Genre: Drama, angst, friendship
Timeset and spoilers: Post-Reichenbach, post-hiatus
Warnings: Spoilers, mentions of drugs, swearing, angst, some violence
My dearest readers,
heartfelt apologies for the delay! My holidays with no access to the internet, incredible busy times at work and my new tablet PC have conspired to keep me from writing.
But be assured that I´ll definitely finish this story. The end is already written, after all!
Here´s your next installment. Have fun, and, as always, I enjoy talking to you.
eohippus
Heartfelt thanks to all my lovely reviewers so far: Impractical Beekeeping, SusanneHolmes, Zacha, hjohn302, Howlynn, papergirl101, Skyfullofstars, Tetriano, Jenna Yemowa, Nos, Erindors, Maddi Paige, ShiverandShamy, Queen Morgan la Fay, Eldar-Melda, Puky2012, House Calls, eight of hearts and bringloid fiodior and to the anonymous ones.
I´m ever so grateful for the help of my betas Impractical Beekeeping and Eyebrows2!
The Flame
"Goodbye, John." Sherlock´s softly spoken words keep buzzing through John´s aggravated mind. Were he not still dizzy from the impact of Sherlock´s right hook on his chin, he would be pacing the floor, livid with rage. As things stand, he can only perch on the sofa´s edge, his knees bouncing with nervous energy, his hands hurting from clutching the ice pack he presses against his bruised jaw in a death grip. How dare his traitor friend punch him and leave him behind, helpless. How dare Sherlock run into his enemy´s arms deliberately on his own.
John clenches his teeth and shakes his head in disbelief. He can´t imagine what Sherlock´s plans concerning Moran are. All the doctor knows is that the colonel wants the detective dead, and that he has set an infallible trap for him. John loathes that he has been left behind. And he fears for the Holmes brother´s lives and Mary´s safety.
A friendly hand lingers on John´s shoulder, and the doctor looks up into Robson´s grey eyes. While he lowers his hand, Irene Adler´s words surface in his memory that John avoided punching Sherlock in the eye or nose due to kindness. No. She used the word "love". Sherlock definitely didn´t aim to hurt the doctor when he hit him, either. John wonders whether Sherlock had wanted to treat him kindly. He wonders, too, whether his friend´s last words were a plea for John´s forgiveness. But all John can think of as an answer is that the spark of trust which has kindled into a tiny flame ever since he and Sherlock started talking to each other again has been doused out. Sherlock is right, John thinks bitterly, sentiment certainly doesn´t contribute well to solving a difficult situation. And in this moment, John is as thoroughly immersed in rage and sorrow as he was shortly after Sherlock jumped from the roof.
John frowns. He feels the grip of Robson´s fingers tighten. The agent runs a hand through his sparse hair, his gaze concerned. "We´ve activated the tracker," he says, and John notices that he is clutching his mobile tightly in his left hand.
"They´ve driven him out of town, to the south," the elder man elaborates. His eyes bore into John´s, his grave expression softening to a tight but friendly smile. "He´s relying on our skills, you know," Robson adds. "Mullen, Cleaver and I have been a team for years. Sherlock used to first curse and later acknowledge the fact that of all his brother´s men only I seemed to possess the skill to find him wherever he was hiding. He called us for a reason, you know. We´ll probably get to him earlier than Moran will."
John nods curtly to show his approval of Robson´s dry humour. But he can´t refrain from correcting the agent´s statement. "There´s only one problem there," he says drily. "It´s not Sherlock who´s hiding from us, it´s Moran."
Robson nods. "Of course." He heaves a sigh and gestures at his men who are hunching over their various devices, their faces lit by computer screens, brows and foreheads wrinkled in concentration. "I´d say we´ve had our share of finding people who don´t want to be found," he remarks, absent-mindedly.
John opens his mouth to answer – he hasn´t intended to affront Robson – but the agent stalls him with another squeeze of his shoulder.
"Just wanted to assure you that he knew exactly what he was getting himself into. The tracker can´t be deactivated easily. In case Moran uses an interfering signal, we can still get close enough to monitor Sherlock´s movements and whereabouts through a body heat sensor the system uses. I quite doubt the web has already been able to nick the most recent military technology."
John flicks a tight smile back at his counterpart. "I doubt that too", he agrees. "What troubles me is the colonel´s tight schedule. And the fact that he might nurture the idea he needs to make absolutely sure he can´t be traced." The doctor presses his hands together, the ice pack biting cold into his fingertips despite the towel it is wrapped in, reminding him that he is alive. Again, he thinks back to how numb he felt without Sherlock´s presence in his life. He dreads losing him again. And he dreads losing Mary. Even Mycroft.
Robson nods knowingly. He seems to be nearly as skilled in thought-reading as the Holmes brothers are.
"I know. We need to be swift," he acknowledges. "There is too much at stake. There´s already a team out there, following the lead. They should be due at our target in –," he looks at his watch, "about thirty minutes." He stops speaking when he notices John´s face, which displays a mix of anger, dread, and determination.
"I should be going with them. I should be out there," the former army doctor presses though clenched teeth, and jumps from his seat, shaking Robson´s hand off. "Jesus, why didn´t you tell me…" He stops suddenly, swaying slightly, a frown creasing his brow, and Robson cocks an eyebrow and takes a step back.
"He texted me," the agent says. "He made me promise I would not allow you to follow him."
Swearing under his breath and disregarding the pain in his stomach and his feeling of nausea, John starts pacing.
"For fuck´s sake," he exclaims, his hand raking through his short hair. "Why didn´t you tell me? Can´t I for once decide for myself? Or has Sherlock lost it so far that he thinks he can pilot the whole damn world and all of its inhabitants?" he shouts.
Robson and the other Secret Service men watch his outburst silently, not daring to approach him with words or gestures. They are all familiar with the feeling of helplessness a long period of useless waiting and searching for clues can cause. And they all know what it feels like to send a colleague, a companion, into danger.
John´s steady gait provides the background for their soft conversation for the next fifteen minutes. When Robson finally tears his gaze from Sherlock´s notebook and straightens, the voices die slowly down. Sensing the tension in the room, John stops. He stares at the agent who seems to stand even more erect with every word he is listening to.
"Got it," he says at last, cutting the connection. Then he turns to face John.
"Our men arrived at the spot. They have decided not to go in yet."
Again, anger burns in John´s chest. He is barely able to contain it, as he wishes so desperately for Sherlock to escape unscathed, to help. He knows he should be glad that the secret service men prefer to wait for the right moment to interfere. But all he can think of is the repeating plea of "Don´t be dead. Please" over and over in his mind.
He groans. Simply sitting back and hoping for the best has never been his favourite occupation. But obviously, his hands are tied.
Mary recalls the cobble stone streets of Oxford, the perfect round of the Radcliffe´s camera cupola, the gargoyles staring down at her with eyes of marble. She tries to divert her thoughts from the man who looks out of the window of the vast, abandoned room with images from a place she loves. They help her to ignore his cold, detached blue eyes and his unnerving, springy steps. She has reached the banks of the Isis in her imaginary walk when he finally turns, steps over to her, and pushes her towards the middle of the room, towards a large desk.
Mary is ordered to stand beside the heavy piece of furniture which indicates that this place must have been used as an office not very long ago. Her abductor´s smile is one of false encouragement as he lets go of her arm and looks her into the eyes.
"Our honoured guest has arrived," he says. "I hope for a very entertaining conversation. He´s a genius, after all." He leaves her and sits down languidly on the table´s edge, humming under his breath.
Mary still wonders who he might be expecting when she hears footsteps approaching, and watches three men enter the room. She gasps when she realises that one of them is Sherlock, pale, but apparently unhurt. Although blindfolded, he enters with the same elegant strides she knows so well, guarded by two men in dark suits who resemble Mycroft´s specialists.
They stop, and Mary winces as the thug on Sherlock´s right runs his fingers over the detective´s throat, cheek, and temple before he tugs at the bandage and loosens it. He blows a kiss at the detective, smirking, but Sherlock appears unfazed. Only the tiniest of tremors in his hands gives away his agitation, and Mary notices that he takes an inconspicuous step forward. His sea-blue eyes meet Mary´s before he regards his surroundings and, at last, the man at the desk.
"You wanted me. Here I am," Sherlock snarls. "I didn´t expect you would turn our talk into a social event, though."
If Mary had any doubts left on who her opponent is, they are erased by the colonel´s hoarse laughter.
"I heard you are something of a misanthropist," Moran says. "I, for my part, like company. The more the merrier, as the saying goes."
"An annoyingly stupid philosophy if one wants to avoid attention," Sherlock retorts. "I would have assumed you have confidential business to conduct."
Moran leans back a bit more, his arms crossed on his chest, his gaze settled on Sherlock´s. "Oh, but it is confidential. That´s the reason why I kept it all in the family, so to speak," he replies, and gestures towards Mary. "Your therapist here is in a sexual relationship with your blogger. And your brother is currently enyoing my hospitality. All we need to accomplish to perfect our meeting is to make everyone happy." He pauses and fixes the detective with a measuring stare. "I wonder whether you are capable of making anyone happy. You certainly failed the last time we met. Here´s your second chance."
Sherlock stares back, his eyes dark with anger. "Let me quote another example of popular lore," he says. "It´s commonly assumed that most of us don´t get a second chance."
Moran smiles. "Consider yourself lucky, then," he replies. "You know, I was never one for games. Jim was, though. When I thought this," he gestures towards the room, "over, I realised I could celebrate the occasion. With a game."
He pauses, gauging the detective´s reaction, but Sherlock just stares at him, his eyes flicking very quickly to Mary, asking whether she is all right. She answers with a tiny nod, and he averts his gaze quickly enough for the colonel not to notice.
Mary notices the tremor in her patient´s hand returning, and Moran sees it, too. His smile widens in satisfaction, and he nods.
"See, I could release all of you, call it a day." He pushes himself off the table´s edge and covers the short distance to approach Sherlock. "Or I could make this more interesting for everybody. As you like so much to be in control, I´ll let you choose. You know, only two out of you three will be allowed to survive. Who, is up to you."
He draws nearer, intruding on the taller man´s personal space. "You either shoot her," he gestures at Mary dismissively. "She is not important anyway, after all. Or you agree to let your annoying sibling disappear for good. Or…"
Sherlock takes a deep, exasperated breath and rolls his eyes. "Oh, please. Or I´ll be shot or slip happily into oblivion with the help of the special mix you carry in your front pocket."
Moran nods and retrieves a filled syringe. "Spot-on, as always," he says. "I´d prefer not to make my hands dirty, you know. And I was actually relying on your sense of courtesy."
Sherlock stares at the tiny object in the colonel´s hand, obviously transfixed. When he raises his gaze again, his voice is firm, although his hands are still shaking.
"Why suicide?" he asks, and Mary detects a hint of genuine curiosity in his voice.
Moran slaps the palm of his hand with the needle and stares out into the dark outside. When he looks back at Sherlock, his eyes are cold with suppressed fury. "Let´s say your faked death was a failure. For Jim. For the whole organisation. I am not willing to accept that Jim has failed in his most crucial task."
"Closure, then," Sherlock replies, his tone even, and Moran nods.
The detective turns slowly to point at Mary. "What about her?" he demands. "Why should I trust you to let her go unscathed?"
"Because I´m a man of honour," Moran answers with a smirk. "She will be allowed to leave, be assured. Sadly, I can´t promise you she will be safe and sound, though. Surely you remember how Ronald gets carried away whenever he sees a true beauty."
The detective´s eyes flicker to Moran´s watchdog in question, and Mary sees the faint tremor in his hands intensifying.
"Do I?" he asks in a cold voice. "Nothing too impressive, surely?"
Moran smirks, his eyes meeting those of his minion, who smirks back. "Depends," he replies shortly. "I bet you don't remember too much of it - the drugs didn´t really facilitate your outstanding sense of perception."
Mary watches Sherlock´s pallor losing some of its already sparse colour, and gasps. If what Moran is implying is only partly true, Sherlock must have been even more traumatised during his imprisonment than he consciously remembers. Suddenly she senses where her patient´s discontentment and panic attacks might stem from.
Sherlock seems to ponder Moran´s words, but he lets them pass, obviously disregarding them as irrelevant for the current situation. Still, there is a strain in his voice when he speaks again.
"There´s only one option left, then," he says. "Release Dr. Morstan first, and I will do as you ask. But I will take her and my brother´s safety as your price."
The colonel returns to the table, clapping his hands.
"Oh, good," he says. "We might be getting somewhere."
Mary looks at Sherlock who deliberately avoids looking at her. She can´t allow the detective to sacrifice himself. There must be a way out of this surreal situation.
Her gaze falls on Moran´s revolver, and in the same second an idea forms in her mind.