Chapter 26

London Will Fall

Contrary to popular belief, men have emotions and fall in love like any secondary school girl. They do not, one presumes, fall in love with a criminal who raped them, strapped a bomb to them, nearly had them shot, held them prisoner, raped them, held them for ransom. It is remarked often enough that love is insanity and not logical, but this was ridiculous.

He couldn't love two people and certainly not James. Moriarty, he was referring to him exclusively as Moriarty now, tossed him a box of his favorite biscuits which he almost spilled everywhere in his surprise. He offered as much contempt in his stare as he could muster and the man grinned. Distance, John, distance.

"You look nice, John."

He glanced down at the sweater Mrs. Hudson gifted him and tugged at the wide knitting. Well, he liked it. It was warm and comfy. Oh, maybe he wasn't joking. Moriarty nuzzled his face in the fabric resting on his chest until he'd grown so stiff he could be mistaken for a corpse. Patting him on the cheek, he grinned his way over to Lestrade's desk where Sherlock stood scowling at the behavior.

The consulting criminal or former or..whatever he was, sniffed in Sherlock's general direction. "Don't smell like a virgin anymore."

"I was not a- I don't have the time for- Why are you here?"

There was immense loathing in the why. John shifted away to regain his composure. Can't like both. You like Sherlock. It's fine. It's all fine.

"They've got him! Cardiff police arrested him at his home."

Looks exchanged all around. Lestrade returned to his call before promptly finishing. Donovan was the one to say what they were thinking.

"What? He just went home? Sherlock, are you sure he's the Professor?"

"He stabbed John. John recognized his voice. The voice identification program matched-"

Lestrade held up his hand. "Yeah, yeah. We've heard this before."

Sighing, he stood. "Let's get to the station."

John made certain to walk by Sherlock's side, arms brushing. He was proud of his friend, no, boyfriend. Sounded strange to have a boyfriend. Strictly women for him and now these recent times changed him. The detective consultant waited until the morning to indulge in his obsession over the criminal they identified. It was remarkable restraint and he refused to go without John helping. Proud.

Moran gripped his arm and leaned down. "Shower might be good."

His face reddened and he sputtered quietly, "What was that?"

"You shagged each other this morning, didn't you?"

Said knowingly. He did his best to glare affronted. Sherlock had to ruin it. What little of a front he could ruin.

"Exactly."

His eyes were staring at Moriarty and John fought not to fume, running his palm down his face.

"Sherlock."

It took a second try before he was looking at him.

"He's locked up. He can't harm anyone anymore. Let's shower and then go."

"Oooh, need help with that?"

John glanced at Moran. "How does he always know when to show up?"

"You're not the boss, but you don't need me to answer that."

"Bye, Moriarty. Sherlock and I investigate crimes, not you."

He did not almost stumble and fall down the stairs when he looked in the criminal's direction a bit too long. He was not prevented from taking a tumble by Moriarty's outstretched arm in that suit that fit him perfect. Their eyes met, neither of them were smiling, and they parted ways from that point on out of the building.

Really now, the number of times Moriarty saved his life were adding up. It was frankly unreasonable. When people acted like the monsters they were, much simpler. Monsters didn't exist though. Just people. And Moriarty had a way about him. He also preferred honesty and was danger incarnate.

Following a shower at the flat and a change of clothes just to be sure, John changed the sheets on the bed while Sherlock showered. His face grew red thinking about how unprofessional they'd been to be smelling like sex. He wouldn't let it happen twice.

His thoughts drifted to more important concerns. He rang his sister to share the good news. The man who hurt her was arrested and would be charged. He wouldn't be able to hurt her or anyone else again. She wasn't very enthused and he could understand it. Catching a person after they already did harm didn't do much to assuage the pain or trauma. John was determined to make it mean something. The one thing catching criminals did for the world was making sure they couldn't do it again.

They were in the car, Lestrade having sent Donovan on ahead to Cardiff so he could drive the two of them himself, probably to keep an eye on them. They were personally involved in this one, more so than the average case. He peered in the mirror when they climbed into the backseat.

"He's been taken to the South Wales Police Station. Apparently hasn't said a word except to deny being anything but a university professor."

They made good time and arrived to a large building several stories high. Lestrade parked near the front and the three of them got out, walking through the entrance. Donovan was there to greet them and she led the way to an upper level where the suspect was held in an interview room.

Local police ushered them into the connected observation room. Peering through the window where Tom would only see a mirror, John leaned against it. He looked like his friend, not some psychopath and sadist who enjoyed forcing cruel choices onto his victims.

The chief inspector arrived and stood in the open doorway reading a file. "Thomas Tyler Kingston, professor of criminology and psychology at Cardiff University. Age 43, spent his formative years self-harming, has a redacted SAS record, and a remarkable intelligence score. These are the only things we could find noteworthy. How do we go about connecting him to the Professor's crimes when we have no evidence?"

"There's evidence," Lestrade declared. "We'll have enough to bring him to trial."

He wasn't interested in the police side of this. "Can I see him?"

A female constable led him and Sherlock into the interview room and stood by the door she shut. He sat in the chair across from Professor Kingston and Sherlock hovered over his shoulder. John glanced back at him and then focused on his former friend, who was humming to himself.

"Is that London Bridge?"

"Is falling down. Yes. We're not in London, but it's apt."

He frowned, not really seeing how.

Sherlock looked down his nose at the man. "Done pretending you're not the Professor, hm?"

He paid no mind to the detective. "Same choice, John. You or them."

John restrained from touching the bandage on his chest where the pen stabbed him. "I chose."

"Then. And now?"

His frown deepened. Tom leaned back in the chair. "Same choice. Are you sure? I fear you're not thinking this through."

Sherlock laughed, forced, unfriendly. "You let yourself be caught. I wonder the reason if you're so smart. Or did you never imagine your identity would be discovered."

"I'll make the choice for you this..time." He tilted his head toward the door and the constable straightened her posture, pointing at him with the right hand, her thumb folded in.

He smiled at her and she looked away, grimacing. He looked to John again. "You'll suffer just the same so it's fine by me."

Humming the tune, amusement in his features, it irritated him. John wanted to know why he did the things he did. His sister was victimized so he decided to victimize other people's sisters?

"Did you know Harry was my sister?"

He was hoping Kingston would say no, reveal something to believe he wasn't pure evil. The man was insane and searching for what never existed. A pure person. People were flawed. It made them people. He'd given a lot of thought to the Professor and now that he sat face to face with him, he could deliver his prepared thoughts.

"I expect more from you, John."

"No," he interrupted, standing. "I did of you. If the man I got to know even exists, which I'm seriously doubting, then what a tragedy. You could help people. You did help people, and you did these things too. It's a choice to have hope in the world and people, Tom. I do. It's useless to despair if you're in a position to make a difference. I choose to live in hope for the future."

"Hope." The word was spoken like it tasted sour on his tongue.

He stood at the side of the metal table now, eyeing the man under the watchful observation of the people behind the mirror and the constable by the door. The man was a professor but former SAS, special forces. It was risky but he was mad.

"The good guy you're after in me would forgive you, I suppose. Or the angel, as you seem to think I am. But the human?" John punched him in the face, knuckles smashing into his jaw and right cheek. "That's for my own relief."

Tom was laughing. Why did these insane people always laugh when they were hurt? He shouldn't have hit him. Bloody guilt. He backed up as the door opened. The chief inspector seemed pissed he assaulted the suspect but he wouldn't apologize. Kingston deserved it for taking pleasure in a person's pain. He was the nearest thing to a real monster.

"Constable Hughes. Dr. Watson has a visitor. Would you show him to the visitor room?"

John widened his gaze, surprised. He looked to Sherlock, noticing his friend- boyfriend was occupied scanning the female constable. The chief opened the door wider and exuded cranky impatience.

"Are you coming?"

Sherlock shook his head and turned to study the professor rubbing his cheek, all serious in his expression. His gaze lingered on the criminal who stared in return. He began humming the tune to London Bridge. Probably missing something, but that was Sherlock's area of expertise. Stupid geniuses making a scene and not caring who gets hurt.

/

"Shall I destroy you, Mr. Holmes?"

The chief glared, severe lines on his aging face indicating he did that quite often. Sherlock was unbothered by the dramatics and spun on the spot to return fire. It would be less effective now that the man resumed humming.

"You claim you're above it all but you're desperate to know the answer to John's puzzle. How he's so good. I didn't get it for the longest time. It's really not a mystery. The answer's boring. He cares, and should you care that he cares, you make an effort to make it matter for you too." He sat in the chair opposite the Professor. "Good person solved. Shame you had to kill so many people."

"The difficulty is not so great to die for a friend, as to find a friend worth dying for. Homer the Greek poet."

His head tilted to the door and Sherlock ignored this habit of his. A finger tapped on the table. It was distracting.

"Is that your choice for me? I die or John does?"

The man smiled thin, failing to reach his eyes. "I'm more imaginative than that, and I don't care about you."

"I had fun playing your game," Sherlock told him, observing his reactions and posture, avoiding the tapping finger he assumed was to intentionally distract. "You were making a point. We don't have a heart. We're not worthy of someone as good as John."

He didn't believe any of that, not for himself anyway. Moriarty could go jump off a roof.

Constable Hughes stepped inside the room to stand beside the chief. "He found his way, sir."

"Mm. Good."

Sherlock's eyes flickered to the woman's inability to stay still. She shifted foot to foot. Sweat glistened on her forehead. It was cold in the room, not warm. He'd noted the sweating when she was in the room before and accounted it to nervous energy. Uncomfortable to be in the same room as a serial killer perhaps.

"The world is not enough for men like us. We seek out what makes living bearable to us. I've found a source of fascination in the form of the good doctor."

When the humming started up in combination to the tapping, he counted the taps. Sixty taps spaced to match every second of a minute. Four times. His memory recalled the constable gesturing with four fingers firm together. Professor Kingston had said the word time and inclined his head in her direction, prompting her to make the peculiar gesture. A signal or message?

Reaching the last line of the rhyme, he murmured the part out loud in words. "My fair lady..."

A dawning realization. "There's another game in motion."

"Everything in life is a game. Nothing truly matters. All becomes dust." He altered his tone from ruminating to lecturing. "Bodies were found beneath the London Bridge some years back. It's said a bridge will collapse without the body of a human sacrifice buried in its foundations."

Sherlock stood, hands set on the table to glower at the man. "I'm not one of your students, professor, and your crimes are at an end."

"Do you think London will fall if I bury a body now? I know it's not a bridge and it's not London, however, a higher power might accept the sacrifice."

The tapping ceased and he leaned forward. "John dies at the end of the game. It has to end that way. He'll never allow anything different. It's not who he is."

"Where's John?" he demanded of the police standing there uselessly.

"Ground floor visitor's room," the constable stuttered uncertainly. "His wife Mary came to see him."

Mary? Mary was here? Whatever for?

The humming was driving him crazy. He pushed off the table to stand tall, rapidly thinking. The Professor relaxed in his chair and tilted his head to the door.

"What time is it?"

"You don't need to know," the chief replied.

Sherlock looked out of the corner of his eye to witness the constable close her right hand and extend two fingers. Kingston sat proper in the seat and put his elbows on the table, chin in his overlapped hands. Connecting the pieces in his mind, he knew it would be too late.

"This is my design, Mr. Holmes."

The prior game. The easy riddle. Mary was born on December 25, yet her birthday is always in summer. Answer: Southern Hemisphere. Where Mary lives. Cardiff, Wales. South. South Wales Police Station.

"Did you bring Mary here somehow?"

The Professor shrugged. "I did tell you."

He hummed the tune and gripped the edge of the table. Sherlock thought on the fair lady in the song. He didn't remember most things deemed irrelevant but this nursery rhyme was familiar considering it now. The virgin Mary was thought to be the possible identity of the fair lady mentioned in the song. At least, it was how he was taught it as a child.

Sherlock ran for the door and hollered on the way out, "Don't let Hughes out of your sight!"

The lift would be too slow. He sought the exit sign and pushed through the door to the stairs down. He should have warned Lestrade and Donovan. He didn't know what to warn for. Something was going to happen. Something.

The building shook and he tripped over his own feet, staggering into the wall from the sudden unstable floor. Seconds of tremors and a deafening noise, screeching and rumbling. It stopped just as sudden and everything was quiet. Sherlock rushed down the stairs to the ground level. An alarm sounded, wailing and obnoxious, promising ill things.

/

He coughed, breathing in thick dust. Blinking at the ceiling, he realized he was staring at the ground. John tried to roll over but he was trapped in this cramped space where heavy slabs cocooned him in. Searching around, he couldn't see very well and wiped at his eyes to clear them of debris. Daylight streaming through allowed him to see okay.

Jim was lying on his back a meter from his outstretched right arm. He didn't appear to be moving. Shadows fell over him because large sections of broken walls and floor hung above so he couldn't see if his eyes were open or not. He couldn't see if he was okay.

"Jim! Say something now!"

None of the pieces of the fallen building crushed him which he was grateful for. He wouldn't be able to crawl; he'd have to slide on his belly to get to Jim. They weren't far apart when the explosion happened, a bomb maybe, and the floors came down on them.

Mary had been on the other side of the room by the window. There were no windows anymore. He couldn't see her. The whole corner of the building seemed to have collapsed, one floor on top of the other. Where was she?

"Mary! You there?"

Dismayed by the lack of responses, he refused to give in. John gripped the grimy ground and pulled forward. Nothing hurt except for the throbbing wound on his left pectoral muscle. He was due for a dose of pain medication.

Mary came to finalize the divorce. She confused him, saying he messaged her to meet here using his blog. He was explaining he hadn't posted there and Moriarty entered the room to his continuing surprise. The man had a habit of unexpected visits to keep him in his thoughts. Sly. She walked away to the window while Jim announced a constable in this station had a husband problem. Before he could explain his meaning, the building fell on them.

Coughing on dust, his throat never felt so dry. "Moriarty!"

He remembered he was distancing himself from his mistake of a lover. It was funny to care about a thing like that in this situation. And he didn't care- about the man that is.

"Mary!"

Almost to Moriarty. He saw now that a misshapen piece of rubble had dropped on his leg, pinning it to the floor. There was a smaller piece on his head. John pushed it off and brushed at his forehead, trying to wipe the dirt away. They were covered in it. What was he doing?

Halting the pointless effort, he squinted in the poor light. His eyes were closed and he wasn't moving. Shoving a fragment of a slab off his right arm and shoulder, John lowered his ear to the warm chest. He uttered a happy noise hearing the beating heart.

"Still alive. Stay alive."

John stared at his face. He always looked peaceful when he was sleeping. Soft and not anything like the dangerous criminal he could be. Jim was insightful, intelligent, confident, adorable at times, possessive of him. He offered emotions more freely and enjoyed conversation on a number of topics. This man had a good side..deep, deep..deep down.

He cradled his face and prayed he would be okay. "I love you, you crazy sod. Wake up."

"You do love me. I knew it."

Lifting his chin, his eyes went wide. Moriarty was awake and far too alert to have been recently unconscious. He probably hadn't lost consciousness at all and..laid there with his eyes shut, maintaining controlled breathing. John looked at him with suspicion, raising his head higher as he managed to get his elbows under him to settle on.

"If you orchestrated this entire thing just to hear me confess-"

Moriarty started laughing. "It does sound like a thing I would arrange."

He choked on the tainted air, coughing and swallowing through it. John was glad to see him suffer a little. Letting him think he was seriously injured to see what he would do...

"I hate you."

"No, you don't!"

He'd tried to sing-song the words and wheezed on the particles in the air for his trouble. John would laugh at him, but his stomach churned instead. Worry replaced anything else he was feeling. Where was Mary? Was she okay?

John glanced at Moriarty lying there and exhaled. "What."

"I'm disappointed I didn't come up with something like this to make you admit it."

His head hitting the ground in frustration made a thunk. This was who he loved? What was wrong with him? Sherlock would be displeased to know he loved a man who loved his enemy too. What was he supposed to do?

No, none of that mattered right now. He set his mind to the only sane person he ever loved. He had to find her.