Chapter Eleven
As soon as Lestrade had ended the call to Mycroft, he hit speed-dial – he'd never removed it after Sherlock's 'death' – and called Sherlock. The call was picked up on the third ring, which was unusually slow.
"Lestrade?"
"Sherlock, um, you need to come over to the Yard; there's something you need to see." Lestrade realised his voice sounded shaky and blushed slightly, wondering what Mycroft would have thought.
"What is it?" There was a sound of shifting fabric.
"Well, it's…you'd better just come, fast." He opened his mouth to add that Mycroft was on the way too, but decided against it, in case it would deter Sherlock.
"Okay…I'm on my way." Sherlock sounded a little suspicious, but didn't voice his concerns.
"Great, alright. And Sher-" The call cut off before Lestrade could add not to bring John; stressing him out would not be good right now. He thought about texting, but decided it would probably be futile.
Sherlock slipped his phone into his pocket and started to hunt for his shoes – they'd been removed after the incident of last night.
"Case?" John asked, struggling to his feet; he deposited himself on the side of his bed.
"No, something else, going by Lestrade's tone. He was shaky and disturbed, but can't be looking at a particularly brutal murder; unless it had happened inside his office, which would be interesting but unlikely. No, more likely he's received another graffiti message from Moriarty, one more disturbing than any he's seen before." Sherlock ducked down under the bed and huffed a breath of relief as he spotted his shoes – he noticed the blood had been removed, and they were freshly polished.
"Wait, Moriarty's been leaving messages?"
"Yes, directed at me." Sherlock looked for a second as if he would add more, but then stopped himself. Instead, he whirled around and located his belstaff coat, hanging behind the door.
"I'm coming." John said quickly, as Sherlock reached for the door handle; it appeared he'd almost forgotten John was in the room.
Instantly, Sherlock turned back and walked towards John as he stood. "No, John, you need to stay here."
"Sherlock." John's tone had taken on an icy, commanding resonance which made Sherlock stand straight instinctively. "Sherlock, I'm coming with you."
Sherlock opened his mouth to protest when the door opened, and Will entered. "Yes, John, you are. Thanks, you've just made my life a bit simpler."
Sherlock stood, mouth still open, blinking. Then, lightning-fast, he whipped around to face Will. "No. He can't come." Sherlock looked over his shoulder. "John, you can't even walk that far."
Will wouldn't hear it. "John, you're coming, put on your shoes. Sherlock, he's coming – I can only watch you both at the same time if you're together, so stop moaning."
John instantly followed his orders; after all, he'd been trained to do so for years. However, he was shocked when Sherlock clamped his mouth shut without another word. Sulkily, he stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and huffed, but stepped to the side to allow John to pass.
Will stopped John at the door. "Have you taken your medication this morning? We want to minimise seizure risk if possible." John nodded, glancing away shamefully for a moment. "Will you need a wheelchair?"
"No, I can manage, thanks."
Will smirked; John and Sherlock were just as stubborn as one another.
The corridors of the hospital were endless, and by the time the three men got outside, located a cab and had all clambered in, John was huffing, and his brow was coated in a thin layer of sweat from the exertion.
"Are you okay?" Will asked him quietly. Sherlock had sunk into a sulky Mind Palace state, and appeared oblivious to everything around him. He was staring out of the window, but his eyes never really lingered on anything, nor did they sweep the crowds with a deductive glance.
John nodded in reply to Will and rubbed his face with his sleeve. Will offered him a bottle of water, which he accepted thankfully, drinking half of its contents in one go.
It took over twenty minutes to reach Scotland Yard, by which time John had recovered. When the cab halted, Sherlock was pushed from his Mind Palace. He blinked back into the real world and climbed out. John was thankful that Will was paying the fare for the cab this time; at least it would save his pocket a little.
The three men took a lift to the third floor, and as soon as the doors opened, Sherlock bolted out. Nobody paid him much mind; they'd grown accustomed to his somewhat irritating presence again over the past few weeks. Will and John, however, got more notice. John hadn't joined Sherlock on a single case since his return, which had started several rumours, so seeing him now immediately set some people gawking. The presence of a stranger also led to stares, but Will was remarkably good at blending in, even in a situation where he'd be expected to stand out.
When the pair reached the door to Lestrade's office – it took a while to get there, due to John's slowed pace – they found it shut, and a certain government official was blocking the way. Sherlock was seething, John could practically feel it, but Mycroft didn't appear threatened.
"Meyer." He acknowledged. "John, I'm pleased to see you're up and about." John nodded stiffly, and glanced nervously at Sherlock, who looked as though he might be about to lash out at his brother. "I was just explaining to Sherlock that it might be best if you, John, waited out here. I wouldn't want to cause you any unnecessary…stress, shall we say? It would be rather indelicate at this time."
John clenched his jaw and raised his chin. Beside him, Will also tensed a little.
"Let us through, Mycroft. Lestrade called me personally; I'm sure he'd prefer it if you didn't interfere." Sherlock almost growled the words.
"Lestrade called me personally, actually, dear Sherlock. I'm simply warning you that this message is a little more direct than the previous ones."
"I can handle it, John can handle it, so let us through."
Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes. "As ever, brother, I'm only trying to protect you."
"Of course you are." Sherlock flashed a fake smile, and slowly, Mycroft moved out of the way.
Instantly, Sherlock bolted through the door, and John followed as quickly as he could behind him. They both stopped just as quickly once inside the room, staring at the decoration on the opposite wall. John inhaled sharply, and Sherlock stood, still as a stone, taking in every last detail with his keen eyes.
It was several moments before John broke the silence. "IOU…I owe you. You, you used to mutter that, before you…before you fell." John risked a quick glance at Sherlock; he hadn't moved a muscle.
"I owe you a fall." Sherlock finished. "Moriarty, he said it to me, on the day of the hearing."
Silence descended once more, until Will spoke behind the two men; they'd both completely forgotten he was there. "So it's a threat."
"Yes, it is." Without looking, Sherlock knew John was clenching his hand and tapping his fingers against his palm.
"Even I could figure out that much." The men startled as Lestrade appeared in his office doorway. "How'd you get in here – the door was locked." He asked suddenly, frowning.
Seeming to come out of his stupor, Sherlock walked up to the wall, getting out his pocket magnifying glass to inspect the paint more closely. "Is this the same paint as before?" He asked, not turning.
"Yes." Lestrade answered, stepping into the room and plopping down in his chair. He placed a cup of coffee on the desk, and buried his head in his hands for a moment, sighing heavily.
Sherlock whipped around suddenly after several more minutes of close inspection. He glanced at Mycroft. "We need to go, now."
"Go where?" John and Lestrade asked at the same moment.
Sherlock gave a very small smirk. "Go after Moriarty."
Lestrade made to stand. "Sherlock, are you sure that's the wisest thing to do?"
Mycroft cut in before Sherlock could make a rude remark. "It's all been planned. They can be out of the country within two hours."
Lestrade blinked, dumbfounded. John took several deep breaths as the reality of what they were about to take on hit him, and Will braced himself, just in case John was to collapse.
Without another word, Sherlock turned on his heel and strode from the room. John, Will and Mycroft all followed close behind him. Lestrade was completely forgotten, calling behind the men, even though he knew it was futile. He knew he wouldn't see them for a while, but what Lestrade didn't realise was that a while meant almost five months, and that none of them would be the same when they returned.
John finally spoke once the lift door closed behind them. "Sherlock, what's going on?"
"We're going after Moriarty. I can't go alone this time – I need both you and Will to…assist." He almost hissed the last word, clearly annoyed about his obvious need for help.
They left Scotland Yard to find that, almost unsurprisingly, a car was already waiting for them. The black vehicle had tinted windows, and it was large. All four men climbed in, and John hid a smirk as he spotted Anthea, glued to her phone as ever, frantically texting away.
Mycroft looked up when they were all settled. "I've made arrangements for personal belongings; there'll be no time for goodbyes, but sentiment is unhelpful anyway. John, your gun will be on hand shortly, and Meyer, you'll receive extra bullets for your pistol soon. Current intelligence places Moriarty in Italy, so that's where you'll start."
An hour and twenty minutes later, after a further briefing and speedy collection of belongings, Sherlock, John and Will stood next to a small private jet, which would soon be flying them to the south of Italy. Mycroft walked slowly over to the three men, coming first to stand in front of Will Meyer.
"I trust you will bring them back safely."
Will nodded. "Yes, sir."
"You will be rewarded greatly upon your return, in any way you choose."
"Thank you, sir. For your generosity." Will smiled; he didn't add that returning at all would be reward enough.
Mycroft gave the smallest hint of a smile, and then Will turned, walking away up the steps and onto the plane. His back was straight and his head was held high – it would not be how he would return. Mycroft watched him go in silence, and then turned to John.
"Dr Watson, I know you are not in the best of health, but I know you will remain loyal." John could see in his eyes that there was more Mycroft wanted to say, but he stopped himself, clearly not wanting to sound any more sentimental.
"I won't let anything happen, Mycroft, to either of them."
Mycroft said nothing in response.
Finally, Mycroft turned to his brother. He waited until they were alone before speaking. "You must succeed this time, Sherlock. The stakes are higher than ever. You have help with you, but you must do whatever it takes to bring down Moriarty, whatever the sacrifice may be."
"Don't worry, Mycroft. I will not become sentimental." The last part of the sentence remained unsaid.
Mycroft nodded and swallowed. He smiled a little, the corners of his mouth turning up just a small amount. "Good."
Then, he extended his hand, and Sherlock took it. "Until the next time, brother dear."
"Goodbye, Mycroft."
Sherlock let go and walked away; he fought the temptation to look back as he climbed the steps to the plane. Their farewell had felt far too final for his liking, but, against Sherlock's better hopes, it had felt right.