Chapter 22
Being Human
John came back to him and he was going to die. Heaven would be laughing at him if he had any reason to believe in that sort of rubbish. It was their flat. It was safe. But that wasn't accurate. People knew where he lived so by definition it was a place of risk when enemies developed. It was supposed to be safe, however, and called home. This as the course of his life seemed cruel.
He lowered his gun from where he shoved the barrel through holes in the window formed by sniper rounds. His shots appeared to have scared the shooter off or drawn enough noise as to deliver the same end result of flight. Self-preservation was a useful thing to rouse in an individual. John would probably say that was insensitive.
John would say, "Sherlock. People are dead."
They had no method to identify the party responsible. Could be the Professor, the likeliest suspect considering Sherlock was on his case and a potential threat. He tossed the gun on the sofa near where it was retrieved and turned to face his dead or dying friend. They'd done this before by the river. It was absurd to hurt John this way again. Especially since this time Sherlock was the target and the sniper did a poor job of the hit.
But wait. John was conscious. John was in pain. Mostly, John was pissed. Hard to get very upset when dying, wasn't it? Jumping from the roof even knowing he had a plan to survive did not evoke anger. It was difficult and heart-breaking. Of course, that would require he had a heart, which he most certainly did not. Ask anyone.
What was he doing? Sherlock bolted to his friend's side and knelt, gripping one of the arms clutched to his front. John's face was scrunched up and he was biting the bottom of his lip to the point a drop of blood bubbled to the surface. Blood. Where was the blood?
"Are you..fine?"
"Do I look bloody fine, Sherlock?!"
"Er."
His noise of exasperation would perhaps be more effective if he wasn't in so much pain. He brushed the disruptive arms away to examine the entry wounds on the chest and stomach. Sherlock unbuttoned the shirt and chuckled amusement. John was wearing a bulletproof vest beneath which stopped the bullets dead.
John tried to sit upright and Sherlock tugged on the vest to help him do it. Together they got the thing off of him along with his shirt. He kept the shirt clenched in a fist but Sherlock tossed aside the vest with the hot metal still embedded. Oh. Ouch. The vest prevented the bullets from going through but the impact caused large blotches of disturbed skin. The irritated red would soon become dark bruises. Looked painful.
He put his hands on the spot on his chest, pushing his fingers to test for deeper damage. John yanked his hand off by the wrist, swallowing the louder part of a yelp. Shaking his head, he scooted backward a bit.
"I'm a doctor. Nothing's broken. Just feels like a truck smashed into me is all."
Frowning, he couldn't remove his eyes from the damage. "The Professor must have thought he'd take it upon himself to kill me while the city is in a panic."
John strained to smile. "London won't be falling today."
He winced struggling to put his shirt back on and Sherlock jumped to assist slipping his arms into the sleeves. John sat quietly while he worked his fingers to button the shirt for him. Dumbfounded might be the expression. For what, he couldn't imagine.
Sherlock smiled thoughtfully when he reached the top buttons, leaving them open and stroking the exposed skin just once. He liked it better if there were more buttons open to show a little of the hairless chest. But John usually buttoned high so he shifted to continue and a hand grasped his wrist. Their eyes met.
"Leave it."
Dropping his hands, he nodded, expecting John to do the rest himself. He left the shirt open the few buttons. John groaned and got up from the floor. Sherlock followed, glancing toward the window.
He tucked in the shirt, apparently unbothered by the holes. On the back of John's armchair was a pile of tops recently laundered. John lifted and set aside sweaters until he came to a vest. He pulled it over his head and through his arms to cover his ruined shirt and conceal the holes. A grunt of discomfort was the only sound he made. Sherlock was impressed by how he wouldn't let this incident of near death ruin his day nor outfit. Brave. Adorable.
"I saw him. The shooter."
He blinked. "What?"
"Parker. I don't know if he was sent or he's still jealous the project lead thought I was the better soldier."
The name didn't sound familiar. His confusion must have shown.
"Dominic Parker. Experimented on without the control element to be the keeper of the rest of us mind-controlled slaves in that god-forsaken project. Blond? Blue-eyed? Pale? Standard Englishman really. Suppose he wouldn't stand out much in a crowd."
"You're certain it was him?"
"I saw him right before he fired the shots. It was him."
Sherlock straightened to stand tall and assured, his default position. "You think you were the intended target."
"Uh-huh. Thought Mycroft said they fled the country."
"Mycroft is often wrong," he handwaved with a literal wave of a hand. "I suppose we ought to go see Lestrade about this."
/
Stepping out of the car, he did not spare his hired driver a glance. His focus was on the door ahead. He had the key to the flat and used it, entering the building and the flat itself unnoticed. The morning light was brightening the sky gradually.
Two days earlier the Professor stirred trouble for London that annoyed him. James Moriarty was the ingenious criminal to be feared and respected. A man with simple yet effective solutions for everyone.
The floorboard creaked under his left foot and he sneered, letting the door shut as it would. John was at hospital unknowingly being watched by Moran. Sebastian would protect him from foolish people who thought they could take what didn't belong to them. This meeting right now was between him and Sherlock Holmes.
Speaking of, the consulting detective emerged from the kitchen with purposeful strides. He was fully dressed for the day or never changed from the prior day. Who knew with this particular individual. He acted as though Moriarty's presence there was anticipated but he knew he'd surprised him. Through narrowed eyes he monitored the man who stood by the window and tapped at the taped over sections.
"Not very nice, Jim. You could have warned us altogether. What if the sniper aimed for the head?"
He laughed.
Sherlock scowled. "Since you're so generous to him, have this repaired. I happen to think this is your fault, even if he won't. You help people fix their problems. Well, these NSA folks have a problem with him it would seem."
"Hm, yes. Can't have a draft coming in. I'm happy to give Johnny gifts. Consider it done."
That got a reaction from the man who pretended not to feel. Revulsion mostly. He whirled about in dramatic fashion, bringing a careful smirk to Jim's lips. The detective was studying his demeanor for answers. Always making it complicated when he could just ask. Make little ol' Jim do all the work.
"You think I would endanger him?"
"Speaking to you in any manner puts him in danger. It isn't right. You should leave him alone."
"I sent him to you. I can take him away the same."
Sherlock adopted an even stiffer stance, arms behind his back. "You leave him alone. Leave us alone."
"I had Moran kill a deviant who likes children. Can't say you did anything like that for him, now can you?"
He..wasn't quite following. John didn't tell him where Moriarty took him that day. Fascinating.
"I'm there for him and you're not. Face reality, Sherlock."
"You probably set this whole thing up. Consulting for the leftovers as it were."
Desperate. How sad.
"I had a little birdy let me in on the secret of John Watson's impending demise. He owed me. A lot of people do. How do you think I get things done around here? Oh. I see. Now you'll feel you're right and I'm trying to kill John. Are you always such a moron when it comes to him?"
"You hurt him and he still has nightmares sometimes, because of you. You should do us both a favor and leave the country never to return."
Jim feigned a yawn and wandered to the sofa, glancing down to a gun stuffed between the cushions. He grinned inside. He got the "great detective" completely unawares. His win.
"I came to have fun but if you're going to be boring..." He dragged out the 'o' and let his voice go high to curl at the end. His speech mannerisms confused the other man and it was hilarious to watch the reactions.
"What are you trying at?"
Oooh, a demand to replace the defensiveness. How fresh and mind the sarcasm. He deigned the sofa to be beneath him with a look of distaste and went to John's chair, sitting. There was no doubt in his mind now that Sherlock was in love. Inconvenient but not surprising. He'd thought it was so long before either of them contemplated the idea.
"No tea?"
"No."
Abrupt. No humor today, hm? Very well. He offered a tight smile, eyes calculating. Sherlock dropped in his armchair, holding eye contact. He let him.
"You haven't done crime, have you? Perhaps you're behind this Professor. You play the long con. This has you written all over it."
Hm. He really was disappointingly ordinary. Jim would never go through the effort of simultaneous trigger bombs and calls to threaten choices. His targets had only to choose what he wanted them to choose. Although he was still sore about Sherlock predicating the literal nature of his promising a fall to him in the past. He suspected he knew how he managed to avoid an actual fall but refused to discuss it in light of his own failure.
Besides, he'd want to gloat and watch if he was hiring hitters to take out the meddling irritation. Sherlock was meant to play and lose, not play and lose but scrape by a slight victory regardless. And he wouldn't be daft enough to hire someone who went after the wrong man. Chinese gangs excluded.
"Crime would be naughty, but well within our agreement. Your other accusation is clever, Sherlock. We've talked about when you try to be clever."
He was no good at it. People were easier to hack than any database.
Sherlock's phone rang. He answered immediate and brusque. "What."
He rose to crouch on the seat in a posture that might have been for thinking. He did have a crime for Sherlock to solve. All in good fun. No murder involved to appease John should he learn of this visit later. Jim created a problem for Sherlock to solve. It irked him to dwell on the man between them so a game it would be.
Brow creasing, he realized he was forgotten. In an instant. John seemed to be the sole person who was never forgotten by Sherlock when he was present. And..he was not dwelling on how their was an obstacle to him. Mm.
Sherlock hit a button and held the phone out and upward, giving him a dull look barely concealing the joy.
"James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes, together at last. I thought I'd take the liberty of playing a game with you. You like games. Let's play."
Jim did not recognize the man's voice but he identified the criminal anyway. Sherlock was enraptured. Had to be a master criminal who got his attention. On the news the parts of his recordings shared to the public featured an altered voice. He was confident to be using his own voice unmasked. Something to do with terrorizing London made a man big, did it?
"Mr. Moriarty thinks five moves ahead and has contingency plans. He enjoys creating problems. Mr. Holmes solves those problems and thinks on his feet, observing solutions. I, on the other hand, think one move ahead and it is always the correct move. I identify problems and their solutions. I am what you squander."
The criminal said something concerning their inability to live for anyone but themselves at that masquerade party. He pondered whether John was upset with him yet for the whole ransom situation there. Probably. John cared about things like that. The Professor thought they were impure and doing nothing to benefit the world. Like they should care. Perhaps John and he would get along if he hadn't selected a female victim who happened to be his sister. More's the pity.
"I designed our game with the two of you in mind. Prepare yourselves."
"Not interested."
Sherlock went ignored.
"Two men drink iced teas. One had five drinks and the other had one drink. The drinks were poisoned but only the man who had one drink died. Explain."
He grinned and Sherlock flopped in the chair, bothered. He had a dislike for riddles and preferred puzzles. Jim enjoyed a good riddle. He lived for entertaining distractions.
"Go on, Virgin. Answer the loony fellow."
The man appeared almost tempted to stick out his tongue for the name. Jim found it a sight better than what he labeled the caller. Shrugging, he relaxed in the chair and waited him out. He had no intention of answering for his foe.
Scowling, Sherlock retreated into his silly mind palace and emerged with a proud declaration.
"Obvious. The poison is in the ice. The one who took longer to drink allowed the ice to melt and the poison to contaminate. The other drank the teas before the ice melted so no poison melted into the drinks."
He was sorely tempted to roll his eyes or give a disappointed yell.
"That was practice. Now we shall begin."
They glowered at the mobile. The Professor thought very little of them indeed.
"I don't have eyes, but I once could see. I once had thoughts, but now am white and empty. Explain."
Ah. Skull. There had to be a lot more to this riddle if they were beginning. Were there any famous skulls or places involving skulls as a symbol that could have significance? He removed his phone from the inner pocket of his suit jacket and searched London and skulls.
"You're hinting at a skull."
He did roll his eyes. Sherlock noticed and frowned, confidence faltering. He did love to witness that, even while he was upset the detective consultant wasn't as good as he wanted him to be in solving problems laid out.
Silence on the other side of the line, and then, "Proceed."
The call ended and he looked confused. Jim giggled amusement. He was recording all of Sherlock's calls at the moment. Should be fun to download the call later and attempt to learn the identity of their famous professor. Time to show the other how true puzzles were solved.
"1988. Remains of thirty-nine Roman Londoners discovered in what was once Walbrook valley. Parts of forty human skeletons but only thirty-nine skulls. We need to go to the Museum of London."
Moriarty's driver parked near the front door of the flat building and they climbed in the back. Seated on opposite ends on the same side, Sherlock stared ahead and Jim stared at the detective. He had his first personal moments with John here. The long coat looked nice on the man, he could admit that. Wore it constantly. He preferred changing his outfits in varying ways. Peel away what came before for something new.
Arriving at the museum, there was a crime scene sectioned off and few people wandering the area. Outside the car, Sherlock strode to a man crouched and glaring. Ignoring the evidence to hate on Sherlock. Jim was a fan.
"What are you doing here?"
How very sniveling. The contempt was clear. He smiled a false smile and waved. When the man's contempt shifted to him and grew more severe, Jim exaggerated an excited expression and waved more insistently. The crime scene employee stiffened and gritted his teeth, fear creeping into his eyes. He waved slow and uncertain to greet him, the hand shifting to run through a mop of brown hair afterward. Pure nerves. Delightful.
Satisfied, he let the act drop and strolled over to join Sherlock, expression and tone bland. "What do we got?"
"What are you doing?"
"Being human. What do we got?"
Sherlock sighed and gestured to the body. It was a man dressed in blacks and dark browns, tied to a chair. The chair had been placed just outside the museum's front entrance at the top of the stairs. Right where people walked. No missing it. Such a blatant crime and no apparent witnesses. The hour was early but still... Bold.
The man's face had been blown off. Sherlock pointed. "He appears redressed. The clothes are sloppily worn, left sleeve not extended to the wrist, right pant leg rolled a bit as well."
"He's one of mine. I recognize the outfit."
A sharp stare came his way. "What do you mean?"
"I hired him to track and kill the Professor."
"You what?"
Jim shrugged a shoulder. "I wager the Professor found him first or the man was an idiot. He had orders to report an identity should it be discovered. His funeral."
A smile split his face. Sherlock looked to an officer, who held out a piece of paper.
"There was a suicide note. It's odd."
"Suicide? There's no gun here. His hands are tied!"
The officer scratched the back of his head. "Oh. Right. Yeah."
They watched him wander off muttering he knew that when he hadn't. It was early but..really? He hoped he was intelligent and not that everyone around them was dumbing. Sherlock seemed to be of the same mind.
"Anderson! Get this man coffee!"
"What? How dare you-?"
"Shut it. Coffee!"
He held the paper and read it before passing it to him. Jim rapidly scanned to read the words. A note on blunt-force trauma sustained at the time of death and sharp-force weapon injuries. The words gladiator, soldier, assassin written below. Anderson snatched the note from his hands as tenderly as he could do it.
"You're not wearing gloves!"
Jim watched him. The man nearly spoke the insult on his breath but he was too afraid. A genuine smile formed when he walked away cradling the evidence they disturbed. Oops.
Sherlock pulled out his phone the moment it rang. He answered and held it out for them to listen. He'd have the Professor killed one day. For now, let the game resume.