Please, please don't leave me
Chapter Twenty-Eight:
"John?"
Sherlock couldn't stand the silence. John was looking at him, his eyes blank. His cheeks were still gently flushed, as though the heat from their encounter was still lingering on his skin, but he couldn't have been colder, less present. Sherlock almost felt as though if he reached out his hand, it would go straight through him.
He stood up slowly, feeling bleary and windswept from being pressed against the mattress. "John?" His throat felt full of thick, tacky saliva.
"I heard you," John said. His voice was hollow and expressionless.
Sherlock felt his skin begin to prick with heat. He had expected John to scream, to hit him, to throw things, but he was silent. He was silent, and so cold.
"I..." Sherlock wanted to step towards him, he wanted to touch him, to make him look at him, force him to forgive him, but he felt paralysed. "I don't know what to say."
"You can tell me why," John said quietly. His eyes were fixed on him. It was unbearable. Sherlock could almost feel his disbelief, his shock. It cut deeper to know just how unprepared John had been for Sherlock's cruel surprise.
Sherlock gave his head a gentle shake. "I... I don't know. It just... It started out as a game." The words came so limply from his mouth.
"A game?" John almost flinched. A frown was creeping onto his face, like a crack running down marble.
Sherlock reeled. "I... I never meant for it to go this far." The truth sounded harsh and artless, even in his own ears. "He has every boy in this school doing his bidding. Hester, Pip. The lot of them."
John gave a cruel, mirthless laugh. "I don't give a fuck what Jim Moriarty plans to do with the rest of the school." His voice was low and almost crackling with rage. "I don't give a fuck if he intends to strap a bomb to his chest and detonate it in the chapel. What I don't quite understand is what this has to do with you kissing him."
The last words echoed wildly, shrilly around the sparse walls of the dorm room.
Sherlock took an unsteady step towards him. John moved back sharply against the door, like he had been physically repulsed. "Don't touch me," he said, his voice trembling.
"John-" Sherlock began helplessly.
"When?" John said. His features had hardened. Sherlock knew that the initial shock had given way to anger. Intense anger.
Sherlock searched his face, looking for a sign of the boy who had been standing there just minutes before. His earnest, kind, trusting John, the John who had needed Sherlock, had wanted Sherlock, had made love to him. He was gone. And John was sharp and hard and cold as ice.
"When?" John snapped. He was still pressed hard against the door, as far from Sherlock as he could physically be while still in the same room.
Sherlock sighed softly. "Over a week ago."
John looked away. "Over a week ago," he repeated. "You kissed him over a week ago."
Sherlock's fingers twitched uneasily beside him. He had never wanted to touch John so badly, but he didn't dare even try and take another step closer.
"We've fucked twice since then," John said, staring impassively at the carpet. "We've had sex two fucking times, and you just lay there, and you knew what you had done. And you said nothing."
Sherlock's mouth felt very dry. "I know," he croaked.
John looked at him. Perhaps he had expected Sherlock to defend himself. The pained frown quivered on his eyebrows.
"And did he do that?" John jerked his head at him. Sherlock knew he was talking about the black eye.
He gingerly touched it, running a finger around the stinging outline. "No," he said shortly, dropping his hand back beside him. "Someone else did that."
"And do you love him?" John's hard, cold voice would have been convincing if not for the break that forced itself up his throat as he said the words.
Sherlock jerked forward without being able to stop himself. "No! Jesus, John. No. It wasn't like that. He was just playing with me, backing me into a corner. I got in too deep. It was nothing else."
John didn't look like he believed him. He looked away.
Sherlock's panic was rising. "You know he wants to destroy me. He wanted this to happen-"
John exhaled sharply like he'd been cut. "Don't," he said quietly. "Please... just don't. You know you could have walked away. He didn't make you do anything."
The silence pounded inside Sherlock's head. The blood pumped wildly in his ears.
He knew what came next, what had to come next. He felt helpless to stop it. He had tried so many times to reconcile himself with the consequences of what he had done, but every time he had just found himself thinking desperately of what he could do to stop John from leaving him.
"You're right," he said. The hairs on his arms pricked up violently. "I let him get to me. I let him get under my skin. But... but I could have stopped him. I could have." He felt that in that moment he was throwing away any last chance he had to keep John. He was throwing away everything. Jim had cost him everything.
John looked away.
"Jim knew exactly what buttons to push." Sherlock didn't know where he found the strength to keep speaking, when he felt he might shatter where he stood. "As long as he's in this school, we're in danger. Everyone is in danger." His voice almost gave out beneath the stress of emotion in his chest. And inside his head, the same words kept repeating over and over: John can't leave.
"I don't know if I can do this anymore." John's voice was numb. He stared at the wall. "I'm so... tired, Sherlock." His voice wavered.
Sherlock couldn't stop himself, a sickening flare of panic propelled him forward and he found himself a foot from John, his hands clinging uselessly to his shirt and shoulders. "I promise I'll do better," he was saying foolishly, desperately. "I can fix this. Please, please let me fix this."
John hadn't pushed him away, but he barely met his eye as he shrugged away Sherlock's hands. His eyes were bright and damp.
Sherlock stepped back, his heart pounding so rapidly he could hardly distinguish the beats. "John," he said, looking frantically at his face. "Please."
"You told me you would die before you hurt me," John said blankly.
"John, don't," Sherlock croaked. His fingers were tingling furiously. "Please, don't."
He remembered when John had begged him not to leave. Then it had been so easy to feed his own fury, not knowing or understanding what John was feeling. Now he felt it. He felt it more keenly than anything else he had felt in his life. Every sensation or emotion he had ever experienced before suddenly seemed like nothing but the slightest touch on his numb skin. He had never known true pain. He was a fool to think he had.
"John." Sherlock touched John's chin. He didn't push him away. Sherlock gently guided his eyes up to meet his. They were beautiful, even tainted by pain. "John, I need you. I can't do this without you." He was aware of the touch of hysteria that was coming into his voice, but he was powerless to stop it. "Please, don't just walk away."
He felt John become slump against the door and against him. He moved his arms to hold his waist. John twisted against him, making only the weakest attempt to break free. "Sherlock," he almost moaned. "I can't. How can I do this? How?"
Sherlock said nothing. His breathing was shallow and rapid. John was pressed against him, but his arms were limp by his side. Sherlock had never felt further from him.
John finally gave him a push, firm but not rough. Sherlock stepped back, letting his arms drop from John's torso. "I need some time alone. I need time to think," John said blearily, turning to open the door.
"John." John stopped, his back to Sherlock. He turned his head to the side. "I love you. I always have. I always will."
John didn't move for a moment, and then, slowly, he opened the door and walked out.
...
The morning was brash and unwelcome. Sherlock lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and having little inclination to get up. He could feel Ben casting occasional glances at him as he got dressed and packed books into his bag.
He had had fitful moments of sleep the night before, between awaking with an abrupt jolt, what felt like minutes later. For a moment, in the dark, he forgot what had happened the day before. And then it came rushing back.
"You better get up." Sherlock wordlessly looked at his roommate, standing with one hand on the door, and the other on the strap of his backpack. "Blake will come hunting for you."
Sherlock looked at the ceiling and said nothing. He heard the door open; there was a burst of voices from the corridor, and then it closed and he was alone.
It was hard to understand how Ben was still functioning, how they were all still functioning. How were they still dressing themselves? How were they still going to classes? Talking to each other? They were so full of ignorance. And Sherlock envied them. He would give anything not to care. He wanted not to feel. He was done with feeling.
Somehow he found himself upright. He felt for his clothes in a cold, stiff pile on the floor by the door, unable to care how wrinkled and dishevelled his uniform would be when he pulled it on. He didn't completely know why he was forcing himself to go to class. He could easily tell Blake he was sick. He could pull that off without too much trouble. He glanced at his pale, tired reflection in the mirror on the door. He looked ill. He felt ill. He would have gladly climbed under the covers of his bed and lain there until he rotted away.
But he had to see John. It would be torture. It would cut him to the very bone to see him, so soon after the events of the day before, but it was compulsion, not desire that was driving him.
When he reached the homeroom, he was greeted by thirty pairs of eyes swivelling towards him as he entered the door. Sherlock glanced around them. Twenty-nine. John, seated at the end of the back row, did not look up.
Sherlock's eyes lingered on him. He wanted him to look up. He wanted him to see him, and to know that Sherlock was sorry, and to forgive him. He felt certain that if John saw him, he would know. He would have known how badly Sherlock was hurting. But John did not look up.
"Nice black eye, Holmes. You walk into a door?" someone jeered from along the row. There were titters.
Sherlock glanced at Jim on his way to his desk. He didn't look pleased. He had every reason to be. It wouldn't take long for him to hear of what had happened between Sherlock and John, and Sherlock didn't know what would stop him from destroying them both when he did. But he seemed nettled by the break in ranks. His lackeys were loyal, but they were still teenagers. Old habits died hard.
It was as though a layer of dust had been shaken from his classmates. It was almost as though they knew what had occurred between John and Sherlock, and it was invigorating them with a new spirit that had been lacking since they fell collectively under Jim's sway. Jim didn't seem to appreciate this return of spirit, even if it was directed towards a bruised and ashen-faced Sherlock.
He glanced sharply at Sherlock's wounded eye, and his lips visibly thinned. It was clear that he was wondering which of his pawns had stepped out of line. He'd probably assume it was Marty. Sherlock couldn't relish the thought of Marty being rebuffed yet again by Jim. It meant nothing.
The titters died very quickly, as Sherlock sat down. It felt like an age since he had last sat there. Nothing had changed. The classroom was the same. The people were the same. The world outside was the same. But John had left him.
Ms. Stone walked in, her hair tied back forcefully from her face and the roll tucked firmly under the arm of a pale orange jacket. She cast a brief look over the class as she crossed to her desk. Sherlock remembered his conversation with Hurst, the first of Jim's casualties. How simple it seemed for him to ruin people's lives, to spread rumours, to divulge people's deepest secrets, for... what? What did Jim want?
Sherlock curled his hand on top of the desk in front of him and turned to look out of the window next to him. In the grimy glass he caught a glance of his pale face and his discoloured eye.
"Quiet!" Ms. Stone was shouting over the chatter. "I have to call the roll!"
Maybe Sherlock should have listened to Mycroft. It wasn't the first time the thought had occurred to him. Mycroft might have been a pompous tosser, but he hadn't ever wilfully gone out of his way to harm another. Not as far as Sherlock knew. But why had he gone about it in such a roundabout way?
"Mr. Hester?"
"Here," came Marty's sullen voice.
Because he was a Holmes, that was why. They seemed cursed with this... this inability to go about things in the way any normal person would have. Mycroft had thought he was protecting Sherlock from himself. From John. But Mycroft had been wrong. Sherlock wasn't the one who needed protecting.
"Mr. Holmes. Would you please pay attention?"
Sherlock looked at Ms. Stone. She frowned at him, tapping the roll irritably. "What?"
"Would you be so kind as to answer when I call you?" Ms. Stone snapped.
"Sorry," Sherlock retorted. "Here."
Ms. Stone's eyes narrowed. There were sniggers from behind him. He seemed to have scored a point.
"Any more insolence from you, Holmes and it'll be a detention. Mr. Isaacs-
Sherlock's anger flared before he could stop it. "In my experience, "insolence" is the word people in minor positions of power use when those under them have the gall to humiliate them."
Some of the boys gave shouts of laughter.
Ms. Stone's ashen complexion went pink. She placed her pen down slowly on the desk in front of her, her eyes fixed on Sherlock. "I think you can wait outside until we're finished," she said coldly. "Unless you have anything else to say."
Sherlock got up out of his seat and wordlessly walked across the classroom, barely conscious of the stares. He wondered if John was looking at him. He no longer knew whether he wanted him to be.
It was a relief to get out into the deserted silence of the hallway. All of the doors on either side were closed and he could occasionally hear a teacher's voice calling out names or reading out a long, inaudible drone of announcements.
Sherlock slid down against the wall beside the bag racks. He didn't know why he had said what he said. Perhaps he was just taking his frustration out on an easy target, or maybe he unreasonably resented Ms. Stone for stepping into the vacated position of her unfortunate colleague.
He rested his head against the wall and waited for his classmates to emerge. Half of him wanted to crawl back to his dorm and stay there, but that would be too much like admitting weakness. He didn't want Jim to realise what had happened for as long as he could prevent it. It would give him time to think of how he was going to get them out of the shit they were in.
Not long after, the door opened with a slam against the wall. He scrambled up to keep from being trampled. He flattened against the wall, just as Marty and Jim were passing him. Jim sent him a shrewd look as he passed him. Behind him, Marty's pale eyes darted between them. It must have been very difficult to watch the person he was so obsessed with direct all of his energy onto someone else.
Behind them, Marty's friends were still in a brighter mood than they had been for a long time. One of them slapped Sherlock on the back in a boisterous manner. The others jeered and made comments about his black eye.
"Good one, Holmes," they said, only partly scornful.
"Who gave you that black eye?" one of them quipped. They were mobbed around him like preschool children.
Sherlock had to try and keep from crinkling his nose at their sudden respect for him. "Would you let me past?" he said curtly, trying fruitlessly to nudge his way through them.
"Aw, come on, Holmes," they sneered, tugging at his backpack and clothes. "Don't be such a fucking ponce."
Jim looked ready to skin someone. He was barely containing his breathing. His hands were curled into balls beside him. Marty looked unconvincingly solemn, but Sherlock was sure he would have loved to be in front, and perhaps give Sherlock another black eye to match the one he had.
"Come on, back off," came a voice from the back of the crowd. "Leave him alone."
A few of the boys shuffled out of the way, giving Sherlock time to push his way through them. He passed Ben on the outskirts of the mob. Sherlock knew it was him who had spoken.
He looked at him as he passed him. Ben glanced at him briefly and then turned away. Sherlock hurried up the corridor, turning his back on the crowd. He could hear a few of the other boys chiding Ben behind him.
He turned the corner and ahead of him he saw, past the hunched backs of two of his nameless classmates, an unmistakeable blonde head. Sherlock's heart skipped in his chest. Before he had decided whether it was a good idea or not, he had sped up to reach him. He stalked past his two classmates and drew level with John before the boy had realised he was being dogged.
John looked at him with a start. "Sherlock?" He glanced around uncertainly. It had been a long time since they had dared talk in public.
Sherlock didn't care who saw them. It no longer mattered. The only thing that held him back from pinning John against the nearest wall and forcing him to listen to him were the remnants of his concern for John's position in the school.
Sherlock took the sleeve of John's jumper between his finger and thumb. "John, you have to listen to me."
John flushed red, his eyes flashed. "You're doing this here?" he said, through gritted teeth. He looked agitatedly over his shoulder.
"You have to listen," Sherlock snapped, not loosening his grip. "You can't just walk away-"
John yanked his arm forcibly from Sherlock's fingers. "Don't you get it, Sherlock?" he spat. "I don't want to talk about it."
Sherlock stopped short where he was. John took two steps and then stopped and slowly turned towards him. Neither of them spoke. Their two classmates passed them, glancing curiously between them. John watched them go.
When they were out of earshot, John turned back to him, his shoulders were heaving gently. "Don't do this again," he said coldly. "I'm not ready to talk about this."
"John-" Sherlock began.
"Just leave it," John snapped.
He turned on his heel and stalked away. Sherlock watched him go, his heart beating with sickening speed in his chest.
...
John walked down to the football field with Ben that evening. He didn't want to be alone, though of course he didn't mention that to Ben. He couldn't find the strength to make small talk, and was glad that Ben seemed to realise this and made up for it by talking at length about the car his parents would be buying him for his birthday. It required little to no input from John.
John felt like he had walked around with a battle wound the entire day. His stomach hurt, his heart hurt, his eyes hurt, his throat hurt. Everything seemed to take twice as much effort to accomplish. When he spoke or laughed it sounded hollow, because it was. His thoughts were polluted constantly by Sherlock. He was obsessed with overlooking every little detail of the terrible conversation they had had the night before. Fuck, it hurt. Why was he doing it to himself?
And how could he have been so damn stupid? Sherlock's strange behaviour. Jim's crude little suggestions. How could he not see what it meant? He had so wanted to believe that he had cured Sherlock of his... his heartlessness. But, he hadn't.
"It's bright red, you know," Ben was saying, as they reached the doors to the courtyard. "Pretty poufy colour, but I'm thinking I'll get some really sweet yellow flames painted on. My mate reckons he can get me some cheap subwoofers too."
John nodded blankly, pushing open the doors with one hand. Ben glanced at him. He seemed to know what John was thinking. He couldn't possibly, but pretending he did was strangely comforting.
The courtyard was blindingly dark. John and Ben stopped short on the stairs. The floodlights were usually lit by now, so they could find their way to the field.
"What the fuck?" Ben said, from beside him. "Who's the dumb shit who forgot to turn the floodlights on?"
"We better get down to the pitch and see if anyone's down there," John replied, his voice sounding strange to him after being silent for most of the day.
They stepped carefully down the stairs and trudged across the damp gravel courtyard, hands held out in front of them like blind men. John could hear Ben breathing softly beside him. A strange feeling came across him.
"Ben," he said, slowing his pace.
"What?" whispered Ben.
"I... I think we should go ba-"
A sharp blow to his stomach winded him and he immediately curled over, clutching at his stomach. He heard Ben cry out beside him. The next thing he was aware of was punches hitting him over every inch of his face, head and torso. But they felt too hard, too painful to be punches. He was convinced someone must have been kicking him, it hurt so profoundly.
He found himself hunched into the gravel, trying to protect his face from the blows. Ben beside him was swearing wildly. A scrape of gravel told John that he was being dragged away. John felt something wet and metallic pool in his mouth. He whimpered into the dirt. His eyes were screwed shut. He wanted to cry out, but his throat felt bruised. He couldn't speak. Not even to plead for them to stop.
"How do you like that, you gay fuck?"
A gob of something hit his cheek and dribbled down to his chin.
Then, abruptly, it stopped. John panted desperately into the ground, trying to get enough oxygen into his lungs through the pain. He heard three or four figures around him back away, their footsteps crunching on the gravel. Someone else was coming towards him, their steady, almost mechanical steps loud and sharp.
"Oh my. Look at the mess you've made."
Jim's voice was sanguine. There were no laughs, no jeers. His assailants were silent.
John tried to speak. Nothing but a weak croak left his mouth. His eyes flickered open; they felt badly swollen. He had bitten his tongue when he had fallen, and the blood was trickling down through his teeth. He couldn't seem to close his mouth; it hung open like it was on broken hinges.
He felt cold leather touch his chin. His head was pushed back like it was a doll's; it lolled limply on his shoulders. "So difficult keeping the rabble in check," Jim said softly. "Just when you think you have them broken, cracks appear."
He gave a short, melodic laugh and jerked back his foot. His eyes only now beginning to become accustomed to the gloom, John watched Jim walk away some metres, his hands buried in his pockets.
"Where's the other one?" came his voice, sharp now.
"Inside," said one of the boys. They all seemed petrified of him. They were hanging back as far as possible. Only Marty was within a metre of him. "What should we do with him?"
"Nothing," Jim said, examining his nails. "Let me talk to him. I'm not above persuasion."
There were dark, forced laughs from the others. John moaned against the gravel. His ribs felt like they may be broken.
"Now, now, Johnny," Jim said, walking back towards him. He knelt down next to him. His right knee was inches above John's head. He caught a whiff of spicy cologne. "We'll get Marty to sort out those nasty bruises for you."
He laid a hand against John's forehead. John weakly tried to turn away, but it hurt intensely to move his neck. Jim tutted, stroking his hair with a gloved hand.
"Now, now, darling. Don't struggle. We need to keep you pretty for Holmes, don't we?"
He said the last words very loudly and there were louder, more genuine jeers from the others this time. John's stomach clenched and unclenched. Oh God. They knew. Jim had told them all.
Jim straightened up. "Marty, clean him up and make sure he doesn't look a complete mess, will you?" he said sharply, jerking his head towards him. "Try and not to fuck it up, won't you?"
"Yes," Marty said shortly.
Jim narrowed his eyes. He took three quick steps towards him and took Marty's chin roughly between his finger and thumb, forcing the taller boy to look at him. "Why are you sulking?" he spat. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?"
"Y-yes," of course," Marty said, looking terrified out of his wits.
"Then wipe that miserable expression off your face and get to work," Jim snapped. He let him go with a shove and turned on his heel.
The others followed him in an apprehensive bundle, glancing at each other and not seeming to want to be the one who had to walk closest to him.
John moaned and rolled onto his back. The sky was brilliantly black above him and speckled with more stars than he had bothered to take notice of in all his times of training in the dark. The ground was cold and wet beneath him.
Marty was standing a metre away from him, staring at the school with his hands jammed in his pockets. He didn't speak. John wasn't eager for whatever he had in store for him. He could close his eyes and fall asleep there, if it wasn't for the aching pain in his side.
"What..." John stopped, clutching at his chest. It hurt to talk. He took a struggling breath. "What... what does he... want you to do?"
Marty looked at him, his face shaded by the darkness. "Clean you up. You look like a fucking hooker who's been beaten to shit by her pimp."
John coughed painfully. "Why?"
"Shut the fuck up and get up, would you?" Marty retorted.
"How am I supo-" John gasped, clutching a hand to his ribs. "Supposed to walk?"
Marty let out a theatrical sigh and knelt down. "Any fucking funny business and I'll give you worse than that, got it?"
John felt two arms curl around his chest. With a short yelp of pain, he was excruciatingly hoisted to his feet. Marty grunted beside him and yanked one of his arms around his shoulders.
John leant on him heavily, gasping for breath. He didn't care that he was clinging onto Marty Hester, or that he had his arm tightly around his torso. He was in too much pain to care.
"Can you walk?" Marty said brusquely, not letting any inch of pity adulterate his voice.
"Yeah... I think so," John said breathlessly.
They gingerly took a step forward. Every movement was painful , every jolt was like another blow to his gut, but John bit his lip and kept going. He wasn't going to give Marty a reason to hit him.
They reached the changing rooms what felt like half an hour later, though John was sure it hadn't been more than a few minutes. There was a single dirty bulb hanging from the far end of the room. It let off a harsh, garish white light.
John caught a glimpse of his face as they passed the tarnished mirrors above the basins. His face was very swollen, very red and smeared with mud. He lifted a hand and wiped away the damp remnants of the spit from his chin.
He dropped down onto the bench, and Marty stepped back. He wasn't dressed in his football uniform. He was still in his school clothes. In the terrible lighting, his skin looked ghostly white, and his eyes very sunken.
He looked at John for a moment and then turned away. He took a packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his school jumper. He looked over his shoulder, jerking it towards John.
John shook his head. He watched as Marty lit the fag, taking a lengthy drag. John's stomach stirred unhappily. Why did everything seem designed to stir up memories of him?
Marty turned to him, leaning against the divider of the nearest cubicle. He breathed the smoke out in a pungent stream. John carefully felt his ribs. He winced. They hurt like hell but he didn't think they were broken. He stretched out his limbs, flexing his fingers and toes. Nothing seemed broken.
He touched his face. His lips felt very sore, and so did his chin, but he thought he had avoided a nasty black eye like Sherlock. He looked sharply at Marty.
"Did you give Sherlock a going over too?" he said.
Marty looked at him. "What?"
"His black eye," John said, wondering where his courage was coming from. "Was that you?"
"I fucking wish," Marty growled. He flicked the cigarette to the ground and pressed his foot against it.
He crossed to the basins, swiping a bottle of Dettol from the closest one. He disappeared into one of the stalls and reappeared with the entire roll of toilet paper.
"If you lay a hand on him, I'll kill you," John said, before he was aware that he was speaking.
Marty jerked his head up, staring at him through the filthy mirror. A nasty smile cracked onto his face; the first John had seen for a long time. "You and what army?"
John didn't reply. Marty poured some of the sickly orange disinfectant onto a pile of toilet tissue. He returned to John and tossed it into his hand.
"Knock yourself out."
He returned to his place by the stall, pulling another cigarette from his pocket. John stared at him and then went to the basins, bringing the Dettol soaked paper with him. He squinted at his reflection beyond the ruined glass. His nose was bleeding, his lip was busted, there was a cut on his forehead. He lifted up his shirt. He could have played dot-to-dot with the bruises on his ribs. He noticed that there were very few on his arms. He wondered if they had deliberately aimed for the parts of his body that wouldn't be visible.
He dabbed at the cuts on his face. The acrid liquid stung like hell, and made him feel sick, but he didn't relish the thought of them getting infected. He wiped away the blood, gritting his teeth to keep from making a sound.
He looked at Marty through the mirror. He found him already watching him, the cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth.
"Jim doesn't want you touching Sherlock, does he?" he said, returning to wiping his wounds clean.
"What are you on about?" Marty said sharply.
"He wants Sherlock to himself," John said coolly. "That's why you lot have backed off so much these past few weeks."
In all honesty that theory had only just come to John, but he had a feeling that he might be right. Marty stirred angrily behind him, narrowing his eyes.
"You just shut it," he said harshly, plucking the cigarette from his lips. He held it like he was holing a joint. "You don't know shit, you stupid fag."
John laughed, and had to restrain a wince. Laughing hurt. He dropped the blood-stained paper into the basin. "Look who's talking."
Marty stared at him. His cigarette was hanging forgotten beside him. "What?"
John turned, with a snort. "Didn't you realise? I've known for weeks. I saw you giving it to him at a party, you fucking hypocrite."
Marty had gone very pale. His mouth was open slightly. John felt a thrill of triumph.
"You're making shit up," Marty said at length, ashen faced.
John turned to him. "Is that the best response you've got?" he taunted. "Yeah, I know all about you two. I know you've been sucking his cock. I know you've been fucking him." He sneered. "I know he's been fucking you."
Marty stepped angrily towards him, curling his hand around John's shirt. "You fucking-"
"Uh uh uh," John said breathlessly. "Jim won't be pleased if you dirty me up again."
He could see an internal conflict going on inside Marty's head. He probably would have loved nothing more than to kick the shit out of John, but he wouldn't. John realised that now. Marty needed to follow Jim's directions. It was a compulsion.
Marty let go of him and stepped back. It seemed to take every ounce of his strength to do so. His eyes were narrowed into slits. "You and Holmes..." He seemed repulsed. "How could you touch that freak? What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"What the hell is the difference?" John snapped, pushing past him. He glanced down at his uniform, there were specks of blood and mud on it, but otherwise there was no suggestion of what had happened in the darkened courtyard.
"Jim Moriarty is a winner," Marty said brusquely. "He's going to be someone."
"Sherlock will be someone," John said quietly, staring at the opposite wall. "He's just as intelligent as Moriarty. He just happens to have a heart too."
Marty made a sound between a growl and a snort. "Are you in love or something?"
"Are you?" John retorted, rounding on him. "Seems to me that I'm not the only one risking everything for someone else."
Marty jerked back, seeming taken aback by the force in his tone. "What the fuck are you suggesting?"
John looked him hard in the eye. "I'm suggesting you're in love with Moriarty."
Marty opened and closed his mouth several times, his features working violently. John wasn't sure whether he was going to hit him or burst into tears. He had touched a nerve.
He gave a short, painful laugh and turned his back on him. "Rather be a fag than in complete denial."
Marty didn't reply. John left him, hobbling across the dark courtyard, back towards the school.
...
When Sherlock reached his room that night he found Ben already there, seemingly working through his homework at his desk. He glanced up when Sherlock entered and nodded briefly before turning back to his work.
Sherlock closed the door behind him, staring at him. "Thanks." The word sounded artless and blank. It seemed only too obvious that he wasn't used to saying it.
Ben looked back at him, his dark eyebrows knitted. "For what?"
"Uh..." Sherlock swallowed. "Speaking up for me."
Ben spun around in his chair. He still looked bemused. "It's fine," he said, cocking an eyebrow. "They were being dicks."
"They're always dicks," Sherlock replied, eyeing him sharply. "Why was this time any different?"
Ben was silent. He didn't seem abashed by Sherlock's response. At length, he spoke. "I'm sick of Jim. I'm sick of Marty. I'm really sick of feeling like I'm walking on eggshells every time I'm around them. But mostly, I'm sick of the idiots who swarm around them like flies."
Sherlock nodded. He was honest. That was usually a good thing. "I thought you had football practice tonight?" he said, crossing to his side of the room and tugging off his school jumper.
Ben was silent. Sherlock turned to him questioningly. He was feeling increasingly like a deranged ex-boyfriend, but he wanted to know that John was safe and where he was supposed to be. He also knew that if John knew he was still keeping tabs on him he'd be furious. He'd made that pretty damn clear earlier that day.
Sherlock lowered his eyes. God damn it. He had made such a mess of things.
"Sherlock." Ben's voice suddenly sounded strained.
Sherlock looked up at him. "What?" he said numbly, still thinking about John.
"I..." Ben glanced uncomfortably at the door. "Look, I'm really gonna drop myself in the shit for telling you this, but... but I think John's in trouble."
"What?" Sherlock said sharply. "What do you mean?"
"When we were walking down to the pitch," Ben said uncertainly. "The other boys... They... Jim-"
Sherlock was already at the door. He threw it open and stalked down the corridor to John's room. He pounded on the door with all his might.
The door opened almost immediately. John blinked confusedly at him. Sherlock's eyes darted from the dark stains around his mouth and nose to the filthy state of his shirt, and his stomach coiled with rage. He would get Jim for this.
"What did he do?" he snarled.
John's eyes widened in alarm. "Sherlock, what-"
Sherlock pushed past him. John stared after him, seeming unsure of whether to close the door or not. "You can't just come barging in here," he hissed.
"And when were you going to tell me about this?" Sherlock burst out, turning on him.
The threat of being overheard seemed to win John's internal battle and he hurriedly closed the door. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he snapped.
"I'm fucking pissed," Sherlock retorted. "Who the fuck does he think he is? And why didn't you tell me?"
"I told you before that I needed space," John said angrily. "I don't need you to protect me. Don't act like you have some God-given right to know what happens to me every minute of the day."
"You can't fight him by yourself," Sherlock said, infuriated. "Don't you see that? Why are you always so goddamned naive?"
"Why do you always act like I'm so stupid that I can't possibly look after myself?" John shouted.
"Because sometimes I think it's fucking true!" Sherlock roared back at him.
"You fucking wanker!"
"You stupid child!"
They lapsed into silence, both breathing hard for air. Sherlock was tingling with rage. John was furiously flushed and looked ready to run at him. For a moment Sherlock didn't know whether he was going to punch him, or push him against the door and kiss him. At that moment, both options seemed possible.
John turned away with visible difficulty. "Just get out, Sherlock."
"I won't let him do this," Sherlock said quietly.
He walked out into the corridor. He already knew exactly where he was going. He no longer cared if he had John's approval. He was going to put an end to this.
He reached the common room and pushed open the door, uncertain of what he'd see. He'd never stepped foot inside of it. He found a moderately sized room with old-fashioned wallpaper, a large television on one side, surrounded by sofas, a table in another corner where a handful of boys were playing poker. There were armchairs scattered throughout it.
He attracted a great deal of attention. Almost everyone stared as he walked inside and scanned the interior. He immediately spotted his target, sitting idly in one of the arm chairs, legs crossed and hand glued to his phone.
"Jim," he said loudly.
The effect it had on the room was remarkable. There was almost immediate silence. Eyes darted between the two of them. Jim held up a hand, making a show of finishing whatever he was texting before finally looking up.
"You called?" he said, raising an eyebrow.
"I want to talk to you," Sherlock growled. "Alone."
The corners of Jim's mouth twitched. Sherlock knew he thought he could smell victory. He thought he had finally done it, that he had finally broken Sherlock. John was isolated and alone. Sherlock had ruined his relationship with the only person who had ever cared for him. What moment could be better to claim victory?
Clearly to everyone's surprise, he rose from his chair, sliding the phone into his pocket. "Lead on," he said, the smirk dancing across his lips.
Beside him, Marty looked intensely bitter.
Sherlock turned on his heel and walked across to the opposite side of the hall. He heard the door close behind him and Jim's steady, measured footsteps cross the floor.
"You do so love to make a scene, don't you?" he said, his voice syrupy sweet. "Sherlo-"
Sherlock turned and gripped the front of Jim's shirt. Before the boy had time to steady himself, Sherlock had thrown him against the nearest wall. Jim spluttered, completely winded. He gagged, blinking confusedly up at him.
"You think you've won, you sick fuck," Sherlock said softly. "You haven't even come close. Touch John again and I will make you regret it."
Jim wheezed with laughter. "You and what army?" He coughed thickly.
"You know my brother Mycroft?" Sherlock wasn't proud to play the family card, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
Jim sneered. "Of course. How could I forget? Dear Mycroft. He proved to be a much easier nut to crack than I thought."
"What-" Sherlock caught himself. He couldn't let Jim distract him. It was one of his many tricks, throwing Sherlock off guard with a sudden germ of information. But Sherlock was ready this time. "I will make sure my brother ruins any chance you have of getting into a university, getting a loan, owning your own business, you hear me?"
Jim grinned. "Are you scared, Sherlock? Have you finally realised what I knew all along? I can't be beaten. If I go down, we both go down, my dear."
Sherlock slammed him harder against the wall. Jim gasped, the grin barely shifting from his face. Sherlock moved a hand to his throat. How easy it would be to choke the bastard here. God, he wished he could do it.
"No," Sherlock said, shaking his head slowly. "No, you will never win. Because I will never give myself to you. Don't you realise that? I love John."
Jim's eyes flashed. He bared his teeth. "You liar."
"No," Sherlock said, smiling cruelly. "I always have. I would die for him."
"If he knew what you had done-" Jim spat.
"He does," Sherlock said softly. "I told him."
Jim's expression immediately changed. "You... you did what?" he said, a gleeful laugh forcing itself from his restricted throat.
Sherlock stared at him, taken off guard. He could feel Jim's throat trembling beneath his hand.
Jim gave an almost manic shout of laughter. He threw his head back against the wall, the laughter coming in wild howls. "You told him? God help me!"
Sherlock wanted to move away. The very sight of him made his skin crawl, and he wondered: how had he ever wanted this? What had possessed him?
Jim finally composed himself, tears clinging to his eyelashes. "You stupid amateur," he hissed. "There was no video tape." He giggled manically. "Did he cry? Oh, I bet he did. Poor, sweet John. Oh, how it must have hurt for him to know the truth. It would have destroyed him. And you did it all yourself! You clever boy!"
"You're lying," Sherlock said hollowly.
John smirked widely. "You broke John Watson's heart all by yourself. How does it feel to know that?"
Sherlock let go of him and stepped back. Something cold and sickening was spreading over him. "You sick bastard. You've taken everything from him."
"But you helped so nicely," Jim said, with relish. "How could I have recruited those underdeveloped halfwits without the help of some pictorial evidence!"
"What are you talking about?" Sherlock said blankly, though he knew in his heart exactly what Jim meant.
"Using John's birthday as your phone's security code..." Jim said, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "You really are pathetic. But I did enjoy your handiwork. It wasn't difficult to convince those idiots just what John was, when he said it so nicely for himself in text. John... the little... cocksucker." He said the last word in barely more than a poisonous whisper.
Sherlock stared at him numbly. He couldn't have spoken even if he wanted to. His limbs seemed to have stopped functioning.
Jim straightened up from the wall, brushing off his school uniform. He looked up and smiled. "You've lost, Sherlock." He pressed a finger to his lips and then brought it to Sherlock's, pressing hard against Sherlock's mouth. "You've lost."
With that, he turned and walked back to the common room.
...
There was nervous movement in the room. Jim glanced up from his chair. It had been turned towards the empty space between the television area and the table usually used for poker. Before him were eight or nine boys in their pyjamas. It wasn't ideal, but it was all he had to work with.
To his right was Marty, dressed in a vinyl jacket and jeans and looking sour, as usual. Jim rolled his eyes to himself. Teenage boys. All you had to do was fuck them right and they thought it was twoo wuv.
He tapped his well-manicured nails on the edge of his chair with an impatient cough. Marty glanced at him. "Hey! Shut up!" he bleated at the assembly.
They turned, falling silent as they stared up with appropriate awe at their lord and master, atop his less-than-ideal throne. At the back, Jim could see that sop Ben Greer. He had had his misgivings about him for a long time, but tonight he would determine whether or not they were groundless.
"Did you get John back to his dorm room in one piece?" he shot at Marty.
Marty nodded wordlessly.
"Good," Jim said, with satisfaction. "I wouldn't want him to be too broken. I have other things in mind for him."
The boys glanced uncomfortably at each other. They were only enthusiastic about mindless violence up to a point. It was so typical. They were so filled with hatred, but so weak and so pathetic when it came to directing it towards a target. It would take years of training to recondition their weak minds into anything useful, but for the time being Jim thought he had done rather well for his brief stint at Redverse.
"I believe I have the key to Sherlock's downfall," he said at length. "In fact, I've possessed it all along, but I think I played it in the wrong fashion." He rested his elbow on the arm of the chair, gazing across the room to the door.
Yes, he had definitely played his advantage in the wrong manner. He had tried to use lust against Sherlock, and failed miserably. What made things far worse was that Sherlock had proven to have a shred of humanity. Something Jim had not counted on. But if Sherlock still insisted on playing the hero, and defending John Watson then Jim would certainly make use of that weakness.
He glanced at his attentive audience and smiled. "Tomorrow, I believe we will drive them both from this establishment for good."
"How?" one of the mindless, bovine fools asked in a tentative manner.
"Just follow my directions and you'll be fine," Jim said disdainfully. "A monkey could do it." He looked dubiously at Billy.
There were anxious mumbles amongst them. Jim rolled his eyes. It had been difficult enough to convince them that their actions against John Watson had been very necessary. He had had to handhold and coax them like children to the very end. The only one who showed any true promise was Marty, but he spent most of his time in a jealous sulk. It was a pity.
"Alright!" He flexed his fingers out on the arms of his chair. "Billy," he said sharply to the oversized lump standing sullenly on the outskirts of the group like a pockmarked mountain with hair. "I trust you still have our little memento." He held out a extremely well-moisturized hand.
Bill shifted forward, digging a pudgy hand into his pocket. He produced a black mobile phone and placed it on Jim's palm. Jim held it up, eyeing his own reflection in the darkened screen. "This is a good start, but it will do us little good without Holmes's too." He looked at Ben. The boy almost recoiled. He clearly had not forgotten their little heart-to-heart. "You have access to him, Greer. You seem to be the logical choice, no?"
Ben shifted where he was. He glanced around him. "I don't know if I'd be that good at it," he said uncomfortably.
The others shifted around him, murmuring. Jim frowned. He did not need someone defying his authority and stirring up the rest of the group. Ben had been a liability from the start. He should have known from how matey he was with John that he would be useless to him.
"Are you refusing?" he said sweetly.
"I... I... no," Ben said, a panicked expression crossing his face. "Not refusing... I'm just saying that-"
"If you don't intend to be of use to me," Jim said, jerking his head to the side, "then you really need not be here." He clicked his fingers at Marty.
Marty immediately walked towards him like the well-trained drone he was. Ben looked flustered. "Wait! I'm not refusing!"
"Take him outside, Marty," Jim said, rolling his eyes. "We don't have time for this."
Marty took a firm grip of the smaller boy's collar and half-dragged, half-led him to the door. Ben had an expression of confusion and panic on his face. Marty opened the door with one hand and yanked Ben after him. The door was slammed behind him.
The others didn't dare turn away from him, but were clearly listening in apprehension. Outside Greer's voice could be heard, shrill and loud. There was the sound of something heavy hitting the floor, followed by a series of lighter, firmer thumps and a few, whimpering cries from Greer. Then there was silence.
Marty returned, looking a shade pinker, but otherwise unchanged. He closed the door behind him and returned to his place next to Jim. Jim smiled at him, and saw a pathetic glimmer of happiness alight in his eyes.
He faced the rest of the group again. They looked very pale. "Now," he said delicately. "Who would like to volunteer to take over Ben's duties?" Nobody raised their hand. In fact most of them seemed to be endeavouring to avoid his eye, without it being obvious that they were doing so. He looked at Billy. "You have proven yourself to have knack for this line of work. You can do it."
Billy looked perturbed. Or perhaps he just had gas. He nodded silently and stared at the ground.
"Very well," Jim said, tapping his fingernails impatiently on the arm of his chair. "Billy will get us the necessary prop and I will do the rest. The rest of you will wait for my instructions, you hear me? We don't want any more hiccups, do we?"
Outside the door there was a low, pained moan. The boys nodded vigorously.
"Wonderful," Jim said, smiling graciously at them. "You may go."
In a silent single file they turned and walked out the door. It was a wonder to behold. A lesser mind could never have bent their defiant spirits to his will. Their minds were feeble but their sense of entitlement was strong, and that was never easy to combat.
Marty, as always, stayed behind. When the last boy had disappeared and the door had been closed, Jim turned on him.
"What's the matter with you?" he demanded. "Why do you stand there with that pathetic look on your face? You're starting to get on my nerves."
He swept out of his chair and snatched his coat from its resting place on the table. He tugged it on, carefully fastened each button.
"I'm doing everything you want," Marty said sullenly.
Jim turned to him with a sneer. "Yes, and you do it with all the good grace of a cantankerous old woman."
Marty flushed. He still couldn't constrain his emotions, no matter how many times Jim told him to. "I did what you wanted, didn't I? I cleaned up that dirty fag, Watson."
"I've told you not to use that word," Jim snapped. "It's common. Try and give off the air that you weren't birthed in the back of broken down Ford Falcon for once in your miserable life."
"Shut up," Marty spat, balling up his fists.
Jim scoffed at him and turned to flatten his hair in the reflection of the darkened television screen.
There was a pause. Marty stared at him in sulky silence. "Watson knows," he blurted out finally.
Jim turned to him with a scornful tut. "Knows what? Knows how to count to ten? Knows all the planets in the solar system? Knows the meaning of life? What?"
"He knows about us," Marty said, blushing ridiculously.
Jim stared at him for a moment and then gave a short laugh. "Oh please, Hester. There is no "us." Don't start that queasy nonsense again."
"Then why do we fuck?" Marty said defiantly, his eyes flashing.
"Oh for God's sake! How many times do we have to go through this?" Jim burst out, stamping his foot. "Because you're good-looking and I get bored! Why else would I even look twice at you? You're as thick as a brick and have all the charisma of a drying puddle of mud."
Marty took three haughty steps towards him and shoved him against the table behind him. Jim almost lost his balance, but Marty took a firm hold of his collar. "You bastard. You're lying," he snarled.
Jim laughed in his face. "Don't be so pathetic, Hester. You're supposed to be helping me take down Holmes, not throwing tantrums like a scorned teenage girl."
"You're nothing but a poisonous, self-centred wanker," Marty growled, his grip on Jim's shirt tightening.
"Dry up, Hester," Jim retorted, panting.
There was a ringing moment of silence. And then abruptly the remaining space between them was gone and Marty was slamming his mouth against his with vicious force. Jim grinned with triumph against the taller boy's lips and held tightly to the boy's broad shoulders.
He pulled Marty's shirt open with little concern for the buttons that fell to the floor like gumdrops and scattered around them. Marty's chest was firm and toned from football, and pale as cream. His nipples were dark and hardened with arousal. Jim glanced up at the boy's flushed face and smirked.
"Dirty slut," he said softly, running a hand through Marty's brassy hair.
He was roughly turned around and found himself bent over the poker table with Marty fumbling ineptly with his trousers.
"Hurry up!" he said impatiently.
Hester finally managed to unbutton him and pull the restraining garment around his thighs. His erection was straining against his underwear. In fact, he had been hard from the moment Marty had asked him "why we fuck."
Marty's hands were hot and clammy as they searched his body, pushing up under his coat and shirt. Jim arched against him, rubbing himself against the mound that had formed between Marty's thighs. It was so obvious, even through his clothes.
Jim moaned and bent lower over the table, spreading his hands across it. "Fuck me, Marty. I want it. I want it so bad." Teenage boys were so predictable. So easy. He could have made Marty come where he stood, without even touching him. "I want you inside me."
Marty made a strangled groan and pressed himself against him.
"Come on, Marty," Jim said, breathlessly. He looked over his shoulder at him. He was furiously red and panting. "Fuck me. You like that word don't you? Fuck. You say it so often it's almost meaningless."
Jim flattened himself against the table and felt his trousers tumble down the remainder of his leg and pool around his ankles. One of Marty's hands crept around his hips and wrapped around his weeping cock.
With a rough, artless movement, Marty forced his way into Jim's body. Jim bared his teeth against the intense pain that burst through him.
"Ah! Yes!" he growled, clawing at the wooden surface of the table.
"Fu-uck-" Marty groaned, his mouth very close to Jim's ear.
Jim rocked against him. "Move! Marty!"
Marty inhaled desperately and the next moment he was moving in rough, harsh spurts, massaging Jim's erection in a clumsy, damp manner with the hand that wasn't tangled up in Jim's hair. Marty had a thing for pulling his hair. It was the closest thing to a kink Jim had found in him. Marty was perfectly vanilla in his taste for sex. They fucked in beds, over tables, on sofas, against walls, but Jim usually ended up on his hands and knees with Marty fucking him from behind.
It was dull. But it was better than nothing.
Though certainly not better than Sherlock.
Jim closed his eyes. Oh.
"Oh!" he moaned, gritting his teeth. Yes, Sherlock. Yes.
Sherlock would fuck him so angrily. He'd make him bleed. Not just his arse, but his hips from where his hands had been curled in ecstasy, his nipples from where he had bit him, his chest from his where his nails had run in deep, lustful trenches.
He would be so angry and so forceful. And so desperate for Jim to take his cock. And so delicate and breakable. Oh, yes. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.
"Ugh!" he groaned out loud, hunching low over the table. "Harder!"
He was so close. And Sherlock was close too. He was slamming into him, he was crying out helplessly, he couldn't keep himself from screaming Jim's name. He closed his eyes, threw his head back, needed to go deeper and deeper inside of him.
His orgasm burst over him with furious power. He spent himself over the floor, and Marty's hand. "Oh! Sherlock!" he cried out deliriously.
...
Sherlock only had to wait three rings before a brisk voice sounded on the line:
"Hello?"
"Mycroft?"
There was a silence.
Sherlock twisted the covers of his bed around his fingers. "Hello?"
"Yes, I'm here," Mycroft said at length. "I was just surprised to hear from you again so soon... and on this number."
"I didn't know whether I'd get through to you on the other one," Sherlock said hurriedly, fingering the piece of card inside his pocket. "And this is important."
"It must be," Mycroft said drily. "After a spat you usually don't talk to me for weeks."
Sherlock prickled. "You were the one who hung up on me- And this isn't about that." He hadn't decided how he was going to broach the subject with his brother. He had thought it best not to rehearse the conversation too much in his mind beforehand.
"Well, I'm a busy man, Sherlock. What is it?"
Sherlock exhaled slowly. "I need to ask you... about Jim Moriarty."
There was silence.
And then: "I told you everything I know about that boy."
"No, you didn't," Sherlock retorted. "I know you didn't."
"What has he been saying?" Mycroft said, suddenly alert.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and slid down onto the floor, resting his head against the mattress of the bed. "He's only suggested things, but I know him, Mycroft. He knows something. And I think it would be much better if I heard it from you."
There was silence. Sherlock rested his head against his palm.
"It's important," he said quietly. "John... John and I broke up."
The words were even harder to say than he thought they would be. He hadn't thought it would physically hurt to admit out loud what he had known in his heart since he had confessed what he had done: it was truly over.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Mycroft said in a strangely gentle voice. "I know this will mean little to you, but I am truly sorry to hear that."
Sherlock nodded, forgetting for a moment his brother couldn't see him. "Well..." He blinked a few times. "Well anyway, that's not why I called you."
"What did Jim Moriarty have to do with you breaking up?" Mycroft said shrewdly.
"I..." Sherlock hadn't expected him to make the connection so easily. He didn't want to have to say aloud what he had done. It would be admitting that Mycroft was right, that he had taken John's heart and shredded it. That he was a hypocrite. That he was heartless.
He sighed, feeling his shoulders sag. "I hurt John. I didn't mean to... But I did. And I deserve to be alone."
There was a pause. He could sense that his brother was choosing his words carefully. For once Sherlock didn't feel accosted by his brother's involvement. When he finally spoke, it was with the same careful, gentle tone that sounded entirely alien coming from him. "I'm sure you're just being dramatic. Whatever happened, John cares for you deeply."
Sherlock never thought he'd had such an awkward conversation with his brother. Neither of them were built for heart to hearts. "Uh... Thanks."
"And what does this have to do with Moriarty?" Mycroft said promptly, allowing no awkward silence to develop.
Sherlock didn't know how to explain everything that had happened. He didn't even know if he should be involving his brother. But, as much as he hated to admit it, he was out of his depth.
"He's trying to hurt John," he said, deciding to be succinct.
Mycroft sighed. "I feared this would happen." He sighed again, and Sherlock heard the familiar groan of his chair as he sat back in it. "I don't know if what I have to tell you will do you much good."
"Tell me anyway," Sherlock said firmly. "I need to know everything about him that I can."
"Sherlock, I really don't like the sound of this," Mycroft said in a warning tone. "Do I need to come up there?"
"No!" Sherlock blustered. "I can take care of this myself! Just tell me what you know about Moriarty."
"Fine." Mycroft sounded very unconvinced. "I don't know if I really want to say what I have to say over the phone. I'll email you the details."
"I can't wait that long," Sherlock protested.
"I'll do it as soon as I can," Mycroft said. "Though I still think that I should make a visit up there and speak to Moriarty myself."
Sherlock snorted humourlessly. "Talking won't help. It's too late for that."
"That sort of talk is hardly reassuring," Mycroft said coolly. "I have to go, Sherlock. I have work to do... and an email to write apparently. Speak later."
"Fine. Bye. Hurry up with that email."
Sherlock hung up and tossed his phone behind him onto the bed without looking. He booted up his laptop- and waited.
End of Chapter Twenty-Eight