John leaned in close. The pub had mostly emptied out at this time of night, and yet John's voice when he spoke was so overly loud as to make Greg wince.
"Greg. You're a good mate, Greg. Have I ever told y'that?" John reached out to slap Lestrade on the back, his hand falling a little off-target to jostle his shoulder, sending beer sloshing over the edge of Greg's pint glass.
Irritation flashed across Greg's face for just a moment before settling into amused tolerance. "Yeah, mate. About five minutes ago. Let's call it a night after this one, yeah?"
"I'm fine. I'm fiiiine." John's head drooped just a little before he yanked it back up. "Only had uh...five? Shix, maybe?"
"Christ, John, you must have refilled while I was in the gents. This is only my third. That's definitely enough for you then, mate."
"You look out for me, Greg." John giggled. "You're a looker-outer."
"And on that note..." Greg drained the rest of his pint and threw a few bills on the table. "I'll walk you home. Just down the street, innit?"
"Very, very, closhe. Close." John let himself be pulled to his feet, his gait only slightly unsteady before Greg slung a bracing arm around his shoulders, guiding him to the door.
"Bloody hell, these're a lot of stairs," Lestrade groused as they finally made the fourth floor landing. "This one, is it?" he asked, gesturing to John's door. "Here, give me the keys, I'll get it open for you."
Just as Lestrade turned the key in the lock, John placed a hand on his shoulder. "Stay calm, Greg," he said, low and soft in his ear.
"What?" John saw Greg's eyes sharpen at his distinctly sober tone, but he didn't give him time to think, crowding him through the door and shutting and locking it behind them.
"Mycroft?" Greg's eyes took in the figure seated in the only chair. There was movement in the kitchen doorway and before John could react Greg was in motion. Two swift steps and he didn't even break his stride to deliver the punch, a solid right hook to Sherlock's cheekbone that knocked him to the ground.
"You...you...bloody bastard," Greg was spitting.
John cautiously eased between them, careful not to move too suddenly. "Easy, Greg. Take it easy, yeah? We've got a lot to explain."
"Bloody right you do!" The shock seemed to be setting in now, and it was John's turn to ease an arm around Greg's shoulders, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed.
"Just take a few deep breaths, okay? It's a shock." John could tell his own smile was probably a little bitter. "Trust me, I know."
"Fucking hell, John." Greg sounded more lost than angry now. "What he put you through..." Greg's head suddenly snapped up, his brown eyes cold. "Or did you know this whole time?"
John suddenly had the feeling of what it would be like to be trapped in an interrogation room with Lestrade, and it wasn't pleasant at all. "I didn't," he said firmly. "I found out a little over two weeks ago. And I promise, he had good reasons for what he did. Just...take a moment and breathe. I'll put the tea on and we'll talk it through, okay?"
"Why are you coddling him, John? I'm the one he punched!" Sherlock huffed from the kitchen doorway.
"Bloody right, and I'm damn tempted to do it a second time," Greg snapped without even looking up from where he sat hunched over his knees, his head between his hands.
Hand pressed to his cheek, Sherlock turned his wide-eyed, indignant look to John, and John had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing.
"I told you to stay out of sight until I had the chance to warn him," he said pragmatically. "You're lucky he didn't shoot you."
"Anthea needed the loo!" Sherlock said in such a wounded tone that John couldn't help but chuckle.
He was so tempted to kiss Sherlock in apology, but one more shock right now might be more than Lestrade could handle. He stopped in front of Sherlock in the kitchen doorway. With his right hand he pressed gently on Sherlock's cheekbone to check for any fractures. Out of sight from the others in the room, his left hand squeezed reassuringly at Sherlock's waist.
"I'll get you ice for that," he said, his left thumb swirling teasingly to dip inside the waistband of Sherlock's trousers, pressing warmth through the thin silk of Sherlock's dress shirt. Sherlock hummed agreement, his mood appearing much improved.
"Who the bloody hell is Anthea?" John heard Lestrade say plaintively as he put the kettle on and pulled an icepack from the freezer.
By the time tea was ready Anthea had emerged from the en suite and introductions had been made all around. Greg looked much recovered, although John cynically wondered whether the presence of a beautiful woman like Anthea had expedited that process considerably. Not that Anthea seemed to have eyes for anyone but her Blackberry, of course.
Sherlock had seated himself on the bed a good distance away from Greg, although Greg was still shooting him wary glances out of the corner of his eye. John passed the tea around. Fortunately he had just done the washing up; he was hardly used to entertaining company at his flat and five mugs was all that he had.
After introductions the others had fallen into eying each other silently. Apparently John had been appointed master of ceremonies for this little get-together. He took a sip of tea, leaned back against the desk, and dove right in.
"Sorry for the..." he waved a hand indistinctly "...subterfuge, but we have reason to believe that I am under surveillance. I needed a way to have you to the flat without arousing too much suspicion. As a result, we'll need to keep this brief as well. Mycroft will be in touch with you to arrange any further details."
Lestrade looked every inch the copper, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Details of what exactly."
Sherlock smiled grimly. "Details of my resurrection."
"Bloody hell," Lestrade repeated, his head in his hands again. Finally he raised his head. He seemed to have latched onto John as the only voice of sanity in the room. "Are you sure about this?"
"No," John said frankly, ignoring the derisive noise from Sherlock's quarter. "In fact I was very much against it at the start. But we've been over it and over it, and I can't think of any alternative. Moran is going to find out that Sherlock is alive sooner or later. At least this way the moment, and the venue, are of our choosing. It gives us some measure of control."
Lestrade was still shaking his head. He held up the picture of Moran from the dossier Mycroft had handed around, the forged identification of a Major Alain Pépin of the 5 Combat Engineer Division, based out of Valcartier, Quebec.
"So you just let this man, an expert sniper, take pot-shots at Sherlock? That's your clever solution?"
"I know how it sounds." John ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "We've been monitoring the CCTV ever since we identified his alias and got the photograph. We've run facial recognition algorithms on every camera in London. If he's here, he's staying out of sight. We have to draw him out. He's waiting for confirmation that Sherlock is alive. If a press conference announcing his return doesn't do that, nothing will."
Mycroft finally spoke up, his words slow and judicious. "The operation will be planned out meticulously, and I will be overseeing it personally from on-site. We have chosen the location. We can establish an airtight perimeter, secure every neighboring building, and ensure that there is no possible clear shot to where Sherlock will be standing. When Moran approaches, we will identify and apprehend him before he gets anywhere near Sherlock."
Sherlock jumped to his feet and began pacing. "He doesn't even want me," he snapped. "Everything I have learned about him, everything about his psychology, tells me that it is John who will be his true target. Killing from a distance is his profession, but this is personal. And when it is personal, he prefers to be up close. A quick death for either of us would bring him no satisfaction. I took Moriarty from him, and he wants to take John from me."
Sherlock suddenly crouched in front of Lestrade, his silver-blue eyes pinning Lestrade's as his voice turned low and harsh with emotion. "He wants to torture, to take his time. He wants to hear the screams, to taste the blood and smell the fear. And he wants me there when he does it."
"Jesus Christ." Greg's face was pale and drawn, but resolute. He nodded once, decisively. His eyes flicked from Sherlock to Mycroft. "God knows you two are the geniuses, so if this is the way you want to play it, you give me my lines and I'll do my part. But I hope to hell you know what you're doing."
John broke in before Sherlock could say anything damaging. "He has the advantage right now. He can strike at any time, in any place. At least this will allow us to control the situation. It worked for Sherlock when he faced Moriarty."
Lestrade's mouth twisted bitterly. "A swan dive off St. Bart's, leaving you a complete wreck? If that's your idea of a plan working, mate, I'd hate to see things go wrong."
John saw anger flash across Sherlock's face and placed a quelling hand on his shoulder. "We're all still alive, Greg. You, me, Mrs. Hudson. All of us had a bullet with our name on it, if Sherlock didn't jump. He saved us all, and himself too. That's the best we're hoping for here."
Lestrade looked like he had been punched in the gut. His eyes lifted to Sherlock in question, but Sherlock was already turning away.
"Day after tomorrow, on the steps of St. Bart's. Mycroft will arrange everything. The podium will be blocked on three sides, and all lines of sight will be secured. John and I will already be safely inside before the announcement even goes out. Molly has a couch in her office, we'll spend the night there. The press release will go out tomorrow indicating that an announcement will be made regarding Sherlock Holmes. Moran will come to us like a mouse to cheese, and all you have to do is stand by me and make a statement regarding my triumphant return. Can you do that, Lest—...Greg?"
Greg's eyes narrowed at the deliberate use of his first name. Finally he stood. He held his hand out to Sherlock, who took it cautiously. Greg shook Sherlock's hand solemnly. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah. I can do that."
"Get some rest, Greg," John said. "The press release will be on your desk for distribution by noon tomorrow. With any luck, in a few days this'll all be behind us."
Greg nodded. "Cheers to that." He gave a nod to the others. "Mycroft. Anthea, pleasure to meet you." He turned to Sherlock again, eyes scanning him as if still disbelieving of his presence, before suddenly cracking a grin. "For what it's worth, I'm glad to see you again. And not just for John's sake."
John saw the surprise on Sherlock's face, the tentative curl to his mouth, but he simply nodded.
"Right. I'm off. John, next round's on you."
Greg left, shutting the door carefully behind them.
"By all means, feel free to take your leave as well, Mycroft," Sherlock sniped, ignoring the chastising look John was directing at him. "I expect you have some overly-elaborate plan for unseen extraction that involves diversion of surveillance satellites and other egregious wastes of government resources?"
"What he means," John said forcefully, "is thank you very much for all your assistance in this, Mycroft. We could not accomplish it without you, and we are very grateful."
Sherlock's petulant expression was rivaled only by Mycroft's barely-concealed smugness. "You are very welcome."
"Sir," Anthea cued, holding up her Blackberry.
"Yes. Well." Mycroft fussily gathered up his coat and umbrella. "I believe there will be a minor accident involving a delivery truck outside your front door in approximately five minutes, so we must make our farewells."
Anthea slipped through the door, but Mycroft turned at the last minute. "I do wish the best of luck. To both of you," he said gravely.
John started to reply but Sherlock stepped behind him, pulling John back against his chest in an unusually demonstrative manner, arms wrapped around his chest. "I cannot rely on luck, Mycroft. Not for this," he said, the petty needling tone he usually adopted with Mycroft completely gone now, his voice low and serious. "Do your part to see that we do not need it."
Mycroft's eyes examined them both briefly, and then he nodded. Without another word, he turned and left.
John turned in Sherlock's arms, pressing his face into the damp curve of Sherlock's neck. "And what was that about?"
Sherlock's arms tightened around John again. "Just making sure that Mycroft knows what is of the utmost importance here."
"Meaning...?"
"You, John. Whatever happens at the press conference, Mycroft will ensure that you are safe."
"Dammit, Sherlock. I'll be lurking inside, under heavy guard. I'm not the one playing bait here, standing on a bloody stage in front of a pack of journalists and a bloody sniper. On the very spot, no less, where...where you..."
John couldn't even say the words. He pressed his face into Sherlock's skin, trying to take steadying breaths.
"All will be well, John," Sherlock said softly.
"I know. It will be." John was tired...tired of plans and schemes and the constant pressure of knowing Moran was out there. He just wanted to forget for awhile, to get lost in Sherlock. Slowly, deliberately he bit Sherlock's collarbone, smiling at Sherlock's indrawn breath and reflexive shudder.
"Tomorrow night is Molly's couch and SIS guards. Tonight is just us and a bed. Let's make it count."
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