Return
verb-
come or go back to a place or person.
Sherlock sat on a step on the staircase up to his flat, phone in hand, and a soft jumper in his lap. Night had finally fallen, and all the guests have left. Molly and George (No, Greg) had wanted to stay with him, Greg even going as far as to perhaps offer a temporary living arrangement, but he turned their offers down.
For some reason, he couldn't imagine living anywhere but Baker Street. Sherlock could barely remember the short time living here alone. John and Baker Street, they just went together, they made sense. Baker Street without John? It was still home, but it seemed wrong.
Sherlock shook his head, trying to rid himself of the dangerous circle of thoughts littering his brain. His phone vibrated in his hand, startling him.
Caller ID: Mycroft Holmes
Sherlock declined it in disgust. Mycroft didn't even have the decency to show up to John's memorial, why should he have to listen to him? He tossed his phone on to the next step, and both hands return to the jumper. A thought occurred to Sherlock, and he pulled John's jumper onto his arms, then over his head. He smiled softly as he realized he was right. John's smell of cinnamon and gunpowder flooded his nose, creating vivid mental pictures.
Sherlock's phone rang again, and he skillfully ignored it. John smiled at him with in his mind palace.
Then his phone dinged. And then again. Which was the epitome of unusual? Mycroft almost never stoops so low as to type out his words on a keyboard. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft was obviously out of cake. He picked up his phone, resolving not to respond unless Mycroft was about to die. As he picked it up, it dinged for the third time.
Answer your phone, dammit! -MH (1 minute ago)
Moran is coming, you need to run. -MH (30 seconds ago)
I know you are reading this Sherlock Holmes! -MH (10 seconds ago)
"What in the Queen's name-"
His phone rang again, and this time, he answered it.
"Sherlock? Oh thank god, listen to me- you are under surveillance. my contact in Moriarty's close ranks just informed me that Moran has been tipped off that we were looking for him, and is coming to Baker Street at this moment to hunt you down." Mycroft blurted out in one breath.
"What-" Sherlock started.
"No, please just listen to me for once! the authorities have been alerted, but there is no time, you need to run now!"
Sherlock stood and grabbed his coat, slipping it over John's jumper.
"Moran is doing this against Moriarty's orders. Moriarty had Baker Street on camera the whole time, and he only allowed you to live because he wanted to see you suffer from John's death-"
"Shut up," Sherlock growled into his phone.
Mycroft sighed exasperatedly.
"Sorry! Alright, we can track your phone with GPS and will send reinforcements. Moran is Moriarty's only agent that is skilled enough to get through my network. if he is taken out, you'll be safe."
"It's pretty convenient John died." Sherlock snarled, as he swept himself out of the door.
"What?"
"You said Moriarty was only allowing me to live because he wanted to see me suffer. So if John hadn't saved me, we would both have been murdered."
"Yes… Sherlock, we need to talk-"
"Later," Sherlock said, then ended the call.
He hailed a cab over to his curb, and as a pimply young man poked his face out of the window, he flashed his stolen badge.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade. This vehicle is being compounded, for the use of Scotland Yard. A man's life depends on it."
Mr. Wide-eyed pimples hopped right out. Sherlock climbed into the cabbie seat, he glimpsed a speeding car in the rearview mirror. Sherlock quickly analyzed it, silver Maserati, no license plate, tinted windows, thicker than average windows; possibly bullet proof. And heading straight towards him.
Sherlock sped away from the curb, showering the unfortunate cabbie driver in murky slush. The Maserati was in quick pursuit, weaving around traffic expertly. Sherlock's mind palace was in full swing, quickly plotting out a route to draw Moran out of the busy London streets and pedestrians.
Sherlock chuckled as he realized that he was calmer being chased by an assassin, then sitting alone at home.
He considered calling Mycroft back as he drove, but the possibility of a tapped phone seemed more and more likely. Sherlock kept Moran at a constant four cars behind. If he moved up one, so did Sherlock. If Moran and fell backward, he did the same. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't lose Moran completely. There was no telling when he would turn up again, trying to kill Sherlock. Not to mention that this was John's murderer. He was looking forward to a confrontation to say the very least. If Mycroft's lackeys would just show up, Moran would get what he deserved.
For 20 long minutes, there was no sign of police, armed guard, anything.
Maybe this had been Moriarty's plan all along. Or more likely he wanted to protect his disobedient guard dog by stopping Mycroft's forces.
The moon shone down on the lonely country road. Sherlock watched and his mirror as the last car separating him and Moran turned into a private drive.
Sherlock revved the engine, trying to put more space between the cars. There was nothing separating them now. When Sherlock looked behind him next, he noted that Moran had put about 14 meters of space between them. The road turns to gravel, and Sherlock was forced to slow down to 80 km/h. Sherlock eyes flew from the road ahead to Moran, and back.
"Why haven't you done anything?" Sherlock muttered angrily.
A single shot answered his taunt. Sherlock felt the right rear tire blow, and his steering wheel jerked violently out of his hands. He scrambled to get a hold of it, meanwhile, a vicious grading sound reverberated around the cabin as the metal wheel scraped against the gravel. Sherlock leaned frantically, trying to stop the car from-
The cab rolled. Sherlock felt a moment of weightlessness been an intense burning as his world flipped around him. His head whipped to the side, the seat belt cutting into the soft flesh of his neck. The car tilted to a stop, the world still the wrong way up. Sherlock groaned, a haze of a white pain was threatening to drag him down. He blinked several times and the world came back into focus.
Moran. Moran was behind him.
"No,no,no,no…" Sherlock wheezed.
This was not supposed to happen! Moran would be on him in a matter of seconds. Sherlock fumbled for his seatbelt, momentarily forgetting that he was upside down. He cried out in pain as his head hit the rim of the window, and as his neck bent at an odd angle as the rest of his body fell onto the windshield. He scrambled to his hands and knees, his head pounding viciously.
He quickly rammed his shoulder against the window, again, and again. It broke and a flurry of sparkles and blood. Sherlock shimmied out of the window, expecting Moran to be right on top of him. But when he flung himself to his feet, blinding headlights glared at him, meters away. Moran revved his engine, clearly wanting him to run.
So he ran.
The night quickly swallow him, until he could barely see the trees flying around him. His feet pounded the invisible ground, and his breath became labored and heavy. A slight cloud of fear penetrated his mind. Nothing was going to plan. He needed to fix this, fast.
Sherlock's foot caught on a protruding root and he fell. His hands reflexively shot out to break his fall, and he skidded face first to a stop. Sherlock laid still for a short moment, and listen to the sound of foliage crashing somewhere behind him, and rapidly getting closer. One foot in front of the other, Sherlock told himself. Faster, you have to go faster. The blood dripping into his eye was making it increasingly hard to see. A cough itched in his chest, begging to be released.
All Sherlock wanted to do with curl up in a ball and sleep. He grasped at a stitch in his side and was about ready to give up when he heard a lone siren far off in the night. This spurred him on with renewed vigor. They would find him, hopefully before it was too late.
The trees parted very suddenly, and Sherlock sprinted into a clearing. Above him loomed a large, clearly abandoned, wooden barn. A second siren wailed to life, and Sherlock decided to hide inside. Moran didn't seem to be a man who accepted defeat easily, but if he spent too much time searching, his capture would be inevitable.
Sherlock took too long strides to the side of the barn and immediately started running his hands across the wall, searching for any loose boards. His scanned the wall with his eyes, but the week moonlight barely revealed anything. After adding several splinters to his list of injuries, Sherlock concluded that standing here was the best way to get shot in the head.
He jogged down the side of the long ways wall, running his hand along searching for a possible entry point. He let a sigh of relief escape him as his hand touched the cool glass.
Sherlock quickly kicked in the dual window and slid through on his stomach. The light was even dimmer inside, and moonlight filtered in through cracks in the roof. There was nothing in the barn, accepting a huge tangle of vines in one corner, and a pile of junk metal in the opposite.
He spotted the silhouette of a ladder and the outline of a hayloft. Sherlock jumped for the ladder, pulling it down with a bang that set his teeth on edge. He flew up it, imagine that he heard Moran right outside the wall. Sherlock tried to cram himself into the corner, cursing his gangly limbs. The silence seemed to be a tangible, pulsating mass. The sirens had faded away, crushing Sherlock's hope of a rescue.
Sherlock listened as heavy footsteps drew closer to the barn. He despised hiding away, it made him feel weak and feeble. He decided he would attack Moran when he showed himself. Sherlock saw a flashlight's beam shine through the boards. He tried to make his breathing as shallow as possible.
He listened intently as he heard a heavy body slam into a door that he had missed. Another slam, then the bang of the metal lock breaking, and Moran entered the barn.
Sherlock could not see Moran from his loft, but he watched the man's beam of light flash around the room.
"I thank you for the enjoyable hunt!" Moran called out in a heavy Scottish accent. "Although I must say, from the way Mister Moriarty talked of you, I expected so much more."
Sherlock could hear the sneer in Moran's voice. He ground his teeth in hatred. The beam of light moved to the scrap pile, and Sherlock listened as Moran kicked at it.
"The baby detective sure knows how to play hide and seek," Moran taunted. "Where'd you learn that from? Your dead Doctor pal?"
Sherlock felt shivers of rage race across his skin. He had to wait for the right moment…
"Ah! I see where the little man is hiding!"
The streak of light pointed at the sheathed ladder. Sherlock slowly rose to his knees. Oh, this was going to hurt…
Moran pulled down the ladder with a jolt. Sherlock braced himself, willing his head to stop throbbing. He watched as Moran's hand clasped around the top rung, and he stood up to his full height, staying in the shadows. Moran's head of sandy hair and torso followed, and Sherlock charged.
He threw himself on to the man, Moran's blue eyes widening in shock. Sherlock's momentum propelled them into the air, then they fell the 3-meter drop to the barn floor. The breath immediately was knocked out of Moran, (who had fallen first) and Sherlock's bones jostled from the impact. However, he tucked and rolled away from the winded man, ignoring the sudden excruciating pain in his lower abdomen.
Injury #19
~Possible broken rib
Moran let out of a wheezing cough, then flung out an arm as Sherlock launched himself for his pistol. Sherlock ducked it and quickly observed Moran- trying to deduce a weakness.
He had a sig pistol on his hip, and a British army issue L129A1 rifle slung over his back. He was dressed in black camo and was in peak physical shape.
Sherlock failed to dodge the fist that materialized inches from his face. He reeled back, seeing white flashes in his vision. Blood spurted over his lips and chin.
Injury #20
~Broken nose
He stayed down too long. Sherlock heard the cock of a rifle and realized it was all over. He opened his eyes and found himself looking down the barrel of a gun.
He had had a good life, Sherlock mused. He had saved more people's lives than he could count. He just wished he had been able to save John's…
"And so ends the tale of the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes," Moran smiled.
BANG.
Sherlock had closed his eyes. Is this what death feels like? Painless? He realized he could still control all of his limbs, and he opened his eyes in confusion.
What he saw was Moran lying dead on the ground, blood still bubbling from a hole in his throat. And an angel standing behind him holding a gun.
"So I am dead then." Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes again.
"Hate to break it to you, but you're not." The angel said. "To be honest I thought you be… I don't know reacting."
"No, I am definitely dead," Sherlock replied to his angel.
"Sherlock…" The angel scowled.
The being walked up to Sherlock and picked up his hand. Sherlock looked at the angel curiously. The angel held Sherlock's hand to his beating heart. John smiled at him.
"No!"
Sherlock ripped his hand away. A terrible pressure building in his chest. He climbed to his feet, looking down at John, John? John?
"NO!" Sherlock turned, finding himself backed up to a wall.
John stepped forward, a slightly scared expression appearing on his face.
"You're dead, YOU ARE DEAD!" Sherlock bellowed.
John's face broke. A look of intense sadness filled his entire stature.
"Sherlock, I did it to protect you. I had to die so that Moriarty would keep you alive."
John stepped forward again, cornering the frantic detective. Tears filled up Sherlock's unwilling eyes. His hurt and feeling of betrayal must've shown clearly on his face, as John's expression changed for the third time. To one of the desperate need of forgiveness.
"Mycroft found me after we split up, he told me what was about to happen to you, I couldn't let you die, Sherlock! It was the only way!" John pleaded.
Sherlock crouched down into a ball, trying to get away. John kneeled down beside him.
"You.. you died in my arms." Sherlock murmured, trying desperately to hold back the massive wave.
"It was a fake blood. And acting. I'm so sorry Sherlock. It was torture for me those four days. Mycroft wouldn't tell me anything."
Sherlock's frozen brain managed to register the fact that he had now lost over a pint of blood.
"J-John-" Sherlock stuttered, looking over at the alive Doctor. "I-I.."
Sherlock felt a wave of dizziness overwhelm him, and blackness started to creep in around the edges of his vision. He collapsed into John's arms.
"I'm 'lad you're al've-... I forgive you." He managed to croak before everything faded away.
There might or might not be a follow up- but whew! I can't believe I turned that into a series. I hope you guys all enjoyed it as much as I did!
