"There will always be something to ruin our lives, it all depends on what or which finds us first. We are always ripe and ready to be taken." - Charles Bukowski
It took all of five seconds for a swelling rage to bloom out of the cold realization that panged in Sherlock's gut.
"Where is John?" He says coldly, advancing on Moran with a feral glare. "What have you done?"
"What? No kiss hello?" Moran frowns. "That's no way to greet an old friend."
"John!" Sherlock shouts, despite the futile bells ringing in his head. Heart palpitations, squeezing the air from his chest as his heart frets itself away at all the possibilities of what could have been done to his soldier, to his John. No no no no— "John?"
There is no answer.
He whips back to Moran, who is smiling over bridged hands as he makes a pointed look to the door flung open into the dark hallway past the kitchen. Sherlock turns on his heels and strides to the closed door of his bedroom.
Moran can wait. Everything can wait. He has to know that John is alive, has to know that he's alright so this shallow pounding in his mind and the wrenches in the depths of his heart can cease, but—
But he has no idea how long Moran had been alone with John.
He moves through the molasses of time as he takes long strides down that dimly lit hallway.
The door is blank. It won't tell him what it's hiding.
He wraps a hand around the handle. Opens it. Steps inside, fearing what he might see. Or what he won't.
He blinks. Opens his eyes again.
His bed is empty. John is not there.
A great hollow relief sweeps through him. John is not lying in white sheets stained red with blood. John is not sleeping awake with blank eyes.
But John is gone.
He hears Moran's laugh, followed by his loud call: "I'm just fucking with you, Holmes, he's not here."
Everything is suddenly a brilliant white, like starting at the sun through dark clouds. Not too bright to look away, just…overwhelming. The colour of the moon, smooth, seamless, blanched and burning.
John.
As Sherlock's senses begin to return to him, he feels the rough wool of Moran's jacket in his hands. Smells the aftershave, which can't stifle the tobacco must. Hears the leather of his chair breathe as he pulls Moran's weight off it. Sees his crooked smile, charming to most unless they knew of the demon pacing beneath it. He thinks of the kiss that would have been his, his and John's to share, had Moran not taken it away from him.
He slams Moran against the mantle. He wants him to hurt, hurt like he does.
"Where is he?"
Moran laughs. Sherlock punches him in the centre of his face, sending his head cracking back into the mirror. The skull watches the bloodshed with blank eyes. Sherlock likes that it's taking such a placid attitude; he didn't need its judgment at a time like this. His grip on Moran's collar tightens as he brings their faces closer.
"Where?" He snarls.
Moran spits the flecks of blood that has trickled from his broken nose into his mouth at Sherlock.
"Tell you what, Holmes." He smiles with red teeth. "You take me to your mate Lestrade, and I'll tell you where Watson is."
Sherlock narrows his eyes.
Moran wants to turn himself in. Ulterior motives.
"What are you afraid of?" He asks, cocking his head. "Or should I say who?"
"Take me to your friend and I'll tell you."
"Unacceptable. Tell me now."
"You want your friend alive?" Moran snarls. "Cause that's not what it sounds like."
"Why did you take him?" Sherlock asks lowly. "Why, if you want to turn yourself in?"
"Isn't this why you came back, Holmes?" A slow smile spreads on Moran's face. "So you could taste the divinity of the unknown? Pretty thing, not knowing," Moran's eyes swept to his knowingly. "Isn't it?"
Sherlock exhales heavily through his nose as he stares into that dark gaze.
Lestrade does not believe the call at first when he gets it.
The air is dry, achingly cold and sterile.
Sherlock paces in front of the interrogation room.
Moran's timing was so dreadfully awful.
Of course—of course—just as the stars have aligned and John is his, Moran appears to take it all away. Just as his life had returned to its wonderful chaos, just as John had begun to gravitate towards him again, to trust him, Moran had to come and throw a spanner into the works and royally screw everything up.
Sherlock's timing was no better.
At least he had told him. At least John knew that he loved him. Sherlock hoped it was something he could hold on to, a life raft amid choppy waves like John's devotion to Sherlock had been in his travels.
But there was so much that he hadn't said.
John, I love your gross jumpers that make your silhouette look like a frumpy old woman whose only company is her nine cats. John, I love that when the jumpers come off you suddenly have a body shape again, and that it always surprises me when I see it (small rewards). John, I love that you started making two cups of tea again even though I never said anything (did you ever even stop? No, of course you did, that'd be a waste of tea and tea is to you what religion is to a priest). John, I—
John.
Lestrade lays a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, which snaps Sherlock out of his thoughts and makes him shrug it off.
"What?" He snaps.
"I'm going in to question him." Lestrade tells him calmly. "And you are going to stay out here until I'm done—"
"No, that idea is pointless not to mention incredibly stupid—even coming from you—since I'll hear and see him in any scenario. I'm going in. I may as well be in the room—"
"Sherlock," Lestrade sighs heavily, although he's been expecting this reaction. "That's my point. I know it's occurred to you that Moran is going to say some things to provoke you and I am not having sixteen bloody feet of legs and black coat like some great bat hovering over me in the interrogation room, not when you know as well as I do that he will say things to try and goad you into a fight. He's safer if you're on the other side of the glass."
"Safe?" Sherlock echoes. "You want him to be safe—?"
"Yes, Sherlock, I do." Greg bites out. "Because, god help me, if you let him get to you and you snap, if you hurt him, we may lose our only chance at getting John back. I need you to think of John, now, alright? He's relying on us to help him. I'm going to do my job and see to it that we find him, and you're going to listen to me, yeah?"
Sherlock doesn't answer. He eyes Moran through the translucent glass pane of the door without really seeing him.
"Sherlock? Oi? You hear me?"
Sherlock's head snaps back to him so fast Lestrade is amazed by the lack of whiplash.
"Your estimations on my height were off by ten feet, Lestrade, as I am six, although that was most likely one of your attempts to highlight a physical quality of mine in a negative light in order to undermine me. As for the other statements you made, do you honestly think that I have gotten this far in my life without having some modicum of self-control? John Watson is the type to hit people that offend him, to wear his heart on his sleeve, and you seem to think that in his absence I will adopt some of his characteristics. You are most indubitably wrong. John Watson is an inimitable man, and I can assure you that all of his mannerisms will remain so. You also stated that I needed to 'think of John', as if it's not occurred to you that I have done nothing else for the past few hours, let alone every moment I can spare since I've met him. Do you really think that I would be so careless that I would risk John's safety? That I would let some rat like Sebastian Moran take him away from me? At the rate you're going, even Anderson has a better profile of me, and he's the worst kind of idiot—"
"Oi—" Anderson stops as he passes them, but continues on at Sherlock's stare.
"Natural." Sherlock finishes with disgust.
"You can stand in the box."
"No, I think I'll go in if that's alright with you—" Sherlock begins, brushing past Lestrade to get into the interrogation room, but the DI is faster than expected and grabs him none too gently by the wrist.
"I'm not negotiating, Sherlock. I think, considering the circumstances, you should feel lucky enough that you're even in the same building."
"You don't trust me with him."
"I don't trust him with you." Lestrade says solemnly, his eyes grim. "The box is all you get. It's one-way blind. He won't know you're there."
"Yes he will. He knows John's value to me, that I'd get in here one way or another."
"Just humour me, alright? If you behave in there, maybe, maybe, I'll consider letting you interrogate him after I'm done."
Sherlock says nothing, and watches Lestrade stand outside the door to the room he'd give everything to be in.
He stares at the handle for a moment, and heads to the box, the room situated behind the tinted glass of the interrogation room.
Donovan sits at the monitors, her eyes heavy with fatigue. She nods grimly at him as he comes to stand beside her. He'd complain about her presence if it weren't so obvious that she wants information on a friend as much as he does on his...well, on his...on John.
"Holmes."
"Donovan. No colourful moniker this time?"
"John wouldn't want me to. I mean, I won't use it while he's...you know. We owe it to him to work together until we get him back." She sighs, brushing her hair back.
"Are you calling for a ceasefire?"
"For now." She says, smiling solemnly. "You're not getting off that easy."
"Nor are you, as I hear that Anderson and his wife are about to leave on vacation to renew their vows."
She shuts her eyes. John wouldn't have wanted him to say that. Apologise, Sherlock, he'd say. That wasn't very nice.
"Apologies."
"No...no, it's alright. Deserved that one, I suppose."
Before Sherlock can say anything more about old habits dying hard, the door to the room opens and Lestrade enters.
The lights are brighter than he expected, shining down on Moran like the light of heaven, or the shockwave of an atom bomb. He looks like a ghost already, pale and drawn, but his eyes are burning.
Moran smiles up at Lestrade over his cheap cup of tea.
"Back for more, Detective?" He smirks, taking a sip of tea. "Your tea tastes like piss by the way."
"You're just lucky it's warm." Lestrade says, and the darkness in his voice nearly surprises Sherlock. He's seen Lestrade in police-mode, but this—this is different. Most interesting.
"Well, a deal's a deal." Moran says, hiking his feet up on the table. "You brought me here, now I hold up my end."
"John Watson." Lestrade says calmly. "Where is he?"
"Did you enjoy his texts, Holmes?" Moran asks, turning his head to look with a keen interest over at the glass Sherlock stands behind. "I know you're there, of course. But you've already considered that."
Sherlock does not answer. He knows better than to press the intercom button, but Donovan's gaze has already darted between the two as if she's preparing herself to stop him.
"I managed to sneak into your home and catch him before he realised it, right after you said you loved him—"
Sherlock does not miss Lestrade's slight look of shock.
"—So I figured I may as well finish what he started." Moran grins. "Course, it's never too hard when there's a shag promised, is it? Even for you Holmes," Moran eyes him. "Even for The Virgin. But John Watson would have taken care of that, wouldn't he? And the way you rushed into the flat, it was like you thought you'd be late for the Revelation. Pity you missed it." He smirks. "And all it took was a crumpled shirt. Here I was, thinking you had more brains in your head than your cock."
Sherlock keeps his hands fisted at his sides. Donovan's breath hitches beside him.
"Enough—" Lestrade starts, but Moran continues.
"I'm not doing anything illegal, Detective Inspector. I don't want to kill him." Moran tilts his head and a knowing smile comes on his face. "I just want to talk to him." He laughs. "Who knew a fuck buddy would be the end of Sherlock Holmes? He may even have kissed you at the end—"
Donovan moves to stand as if to diffuse the outburst she expects to be coming, but there is nothing. Sherlock stands as still as ever behind her, staring at Moran with…blankness. No anger, no disgust, no interest, noanything. As if he's looking into the distance but not really seeing anything.
His hand is trembling. She chooses to discount it as a nicotine craving.
"Cheer up Holmes," Moran continues. "I'm sure Watson would have been a good lay—"
"Enough." Lestrade's voice seems to hold enough power that Moran lets his taunts peter out. The two stare at one another for a moment. "Where?"
"221C, of course." Moran smiles. "Honestly, didn't anyone think to check?"
Sherlock is out of the door before he can hear the rest.
The world passes by in smears of colour.
Sherlock Holmes does not pay it any attention. Not when the cab seat beside him is empty.
He doesn't think of much, for once. Just something his father told him when he was a child.
The weight of negative responsibility always feels like a black hole in your mind, eating up your thoughts.
Startlingly accurate, Father.
Sherlock was sure that, as tedious as he found incorrect information, he must have corrected his father's knowledge of the solar system. That would have been the only time he knew so much about the stars. He was sure late one night, before the wake, he snuck into the parlour and drew Canis Major—which held the brightest star—in crude pencil on the coffin, because the next day, as he stood before his father's body (closed casket since the bullet holes couldn't be disguised), he didn't recognise what he had drawn.
He didn't correct his father now. His thoughts were swirling into a vortex of a soundless wind, rushing and pulsing, but unfeeling.
Whatever happens to John, it is all his fault.
This game with Moriarty that was saturated with blood.
Thinking that John would ever want to be with him.
Trying to gamble with fate, when John was its price.
All his fault.
He'd bolt out of this cab and run to Baker Street if he thought it would get him there faster.
He'd do anything if it meant John Watson came back to him.
Sherlock is standing in the centre of 221B when Lestrade arrives. He almost doesn't want to see what the detective is staring down at.
The room is just as bare as it ever was. Chipping wallpaper, bare carpet, empty fireplace. Weak light filtering in through grimy windows.
There is a body on the floor, where Carl Powers' shoes once sat. Dark blonde hair, compact frame, nondescript jumper.
"Sherlock." Lestrade starts forward. "Sherlock, is it—?"
"No."
Lestrade rounds Sherlock to look.
He is not John Watson.
Sherlock, after he had shaken off the initial shock, had been sure to check.
No, he's much younger, much more gaunt, and his clothes scream of high fashion masquerading as thrift.
Lestrade calls in the ambulance and forensics as Sherlock seems to snap out of whatever suspension he had been in and drops to his knees in front of the body.
"Cause of death…" Sherlock murmurs, nudging at the body with gloved fingers. "Acute psychosis brought on by substance injection, most likely a solution of cocaine."
"How—"
Sherlock turns the man's head, revealing a series of puncture marks lining his neck, one after the other, four neat dots.
"There are violent scratches on his arms and blood under his nails." Sherlock explains. "Formication, more commonly called 'coke bugs'. Given a high enough dose or consistent abuse, you start to think there are things crawling under your skin, biting you, scuttling along your bones."
"And you know this from—"
"Experience, yes. Although it was mild, I assume it gets worse as the abuse continues. A direct correlation."
"How do we know he wasn't just an addict?"
"Do you remember how I looked when you found me?" Sherlock asks quietly, turning his eyes to Lestrade. "Did I look like that? That clean? That well-kept?"
"No." Lestrade answers carefully. "You looked like hell thawed over."
"You've realised by now that Moran lied to us."
"Yeah, of course. Anyone who's seen John knows this isn't him."
"Indeed." Sherlock says, rummaging through the young man's jacket and coming up with a triumphant sound and a monogrammed cigarette case.
W."SAM" JOHNSON-HAIT
"Johnson-Hait…" Lestrade mutters. "Why does that sound so familiar?"
"Of the filial Johnson-Haits. Those posh English types that use three names a various numerals afterwards to denote the appearance of wealth, although in this case it's entirely appropriate since this particular family owns a good amount of London."
"Property value?"
"Among other ventures." Sherlock sniffs.
"Alright, so why him? It's not for ransom, not if Moran can't collect while he's still at the Yard. A dead body isn't worth anything, even to a family that wealthy."
"You say that like he's been acting alone."
"He hasn't?"
"Of course not. He's stupid, Lestrade, but he's not an idiot." Sherlock's eyes sweep over the man. "He died because of his name."
"I thought ransom was—"
"His name, Lestrade. Look at it."
Lestrade does, for a moment.
"An anagram?"
"Obviously." Sherlock mutters under his breath, taking a notepad from the inner pocket of his jacket and scrawling something before showing it to Lestrade.
W. SAM JOHNSON-HAIT
JOHN HAMISH WATSON
"Can't be a concidence, then." Lestrade says and it sounds almost hopeful.
"No." Sherlock sighs, moving behind him as he tucks the notepad back into his jacket.
"Wait, isn't that John's moleskin—"
He turns.
Sherlock is gone.
The door opens and shuts with a bang.
Moran doesn't need to look up to know who it is.
"We had a deal." Sherlock's voice emanates lowly.
"So we did. I told you where Watson was." Moran mutters as he stares at the ceiling. "And you made me lose count. I was up to 45 tiles. Did you know they're skimping on renovations, I mean look at the water damage—"
"No, you drew attention to a man in a basement flat with John's name scrambled in his own. You did not tell me where John was."
"You're not even paying attention to important issues, Holmes!"
Sherlock's eyes narrow.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what if there was mould culminating in the vents or something? It's dangerous—"
Moran laughs as Sherlock hauls him forward by the collar.
"Where is he?"
Moran shrugs.
"You're the genius, you figure it out."
Sherlock is about to break his fingers one by one until he screams the location of John Watson when Lestrade bursts in.
"Sherlock what the bloody hell are you doing?" He shouts as he pries Sherlock away.
"Getting information." Sherlock huffs.
"What did I tell you would happen if you did that? I swear, Sherlock, it's like you want me to lock you up—"
He stops as a breathless laugh cuts through the room. He and Sherlock slowly turn their heads to look at Moran, who is laughing so hard his eyes are tearing up.
"Stop it, please, I—ha—I'm going to piss my pants!" He wheezes.
"What is it that you find so humorous about me not grievously harming your person?" Sherlock asks, his tone clipped and clinical.
"You—Holmes, you don't know, you've got no idea what's going on right—right under your nose—" Moran manages to get out before he collapses into laughter again.
"And what might that entail?"
Moran lets out a few more chuckles before he can rein his mirth back in.
"Tell me, what does Watson think when he sees you two bickering like an old married couple? I think he gets jealous, not that he'll ever make it to old age—"
Lestrade steps in front of Sherlock before he can move, blocking his view of Moran.
"Yes, tighten the leash, Lestrade. That always makes the dog stop whining." Morn taunts. "Hit him on the nose with a newspaper while you're at it. Lock him out before he puddles on the floor."
"Are you ever going to answer any of our questions directly?" Lestrade growls.
"Maybe." Moran smirks. "Does it bother you?"
"That you're wasting my time? Yeah, I'd have to say it does."
Sherlock's eyes flit to the back of Lestrade's head. What game is he starting?
"I didn't waste your time, Detective Inspector. I…prolonged it."
"So we're back to Detective Inspector now? You may as well start calling me Greg while we're at it. Which one sounds best to you? The most personal?"
"I think I'll stick to DI if that's all the same to you, Greggy."
"You know I've seen all kinds in here. Murderers, arsonists, street punks that thought they were tough. Never seen a coward though. Never seen a gun-for-hire that thought he was grade-A beef when he was really just leftovers. Well, until today that is. Moriarty could have had Sherlock, and when he didn't get what he wanted, he settled for you." Lestrade shrugs. "Can't blame him, really. There's not much competition."
And then Sherlock understands.
Oh, Lestrade's game is played wonderfully. He picks at his fingers pseudo-subconsciously, his tone is casual, his posture relaxed. But his words have the effect that he desires, the barbed hook that catches under tender flesh.
Moran's expression darkens.
"I am continuing his work." Moran says, but it sounds to the rest of the room more persuasive than convinced. It sounds like something drilled into him so deep that he knows nothing else.
"And what work might that be?" Lestrade questions and Moran looks at him with a faint smile.
"Did you know that master artists like to leave their work unfinished?" Moran asks. "Kafka, Van Gogh, Michelangelo, Vermeer…what's the mystery in revealing all of your hand to the public when it's so much sweeter to hide it? Holmes knows that, that's why that poor sod Watson's locked up in the first place—"
"Sherlock, get out." Lestrade says suddenly.
Sherlock looks at Lestrade as if he has utterly lost his mind, dressed Mycroft up in drag, spat at him, and then punched John in the face.
"Honestly, you're being stupider than normal, Lestrade—"
"Sherlock, leave, or I will regret not unleashing you on him." Lestrade keeps his eyes on Moran. "I have better people to do that."
Better? Sherlock wants to scoff, but he does as he's told because he would rather wait where he's free than wait in a cell where he cannot help John. One night of helpless wondering is not worth it. His eyes meet Moran's, who, as he leaves, blows him a kiss and winks.
He shuts the door and stands alone in the hallway.
John.
He lets his head fall against the wall.
John, I let him get to you.
John, please be—
What is he praying for, truly? Please be whole? Untouched? Alive?
He would very much like all of those things.
But he knows too well that the reality of life often comes in a hail of cold disappointment.
The black hole widens.