Chapter Six

Through the glass panel in the door to the room, Anderson could see two beds side-by-side, with an empty chair between them. He was mildly surprised, because he'd never seen Sherlock do anything as normal as lying in a bed, as he was now. Carefully, Anderson looked both ways in the corridor, and finding it empty, he silently pushed the door open and set foot in the room.

Anderson had barely taken two steps into the room when he was violently pushed from the side. Like lightning, a hand reached out and grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back, and then pushing against Anderson, forcing him to press himself face-first against the white-washed wall of the hospital room. Anderson just about managed to stifle a cry of shock and pain, so that all that came from between his lips was a soft whimper.

"What do you think you're doing here? What's your name? Tell me quickly, or I'll make this a lot worse." A voice hissed, right next to Anderson's ear.

"You need to chill, mate. I only came to see how John was doing…and to speak with Sherlock for a moment." Anderson kept his voice low, so as not to attract more attention. Suddenly, he was pulled back and then slammed into the wall again, hard. This time, he couldn't help crying out as his ribs smashed against the wall.

"Don't call me 'mate'. Tell me who you are."

"I work in forensics. I'm…my name is Anderson. Phillip Anderson." He thought things were going way too far now. He hadn't even done anything wrong. "What's your name?"

"That's none of your business. I'm here to protect Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson, so you had better have a pretty good excuse for strolling in here at eleven-thirty at night."

Anderson opened his mouth to respond, when a small noise behind the men caused them both to freeze. The tension in the muscles of the man behind him raked up a notch, and he leaned even closer to Anderson's ear. "If you utter even one syllable, you'll regret it for a very long time."

Then, the attacker pulled away slightly, although he still kept a firm grasp on Anderson.

"Easy, Sherlock. It's okay. Just go back to sleep." The change in tone to such a gentle reassurance sent a shiver down Anderson's spine. This man, whoever he was, was a nasty piece of work.

"Who's there? What are you doing?" Sherlock's voice was so rough and small from sleep that Anderson almost snickered, but then he remembered the warning and clamped his mouth shut.

"Don't worry, I'm dealing with it. Go back to sleep."

There was a sound of sheets moving, and then slow, shoeless footsteps crossing the tiled floor. "Who is it, Will?"

'Will'? Anderson smirked; so now the attacker had a name, and he was pretty sure that was a first name, which was very interesting indeed.

"Stay back, Sherlock." The footsteps stopped. "This man says his name is Anderson. Does he have any reason to be here?"

A few moments of silence elapsed before Sherlock spoke. This time, his voice seemed more awake, and carried its usual sneer. "Anderson has no reason to be here at all." There was another footstep. "Why are you here? I know it's not to offer condolences."

Anderson opened his mouth to speak, but a jab at the base of his spine made him stop.

"Sherlock, Anderson says he's here to see how John was doing, and have a chat with you. I presume that isn't genuine."

"No."

"I thought not."

Without warning, Will pulled Anderson backwards. He let go with one hand to open the door, and then pushed Anderson forcefully through it. Just as he was about to slam it shut behind them both, Anderson cried out desperately.

"Moriarty's still alive, Sherlock!"

He didn't hear Sherlock's response, because the door instantly slammed closed behind the two men, and then Anderson was pushed into the wall, before being twisted round. Will let go of his wrists and instead brought his hands up to clamp around Anderson's neck, where they applied enough pressure to incapacitate him without utterly starving him of oxygen. Anderson looked up in panic at his attacker's face. He had sharp green eyes and a couple of days' worth of stubble on his face. His cheeks were flushed with anger and his nose flared in menace.

"I told you not to make a sound" He growled. "You weren't meant to be there; Sherlock radiated utter distaste for you. Anderson, you should have kept your mouth shut and stayed far, far away from here."

With that, the grip on Anderson's neck tightened. His windpipe was crushed under the pressure. For a moment or two, he struggled feebly, but then the strain became too much. Anderson's vision faded from white to grey to black, and then his body sagged limply in Will's hands as his brain shut down from the lack of oxygen.

Will dropped Anderson to the floor and left him in a crumpled heap as soon as he'd been incapacitated. Then, he made a quick and slightly desperate call to Mycroft Holmes.

"Meyer?"

"Sir, someone came here, said he was called Anderson. I've taken care of him."

"But?"

"But he managed to tell Sherlock that Moriarty's alive." Will braced himself for anger, rage, or an immediate dismissal from service.

Neither of these things came. "I'll be there as soon as possible. Make sure Sherlock stays in that room."

"What should I tell Sherlock?"

Mycroft thought for a moment, he swallowed. "The truth. He needs to be able to trust us, or he won't tell us everything we need to know."

"Yes, sir." Will lowered the phone from his ear, thinking the conversation was over, so almost missed the final words from his boss.

"And Meyer? We're going to have to initiate the plan sooner than I originally thought."

"But what about John-" The line went dead.

Sighing, Will shoved his phone back into his pocket and gave a still-unconscious Anderson a final jab in the ribs with his foot, before handcuffing him. Then he turned and marched back into the hospital room, mentally and physically preparing himself for whatever reaction Sherlock was going to give to the new information.

Will had been expecting anger from Sherlock, possibly physical violence, almost certainly shouting and maybe a lengthy monologue thrown in too. These were all reactions Will had witnessed or received from Sherlock in the past, so he had a mental plan of how to deal with each one. However, instead of entering the room to find Sherlock pacing the floor and seething at the injustice of withheld information, Will saw that Sherlock was standing next to John's bed, hovering over him and studying him closely. When Sherlock spoke, his voice was low and soft.

"John's sedation is wearing off. I think he'll wake up soon. He won't like the tube."

Will nodded but remained silent, unsure how to handle this version of Sherlock, and utterly thrown by the lack of anger of any sort shown in either his stance or voice. Sherlock took his gaze off John and fixed it on Will, looking him straight in the eyes, blue meeting green.

"Is it true? Is he alive?"

A moment of silence, but Will refused to break the eye contact. "Yes, he's alive. He's been leaving messages; messages directed specifically at you."

"Does anyone else understand them?" Sherlock returned his gaze to John.

"No. But Mycroft thinks they reference things you've said to Moriarty, or maybe things he's said to you."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to nod. "Why didn't you tell me before?" There was no accusation in the tone, and still no trace of anger. Will wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a very, very bad one.

"Sherlock," Will took a step towards Sherlock. "We think John's accident wasn't really an accident after all; it was orchestrated by Moriarty. He wanted to get John out of the way, to leave you on your own so you'd go after him again, and get yourself killed in the process."

"Oh? Yes, I suppose that is quite clever." Sherlock smirked as he glanced up at Will. "I presume my brother has made a plan of action, then."

"Indeed I have, brother dear." The door to the room swung open and Mycroft entered.

Sherlock had opened his mouth to reply, when a small whimper emanated from John. Each of the three men in the room turned to him, and Sherlock pulled a chair over to the bed and sat down. He put a hand on the mattress next to John's own, but refrained from actually touching him.

"John, it's okay."

John groaned and shifted on the bed, arching his back slightly. His tongue pushed his cheeks outward as it inspected the tube going down his throat. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

"John, they had to intubate you because you stopped breathing. They're giving you drugs now to stop you having another seizure." Sherlock explained.

John's eyes flashed with understanding, and then he looked past Sherlock to Will. Will smiled and came closer.

"I suppose I haven't introduced myself to you yet. My name's Will Meyer. I helped Sherlock take down Moriarty's 'web' while he was away, and I'm acting as your bodyguard for now."

John frowned, but Will wasn't sure which part of his speech was being frowned at. Then, he painstakingly lifted his hand off the bed. Getting the idea, Will came closer still and shook John's hand. "I can explain more when you're more awake."

John nodded, and, as if on cue, his eyes fell closed and his hand flopped back down onto the mattress. While he slept, Mycroft and Will explained their plan to Sherlock, who solemnly agreed, although he was against sending John into danger too soon, which, by the look of him, meant he wouldn't be up to joining in for a while to come. What they didn't think of, however, was that John would have ideas of his own once he finally and properly woke up.