Notes: Hello! I'm on the plane back to the US while writing this and also watching SW:TFA. Europe was incredible. I visited Switzerland, Italy, France, and Spain. If you want to see pictures, my instagram is . Our tour definitely didn't include time for writing though, so here's a late update. Please review! Thanks so much for the follows and favorites. :) I'll try to get this story posted on Ao3 soon.
Dead Is the New Sexy
CHAPTER 3
Sherlock overpaid the cabbie, shoving whatever money he had inside his pocket to the driver's hand. Greenwich seemed more crowded than usual, especially for the time of day, and Sherlock was continually bumped into. His hand instinctively slid into his pocket over his wallet, aware of thieves.
The phone leading to Greenwich was just that - a lead. He had no idea where in Greenwich to look first.
Think dramatic, Sherlock talked to himself.
Someone slammed into him. He almost lost his balance, and looked down to find a woman brushing off her clothing. Beige petticoat, work slacks, office heels, long hair frizzled from the moisture. She wore red lipstick that corresponded with her nails. A very specific shade of scarlet.
"Sorry, I was looking at my phone. Are you alright?" she smiled at him.
Sherlock turned to leave, spinning on his heel. "Fine."
An iron grip enclosed on his shoulder, and pulled his ear towards her mouth. She leaned on him, pretending to adjust her shoes.
Her cheery cheery voice filled his ears, "A little overstuft in Greenwich, today, isn't it?"
"What did you say?" Sherlock hissed.
"Ah, nothing important," she smiled, and straightened his collar for him. "Sorry again."
The unknown woman disappeared into the crowd, a certain word she said echoed in Sherlock's head.
O-V-E-R-S-T-U-F-T.
The proper term was overstuffed. This was old English, and not a coincidence. The world was too small for those. Even their running into each other was a hired job.
She was wearing second day clothes, but still looked well-kept. Creasing in her jacket showed she had been carrying a backpack. Someone accustomed to light travel. Fake accent. Obviously American; why fake an accent in the first place? Who'd care if she was American? Oh. Of course. Agent. She was a spy of some sort, secret service. Not FBI. They like to flash their badges. Posture wasn't CIA. She wore fancy, expensive French perfume: "Iris" by Fragonard. Retired then, some connected branch of government service. Moved on to private work. Small jobs in foreign fields. Just finding something to pass the time and pay the bills.
She had been paid to say those words.
Overstuft; noun. The concept of putting too much stuff into one area. Overstuft; a magic trick involving Oreo cookies.
No. Stupid, stupid.
There has to be something with significant meaning. Something staring him straight in the face.
Think, think! John's life is on the line and you can't even process a word.
"Argh!" He shouted out loud, bringing him to reality.
Shocked, people avoided him in the sidewalk, giving him strange looks.
Then, it hit him. Of course.
The only church nearby whose name originated from being a burial pit. In 1665, churches were used for the disposal of bodies of those struck by the Black Death. The churchyards were full of decaying, diseased bodies. One unknown person had used the word "overstuft" to describe it.
And that church was in this city.
St. John's Blackheath.
How sickly ironic.
The church was about a mile away; a cab would take longer than his own pace. With that, he sprinted. It didn't matter how many people he crashed into. It had never mattered. Other people's opinions of him were useless. Except for John's.
Yes, he was a selfish, despicable git sometimes but he had a weakness for sentiment. It was a mistake; sentiment. A mistake Sherlock had tried to fix, voiding himself of feelings, becoming a machine as John had so lovingly put it once. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't erase the loyalty built inside him for John Watson.
Maybe loyalty was a weakness. But if that meant making sure John was alive and safe, he didn't care.
The church was pitch black, but he could make out its silhouette against the midnight sky. He was still a great distance away, but he was one step closer to John. Every step was a step closer to John.
He braced himself for whatever awaited him behind those church doors. He never was a religious man and never would be. Bursting into a church at such a profound hour of the day was the closest he had ever experienced of a spiritual revolution.
Because beating Moriarty was his religion.
It had consumed him.
His speed caused him to practically slam into the door when he approached. It was unlocked; he took one deep breath, already panting, and stepped inside. There were some candles lit as the only light source. Inside it seemed like a typical medieval church; intricate artwork, old wooden pews, glorified images of the Bible decorating the walls.
No John.
He stood flabbergasted in disbelief. Part of him knew it wouldn't be that easy. But to be standing here, knowing he had fallen for another one of Moriarty's bloody games. He was sick of them. Dancing around the point. Chasing like a madman on a wild goose hunt through the streets of London. Having to comply to Jim's rules. It wasn't boring, he had learned to enjoy riddles just as Moriarty warned him to.
Now, he was sick of them.
Sick of being used, toyed with, taken as a tool. Sick of John being used as a tool.
Furious, he searched the church. Despite his anger, he contained himself from damaging anything. Evidence of his presence here wasn't necessary.
He searched hymn books, Bibles, whatever he could find. Moriarty was the type to leave a breadcrumb trail, like he literally had once. Essentially, that's what Sherlock was looking for.
It was by the prayer candles that he found it. A very clear, cold message.
A black origami lotus flower.
Deadman.
/
Moriarty closed the heavy, metal door behind him as he exited John's cell. He almost tripped on the large, lifeless form of the guard right at his feet.
One bullet hole oozed scarlet slowly from his forehead.
A woman leaned against the wall nearby, a gun with a silencer in her hand. She wore a dazzling black dress that hung onto attractive curves. Sexy midnight stilettos with a touch of red adorned her feet. Dark hair was in a tight French twist, only a single curl framed her face. Her lipstick matched her blood-red fingertips. Blue eyeliner accented mysterious, devious eyes.
"Hello Miss Adler," Moriarty scowled. "Any particular reason you're testing my security today, and not doing what we discussed?"
"I've decided on a different prospect that catches my attention," her voice resembled velvet, but with a mischievous tone.
"It's a good offer. You need the money."
"Money isn't something of my concern. I live my life on deals," Irene smirked.
"This is a deal," Moriarty hissed. He needed Irene Adler's cooperation in order to prick Sherlock in the right way.
A sneering smile. "And this is me not holding up my end. Good day, James."
Click of heels and swaying hips, and she was gone.
/
John was alone. Moriarty had left after his recent threat of burning, leaving John to ponder the meaning. Torture, most likely. He had never been tortured, and wasn't looking forward to the prospect of it. He had scars from Afghanistan that he wasn't excited to add to.
But if it meant keeping Sheryl, Mary, and Sherlock safe, he would do it.
It was times like these that he almost regretted meeting Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had impacted his life in such a drastic manner, he would be in a much different place without him. He would of never have gotten over his psychosomatic limp and never really found joy again. Would have continued his practice as a doctor, in some small, sad clinic on the outskirts of London. His flatmate would have been boring, probably some teacher. Never would've been forced to deal with Mycroft and never of made friends with the detective inspector of Scotland Yard, Lestrade. He would have never met Mary, never imagined Sheryl. And he most definitely wouldn't be handcuffed to a chair, in the hands of one of the most sadistic, harmful criminal masterminds of the age.
Yes, if he hadn't met Sherlock Holmes, his life would be much duller. Much safer.
Yet he would've died a lonely, depressed doctor.
He needed the thrill of the chase to keeping him going; that was one way Sherlock and him were alike. Why they made such a great pair. And Sherlock provided the thrill. Sometimes John just ran alongside, absolutely clueless in the face of mystery. But it was worth it. No matter how many times Sherlock drove him to insanity, or made fun of his blogs, or him, he needed Sherlock.
When Sherlock "died", he tried to replace him with Mary. It wasn't the same, but he loved her. There were different kinds of love.
Including the devoting love, where you were zip-tied to a chair and tortured and were okay with it, because it was worth it to keep those you love safe.
A sharp pang in his shoulder snapped him out of his philosophical haze. He still didn't know what happened to his shoulder. It wasn't a bullet wound, Lord knows he knew what that felt like. Overall, his body ached so it was hard to tell if it was a fracture of some kind. For the past hour or so, the pain subsided to a throb, but something agitated it. John shifted again. The zip-ties brought no relief to his cramped limbs.
The pain in his head was manageable now too. It was probably just a punch, as there was no blood on his face from what he could feel.
No matter how hard he scrunched his eyebrows or scoured his disheveled brain, he couldn't recall what happened to land him in this situation. The last thing he could remember was leaving the bar with Lestrade, saying good night, then trying to hail a cab. Maybe he was drugged. However, he had been at the bar for hours, and the kidnappers would not of been able to know when he was going to walk out and how to plan the poison accordingly.
He knew whatever scenarios he thought of would be useless. Years of working with Sherlock had accustomed him to keeping his ideas to himself.
Besides, this was Jim Moriarty.
He was no match for Moriarty.
/
Sherlock warily climbed the stairs to 221B. The weight of the pink phone and paper flower in his pocket was nothing compared to the decisions he had to make. He didn't know what the next choice should be; how to get closer to finding his best friend. He considered going to the lab to analyze the lotus but decided against it. It wouldn't have dust or fingerprints; instead be frustratingly clean, just like the phone.
The image of John continued to haunt him. Moriarty didn't do the dirty work. If he wanted to torture John, he'd have to hire someone.
Reaching the top stair, he was alarmed to find the door open. It was just a sliver, but he was positive he locked it upon exit. Every cell in his body alert, he pushed the door open with his long, white fingers.
She was there. Beige jacket, heels, slacks.
And a very specific shade of red lipstick.
The Agent.
"Hello. Little early for clients," Sherlock said, crossing the room and sinking into his familiar chair.
"Not a client," the Agent replied, not bothering to hide the alien accent this time.
"A friend?" Sherlock's lip twitched.
"Hardly. You don't have many of those and neither do I. Just because I fixed your collar doesn't mean I qualify," she smiled.
Neither said anything for a few moments. Every now and again, the woman chuckled a little bit as her eyes fluttered over the apartment. Sherlock's fingers rested against each other under his jaw in his thinking position, observing her.
"Tell me what you're here for," Sherlock said slowly.
"You're the smart-ass detective. You tell me," she smiled again. She had full lips and straight teeth, accented nicely by the shade of red. Her eyes were the color of the ocean, though not as bright and brilliant as his own. Although Sherlock couldn't care less, she was attractive by media and normal standards.
"You were hired by Irene Adler," he said, emotionless.
"You are quick," she stood up and began circling the room. "May I ask your path of deduction?"
"I knew from the first second I saw you. The lipstick gave it away."
"Yes. I wanted to be more subtle, but I do as I'm told."
"And you were told to run into me, then come into my apartment and leave a message," Sherlock said quickly. If Irene Adler was nearby, and willing to help him find John... well, he wasn't exactly sure what to make of that.
The agent pulled out an envelope from a pocket within her coat. "It was a pleasure, Mr. Holmes."
She laid it on the table, gave one last chuckle as she looked around the room, then helped herself out the door.
Sherlock picked up the envelope carefully, first feeling it, then smelling it. He recognized the perfume. This was definitely from Adler.
Enclosed was a single sheet of paper.
Written in lovely handwriting with an expensive ballpoint pen, were five words.
Dead is the new sexy.
Directly below was a little heart in red. Sherlock froze. One sniff told him all he needed to know.
The heart was drawn with blood.