Author's Note: Please make sure your life vests are properly fastened as we head into rougher waters. (Are we in a raft for this metaphor? A canoe? Good lord, I'll think of a better one next time.)
Sherlock turned back to look at the door he had just come through. He was neither gratified nor surprised to see a sniper, gun drawn and ready, now filling the opening.
Found it, Sherlock thought wryly as he lifted his hands, walking toward Moran and the others. There was a loud hum of an industrial sized air conditioner: climate control for optimal drug storage. It echoed through the space.
He recognised Moran from the search he'd done. One of England's leading psychologists, exclusive therapy clinic, patient roster blocked. The waiting list was a year long to get a timeslot to see him, and the fee was astronomical.
He was older than Moriarty, closer to forty, sharp suit: Hugo Boss if Sherlock was not mistaken (he was never mistaken about suits). As Sherlock walked closer the deductions about his new opponent scrolled through his head.
Thick, course hair combed back, silvering dark brown: bold confidence excludes the need for hair dye. Successful military career. Ex-colonel. Married. New mistress approximately every four months. Cunning: deep understanding of human behaviour translates to great skill in manipulation. The dangerous kind of amoral. Certainly on the psychopathy scale. Regular brandy drinker and cards player reveals old-fashioned conservatism. Compulsively organised. Dangerously competitive. Devoutly materialistic.
Moriarty's ideal employee. Moran had evidently proven himself worthy of controlling England's drug trade in the master's absence.
The psychologist's light blue eyes told Sherlock he was quite surprised to see him, although not entirely displeased. Two lackeys flanked him on either side. They were younger, just in their mid-twenties, wearing suits that were smart but not designer: smaller fish, lower on Moriarty's ladder. The two of them had a very similar look, though Sherlock observed they were not brothers (the distribution of dominant and recessive traits made the possibility very unlikely).
They were there with Moran to buy, Sherlock deduced, reading the situation. The two men standing opposite were closer to Moran's age, one with light grey hair and the other with a brown beard and moustache. They were there to sell. There was more information, the standard stream of data accompanying all people (Russian, grey hair studied in France, brown beard had a dentist appointment yesterday—) but Sherlock did his best to ignore it. He needed to focus on Moran. Excess information would only serve to distract.
"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock said, reaching out his hand. "Pleasure to meet you."
"Sherlock Holmes"—Moran shook his hand; firm grip, powerful negotiator—"I've heard so much about you."
"Only psychotic ravings, I'm sure," Sherlock said with a smile.
Moran grinned like ice. "Search him."
His lackeys pulled out the bolt cutters but found nothing else of consequence.
"What's this?" the grey-haired man asked. His gaze was bold but the shift of his weight communicated his nervousness. "The agreement was for the five of us, no one else."
"I believe Mr. Holmes is just as surprised to see us as we are to see him," Moran explained placidly.
"I don't have to be surprised," Sherlock objected. If he was going to be outnumbered he could at least be insolent about it.
"Yes, I'm sure you planned to walk in on our meeting without backup and unarmed."
Sherlock cleared his throat. "It wouldn't be one of my better plans, no."
He had only meant to be doing reconnaissance work tonight. He knew drugs were being stored for mass distribution. The plan had been to find the supply and connect it back through Moran by piecing together an information trail. The plan had not, admittedly, been to find Moran simply standingin the middle of it. The encounter went entirely against the balance of probability. His timing was decidedly off tonight.
Moran looked toward Russians. "My apologies for the interruption. I assure you it will be dealt with appropriately."
"I don't like this," the bearded man said in Russian.
"There's nothing we can do now. The money is due tomorrow. We have to go through with it," the grey-haired man replied, also in Russian.
Sherlock wondered if Moran spoke Russian. From his lack of attention he didn't seem to. He was whispering something to the lackey on his left, who stepped behind Sherlock and snapped his wrists into handcuffs.
"Have a seat, Mr. Holmes," Moran said lightly, as though they were standing in the waiting room of his clinic. "I'll be with you in a moment."
The men disappeared through one of the various doors leading off of the warehouse's main space, and the lackey who remained behind brought over a chair. Sherlock knew there was no use trying to fight. The sniper at the door was still in position, and when he looked up he could just see the outline of two more snipers in the shadows of the rafters. He wondered if the Russians had noticed them. They probably hadn't. People never notice anything.
Carl Reeves—formerly an assassin, currently dead thanks to one John Watson—had been hired, presumably by Moran, to eliminate a "prominent drug dealer," as Mycroft had put it when he'd texted him the assassin's picture. If Sherlock was correct in putting the pieces together, then his might not be the only murder on the evening's agenda.
"What's your name then?" Sherlock asked his new guard.
"John," he said. "John Watson."
Sherlock kept his face blank, but his eyes burned through the man in front of him.
"Moran told you to say that." God, he was dealing with a psychologist. He hated psychologists.
The lackey shrugged. "It could be my name. It's a very ordinary name."
He smirked and Sherlock glared at him. He was English, born and raised in London judging by his accent, tall with thin, pale features, and a pointed nose. Like the other lackey who had followed Moran, there was a public school air about his look and affect. Sherlock would know.
"How about Tweedledum? It suits you better." Sherlock hadn't deleted everything from his childhood.
The boy forced him roughly down into the chair and used a zip-tie to lock the handcuffs to the back of it. He stepped back when he was finished.
"You forgot my legs," Sherlock was courteous enough to point out.
He shrugged. "If you stand up, they'll shoot you."
There was a pause and the rattle and hum of the air conditioner echoed through the large space.
"So, Tweedledum, it seems we've got some time to kill. Why don't you tell me about Moriarty? His message made it sound like he had some sort of diabolical scheme prepared. But it's been ages! What's taking so long?"
Silence.
Sherlock frowned. "Unless we all missed it. Perhaps there was something more important on the news that day. New photoset of the royal babies or something. That would be embarrassing."
Silence.
"Come on, what's he up to? Don't they tell you these things? Or is 'lackey' status not high enough for any real information?"
Silence.
It was a shame Tweedledum had already aligned himself with Moran. Sherlock rather liked his conversational skills.
Sherlock's phone was in his pocket. There was no chance of being able to get to it while his hands were bound behind the back of the chair. No possibility to contact John. Well, he said he would finish this case alone, and now it looked like he really was going to. They had enough evidence to arrest Moran for Karina's death. The drugs would have been a nice bonus, but barring any deus ex machina level intervention, they were complete the trade tonight and get away with it.
Perhaps Lestrade would be able to trace the drug deal back through Sherlock's murder. He very much doubted it. Moran would clean up his tracks well. Like the other poison-deaths they had been investigating, his murder would be staged to look like something else. They would arrange it to look like a junkie shot him while he was trespassing through boarded up warehouses. Lestrade wouldn't be bright enough to figure it out. And John…
"Is this the end of the road?" John had asked last night.
No, John, this is the end of the road. Here. Now.
He had always known he would die on a case. He'd been prepared for it, waited for it for a long time. One wrong step. He knew that was all it would take, to be just once in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was too easy. He should have been dead already, but John had always interfered.
Well, this time John wasn't here. The doctor was safe, miles away at some goldfish party.
Sherlock felt a constriction in his chest. Perhaps he was not as indifferent to his own death as he had once been. John had changed that. John had given him something to look forward to besides the oblivion of drugs when the cases were solved. John had given him a reason to live entirely apart from The Work.
It was cold. The air conditioner was loud.
John.
I didn't know, Sherlock silently apologised to his flatmate, doctor, soldier. It wasn't suicide; it was bad timing. He'd been rash about checking the locations. If he'd known the drug deal was happening tonight—now—he would have made a plan. He would have involved John. Danger wasn't nearly as enjoyable without John. And dying wouldn't be any fun at all if it meant leaving him again—if it meant he couldn't say goodbye.
A door creaked and the four men walked back into the main space. Sherlock watched as Moran and Tweedledee shook hands with the two Russians, and then as the snipers in the rafters shot both of the Russians through the backs of their heads.
The Englishmen stepped lightly over the bodies as they approached Sherlock.
"My apologies for the mess," Moran said. "I'm afraid they reneged on our previous contract and, well, you know, business is business."
"I wanted to give you my compliments on your poison." Sherlock tilted his head back to meet Moran's pale eyes. "The one you used on Rodgers, Parker and Riley. I've never seen anything like it."
Moran looked pleased. "Thank you. It's a fine compliment coming from an accomplished chemist such as yourself. Chemistry is a hobby of mine; I might have gone into the field, but psychology has always had my heart."
"Tell me about Moriarty."
"Delightful chap"—Moran took a thin black box out of his jacket pocket—"Genius man."
"Is or was?"
"Ah, the million dollar question." Moran opened the case and Sherlock saw the glint of a syringe.
"Aren't you going to answer it?"
"I thought you were there. On the roof that day."
"I was there. He blew his brains out the back of his head."
"And you're asking me what then? To tell you a ghost story? Really, Mr. Holmes, I could have sworn someone told me you were clever."
"Just because he's dead doesn't mean he won't make the next move."
Moran gave him a small smile. "Quite true, quite true."
Tweedledee held up a vial of liquid and Moran carefully filled the syringe. Tweedledum ripped open Sherlock's shirt.
Sherlock looked down at the torn shirt. "Was that necessary?"
"Loads of evil to do," Tweedledee said.
"No time for buttons," Tweedledum said.
Sherlock could not believe he was going to die surrounded by these guys. On the other hand, if he had to guess who Moriarty would choose to be part of his London gang… Insanity loves company.
"You could at least tell me what he has planned," Sherlock grumbled. "The hero is entitled to a revelation of all the secret plots before he dies. Hollywood says so."
Tweedledum was tapping Sherlock's chest here and there, looking for a good vein.
"Fancy yourself a hero, Mr. Holmes?" Moran asked.
"I suppose it's a rather dismal sign of the times if anyone wants to call me that. But I don't strap people to chairs and stick them with syringes."
"Ah, but that's not out of any moral feeling, is it." Moran's voice was soft. It wasn't a question. "You would do all that and more for a case, wouldn't you. Even kill a man. Shoot him right through the head." Moran raised two fingers to his forehead, mimicking the shot.
Sherlock held his gaze. "I'm not a hero."
"No, no, of course not"—Moran handed the syringe to Tweedledum—"You can't be."
Sherlock held himself defiantly still as the syringe was pushed into the vein just below his collar bone.
Moran leaned in closer. "Because the hero, Mr. Holmes, is not supposed to die."
John sat in the back of the cab, rocking back and forth, doing his best not to jump out of his skin. It was the longest cab ride he'd taken since the last time Sherlock pushed him away and he'd had to get a cab back to him. Alone is what I have, alone protects me.
"Could you please go faster?" John asked for the second time.
"I can go as fast as the traffic goes." The driver's tone was dripping with condescension. He glanced in the rear-view mirror, taking in John's uniform. "What are you, late for the war?"
"Yeah," John bit back, "I told them to go ahead and start without me."
John glared out the window, half considering whether it wouldn't be faster to get out and run.
It was ridiculous. The fear was nameless. There was no concrete reason to believe Sherlock was in any danger at all. It was only the memory. If Sherlock had pushed him away, told him to go to his party, there was a good reason for it. Of course by 'good' reason John meant 'very, very bad, underhanded, idiotic plan to get into loads of trouble' reason.
John breathed. Billy said Sherlock was looking for drugs. It didn't necessarily mean he was looking for drugs to get high, he reminded himself forcefully. It could be related to the case. Moran was involved in drug dealing. He could be investigating the drug ring connected to Moran. But then why did he lie?
"Look, can't you just—"
"What?" the driver snapped. "Can't I just what? Use my mental bloody superpowers to clear the streets?"
"Forget it." John gritted his teeth.
"Jesus, you people are all the same. You have an emergency and suddenly London traffic is my fault. Your bad time management is not my problem, you know."
This was not a good time. "Hey, just shut up."
"Oh, all right, now you've done it. I was going to push the button that turns this cab into a hovercraft but now you can forget it."
John rubbed his hands over his face. Of all the goddamn cab drivers to get tonight. This guy had better hope Sherlock was alive. John did not have the best track record with cabbies.
Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath as he felt the liquid burn through his veins.
"It's heroin," he gasped, acutely familiar with the sensation. "That's more than I'd normally take but unless you've laced it with something it's not enough to kill me."
Moran shook his head. "You misunderstand. I wouldn't kill you by overdose; far too messy. This is a sample of our product for you, on the house. I know what a connoisseur you are, and I believe we have a particularly fine supply this season."
It was good. Sherlock could feel the quality of it, nerves singing out in pleasure as the drug swept waves of numbing bliss throughout his body. Actually, if he had to die, he supposed dying high would be significantly preferable to dying sober. Perhaps he should thank them.
Tweedledee fetched another chair and Moran sat down in front of Sherlock.
"So," Moran continued, "while we wait for that to fully kick in perhaps I can explain my dilemma to you."
"Explain away," Sherlock said, trying not to enjoy the rush too much. "I've got the rest of my life to listen."
Moran's eyes roved across Sherlock's face. "You are an intriguing specimen. I would love to get you in my office for an hour—pick your brain…" He trailed off for a moment with an entranced expression.
"Your relationship with John Watson"—Sherlock's eyes snapped to Moran's—"now that is fascinating, is it not? You, the man who defies all categories—even inventing your own profession to avoid being labelled anything ordinary—you find yourself irresistibly attracted to the system you reject. What's more categorised, labelled, more controlled than a soldier?"
Sherlock's gaze hardened even as he felt his muscles melting soft.
"You like John's uniforms, don't you?" Moran's eyes gleamed. "You like that he's a doctor. You're as impressed by the white coat as you are by the camouflage. You admire John because he succeeded in the system where you never could. Uniforms, honorary signs of achievement, belonging—he belongs where you never did. You survive only by operating outside of it." His voice softened. "It would have killed you. But you've always been attracted to things that would kill you, haven't you. Your self-destructive addictions."
"Genius, Boss," Tweedledee said.
"Inspired, Boss," Tweedledum said.
"You're a self-satisfied moron, Boss," Sherlock said.
Moran waved his hand dismissively. "Thank you, thank you."
Psychology, Sherlock groaned internally. He was certain this was the only way he would ever spend time listening to a psychologist: drugged and handcuffed to a chair.
More than a little irked, Sherlock reminded him, "Unless the problem was whether to prattle prosaically or babble senselessly, I didn't hear a dilemma in any of that."
"Oh, yes! My dilemma. Well, the thing is, you're early Mr. Holmes. I had a much better surprise planned for you, but it's not ready yet. This little chance encounter has rather thrown a wrench in the whole thing."
"Trust me when I say I'm just as disappointed about it as you are." It was a strange sensation, to be physically so relaxed while mentally knowing death was imminent.
"You see, if we kill you tonight you'll miss out on the whole surprise."
"We put a lot of effort into it," Tweedledum added.
"We worked everything out so nicely," Tweedledee pouted.
"Yes, it will be quite upsetting if you miss it," Moran agreed. "But, on the other hand, the end goal is to kill you, of course. We have strict orders about that."
"We promised," Tweedledum nodded.
"Oaths, you know," Tweedledee said.
"Orders from Moriarty?" Sherlock asked, noting grimly that his words were beginning to slur.
"Yes, of course," Moran replied.
"People tend to find giving orders difficult after they die." His eyelids were heavy. He fought to keep them open.
"You've accomplished a great many things since you died." Moran's pointed out. "But as I was saying, I think you'll agree that for the sake of practicality it would be much more expedient to kill you now, while we have you here."
"It does seem to be convenient," Sherlock had to admit, vision blurring at the edges as he took in the snipers along with his current predicament.
"But boring," Tweedledee objected.
"Unsatisfyingly unpoetic," Tweedledum agreed.
Sherlock hung his head. If he thought poetry was a fate worse than death, then a poetic death must be unthinkable. His thoughts were clouding. He was losing clarity. It was with considerable effort that he raised his head up again.
"You could tell me more of your psychology," Sherlock offered. "I'm sure I won't last long."
Moran chose to ignore him. "Moriarty liked stories. He liked drama. He liked you too, you know. He had a very specific plan for you. We don't want him to be displeased."
Sherlock tried to summon the strength to be annoyed. He couldn't feel the metal of the handcuffs on his wrists anymore. He couldn't feel the chair beneath him anymore.
"Ok," Moran said, standing up. "Here's my decision. We'll let fate decide. We know you have a penchant for miraculous escapes, so we'll see if you can pull one out of your hat tonight."
"No hat," Sherlock muttered.
"The hat is metaphorical," Tweedledum explained.
"You need a metaphorical hat," Tweedledee advised.
"Thank you."
Sherlock could see why Moriarty liked them. The consulting criminal had always been living in some nightmarish version of Wonderland. An obsession with fairy tales—his twisted mind.
Moran walked out of the building and returned a moment later accompanied by what looked like a bodybuilder.
"Here's the deal, Mr. Holmes. I'm a very busy man. Loads of evil to do." He winked at Sherlock. "I'm going to take my associates and my snipers now. But I will leave you with one of my bodyguards here."
Sherlock looked up at the man. "Pleased to make your acquaintance," he slurred, trying to blink his vision clear.
The bodyguard crossed his arms over his chest, flexing his muscles.
"He has been instructed to kill you," Moran explained. "You may fight to determine your own fate—for tonight at least."
"The odds on the outcome seem to be skewed to one side," Sherlock felt the need to point out.
"We'll cut you loose," Moran assured him. "It'll be a fair fight. No weapons."
"He'll need three times the dose of heroin you gave me." It was a rough estimate, but Sherlock could size people pretty well.
Moran laughed. "We're hoping you'll live to get our surprise. But don't worry if you don't. It's a win-win situation for us. Good luck, Mr. Holmes."
He swept out.
In a matter of seconds his handcuffs were opened, several unseen doors clanged shut, and suddenly he was alone with the bodyguard, who was standing between him and the door he'd originally come through.
There were multiple other doors in the building but he wagered they would be locked. Also, he was not optimistic about his ability to outrun anybody in his current state. Running wasn't an option; fighting didn't seem to be one either. His muscles were practically useless at this point. He briefly wondered if he should just allow the man to kill him and save some dignity in the process. But he supposed John would never forgive him for that.
His only choice then was to duck the man—get around him fast enough to get to the door. The road wasn't far off; there was a slim chance he could make it, flag down a car... Sherlock scoffed inwardly. Even considering this possibility seemed stupidly optimistic, pathetically naïve.
He didn't even have a second to reach for his phone (to text John and Mycroft his coordinates) before the man lunged at him. Sherlock ducked, twisting at the same time to switch their positions. The bodyguard grabbed his collar and he bonelessly shrugged off his coat. It gave him just enough time. He reached the door, throwing himself against it. It opened an inch and then jammed against a chain. Someone had fastened a new chain on the door. Perhaps Moran wasn't as enthusiastic about him living to see his surprise after all.
The bodyguard was on him in an instant, knocking him down flat on his back, heavy hands at his throat. The drug in his system didn't allow Sherlock to make any kind of effective resistance. He struggled weakly.
He had spent a significant amount of time musing about the way he would finally be killed. Gun shot was the most likely. And it had nearly happened that way, thanks to Mary Morstan. Poison would be fitting, considering it was his passion. But strangulation? Sherlock supposed he would have to take it.
He felt his airway cut off. He had roughly fifteen seconds left of consciousness. Two minutes until death. He wouldn't have minded nearly so much if it wasn't for that persistent problem of desperately wanting to continue to live a life that had John in it.
John.
John, I miss you.
John.
John, I'm sorry.
