouths, grabbing hands, and grinding bodies.

It should not have shocked John so much. After all, she did plenty of screwed up things with Sherlock and got off on it. Sometimes literally. She was fucked up and she knew that.

But this was something normal. Kissing and grinding and feeling pleasure. It was what normal people did. Normal people in relationships.

How the fuck was John supposed to feel about doing that with a girl? John was straight as an arrow. Kinsey scale 0. Having that kind of relationship with a girl was unheard of. Out of the question.

But it was Sherlock. Even normal was abnormal with Sherlock.

John stared at the contacts on her phone. Harry did not come to the hospital because she was no longer John's emergency contact. If she called about this now, what would Harry even say? She would be a cunt about it. There was no getting around that. Then she would tell John something about fluid sexuality. She would say that if John was happy with Sherlock, who the fuck cared if she was a woman? Harry would be a cock about the phrasing though.

The abandoned chess game was still on the floor, the pieces scattered through the room as if someone had kicked them. The scotch was on its side next to the glass Sherlock had emptied. Sherlock's dress was in a heap on her chair.

A part of John wondered if she should wait for Sherlock to come home and tell her to clean it up. The choker was gone, blood soaked and with her other clothes left behind at Moriarty's mansion, but she had the lace one. It still reminded her of Martin but it would work. Sherlock would think of a good reward and they could move forward with their arrangement and past all of the awkwardness.

Maybe Sherlock did not want that though. Maybe that was why she had not visited and she was not home now. Maybe she wanted to avoid ever getting close to doing something like that again.

John started to pick up the chess pieces one by one, careful not to pull her stitches. She moved on from room to room, removing candles and ropes from sight, putting away vibrating knickers and cleaning supplies.

If Sherlock wanted to continue, there would be other things to do. Sherlock would just need to say.

Otherwise, John would never bring it up again.

They could move on from this.

"Oh, you shouldn't be doing that!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed when she saw John stacking up all the case paperwork, a big bowl of steaming chicken noodle in her hands.

"Where's Sherlock?" John asked.

"Oh, you know her, dear." Mrs. Hudson chuckled to herself as she rifled through the spoons in the sink and washed one off. "Can never stay still, that one. Always flapping her wings in a new direction."

"Hmmm," John agreed and tucked into her soup.

"You ladies and your cleaning. Did you never listen to your mothers? This is completely unsanitary." She shook her head and tutted, already diving under the sink for gloves and soap. "I swear, the two of you. I don't know how you're not sick all the time with this mold."

"Oh, you don't have to do those."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head and started in on the pan with crusted on stir fry. "Just this once. I'm not your housekeeper."

John promptly shut her mouth.

"Did Sherlock not tell you where she was going after the hospital?" Mrs. Hudson asked over the sound of running water.

"Which hospital?" John asked.

"Why, yours. She did visit you, didn't she?"

John shook her head.

Mrs. Hudson frowned. "That's where she told me she was off too. Oh, I hate to think she wouldn't visit you in hospital. Maybe you were sleeping."

John stared at a piece of carrot floating at the corner of the bowl and shoved it down with her spoon. "Maybe."

"I'm sure she was there. I'll give her a right talking to when she gets back. She shouldn't leave you wondering like this when you're fresh from a head wound." Mrs. Hudson tutted and sighed. "That girl."

John pulled out her phone and sent a text.

I'm home. Where are you? - JW

There. It was direct and to the point. Sherlock would answer.

Then the hours ticked by and John became less confident.

If anything was wrong, Mycroft would tell her. Sherlock did this all the time. It did not matter that John had just come from hospital. The worst of her injuries was a concussion and that was child's play. It was basically a very expensive hotel for the night.

After one very long and very hot shower, John collapsed on the sofa. She double checked that the volume on her phone was on loud and gave herself permission to pass out on the couch while letting the telly play old reruns of Keeping up Appearances.

The sound of the door slamming shut had her leaping for the closest book to throw. Sherlock's form blurred in front of her as she ran into her bedroom without a word.

John rubbed at her eyes and dropped the book on the table. All right, not dead. That was good then.

Sherlock reappeared moments later with a large bag over her shoulder. She was running around the room and tearing apart the bookcase looking for something.

"Where have you been?" John eyed the bag wearily. "Where are you going?"

"Airport. I assume you're packed?"

John blinked especially hard. "I'm what now?"

"Do you enjoy wasting your own time?!" Sherlock spun around, barely glancing at her. "The map! We're going to India!"

"We're doing what now?" John asked but was already standing, ready to run upstairs for her pack and bug out bag.

Sherlock huffed. "Did you not even look at the map you were directly in front of?"

"I was a bit busy trying not to die." John ran after Sherlock as she disappeared into the bathroom. "And it wasn't like it had giant Xs on it."

"Coded map with seven pieces." She rifled through the medicine cabinet, throwing in supplies from the first aid kit and chucked the rest on the floor. "You need all seven pieces to finish the pattern, all seven to read only one. With the final piece in place there are multiple potential locations to investigate. Some more probable than others. We need to assume Moriarty found access to the final puzzle piece so we need to hurry and get there before she does."

"Potential locations for what?" John asked following Sherlock into the kitchen as she rifled through the cabinets. "Buried treasure?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock snapped and shoved a handful of burner phones into her bag. "There's no way to know if it's buried."

John smiled but Sherlock was not joking. "How very Indiana Jones."

"What?"

"Nothing." John watched Sherlock stomp back into the living room and freeze, eyes inspecting the newly cleaned floor for the first time. "Why does Moriarty care about buried or not-buried treasure?"

"There is no time! We have a plane to catch and the cab won't wait forever!" Sherlock pounded her way up the stairs and immediately started throwing John's clothes onto the bed.

John ran after her and yelled, "It's not my fault you haven't told me anything."

"Your closet is a disaster." She growled at a sweater stuck on the hanger. "Stupid makes the world go round, but at what cost?"

John hurried to pull out her pack and bag, double checking her passport. "So we're just going to up and leave? Right now?"

"Do you want to come or not?" Sherlock whirled around and glared at John for only a second before her face morphed into something unreadable. She quickly looked away and snapped, "I could leave you here if you would prefer." She dove back down the stairs and charged for the door.

"I was sleeping, how was I-" John chased her down the stairs. "Bloody hell- hang on!" Sherlock froze. "I'll text Sarah about work." John turned her way back up the stairs to grab her charger.

"No time to lose!"

While on their way to the airport, Sherlock finally decided John was worthy enough to get all the relevant information, though she still refused to look at her or tell her where she had been.

"Adela Gunilla," Sherlock started and then paused.

"The painter that died. The daughter to the lesbian who was with the undercover Italian. Elaine Rookshire."

"Precisely," Sherlock nodded. "In her early years of life, Adela used her talents to hide messages in her art. Most notably, and yet least known, she crafted the Sette Pizza de Spazio. Seven separate paintings linked in nothing but name, or so it seemed."

John gestured at Sherlock's phone. "Those are the map pieces?"

"Indeed."

"A map to what?"

"As a woman of the military I expect you to know your history. The Italians changed alliances."

"Right, they switched sides for the second world war. They were no longer on Germany's side."

"But they had something prized above all else. Information. All those secrets. The nooks and crannies."

"So, Italy exploited Germany by… What? Stealing from them?"

"It's not as if they took twenty quid. They took art, gold, silver, women, children. Hid them away in their pockets without the German's noticing."

"So Gunilla made a map to lost Nazi treasure? Oh my god. It is Indiana Jones."

"Amata Massimo was very good at her job. Her partner was not. Hertha was instructed to burn every letter that she received. She left a very important one untouched. Adela used it."

"And that's how she knew where the treasure was? How do you know about the letter?"

"While you were… indisposed, the map you sent Mycroft gave me the head start I needed to connect the clues. From there I found the correct someone from the government office to contact. As it so happens, they did note that one of their museum pieces went missing. Small, insignificant documents from a World War II exhibit. One that upset the donator as he had only donated this item recently, having received it as a part of the will of Adela after her death."

"The letter?"

Sherlock nodded. "Liam was the grandson of Adela and has kicked up quite the storm looking for this letter. When Adela died he inherited the majority of her things, obtaining rightful ownership of the Sette Pizza de Spazio. Adela had broken the set up and only one piece was accessible to him as it resided in the local museum. Liam only wanted what would bring him the greatest amount of money. He kept some items, sold others, and donated few. He made a deal with the museum. He would swap out the painting for all the notes and letters he inherited, as he presumed they would be worthless. He already had a buyer for the painting ready and shipped it off using Gabby Miller. It was only when Moriarty questioned him after her final puzzle piece went missing, and all the documents he recently donated were unaccounted for, he realized the worth of the pieces he had let slip through his fingers."

"Moriarty stole the documents? Why not the painting in the first place?"

"They were in transition. Less secure. Easier to steal."

"I thought Moriarty was in a rush. That's why she used us."

"She was only in a rush because Liam caught on. He has a backup of all of his grandmother's works. It was only a matter of time before he linked the pieces together and attached the meaning of the letter to decode the map. His copy of the letter was mysteriously missing. Hence his demand from the government and law enforcement to find his donations and bring them back. Without all pieces and the map, it is gibberish. With all seven art pieces and the letter, it becomes clear."

Sherlock held up her phone and zoomed in on the enhanced photo John took of the map pieces. The room was dark when she took the photo and there was only so much a computer could do but she could make out the lines and dots that normally made up a map. There were also letters and numbers etched into the sides like a grid on every frame.

Sherlock swiped over to the photo of their small 10 x 10 cm puzzle piece and it looked the same, only more clear. A bit of the abstract colors still bled into the markings.

Another swipe revealed the copy of the letter Sherlock referred to. Hopefully it was only a copy because John could see Sherlock's sloppy writing lining the margins, highlighter marking up the cursive letterings.

Sherlock continued to explain. "No doubt the letter was originally written in their own personal code. Adela adapted a new one with letters and numbers to form the grids."

"I'll bet Liam was glad to hear you took on the case."

"Perhaps. I did not speak with him directly for long. I was… distracted."

John shifted in her seat. "Oh."

"As the painting was analyzed, I searched through the copies of the documentation Liam provided regarding all of his assets obtained from the will. According to the journal of Adela, it was not until after the war that Amata was found out to be a spy. They killed her when they realized."

"Not lung disease then."

"Hertha was left wondering what happened to her dearly departed. But the German police were not inclined to look for her missing Italian girlfriend. The paintings were forgotten in time."

"Why did she never look for it herself? Hertha or Adela?"

"Lack of resources. Or perhaps they foresaw the consequences. War is the perfect climate for crime. Chaos, destruction, death. All ingredients in the perfect cocktail for the underbelly of society. They had seen enough death in their lifetime."

"Right. It would kick up quite the storm now if someone found a large amount of gold and silver without a rightful owner, nowadays."

"Which is why I believe Moriarty is after it."

"She plan on starting World War Three or something?"

"Good for business."

"Not good for survival."

"Not her concern."

"We just have to get there first. Shouldn't be a problem for you, right?"

"A photo of the original is not as reliable. We must assume Moriarty has all of the originals. All but one." She pat her bag. "That gives us a slight advantage. There are seven potential locations. None of which are clear."

"So you're guessing."

"I am deducing probability!"

"All right. Whatever you say."

"Adventure awaits."