This is the point where I apologise profusely for my long, long absence. But I really, truly am sorry and the only excuse I can give you is that this is one of the most important of two years of all my schooling, considering I want to get into medicine.
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Still not good enough huh? Well here's a chapter! *runs away from angry readers*
CHAPTER 36
Inner Melbourne
VIC
Australia
Between John coming back from the dead and the invitation to what Moriarty called 'The final showdown' in his hand, Sherlock really did not know what to do – smile or frown. Sometimes human emotions were a little too much for him to manage.
The messenger had come up to John's room, when everything was quiet and Sherlock himself was drifting off to sleep. The teenage boy looked like he hadn't eaten in about a week or showered in a month and Sherlock slipped him a fifty dollar note and told him to run like hell after accepting the white envelope on which his name was written.
The message had been simple.
Dear Sherlock,
Now that John is dead, you no doubt are grieving at his deathbed.
Forget him. Join me.
Please come to 121 Belleview Avenue, Brighton. I'll be waiting
X
Sherlock had stared at the note for a while before coming to his decision. He was going, and he was going to finish this stupid game. The metal of the Army issue Beretta was cold against his back, despite the fact that he knew that it was warm from the contact with his skin, tucked in his waistband as he walked down the street, the heels of his shoes clicking softly on the cement footpath. The dark suit he wore seemed to absorb light as he walked, the cool summer night wind rustling the leaves in the trees above him and disturbing the quiet, empty street of inner city Melbourne. The Victorian style houses rose up on either side of him, the expensive new facades contrasting to the old settler's houses that sat next to them, expensive cars glinting in the yellow light from the street lamps scattered around.
It had taken Sherlock barely twenty minutes to arrive, pleased to find that the roads were very empty this late. He stared at the tall wrought iron gates of the mansion he stood in front of, and was not surprised at all that as he stood there for a minute, the light under the security camera clicked red and the gates silently slid open without him having to do anything. Sherlock waited until they were fully open before making his way inside them, wondering briefly is this was the smartest thing he had ever done. Still, now was not the time for second-guessing himself.
Gravel crunched underfoot as he walked up the twisting driveway and the lights on either side lit the underside of the old trees, casting ghostly shadows onto Sherlock as he walked, slowly towards the house, while there seemed to fall a stillness on the front lawns
The front doors were wide open and the detective did not pause in the cold shadows surrounding the house. He walked straight into the lit entrance hall and only stopped when his eyes adjusted and fell onto Moriarty, wearing a black diesel hoodie and dark Armani jeans, lips curved into a smile.
"Sherlock," he said, as the doors automatically swung closed behind Sherlock,
"Jim," The detective answered, somehow keeping his voice cool,
"Always overdressed, aren't we?" Jim asked and Sherlock chuckled,
"Don't think so," he said, tilting his head to the side, and in a flash he had the gun out and pointed at Jim, "Rather good for a funeral," the psychopath smiled and tilted his head,
"Oh Sherly," he said, the lilt soft and warm, but the glint in his eyes the exact opposite, "That would be playing fair," Sherlock could have rolled his eyes as a hand grabbed him and dragged him backwards, smothering him, with what the detective thought was getting a bit old – chloroform – as he lost consciousness.
The Royal Prince Alfred Hospital
Melbourne
VIC
Australia
Lestrade walked into the hospital room, knowing that there was little chance Sherlock or John would be awake, but wanting to be there for them anyway. He had gone back to the hotel to change and rest for a little while, and when the nurses tried to get rid of him, he flashed his badge and they, disgruntled, left him.
For a minute, the DI had to stop in the doorway, to see John resting peacefully, the only machine he needed now being the monitor.
Thankyou God was the first thought into his mind and he didn't even think he believed in God anymore. He shook his head and then realised that something felt different. Like something was missing and then it hit him – where was Sherlock? Lestrade glanced around the room as if the detective would be hiding in the shadows somewhere.
"Well, this is interesting," Lestrade moved further into the room and walked to the other side, to the chair Sherlock had claimed as his own for the past day now, "Sherlock's not here," Lestrade said to John as he sat down, half expecting an irate detective to run in and drag him out bodily.
Not really sure why, Lestrade reached out and took John's hand, "We were worried, mate," he said and brown eyes fluttered open to the sound of his voice.
The smile on the DI's face was enough to make John smile back, despite the fact it hurt. Everything hurt, now he came to think about it.
The doctor tried to speak but found he couldn't and Lestrade shook his head,
"Don't talk, you'll strain yourself," and John managed to raise an eyebrow while Lestrade chuckled, "At least let me give you some water?" he asked, and John nodded.
The DI got up and reached for the jug, pouring a jug of water for the doctor. "Not so much fun being the patient, is it?" he asked raising the bed, and trying not to find the look John was giving him cute, of all the bloody things.
As soon as the doctor was in a relatively sitting position, no doubt in pain, judging by the rapid breaths and the breathing through his mouth, Lestrade walked up so he could rest a hand on the doctor's arm, "Are you sure you're alright to be sitting up?" he asked, trusting that as a doctor could diagnose himself.
John locked eyes with Lestrade and titled his head to the side, as if saying, Of course. Lestrade held the glass to the Doctor's lips and slowly titled it. The doctor drank greedily but Lestrade knew enough not to let him have the whole glass,
"Later," he said,
'Cheers," John managed and Lestrade grinned,
"How are you managing any of this?" he asked, staring at the doctor in wonder, "you shouldn't even…" he faded off as the realisation hit and John realised he was right,
"Be alive?' he croaked, his voice hoarse, and his throat sore. Lestrade sitting back down, resting his hands on the railing,
"Yeah," he agreed and John went to shrug before he remembered it would really hurt and stopped himself.
"Defying odds," he said, looking up to the clean white ceiling moving his head slowly because his neck hurt too, 'That's what I do," he looked back to Lestrade who, not that he'd admit it, had tears in his eyes. John's face softened, and he would have reached up and wiped them away, but as he had already figured, it would hurt.
"That's why we love you," he said and John cracked a grin, the wrinkles below his eyes more prominent, the shadows that haunted him all the more obvious and Lestrade wondered how much more the soldier could take,
"John," he started but the doctor shook his head,
"I don't want to know how much you were going to miss me, or what could have happened," he said, wincing as his voice cracked on the last syllable. Lestrade put the glass to his lips again and John accepted, even though he hated feeling so dependant.
"Good," the DI swallowed, "because I was going to ask you if you would like me to go and find Sherlock," John smiled again, but didn't get to reply,
"Impossible, Detective," The doctor's head snapped around too fast for his abused body and he let out groan, drawing Lestrade's attention back from the Mycroft, standing in the door and back to the sick doctor,
"John?" the surgeon kept his eyes closed as pain raced through his body, like fire and ice all at the same time. Lestrade shot Mycroft a dirty glare for his sudden appearance,
"What do you mean?" the doctor gasped out, trying to forget about how much everything hurt. This isn't fair,
"I mean he's gone after Moriarty," Lestrade's focus snapped back onto Mycroft, who, if the DI was being honest, looked years older as he stood there, a fatigued expression on his face, his gaze on Lestrade.
John forced himself to open his eyes and bite the pain down, "What?" he asked, brown eyes filled with worry,
"He received a message from a teenage boy, who then ran out of here like it was on fire. He then kissed you," he nodded to John who even now, despite the fact that he really should be beyond caring, blushed, "and left with the gun that was in that top drawer," Mycroft pointed towards it with his umbrella.
Lestrade found himself wondering if Mycroft ever got caught in a thunderstorm, before he remembered their situation.
"He wouldn't be stupid enough to walk into a trap,"
"My brother is very stupid," Mycroft took his hat off and play with the brim and Lestrade was struck, suddenly, by an overwhelming urge to hug the elder Holmes, but refrained for obvious reasons.
"So…" Lestrade looked back to John, 'Are you just going to stand there?" he asked and Mycroft shook his head,
"Of course not," he walked around to the other side of the bed, "I' m just going to sit here," and he promptly took what John was now calling 'Sherlock's chair' while Lestrade gaped at him, wondering why he was still surprised Mycroft didn't have a heart.
I know. It still doesn't make up for the long break. I did give Fanfiction up for lent (pure torture) so that's another reason!
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Still not impressed? I'll try to make it up, promise!
But thankyou for sticking with me and being patient :)
Love you!
Aza
xx