Checkmate on a raging king
Reject. Reject. Reject.
Wheels turning. Cold room, knocks on the door. Reject. This will work. The revolver. Percentages. The door, the room, a window showing black. Reject.
"Sherlock, open the door."
Go away. Leave me alone. Dark. Out of my reach. Pages on the walls, plans, years on the run. Replay. My choice, his choice. Sentiment. I can't lose.
"Open this door. This is childish and this isn't the time for that."
Sherlock steps to the door, violin in hand, strong grip on it. He unlocks the door and pushes the violin back up to his neck, back into a tune he never played before. Never felt the need to play before. He doesn't even listen to it. Notes fall into place, fingers telling a tale he doesn't want to consider. Not now.
Mycroft sits in the chair by the fire and waits. Sherlock forgets he let his brother in. Like that, quiet in that chair, his brother doesn't exist and he can pretend someone else is sitting there listening. But his thoughts don't stop. Whirlwinds of puzzle pieces fly out of order. A order he created in years.
"You should have told me."
"Shut up, I'm busy."
"You're staying there with your violin lowered. I gave you five minutes now. Indulge me and explain this."
"I don't need to explain anything. It will be over soon."
"I invested countless resources into this. Into you. And tonight you show up and tell me we have another plan. You have another plan. No, you don't tell me, you let me witness it. In my own hose. You have been working on another plan and you sit here and look like you can come apart and you won't let me help you."
"I can leave."
"No...that is not...Sherlock, you sent him to his death."
"He'll be back."
"You planned this and you manipulated him into saying yes. You made him believe you-"
"Shut up. Shut up."
"I want to believe you manipulated him by giving him false hope. I refuse to believe you actually care that much. Sherlock, sentiment-"
"I know the words. But you don't know him. And you still don't know me."
Mycroft passes his hands through his remaining hair, feeling tired and so very older brother.
"Let me understand this, maybe I can ensure some extra protection."
"It's out of our hands. John is on his own."
"In to play a game with a monster. Because Moran is unpredictable, we know it. He may very well shoot doctor Watson even before the game starts."
"He won't. He needs this charade he's sure he'll win. He wants it like this. Sentiment. Moriarty died like this. He wants John to blow his brains out."
"You base all your theory on sentiment."
"No. I'm playing a game I know I'll win."
"No Sherlock, you send in pawns that may or may not win for you. You made this happen because, like Moran, you feel compelled, by sentiment, to give something back. To John."
Sherlock breathes and his breath comes back to him hot from the tips of his fingers. Maybe...maybe he was wrong...maybe...He launches out of the chair, sending it to the ground.
"It's not to late to stop him. Sherlock, I can get him back. We'll get Moran some other time-"
"NO! Everything is in place. John answered the phone. Adair takes him there. He'll play the game. He'll win. Witnesses and the guards there will stop Moran from doing anything else."
"Oh yes, Miss Rona Adair. I should have known you would try to save her."
"I didn't try, I succeeded."
"Yes. And the trusted miss we knew as Adler is who you place your trust in. Of all the people."
"I don't trust her. She plays a game too."
"Oh? What did you promise her? You made her the same offer you made John? Yourself?"
The punch comes like a note, unheard, instinctive. Seconds later Mycroft holds onto the fireplace mantle, a pack of ice, brought by one of his invisible minions, close to his face.
"I went to far."
It's all the apology Sherlock will get. But he expects nothing else from his brother, so that is just fine by him. It helped to feel something solid against his fist. It would have been better if Mycroft had the guts to fight back.
"What was that you were playing."
Sherlock stops his pacing and looks at his brother, eyes unfocused, like he was expecting something else, or maybe like he forgot Mycroft was truly there.
"I...I don't know."
"It was beautiful. I haven't heard you play something so...heartfelt since- Sherlock, where are you going?"
"I need air."
Mycroft doesn't stop him. Ever since he came into the room, the haunting figure of his younger brother unnerved him. A pale shadow trapped inside a caged animal. Two hours he tried to get him to open the door. After John left with Rona Adair, also known as Irene Adler, and currently known as Sebastian Moran's representative, Sherlock stood in this room, ruining his fingers in a heartbreaking rush to complete a melody Mycroft knows will never get space on a sheet of paper. Maybe doctor John Watson will hear it sometimes, most likely not.
"I guess it's useless to ask where we are going."
"We're going to Baker Street."
John looks back at the woman, surprised he got an answer this time. The surprise of seeing her in Mycroft Holmes's house was short lived. Of course Sherlock would know, and would use her if necessary. The real surprise was to discover this new Woman as someone he could trust. Does he? Does Sherlock trust her?
"I like your new name," John says, not because it's important, but because the wait is maddening and he needs to feel like he's not alone.
"New life, new name, new...well, habits."
"You two saw each other often?"
"Oh, jealousy. No need to concern yourself with that. Sherlock Holmes never accepted my invitation to diner."
John doesn't know why that should be something obviously comforting, and he dislikes the word jealousy, but he lets it pass, because actually all he wants to know is how Sherlock lived when he was dead to him.
"He thought this for you, you know. Sherlock Holmes went over his head to make this happen. It is brilliant, his mind will never cease to amaze me. And attract me. I love to play games with him."
"I'm sure you have other reasons to do this."
Instead of answering, she raises her hand and makes a very deliberate move to show its contents.
"The phone. Your phone."
"Yes. A nice payment for two years of having to stay near that ...psychopath."
"How come Moran trusts you with this?"
"Oh, it was easy enough. I have my ways..."
"Of course. Yes, you would."
The smile he receives is ice cold and he clutches the phone he received -Simmons phone-just for practice. The call from Moran, to invite him to the game, came this morning. This was going to be a day to remember. Well, if he still had a brain to keep memories by the end of it.
Waking up half naked, erect and confused wasn't half as bad as it sounds. After a few minutes of replaying scenes from the nigh before, all of them involving pink flesh and muscles, John went to find Sherlock back in his old seat. He realised then it was the first time Sherlock went near it.
He expected weirdness, something uncomfortable somewhere inside, but seeing the man there, limbs and veins pumping blood, wheels turning in his head, completely unaware we has being watched sent something ablaze inside John. Not guilt, not rage. Something new, that he could call love if not for his zero experience in that. Because, to be honest, this was way above the infatuation he felt before. And the sentiment resonated inside Sherlock too. Somehow, the man he once called a machine was permanently bound to him in a way they couldn't put into words. So they put into actions.
Sherlock didn't make another step into kissing him, or undressing him or even be kinder to him. Not that he expected cosy marriage after one -well, a lot of kisses-but Sherlock acted even more distant and careful around him the entire day.
When he was presented with the phone and the explanation that this will be the phone Moran will contact him on, John took it and kept it close, listening to the plan again and again. After the phone call, they sat in silence, John surprisingly calm, Sherlock surprisingly tight. Now and again, Sherlock would give him a look, a strange look that he never asked what it meant and now wished he did. He refuses to think it was doubt.
"Why baker Street?" he asks, to change the direction of his thoughts.
"We need to pick someone up."
This was something new, but then again, if Sherlock hadn't mention it, it was just another piece needed in the game and independent of his role. So John waited and when they arrived, the woman stopped him from getting out with a "You don't need to see this" and entered the building carrying a big shopping bag.
She came out behind a pale looking man, thin and scared to death under his new expensive black suit, and climbed into the car whispering directions to the driver.
"We're not going to Cavalry and Guards Club in Piccadilly?" he remembered the location Moran mentioned on the phone.
"No, an inconvenient police house call compromised the location."
"Sherlock."
"Yes. He needed a place with more...history."
They arrive in an unknown location, near water. Unknown to John, because Irene knows exactly where she's going. The man was silent all the way, redrawn in a corner, sitting in a strange position as far away from contact as possible. Now he limps near him, following the woman into a decommissioned ship, towering them in metal and rust.
Others come as well. Black suits, silver evening dresses, a blatant contrast to the scenery. Groups of three or four, packing more money, John thinks, than the entire town he was born in. He feels out of place for a second, in his usual evening clothes. But then again, you don't need to wear a suit to a murder. Only 007 does that, he thinks and smiles carefully, catching up with Irene.
Someone at the entrance collects the weapons from every guest. He sees then the groups dismantle, from every cluster a man or two being taken by guards to somewhere else. Their companion, the haggard looking man is also taken, to Irene's indication.
He can't think about it all, because they are immediately inside and to the right, his designated killer is waiting. John never saw the man. But he knows. From his posture, from the hate in his eyes, from the sickening smile promising death. And the confidence is so high, even with the thin coat of sweat on his face, John would believe the certainty of his fate if Sherlock wasn't behind all this. Somehow, even absent, Sherlock overpowers this man. And that makes John feel safe.
They don't talk, Moran doesn't get near. Irene leaves him in the middle of all the people and goes to join him. Yes, of course, Moran thinks she's on his side. The woman and her charms.
Someone tries to get the general attention.
"Good evening. So pleased to see you all here. Old familiar faces and new ones. We welcome you. We are indeed very sorry for the change of scenery, but we believe this old piece of history will meet your expectations. We will commence by stating the rules. My lovely assistant will bring them to your attention along with the night's program. Thank you all and may Fortuna smile down on your lives. And pockets."
Like promised, a young, half naked woman steps into view.
"All fire weapons are to remain by the gate to the end of the games. The pairs for the game were made accordingly to your specifications and the bets you placed. The weapon used tonight, presented to us by The Colonel, is this magnificent piece you all requested to see."
The turmoil caused by the announce drowns the small voice until a loud bang calls the masses back to order.
"Place your bets, in cash, at the vault you can find in the room to the right. Then please step inside the room to the left, where a bar awaits you. Please let us know if there is anything we can do for you. Now, the pairs for the game.
Shadow sponsored by the Monted family will face Crimson sponsored by the Thrundill family
Blaze -Davis family, will face Arrow-Dunhill family"
Names went on and on, until John heard his own name.
"Colonel Moran will face, as usual, in his own name- oh, wait, he requests that tonight he is to be announced as representing Mr. James Moriarty. He will face Dr. John Watson, representing...Sir, do you represent someone?"
"Myself. And Sherlock Holmes."
"You heard them ladies and gentlemen, two brave men will be standing against each other in a fair game of chance and will, in the memories of those they knew. We all know the stories, so this night promises to become a greater than ever spectacle."
Bile rises inside John, thinking that this is real, it's happening, and all these people brought here money and ...slaves, to watch them die, for entertainment. He hates them all with passion and decides they, he and Sherlock, will have to do something about it as soon as Moran will be dead. And that moment can't come soon enough.
He waits for her to come by, like he did some time ago. He did underestimate her, he decides and tries again to stop his hand from moving absurdly in a trembling he can't, after all, control. Maybe sentiment is a disability, but tonight is not his anatomy put to the test. He still hates it. The wait, the percentages. His mind for coming up with it. And maybe...
"Oh...you scared me."
"Yes."
"Why are you...not that I'm not glad to see you, but why...Do you need my help? Because I will do it for you, help you I mean...again."
"You knew I was alive."
Molly Hooper stands in the door, hands tied to one another, clothes hanging on her, a proof of insecurity. And yet her eyes...
"Yes. But I never thought you'll come back."
"How?"
"I know you."
And he realises she does know him. She sees under the mask, under clothes and insults. She's not him, she doesn't have his mind, but she has something else, something that amazes him. He can't name it.
"John couldn't tell."
"He loves you I think. And the shock... I ...kind of...hated you for what you did to him. He was...broken after you...left the way you did."
"It saved his life."
"You still sound like you feel the need to apologize."
He comes near her and stops again, his hands on his face.
"You see something in me I don't. He does to."
She doesn't answer. He's not sure he expects her to. He's not even sure why he came here. Maybe because if his plan fails, this will be the place where John's body...
"Are you okay?"
He straightens and looks at her.
"You look like you're in pain."
Maybe he is. A gushing wound in his mind, dripping plans and moves and doubt. Everything in him wants to go to John, be there, whatever may happen. Hold John's head to make sure it's in one piece if Moran dies, hold John even broken if Moran lives. Keep John.
"I can't go with him."
"Him? Do you mean John? Oh, of course you do. Why not? He didn't forgive you?"
"He's about to place a gun to his head and shot because I told him to. I'm sure he forgave me."
Molly forgets to close her mouth and Sherlock realises he spoke out loud.
"I just need to know. But if I go there, we'll surely die. Us, Irene, who knows how many others. Arh, I don't care about them, but John... Both of us. Moran has guards, friends or whatever they are to him. Even with the no-weapon policy, they can get us. I...can't...I'm afraid."
He feels Molly coming closer and thanks her, mentally, for not touching him, even if she wants to.
"I couldn't get to Moran in the first year. And then this ...idea I had...I fought to make it happen. I should have asked him ...John. But Moran was there, all the time, had someone watching him. All the time. What if-"
"Stop."
He looks up at her and is like he's faced with someone else entirely. The frail, clumsy Molly Hooper is gone, replaced by a determined woman, looking just about ready to slap him to senses.
"You never doubt yourself. Or your actions. They are sometimes infinitely cruel and complicated and you always play with fire. You never doubt yourself. So I don't. So John didn't. Because you are everything you think you are. But you know, you are so much more. I don't know why you had to leave, but I guess it wasn't easy. The way you looked at him said it wasn't easy. And you still did it. Another cruel and complicated thing. Party, if not everything, was for him, right? I could never understand, he may never too, but you know. You always know. It's who you are. And you're the greatest man I ever met. Trust that."
Not once he takes his eyes of her. He sees there a distorted image of what he did, across time, and Molly witnessed, from beating a corpse with a riding crop, to putting a broken body on her table and making her believe it was his. Every action he saw as logical, reflected back at him from a normal person perspective. And yet, no disgust. No lessons hidden in her words, or advice to change. He never thought he may need acceptance. Never sought it. And he got it anyway.
"That's why I came back. And John said yes," he stares into the space above her head, talking more to himself, like always, a revelation so obvious it's stupid to put in in words and still end it with the sound of a question mark.
"Maybe. It's not wrong or weak to come back to someone that accepts you for everything you are. I believe ...yes. No matter what you say or plan or do, he'll say yes. I would say yes. Because it's you."
He touches her cheek and she blushes visibly even in the dark room.
"Thank you, Molly Hooper."
Sherlock leaves put back together by something incredible. Sentiment. He saw it in her and he saw it in John, but he considered it a weakness. It's not. It gives him more power, more focus. Yes, he does things his own way, cruel and disregarding every rule, but he never loses.
He can use sentiment, not let it use him. He can shed the mask sometimes, for John, be with him, really be with him and still get back in the game, head clear, when he has to. John won't mind. John will be impressed. And maybe say "a little not good" but still be mesmerized by what he does and how he does it. John will not be a liability. He was once because Sherlock was to blind to acknowledge his importance and his role in his life. Not any more. Not now when he knows and when John is there playing his game, playing with his life on the table, because of blind trust.
Doubt was and is his only enemy and weakness. Putting aside the fact that John, his only reason to believe this to be frightening, is there, alone, he analyses the other facts. Cold facts. Moran will react as predicted, the man in the box will ensure it, Irene played her role, the revolver is flawless.
The end of it.
His plan, his decisions will bring him a checkmate.