~xXx~
"Who is he?" John whispered in Sherlock's ear as they swept down the inner halls of Scotland Yard.
"His name is Sebastian Moran," Sherlock replied, glaring resolutely at the back of the man's head. They trailed a few paces behind Lestrade and his men, or approximately ten feet, as was protocol for citizens. But Lestrade didn't seem to mind Sherlock breaking the rules today. "He was Moriarty's right hand man—the man he used when he didn't want to get his hands dirty."
He heard John swallow. "The sniper?"
Sherlock felt a dark feeling rise up his chest to pull down at the corners of his mouth. "Yes."
"Right."
With an abhorrent slowness, Lestrade's three policemen deposited Moran into one of the questioning rooms, while Lestrade pulled back and motioned Sherlock over. Reluctantly, Sherlock walked towards the inspector—admittedly his hands were itching to connect with Moran's jaw, and he didn't want to waste time drabbling on about meaningless nonsense. He wished with every fiber of his being that he could've gotten to Moran before Lestrade and his men had. No building would've been tall enough to satiate the cry for blood ringing in Sherlock's veins. This man was going to pay, and he was going to pay dearly.
Lestrade took a deep, steadying breath, staring at Sherlock for a long moment. "Christ—I—I feel like I still can't believe this is real. I mean you're really alive."
Sherlock just stared at him, annoyed.
"How did you do it then? How did you fake it like that?"
"In case you've forgotten," Sherlock seethed, his attention honed in on the wall that was currently blocking Moran from his view, "there's a murderer that needs my attention."
That seemed to reign the Inspector in. "I already know what you're thinking," Lestrade said, giving Sherlock a pointed look, "and I want you to stop it, do you understand?"
"Stop what?" Sherlock retorted, his brows furrowing petulantly.
"Stop thinking about hurting him."
Lestrade's words were true enough to their mark to pull Sherlock's focus back to the hall. The detective stared at the other man, his face hard with confusion. "I told you all the things he's done."
"Yes, but you only care about one." Lestrade didn't bother with subtlety as he slid his eyes pointedly towards John. The action made Sherlock's body go tense. "I know what you want to do to this man—believe me, I feel the exact same way—but you have to let the system handle this. He'll get the punishment he deserves."
"What he deserves is to die in the most gruesome, painful way known to man."
Lestrade leaned in close, grimacing. "Look, I'm not saying that I don't agree with you, Sherlock. I do. But I want to get this guy, alright? And I need you to do that. I need you to help me get him confess. There were no prints on the bodies, and this guy is practically a ghost. All he needs is a few people to lie on the stand for him and he could walk, do you understand? You can't let him get to you—"
"Inspector?" Lestrade turned at the sound of his name. One of the three policemen was standing a few feet away, looking wary of approaching. "He's ready."
Lestrade looked back at Sherlock, and the detective could see worry etched in to the lines of his face.
John shifted his weight. "I'll go in with him."
"What—"
"—No."
John's eyes darted between Lestrade and Sherlock, unsure which to answer first. He finally decided on Lestrade. "I'll keep him in check—make sure he doesn't try to strangle this guy or whatever else you think he's going to do."
"John," Sherlock said, his voice a low warning.
"I can handle this, Sherlock," John snapped, his eyes flashing like blue fire. "For God's sake, you think I haven't been shot at before?" Without waiting for a reply, John turned on his heel and stormed away towards the questioning room, leaving ruffled Sherlock and a gaping Lestrade in his wake.
Lestrade cleared his throat. "I guess you're not the only one who's pissed."
Sherlock nodded, still staring after John and trying to calm the electric rush that was still skittering across his skin. "I suppose not."
~xXx~
Sherlock and John entered the interrogation room in stony silence. It was a small room, with a metal table in the center and a chair placed on either side. Moran was already sitting in one, his hands secured behind his back. Moran's head lifted as they entered. His eyes were only on Sherlock for a moment before they moved to settle on John, sliding up and down his body languidly.
Heat coiled beneath Sherlock's skin as he approached the table. "I'm afraid I must encourage you to stop looking at John while in my presence. I've been instructed not to hurt you, but that's a guideline I only plan to follow if unprovoked. But if you happen to enjoy pain, then by all means, continue."
Moran's brows lifted slightly. "How can I not look at him? He's defying nature."
"How so?"
"He should be dead." Moran's gaze was back on Sherlock in a blink. He had dark, fearless eyes—the kind that reflected a rare form of determination that bordered on the unhinged. "My shots never miss their mark."
Sherlock pulled out the empty chair and slid down into it. "This one did."
"I hit someone."
"Not someone—something. You hit a manikin. I shifted the furniture in the room to better conceal the dummy and set up a system of automated pulleys to simulate movement. Was a good shot though, if it's any consolation. You'll forgive me if I hope it isn't."
Moran's face twitched, the barest hint of rage escaping to the surface. There was a long moment of silence which Sherlock spent counting breaths. Moran's were disappointingly even, unlike John's. Sherlock's attention shifted despite himself. He'd never known John to be nervous around danger before, yet here he was, standing two feet behind Sherlock's left shoulder and breathing like he'd just seen a ghost.
The sound of Moran's laugh snapped the detective back."Very well, Mr. Holmes, you've had your fun, maybe even embarrassed me a little, but don't fool yourself into thinking this is over."
Sherlock raised an unimpressed brow. "You don't believe this is over?"
"If a person like me were to commit the crimes you seem to think me guilty of, don't you think I'd know how to be careful about it? Don't you think a certain mutual acquaintance of ours would've made sure of it?"
"But you weren't careful enough. I caught you."
"Oh, yes. I was caught firing a firearm across a public street—a rather minor felony in the grand scheme of things wouldn't you say? That's about what?" Moran glanced up in mocking thought. "A maximum of five years in prison? And with my—admittedly impressive—military resume, I'd be surprised if they kept me half that long. Face it, Mr. Holmes, they need an explicit confession from me to stand a chance."
"Sherlock will find something," John interjected suddenly. Sherlock and Moran both turned to look at him, and Sherlock couldn't help but notice how pale he was.
"He won't," Moran replied evenly.
"He always finds something."
"Not this time," Moran said, smiling. "I admire your devotion to him though. Mr. Moriarty really was right—look at you, with your large worshiping eyes and your praising tongue. I bet Mr. Holmes just soaks that right up. And where does that leave you, Mr. Watson? Hm? I'll bet you're in love with him, aren't you? Against your better judgment perhaps, but you're in love with him nevertheless. I'll bet you think you could show him how good it would be, if only he would give you the chance. How many times have you sat alone in your room with your fist around your cock, wishing it was his while he—"
Sherlock's fist slammed into Moran's jaw so hard he felt the man's cheekbone fracture. He felt John's strong arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him back. "You say one more thing like that about him and I'll use this table to crack open your skull!"
Moran's smile broadened as a thin stream of blood spilled over his lips. "Temper, temper, Mr. Holmes. This is all being recorded you know."
"Sherlock," John's voice was soft and warm against his ear. "Sherlock, don't let him do this. Don't let him get to you."
The bordering red that edged his vision eased off a bit. Sherlock took in several deep breaths, drawing his composure back in. "Right." He sat back down in the chair and John's arms loosened and finally left him. "Right."
"Very well, I've decided. I want to play a game with you, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock busied himself with straightening out his cuffs. "I'm done with games."
"Even ones that involve a full confession from me?"
Sherlock's eyes snapped up, and his heart did that peculiar fluttering thing it did whenever he was particularly curious about something. His nose wrinkled dubiously. "Why?"
"It doesn't matter," Moran laughed. "So long as you play."
"What are the rules?"
"We trade questions. I ask you a question, you answer, then you ask me and I answer. Simple enough, yes?"
"What will prevent either of us from lying?" Sherlock asked, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.
Moran shrugged, and the metal of his cuffs clinked against his chair. "I'll answer your questions as truthfully as you answer mine."
There was a short beat of silence."Implying that I already know the answers to my own questions?"
Moran grinned, showing a flash of yellowed teeth. "You think I don't know you well enough to know that you figured all of this out ages ago? No, Mr. Holmes, what you really need from me is a recording that proves you right."
"Seems to me like this game weighs pretty heavily in my favor."
"So you'll play?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What do you gain?"
There was another pause, longer this time. Moran took in a deep breath and let it slip out his mouth. "Satisfaction. You can understand that, can't you, Mr. Holmes?"
Yes. The satisfaction of a job well done. The knowledge that no matter the obstacles encountered along the way, the final goal was accomplished. Putting the work first. Always the work first. Even here. Even now.
"Fine," Sherlock replied finally. "We'll play. Three questions each."
Moran gave a deep throaty chuckle. "You are truly a creature of predictable habit, Mr. Holmes." He shifted in his chair. "How did you find me?"
For some reason Moran's question was like balm to a searing burn. His nerves eased as he settled into his thoughts, allowing himself to drift away from the room and into the confines of his mind. "Your boots," he replied simply.
"My…boots?"
"It's obviously been a while since you've resided in England—your skin is still brown as a nut, and your coat is brand new. You became accustomed to the dry heat of the Middle East. Understandable, all things considered. Most of the tracking you've done in your life took place there, where most of the ground is either sand or stone, neither of which yield promising tracks for one to follow. Unlike mud." Sherlock watched as Moran's expression slowly dropped. "It rained the day you lead me to the Afghan sniper and Bill Murray, as well as the morning you found me with Mike Stamford's body. Enough to leave the ground ripe for boot imprints, which you didn't think to conceal after you left me. The heel of one of the samples Lestrade's men took was matched with the one found in Mrs. Yaskoff's house by the way. Thought you ought to know."
Sherlock only got a moment of Moran's astonishment—he blinked and it was gone. But that moment had been enough. "You really are clever, Mr. Holmes. Very clever indeed. Yet, you're so close to the truth you're missing the forest for the tree. Your turn now."
"I don't' need to be informed when my turn is," Sherlock snapped. "When, where, and how did you kill Bill Murray?"
Moran glanced up in mocking thought. "Murray…Murray…that name does sound familiar. Which one was he again?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed.
"Oh yes," he drew out the word in a long hiss. "He was the one who patched up Mr. Watson, wasn't he? My, this is awkward isn't it." Moran's eyes slid over to John, a smile curling on his bloodied lips. "You weren't close with him, were you, doctor?"
"Answer the question," Sherlock growled.
Moran shrugged. "I shot Murray about a week ago in Afghanistan while he'd wandered off to take a piss. Put his body on ice then shipped him here and planted him in that old mill. Is that answer to your satisfaction, Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock ignored him. "Your turn." He didn't dare look back at John. He couldn't afford to let John's feelings lure him into a moment of weakness.
"Very well," Moran said. "What was the last thing Mr. Moriarty said to you?"
"Why would you want to know that?"
"Because whatever his last words were, they should've been mine."
Sherlock shifted in his chair, his chin lowering. "Do you want the exact words, or a synopsis?"
"Exact words," Moran replied.
Sherlock took a deep breath. "No, you're not. I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me. You're me! Thank you! Sherlock Holmes. Thank you. Bless you. As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends; you've got a way out. Well, good luck with that." Sherlock ended the regurgitated words with a forceful sigh, as if he could expel whatever part of Moriarty was left through his breath. "And then he shot himself. My turn again. Same question as before, only I want the details about Michael Stamford."
A smile broke out on Moran's face, but it was different than before. It looked serene—almost peaceful. "I had him kidnapped and dropped off in a field about ten miles outside of Sussex. I shot him there a couple of days ago. Boring bloke; didn't even run. I think he knew what was happening." John made a small, dark sound behind him, but Moran's stare didn't leave Sherlock's. "Now for the grand finale." Moran leaned forward ever so slightly, his smile widening. "Exactly how long have you been in love with Mr. Watson?"
Sherlock's heart shot up into this throat as John went completely still. It suddenly became harder to keep his gaze trained on Moran. "I'm not in love with him."
"Ah ah, Mr. Holmes." Moran shook his head, his eyes mocking. "No lying, remember? And I already know the answer to this one."
"You're just wanting me to say the things you want to hear. You don't actually know—"
"No," Moran barked. "I do know."
"There's no way you could know something like that."
"Just like there's no way you could tell a man's occupation from his thumb or his necktie? We mortals may not be able to see all the things you do, Mr. Holmes, but we do see some things. I've been in love—I know how it makes a man feel, I know how it makes a man act, and I know what it's like to look at someone and see your whole life bottled up inside of them. That's the way you look at Mr. Watson. There's no sense in denying it."
Sherlock glared at Moran, feeling as if something inside his head was cracking and threatening to break. "You're projecting."
"Is that what you think, Mr. Holmes? Do you truly find me so plain? I served Mr. Moriarty for twelve years—twelve long years—and I'm not so prideful as to realize that the mere minutes you spent with him allowed you to know him as well as I ever did. But don't for one second think that I didn't know him. Do you honestly think Mr. Moriarty would've had me do all of this for so little? You think that all he wanted you to know was that he'd given you a trained dog? You know Mr. Moriarty better than that, Mr. Holmes, and so do I. How could he have broken you with a dog? How could he have—"
"Enough!" Sherlock thundered, jumping to his feet. "That's enough!" The metal chair fell behind him, clanging loudly against the cement. He couldn't take it anymore. Moran's words were hammering him—he had to get out. Sherlock spun on his heel and fled from the room, catching John by the arm and towing him behind.
"Sherlock?" John sounded both confused and bewildered."Sherlock, stop! What the hell do you think you're doing?"
But before Sherlock could answer, Lestrade was out in the hall beside them, his face crumpled with anger. "Sherlock! I thought we'd agreed—"
"Everyone just shut up!" Sherlock roared, and the entire hall when quiet in a blink. John and Lestrade both stared at him, wide-eyed with astonishment. Sherlock, however, ignored them. "I need time to think. I need…"
Time. The one thing he needed, that he just didn't have.
