At 11:37 a.m. exactly, as a truck blocked the view of the alleyway, John slid out the side door of the surgery and into the waiting black sedan.
Sherlock was already in the car as expected, but to John's surprise someone else occupied the bench seat opposite.
"Er, hullo Mycroft," he managed.
"Just thought I'd see you both settled personally," Mycroft intoned with a thin smile, umbrella clasped primly between his folded hands.
"That's...kind of you?" John said, unable to completely squelch the dubiousness from his tone. He sneaked a look at Sherlock, who simply responded with an elaborate shrug. The stiffness in his spine and the petulant set of his mouth told John that he had been unable to deduce Mycroft's motives as well.
As the sedan snaked through traffic to St. Bart's, Mycroft insisted on reviewing the details of the press conference one more time. Sherlock made a big show of not listening at all, while John listened intently, despite knowing every detail already. Not that there was much to do on his part except to stay out of sight and under guard until it was all over.
It was damned frustrating. Everyone else would have a role to play — Sherlock and Lestrade making a public appearance to draw Moran in, Mycroft monitoring the operation from the sham news van at the perimeter. Even Anthea would be in the field, coordinating the SIS agents and liaisoning with the Met, who aside from Lestrade were completely unaware of the true purpose for the press conference. All John could do was hide behind some SIS muscle, just waiting for it all to be over. If he were lucky, maybe he would get to watch the conference on a telly. Logical as it was to keep himself hidden away if he were Moran's true target, it still rankled.
Lost in his bitter musings, he realized they were at St. Bart's before he knew it. His hand rested lighly on the butt of his firearm — this next bit would be potentially the most vulnerable point — but they slid uneventfully in through the side door, making their way through deserted hallways towards Molly's office. Logically John knew that this part of the hospital had already been secured by Mycroft's minions with "under construction" blockades and agents in scrubs and construction gear patrolling the perimeter, but it was still eerie how quiet and deserted the familiar hallways were, making the squeak of their shoes and the tap of Mycroft's umbrella resonate in the empty hall.
John had only seen Molly's office a few times. As if to compensate her for the amount of time spent in the dank basement morgue, her office was surprisingly spacious and sunny, pleasantly but not opressively cluttered, and smelling of tea and slightly dusty plants. As a base of operations, it could have been worse.
Sherlock took three paces into the room and froze. John had never seen him look so surprised, and John had the all-too-familiar sensation of having missed something important.
Sherlock wheeled around, eyes wide as he stared at Mycroft, before the silver depths turned dismissive and cold. Sherlock wrinkled his nose derisively. "Well, I suppose if you maintain a hectic schedule, having someone so simperingly at your beck and call might be remarkably convenient..."
John's hand reflexively flew to the grip of his gun as sheer rage flashed across Mycroft's face for a moment. His hands tightened white-knuckled on the umbrella as he took a step forward, and John's joking speculation that Mycroft kept a blade hidden in the handle suddenly seemed shockingly plausible.
Mycroft seemed to catch himself suddenly, his face and body lapsing back into his typically composed posture as he carefully set the ferrule of the umbrella back to the ground. John looked at Sherlock, baffled. The coldness had disappeared from his eyes, his body relaxed and his lip curling with genuine amusement. "Good," he said, and Mycroft answered with a careful inclination of his head.
"Oh for Christ's sake," John finally sputtered in frustration. "What?"
Mycroft seemed to be making a careful study of the cat-themed watercolor on Molly's wall, and if it had been anyone else John might have believed that a slight blush had pinkened his cheeks. Sherlock arranged himself indolently on the couch, his eyes bright with mischief. "I believe my brother has developed a tendre for Dr. Hooper. Which seems, even more improbably, to be returned in kind."
"Molly?" John looked at Mycroft again, half-expecting it to be a joke, but was met with judicious silence. He looked back at Sherlock. "...and him?"
Sherlock waved a careless hand. "Look around the office, John, it's obvious. They met after...the incident here at St. Bart's, I am sure that Mycroft soon realized Molly's role in my ruse. I have been informed that shared confidences often form a bond between individuals, although I will admit that I had previously thought Mycroft immune to such sentiments."
Now that the shock had faded John found himself quite absurdly pleased at the thought. He had always felt a sort of hapless empathy for Molly, the both of them so bedazzled in Sherlock's presence even if John managed to hide it slightly better. And he really did believe that Mycroft had the capacity to care for someone as deeply as Molly deserved. He replayed the largely nonverbal confrontation between the brothers and found his mouth twitching as he tried to suppress his grin.
"Sherlock," he said carefully. "Did you just ask your brother...about his intentions regarding Molly?"
Sherlock immediately looked disconcerted, and John's smile broke free.
"Molly was quite remarkably helpful to me," Sherlock said stiffly, bristling at John's amusement. "I would not have survived the fall without her assistance. I would dislike it if her loyalty to me were repaid with...unpleasantness."
Sherlock's mouth softened as his eyes met Mycroft's. "I found Molly to be remarkably quick-witted, and much more perceptive than I had previously credited," he said seriously.
John saw Mycroft flush slightly with pleasure at Sherlock's praise, belying his facade of indifference. "She...has a good heart," he finally admitted, almost shyly.
"Well," John said into the following awkward silence. "I suppose that's a brother's blessing, then. Let us know the wedding date, we'll buy you a fish-slice." He clapped Mycroft on the shoulder, largely because he knew it was likely to annoy him, and was rewarded with a sour look from both Holmes brothers.
"I will take my leave now," Mycroft said primly. "I will alert the SIS personnel that you have arrived. They will station themselves outside the door, so do not be alarmed. I wish you both well tomorrow. I will inform you the moment that Moran has been apprehended."
The door closed softly behind him. John sat on the couch next to Sherlock, who promptly flopped over to put his head in John's lap, draping his long legs over the arm of the sofa.
John smiled down at him, running a hand through the curly hair. "So. Mycroft and Molly. It makes a weird kind of sense."
"Please, John, must we really discuss it further? I do not need any...visual imagery," Sherlock said, closing his eyes with a shudder.
"I just find it...interesting." This unexpected little bit of happiness in the midst of all the tension had John almost giddy, and he couldn't resist teasing Sherlock about it a bit. "That's three times over the last few weeks that you've seen Mycroft, and yet somehow you never managed to deduce it from him."
Sherlock cracked his eyes open just enough to shoot John a death-glare. "Oh, do shut up."
"It's all ready out there. Sherlock?" Lestrade stood in the doorway, casting the occasional edgy glance at the two SIS agents flanking each side.
"Yes. I'm ready." Sherlock cast an unconvincing smile in John's direction, stopping his nervous pacing to move towards the door.
John stepped in front of him. "Just...give us a minute, will you, Greg?" he asked without turning around.
"Sure. Yeah." Greg's voice was subdued, and John realized that Greg might know a little more than he thought about how things were between him and Sherlock now. John heard the door close softly, but he kept his eyes on Sherlock.
They each took a step closer and then suddenly John was in Sherlock's arms. He held Sherlock so tightly his arms ached, feeling the unfamiliar bulk of the bulletproof vest underneath Sherlock's shirt and jacket and trying not to think about what it meant.
"John," Sherlock warned.
"I know," John said. "It's just...bloody hell, Sherlock." He pressed his forehead into Sherlock's chest, all the doubts and fears regarding this ridiculous plan of theirs suddenly seeming overwhelming. Moran could have made it past the perimeter. All it would take was one shot to the head and Sherlock would be gone. All that brilliance, everything in the world that John cared about, and this might be their last moment together.
As if sensing the vicious turn his thoughts had taken, Sherlock reached up, pulling back sharply on John's hair. Then his mouth crashed into John's, rough and messy, a ravenous slide of teeth and tongue. A harsh, choked noise escaped John and then he was kissing Sherlock back, hot and fierce and needy. Sherlock was the one to finally pull away, stepping back out of John's arms, his breath ragged and uneven. He ran the back of his hand across his red, kiss-swollen lips, and John numbly smoothed the wrinkled lapels of his jacket down over the stiff vest.
"It'll be fine, John," Sherlock said firmly.
"Yes. Of course it will," John said, trying to pull himself together. "Go on now." He smiled hollowly. "Don't let them make you wear the hat."
"Yes. Well." Sherlock lingered awkwardly for a moment, and then suddenly turned. He pulled the door open, startling Lestrade who was lurking outside, and strode down the hallway without another word.
John nodded to the impassive SIS guards and pulled the door shut, only then allowing himself to take in a deep, shuddering breath. His mouth was throbbing, his scalp still stinging from the pull of Sherlock's hand in his hair, and he wished that the sensations would never fade, that he would feel Sherlock's touch on him forever. He let the breath out in a sigh.
He sat down on the couch, facing the door, placing his gun carefully within easy reach. Then he pulled out his mobile, which Sherlock had set to stream the news feed from the press conference, and settled in to wait.
"So...er...we'll take a few questions now..."
Eyes locked on the tiny screen of his smartphone, his stomach tied in knots, John watched a harried-looking Lestrade bringing the press conference to a close. Christ, something had gone wrong, horribly wrong. There's no way Moran wouldn't have been in place by now. If they didn't have him yet it meant he hadn't come. Or even worse, that he had managed to slip by, and might even now have Sherlock in his sights.
Every muscle in John's body was locked with tension, a cold sweat prickling down his spine. He wanted nothing more than to push past his guards, storm onto the podium, and tackle Sherlock to the ground. Instead he sat, teeth clenched so tightly his jaw was aching, and watched Sherlock on the screen of his phone. He stood tall and aloof, his purring voice cutting journalists to shreds for their vapid questions, looking as if he could barely be arsed to care what they thought of his answers.
Finally Lestrade called a halt to the questions. The streaming feed switched from the view of the podium to a newsreader behind a desk. John lurched to his feet, pacing impatiently until he heard the rapid drumbeat of feet coming down the hall.
Lestrade and Sherlock burst through the door.
"John...any word from Mycroft?" Lestrade asked tersely. He barely waited for John's shake of the head before stepping back into the hall, barking orders into his radio.
John looked at Sherlock. He had dropped the careless facade he had adopted during the press conference; his face was pale now, his mouth set in a grim line.
"What does this mean?" John asked him. "What now?"
Without a word Sherlock stripped off his jacket, and then began pulling at the buttons of his shirt. John watched in confusion until Sherlock got down to the bulletproof vest. John realized Sherlock's breath was growing rapid and panicky, his hands clawing desperately at the tapes, struggling to free himself.
In a swift movement John was in front of him, catching Sherlock's wrists to still them before efficiently unfastening the vest himself, pulling it over Sherlock's head as Sherlock fought free of the heavy weight of it. Sherlock flung the vest across the room with a snarled curse.
"Sherlock..." John's hand cupped Sherlock's cheek, trying to soothe.
"I don't know," Sherlock finally said, his voice cracking over the words. "This was supposed to work. I don't know what to do next."
John pulled Sherlock in, arms winding around Sherlock's waist. "We'll find a way," he said. "We..."
The buzz of John's mobile startled them both, making them jump apart. John pulled it from where he had absently stowed it in the back pocket of his jeans. He held it up for Sherlock to see as Mycroft's name flashed across the caller ID screen.
Sherlock snatched the mobile, jabbing at the speaker icon. "Do you have him?" he barked. "I swear it, Mycroft, if you have bollixed this up..."
An unfamiliar voice cut through Sherlock's ranting. "Now, now, Mr. Holmes. Is that any way to speak to your flesh and blood?" The voice was slightly accented, sounding coldly amused.
Sherlock's face was deadly calm now, his silver eyes as sharp as blades. "Moran," he said.
"At your service," the man with Mycroft's mobile replied.
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