Chapter Sixteen
John tried to respect his flatmate's privacy. Lord knows, he'd been really pissed off when Sherlock repeatedly crashed his dates, so the idea of intruding now on whatever he might be getting up to with Irene Adler was not something that the doctor relished.
So, in the morning, he checked to make sure Sherlock had not been and gone- no sign. No text either. So, he'd gone to work as usual; the eight hour training stint at UCLH's Emergency Department started at nine. He'd walked there- just down Baker Street to Marylebone Road and then along it until he passed the private Princess Grace Hospital, where the street became the Euston Road, then on past another couple of cross streets until he passed the Portland Hospital for Women and Babies. Past the bottom of Regent's Park and then across Tottenham Park Road, he then came to the back door of the new hospital built in 2005. His shift was in the Emergency Department, working in triage to identify patients who needed to be referred to the Acute Medical Unit- a 56 bed ward upstairs where more intensive testing and diagnostic tools were available. It kept him focused- making a mistake on diagnosis could cost the hospital a lot in unnecessary tests; but, get it wrong and it could cost the patient their life. So, he stopped thinking about his flatmate.
Just after noon, when he took his first break, he went outside to see if he'd been sent a text. Nothing. He sighed. Worried, he decided to send something, just to see if his friend was back at Baker Street yet.
12.16pm Shift over at 5. Shall I bring Chinese?
He walked over to Euston station to get something to eat at the M&S food shop- their sandwiches were actually edible, and he would be able to have his phone on longer than if he ate at the UCLH canteen. He ate the sandwich in the little park that was between Euston Road and the queue of buses picking up at the rail station. He kept glancing at his phone while he ate.
He'd been trying to come to terms with the idea that Sherlock might actually be attracted to Irene Adler. He'd never seen any sign of sexual interest in anyone from his flatmate, but he was willing to admit that might be because the right woman had never appeared on the scene. He'd grown used to thinking of Sherlock as asexual, in part because his flatmate seemed totally oblivious to such matters, part of the other-worldly manner of his lifestyle.
Who am I to judge? It wasn't like the two of them had ever talked about such things. Not after his embarrassing 'Got a girlfriend?' on their very first night. He'd kept well away from the topic- which was unusual after his years in the military. In an environment inhabited mostly by men who were far away from loved ones and their families, sex was an inevitable topic of frequent discussion. And John was as red-blooded a male as the rest, he'd had relationships enough to earn him the soubriquet of "Three Continents Watson"- a joke made by one of his squad, due to John's willingness to seek comfort in the arms of women in all of his postings- Sierra Leone in Africa, Germany for the continent of Europe, and of course finally in Afghanistan.
Over the two and a bit years with Sherlock, however, John had simply never talking about such things. During the occasional meet-up in a pub with his old Army mates or rugby friends, the occasional pint with the Yarders, there were always other things to catch up on, so even then it was pretty subdued.
He tossed the last corner of crust to the pigeons and watched them argue over it. One of the big male pigeons ignored the crust and kept bobbing and strutting his stuff in front of a hen pigeon. That made John think about how sex complicated everything. He glanced at his phone again, and his brow wrinkled. No response. Not for the first time since last night, John began to wonder if there might be another explanation for Sherlock's absence. Perhaps the 'killers' that Irene mentioned had arrived in his absence and taken the two of them away? He was finding it increasingly difficult to ignore the possibility that what might be a date could turn out to be something else entirely.
12.47 Are you too 'tied up' to answer? If so, text and tell me to piss off.
No reply by the time he had to go back to work. By tea time, John was getting even more worried. In between patients, he nipped to the loo, then down the stairs and into the courtyard to check his phone. Still no reply. To hell with it. If he was wrong, Sherlock would not be happy with his next decision. But it was unlike Sherlock not to text back, even if it was just a rude reply. He hit speed dial.
"Hello, Doctor Watson. How can I help?" Mycroft's PA answered.
John sighed. "I suppose that means Mycroft is unavailable?"
"Yes, indeed, Doctor. Your powers of deduction are improving."
He snapped back. "Yeah well, I get enough grief from the two Holmes brothers not to have you jump on the bandwagon, so a little less sarcasm would be appreciated."
"I meant what I said; how can I help?" She was calmness personified. That made John smile a bit. Putting up with Mycroft and dealing with Sherlock's sarkiness would make her virtually bombproof. But then the smile died as he remembered the reason why he called.
"You can tell me that Sherlock is fine and that I should be minding my own business. Or you could tell me that he's in trouble. I'd just like to know."
There was a pause. Then, "I wish I knew the answer to that, too, Doctor Watson. Sherlock is currently…off our radar. And Mister Holmes is otherwise engaged, and will be for some time. What I can say is that he is aware of his brother's…disappearance, and does not appear to be unduly troubled by it. You may take what comfort you may from that fact."
Great. "Are the two of them in the middle of one of their spats?"
She paused again. And John heard a sigh on the other end. "Doctor Watson, you can appreciate that I am somewhere between a rock and a hard place here. I can't tell you much, but I do know that it has been a very difficult night for both of them."
Uh oh. "And would that difficulty between them have anything to do with a certain Miss Irene Adler?"
"You might say that. I couldn't possibly comment."
Shit. "Is Sherlock still with the lady in question?"
"Doctor Watson, you are fishing."
"Yes. Because I am worried about Sherlock and want to know that he hasn't ended up kidnapped, tied up, or otherwise indisposed, at least not unwillingly, by either Irene Adler or Mycroft."
He heard her chuckle. "He's on his own, Doctor, in the wind. The lady who is no lady had something of a falling out with both of the Holmes brothers and is now no longer an issue for either of them. And that is the only thing I can say. You will just have to be patient."
He sighed. "Well, thanks for that. At least, I think so. Tell your boss that if he thinks I should be worried, to give me a call."
"Of course. Goodbye, Doctor Watson."
oOo
When Sherlock came out of his Mind Palace, he was startled to realise just how dark it was. He must have been preoccupied for hours. He also realised that his legs and bottom were numb from both cold and lack of circulation. He stood up and grimaced as pins and needles were felt all down both legs. He tried to stamp about a bit to get the blood flowing. He was shivering too. The moon was up- it came out from behind a scudding cloud. That meant it was at least two o'clock in the morning, possibly later. He began to stretch his neck and arm muscles, feeling the aches and pains from muscles that had been held in one position for two long. Once he could feel his legs again properly, he set off, hoping a rapid stride would warm him up.
The time in his Mind Palace had paid off. He had the semblance of an approach. He couldn't call it a plan. Anything that looked like a plan would have been anticipated by Moriarty and blocked by some contingency arrangement or another. In fact, that is what made the Irishman vulnerable to someone like him.
Sherlock had found a way to raise the game to a whole new level. If he could keep things totally flexible, then it would be possible to improvise a way to trap the man. It had to be undetectable to someone looking for patterns. So, a series of interlinked modules would be put into place. One module would involve making Moriarty's own network wary of his sanity- make him look dangerously out of control, obsessed to the point of recklessness. They needed to see that he wasn't invincible. He'd need help on that one, but he knew just where to get it now. Making Moriarty take unreasonable risks would take some real provocation, and some careful seeding of the man's borderline obsessions. That meant taking risks himself. He knew that his brother would be vehemently opposed to such an idea. But Sherlock knew that if Moriarty's own network didn't trust him, then they might be weaned away by someone else.
That was the second module. He would create a competitor, someone in the network with enough brains and clout to challenge for the leadership when the man went off the rails. A virtual someone to argue that the contingency plan benefited only Moriarty, and they could ignore his orders, because he was a failure. It would be tricky, but he had some ideas about how to create such a persona, with a viable back story, and insert that person into the network. His brother would certainly not approve. Tough.
Sherlock crossed to the corner of the field where there was a stile. How convenient- since his last trip through here, the county council must have laid down the law to the landowners about public footpaths being maintained and properly signposted. He didn't need to keep drawing on the topographical map- the way was clearly marked, so that he didn't have to struggle to follow it. The moonlight showed the mowed strip right through the young wheat.
Giving less thought to his passage through the countryside gave him more time to think. To make Moriarty seen as fallible, Sherlock needed to get in his face. Take on high profile cases that had the consulting criminal's fingerprints all over them; that would undermine client trust in him, and worry his network that the man was losing his touch. It would make Mycroft apoplectic- putting himself into the direct line of fire, rather than his brother. The git had always assumed he was better able to defeat Moriarty. He was wrong, and the latest fiasco was proof of that.
That was another module-a sort of "block Mycroft programme". Sherlock would have to ensure that Mycroft was hamstrung, recused and kept out of the way. He thought now he might be able to achieve that without damaging his brother's career in the long run.
He'd also have to have contingency plans of his own- 'what if?' scenarios were needed to give himself room to manoeuver if Moriarty shifted the ground unexpectedly. He had some ideas about those; time to make them more concrete, conduct a few trial runs, see who could be trusted to do things without asking too much about why. The Homeless network was the logical place to start.
It would take time, but so long as he used it wisely, and kept Moriarty at arms' length for a couple of months, then he would be ready. Depending on what happened, then Sherlock could bring any one of the modules into play. It was sort of a corelet principle- create interlocking programmes that could be adjusted depending on circumstances and how they developed. It didn't matter when he accessed them, the plans were not sequentially dependent. His approach applied the concepts of fuzzy logic- and if he was lucky, because of that, it would not be noticed by the Irishman until too late.
As he climbed the fence that let him into the long and thin defile through the hills, he smiled at the thought that his brother would be so totally furious when he found out. But, he knew just how to fix that now, so he couldn't interfere. And when it was over, and Moriarty was brought down, then his brother would forgive him. Success would be its own reward, and he would not begrudge him that.
John would be harder, much harder. Even if he was successful, to be so, Sherlock would need to keep a lot of secrets from his friend. Beating Moriarty would not be seen by John as more important than telling the truth and letting him in on it. But I cannot risk your life. John was Sherlock's weakness, and Moriarty knew it. Even if John ended up hating him, that would be acceptable, because dead people can't hate someone. The alternative was just simply not acceptable.
In fact, just that sort of public break-up of their friendship would make John be less of a target. He felt a pang of regret –where did that come from? – but stifled it. He had just watched The Woman destroyed, crushed between Moriarty and Mycroft, all because Kate had been held hostage. If he needed a lesson in the dangers of love, she had given it to him. He'd meant every word of what he said to her in front of Mycroft, only his brother didn't know the subtext running under it.
Sherlock had been surprised at her attempt at seduction in front of the fire in 221b. Had Moriarty required it of her? Was it part of his "Virgin" jibe? Or was she just so accomplished at sexual contact that she found her body responding to his in that way? He was not wrong; he had detected the signs of arousal. Perhaps, she was right- for her, "brainy was the new sexy" and it was her way of appreciating him. In any case, it made him realise that she had used the first four letters of his name as her passcode. Yes, love was involved- but less for him than his brother would have realised. Irene knew that Sherlock held the means to save the person she really loved- Kate. So, he had been used.
The love that Irene had for Kate had opened her to being manipulated by Moriarty. And he realised that along the way, The Woman hadcome to believe that Sherlock was not part of the problem, but rather part of the solution for her. He admitted that he found her intelligence interesting. The fact that she operated so well in the world of sexual and emotional attraction intrigued him- how does she do that? It was such an unknown area for him; he struggled at times to understand people even after years of knowing them; Irene Adler deduced what they liked and what they didn't like within moments of meeting them. To Sherlock, it was a kind of alchemy, and he'd been willing to meet privately with her, to try to understand her better. He'd always been accused of being manipulative, but he knew he was in the presence of a master (she'd prefer the term 'mistress', I'm sure) with Irene. She had a similar curiosity about him, and that had developed into …something. What, he wasn't entirely sure. An attraction, yes. Mutual respect, yes. But not "friendship", at least not in the way he and John were a part of each other now.
His and Irene's tactical alliance held until Moriarty played the final card and she was forced to choose between Sherlock and Kate. It was no contest, but he did not blame her for that. If he'd been given the same choice- deliver Irene in order to save John's life, he would not have hesitated either. He just hoped that the show in the dining room had convinced Mycroft to use her, rather than punish her.
He could see the village of Peaslake in the distance. By dawn, he should be in the North Downs, and would then branch right onto the North Downs Way, then to the Mole River and north towards London, away from the track that had taken him all those years ago to Eton. This time he was finally breaking free of his brother, and able to shape his own future. He felt ready.
