I'd like to dedicate this chapter to marshmallowdeviant and kandikisses19. Marshmallowdeviant encouraged me to write –even sending good vibes my way- and this chapter would've never ever been finished if it weren't for her :D And I'd also like to thank KandiKisses19 for even reading this because I know she has never seen anything regarding Sherlock or Elementary, so the fact that she is even reading this story is amazing. Maybe you viewers could send her a message and force her to watch an episode or two. *Wink* *Wink*
And thanks to everyone who reads this story (or any of my stories) because the fact that I have fans keeps me going and I enjoy writing for the lot of ya! :D
"I'm a fake." Sherlock's voice wavers with emotions he had long suppressed.
"Sherlock..." John watches his flat-mate –his friend- on top of St. Bart's Hospital, his feet inches from the ledge.
Sherlock cuts him off and continues his emotional goodbye. "The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly, in fact tell anyone who will listen to you... that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."
John has heard enough. He knows Sherlock, and this isn't him. Something is definitely wrong. "Ok, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met - the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?" He thinks back to when Sherlock first deduced every single detail about his sister –at first thinking Harry was a brother, but other than that, spot on- and just how amazing it truly was.
"Nobody could be that clever." Sherlock lets out a sad, breathy laugh.
"You could." John reassures him. He has the awful feeling in his gut that something bad is about to happen.
There is a pause, the tension clearly felt through the receiver of John Watson's phone.
Suddenly, Sherlock speaks. "This phone call, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note..." He chokes back a sob, his throat tightening and it becomes harder to push the words out through his mouth.
"Leave a note when?" John feels the sinking feeling return, full force, and his chest tightens. He knows the answer, but he doesn't want to believe it.
Sherlock takes a deep breath and gazes at his best friend, still standing in the spot Sherlock had told him to stay, watching the 'famous' Sherlock about to do something everyone knew was inevitable. "Good-bye, John..." He spreads his arms out to his sides and plummets, almost gracefully, to the ground. He hits and John goes numb.
His best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead.
John started to become aware of the cold cement beneath his limp frame, people standing over him and paramedics checking his vitals.
"Joan…" He groans as he tries to move, pain shooting through his muscles and in his brain.
"Stay still, sir. We don't know how much damage is done to your body and moving will just make it worse." A high-pitched, female voice echoes above him.
He looks up at her and frowns. "I'm- I'm a doctor…I'm fine…" He gets to his knees, pausing to ease the pain, and continues to get to his feet. "Where did it go?"
The woman is staring at him now, "Where did what go?"
"The- the car…a black Cadillac…" John stutters, speech becoming difficult due to the concussion.
The woman nods and approaches him. "We need to get you to the hospital, sir." She puts a hand on his shoulder and motions for a stretcher to be brought over.
He shrugs her hand off and stumbles backwards. "You think it's the concussion…No, they took her…They took Joan."
"Who is Joan?" The woman is pretending to listen to him, thinking his outburst is just a cause of the concussion.
John looks around at his surroundings, ignoring her question, and feels his knees buckle. "Joan…" He drops to the ground and once again, succumbs to sleep.
…
Joan fought the men as they dragged her into an abandoned power complex, roughly pushing her forward through the dimly lit hallways.
"Let me go, now!" She growled, attempting to sound threatening, but her nervousness pokes through and makes it sound pathetic.
They laughed and positioned her in front of a large pipe extending from the ceiling to the floor. They threw her down –not respecting that she was wearing a dress that barely covered her thighs- and crudely tied her hands behind her back.
"Should we call the boss now?" The shorter of the two men asked.
"No, you idiot. We have to confirm that we have the right one." The other man snapped, his voice echoing through the abandoned space.
Joan noted that they were both British, most likely more of Moriarty's contacts.
Footsteps sounded behind Joan and she craned her neck to see who they belonged to.
A very husky man took one look at the two lackey's and then glared at Joan. "What the Hell is this?" He pointed to the woman tied up on the ground.
"The target, sir." The shorter man squeaked, clearly terrified of the husky man.
He glared at the men. "You mean to tell me that this is John Watson?" He growled, staring at them with pure ferocity.
"Yes, the host confirmed it so." The taller man piped up, confident that he had a source confirming their target.
"You idiots! John Watson is a man! Not a dumb bitch!" He screamed, taking hostile steps toward them and clocking the taller man with a gun he had been concealing in his unusually large hand. The taller man regained his footing and ducked his head, the shorter man doing the same.
"John Watson? Who the Hell is John Watson? I'm Joan, Joan Watson." Joan cut in, completely confused with the statement.
"What are you? His wife? I wasn't informed the target was married." He pulled his phone out and dialed a number.
"He's not…Well, I don't think he is…but I'm not his wife, if that's what you're implying…" Joan sputtered, trying to comprehend the situation.
The main man ignored her and began a loud conversation with someone on his cell. "Mission failed. Incorrect target…I know…Already done." At this, the husky man pulled the trigger twice, one bullet for each man before him. The two men fell the ground, dead before they hit the cement floor. "Kindlin's been what? Arrested? How?...You'll fix it…okay…Seb out." He clicked end and smirked at Joan. "Moriarty is being friendly today, so good news, you're free to go."
Joan laughed. "Moriarty. I knew it! She even has a hold on her empire behind bars!"
The husky man furrowed his brow at her. "She? What the Hell are you getting on about? Moriarty isn't a woman…"
Joan cocked her head to the side. "Where have you been? Of course Moriarty's a woman! Formally known as Irene Adler."
He became even more confused. "Irene Adler? The poor lackeys must've hit you on your noggin harder than I thought…Irene Adler isn't Moriarty –not even a full-blown criminal, to be honest. Just a con-woman with no power, whatsoever."
Joan was speechless –not for long though, as more footsteps echoed through the power complex.
"What have we got here?" A high-pitched, almost sing-song voice rang from behind her.
"An extremely confused bloke." The man spoke, still staring blankly at Joan.
"How so?" The mysterious man came into Joan's line of vision and smiled at her.
"She thought Irene Adler –The Woman- was Moriarty."
The man knelt down in front of her restrained body and leaned in close to Joan's face. "Poor girl. Your brain is either mush, or you're just a moron –same difference."
Joan spat in his face. "I know what I'm talking about. You're the ones who are confused. Irene Adler is Moriarty. This man you call 'Moriarty' is just an imposter."
The man laughed, not moving from where he was positioned in front of her. "Oh, no. Moriarty is definitely smarter than some small, unintelligent con-woman."
Joan analyzed his figure, trying to deduce who this man was –or is. Giving up, Joan glared at him and decided it would take less time just to ask. "Who are you?"
He smiles and stands, never breaking eye contact with her. "Jim Moriarty." He pauses, taking in her confused expression. "Hi!"
…
John opened his eyes and waited for the room to stop spinning. When the room settled, he took in his surroundings. The room was white –almost heavenly white- and even in his groggy state, he could pin-point exactly where he was. The hospital.
Doctor's utensils scattered along the floor caught his attention. A proper doctor would never allow his utensils on the ground –dirty as it were. They would always be on a metal table, or in a nurse's hand. And they would never leave the tools unattended –for fear of being stolen or misused.
There had been a struggle –that he was almost sure of…but between whom did the struggle ensue?
"Nurse?" He called voice raspy from the dry air, the panic clear in his voice. "Nurse?" He repeated, more urgently, when no one answered his call with a reply or appearance. John swung his legs over the side, his hands immediately going behind him to cover up the slit in the back of the hospital gown. He felt for it and that's when it registered to him. He was still in his date clothing…
That's against the code…what is going on here?
John slid out of the bed and slipped into the hallway, looking both ways for nurses. The hall was empty, no nurses in sight…actually, nobody in sight. The hall was void of any kind of life.
John began to walk down the hall, the small heels of his dress shoes echoing loudly. He glanced into each hospital room and found them empty.
Commotion from the room at the end of the hall caught his attention.
John slowly approached it and placed his hand against the intentionally fogged look-in window. He pushed slowly, the door swinging open as if he had shoved it open. The sight he was met with was one to render him motionless.
A tall man with dark curly hair was bleeding profusely on the hospital bed, his blood gushing from his head and staining the pillow a dark scarlet. Nurses swarmed over him, checking vitals, doing anything they could to save him from the inevitable. They all stopped as a high pitched, never-ending beep filled the room.
The man…was dead.
"Sherlock!" John shot up suddenly, screaming the consultants name into the hospital room. John scanned the room and felt his heart pounding in his chest.
Joan shook herself from sleep and was at his side in an instant. "John? John, are you okay?"
John's glazed eyes swept the room a final time until his eyes fell upon the familiar face. His hand reached up slowly and his fingers grazed across her cheek. "Joan?" He croaked.
Joan covered his hand with hers and kept his hand in place. "Yes, it's me…I'm fine."
He continued to search her face and his eyes traveled to her cheek. A bright red mark –about to turn into a bruise- was present. His face twisted in anger. "They hurt you."
Joan nodded. "They hit me…but I'm fine, John, really. It's just a bruise. Nothing that won't heal." She smiled weakly.
"I should've been there…I should've saved you." John's hand tensed on her face.
Joan removed his hand from her face and kept her hand placed over his. She put her other hand on the other side of his and held it firmly. "It's okay, John. They hurt you…there was nothing you could do to stop them-"
"I shouldn't have let my guard down…How could I be so stupid? Stupid, stupid, stupid!" John clenched his free hand.
Joan sighed. "No, you're not stupid. You're brave. You tried to help me, John. Even when you had a concussion."
John winced as he felt the pain throb through his skull.
Joan could sense that he was in pain. Her hand rested on his cheek and she forced him to look into her eyes. "John, do not blame yourself for this. There was nothing you could've done to prevent this…"
John's eyes welled up –kind-of out of character for the ex-soldier. His features hardened as he looked at the mark again. "Who?"
Joan's hand subconsciously traveled to the red mark on her cheek. "I was hoping you could tell me. They actually had you as the intended target, but I guess we're more alike than we originally thought…Mr. Watson."
John's eyebrows quirked up. "What do you mean?"
Joan sighed, putting his question off for later. "Well, the man…the one who attacked me…he actually called you a different name. He told me you'd know exactly who he was if I said the pet-name."
John could feel the familiar sinking feeling. "Say it."
"Johnny boy…"
John had to stop himself from getting up and slamming his fist into a wall. "Moriarty…"
Joan looked taken aback. "John…He's not Moriarty…"
John's eyes shot up to hers. "What?"
"Moriarty's in jail. I put her there."
"Her?"
"Yes, her. Moriarty is not this 'Jim' guy…Moriarty goes by only one alias –that I know of- and that's Irene Adler."
"Irene Adler? What kind-of nonsense are you spluttering?" John snapped, a little more aggressive than he meant to be.
Joan furrowed her brow. "John, I could ask you the same thing…"
"Irene Adler is dead. She was beheaded by a terrorist cell…"
"No, John. She's in jail. Here, in New York." Joan remained calm, even if this was an upsetting conversation.
John took a deep breath. "I don't understand."
"Me either. That is pretty much my whole conversation with the Jim Moriarty guy in a nutshell."
John pushed away another saddening memory with Sherlock –the nutshell comment reminding of him of the case with Irene Adler- and he decided to take a moment to think. "How did you get away? I know Jim and he would never let you go…"
"I told you. You were the target instead. But, John…there is one more thing…"
John didn't seem to hear her. "What could he be playing at? How did he find me? How is he even alive!?"
Joan took his hand in hers. "John." She said more forcefully.
He looked to her, his full attention now on her.
"Remember when I said we have more in common than we originally thought?"
He nodded.
"Well, then…Allow me to introduce myself, John Watson. My name is Joan." She paused. "Joan Watson."
Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed. Probably only two chapters left!
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