Author's Note: I didn't intend to wink at 'The Hobbit,' but let's go with it. Keep the reviews coming!
The Dragon
PenPatronus
Chapter 2 of 10
The War Room
One Week Later
Sherlock had been asleep for only three hours when the scent of fresh tea woke him. His head popped out of the bed and, eyes still shut, he called, "John?"
"I got the papers," John Watson yelled from the adjacent room. "And cigarettes."
Sherlock's eyes snapped open. "What did you say?" John didn't respond. His silence dragged Sherlock to his feet. The detective didn't bother to adjust his suit (he'd slept in his clothes) or tame his hair (why bother?). However, he did salute the picture on the wall on his way out of the bedroom. "Good morning, Sir Churchill."
Sherlock padded, barefoot, into Winston Churchill's war room where John sat at the cabinet table with six newspapers, two cups of tea and four packs of smokes. It certainly felt like The Blitz with seven days of bombings and murders behind them. Every tourist attraction in London was shut down: every theatre, every museum, every monument, garden, zoo, aquarium, hall, cathedral and palace. Half the country didn't even look out their windows which meant that the fugitive Sherlock Holmes and his two-faced accomplice, John Watson, could hide anywhere.
Sherlock knew it had to be bad news if John bought him cigarettes. "Who?" he whispered.
"Janine." John rubbed his eyes red. "They found her body outside the Roam."
Sherlock stared at the Guardian's headline: Sherlock Strikes Again – Moriarty's Second-in-Command Kills Slanderer. The picture below it showed security footage of John and Sherlock enjoying a beer during the now infamous stag night. The night that they retraced the roads where they'd found dead bodies. It was a dark joke for them, intended to be private. But after four bodies had been found at the same pubs they attended that night, the public saw not two friends celebrating, but two criminals planning murders. The equally infamous images of Sherlock jumping out of the plane that was supposed to exile him, and John Watson driving him away, decorated the remainder of the front page.
Sherlock collapsed into a chair on John's left and started to read sections of the article out loud. "Janine Morgan, 29, former personal assistant to Holmes' first victim, Charles Augustus Magnussen… Like the other victims, Holmes left his signature hat covering her face… Authorities continue to deny having known that Moriarty was still alive, that they helped each other fake their suicides and that Holmes and Watson were working with him all along…"
Sherlock used the Guardian to cover up the other five headlines. His tea remained untouched but he went through his first cigarette in record time.
"Mary called." John took a slow sip of tea. "Called Lestrade, I mean. The police are taking her in for questioning and… protection." Another sip. "They're worried that her psychopath husband and his criminal mastermind partner might target her next."
Sherlock retrieved a pink mobile from his pocket. He turned it on and blew smoke at the wallpaper: the grinning face of James Moriarty. The first text was the same one he'd gotten every morning since he and John found the phone perched on Sherlock's still-standing headstone in the cemetery. Good morning, sexy, Moriarty had typed. Did you miss me?
"Did they retrieve Mrs. Hudson, too?" Sherlock asked.
John sighed. "Mrs. Hudson, too."
A flash flood of tears briefly blocked Sherlock's view of the room. "John?" he whispered.
"Yeah?" John had his face in his hands, which muffled his tired voice.
"I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am."
"Don't."
One corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched with emotion. "I should've stayed dead," he whispered. "If I hadn't come back…"
"I don't care if you ever tell me how you faked that suicide, Sherlock. I'm just glad you did."
Sherlock hadn't been thinking of that death. His mind's ear heard Mind-Castle-Moriarty taunting him as he bled to death. "Your life is ruined because of me. Janine, Kitty Riley, still-hot-for-your-wife David, Lady Smallwood, Moriarty chose to murder them because of their apparent ax to grind with me, to ensure that it looked like I did it. And Moriarty, he got what he wanted. I gave it to him the moment I pulled the trigger on Magnussen." A half-hiccup, half-sob threatened to suffocate him. "I should've—"
John's hand reached for Sherlock's forearm. His other hand still covered his face, so he wasn't making eye contact when he said, "Whatever happens, Sherlock – after everything that has happened, I still, still thank God every day that you're alive. Every day. Every single damn day." He looked up, then. And his eyes weren't red because of the cigarette smoke. "We'll solve this," he whispered. "You and me. That's what we do."
A sudden knock on the outside door made them both jump. They waited – holding their breaths – until the knocks communicated a predetermined message in Morse code. Even then, Sherlock covered John with his handgun when he opened the door.
Lestrade stumbled into the room with two bags of groceries. When he saw Sherlock his face fell, and he retrieved a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. "Rough time so I brought you – oh."
"Did you talk to Mycroft?" Sherlock asked.
Greg let John take the supplies out of his hands. "Yeah, half an hour ago. They're fine. Your mum and dad are fine. He said he'll be here as soon as he finishes planting more evidence that you're on a train heading north."
"What was the total number of dead at the London Eye?"
Greg licked his lips and looked at John for help. "Sherlock, there's nothing you could have done—"
Sherlock snapped. "How many died?" he bellowed.
Lestrade took two steps backward. "F-Forty," he stuttered. "We arrested a bloke who worked maintenance there. Hopefully we can negotiate with him for Moriarty's location."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and marched back over to his chair. "Seven bombs in seven days, eighteen arrests and you think this one will be your lucky number?" He lit another cigarette and promptly chucked his cold cup of tea at the wall.
"Oi!" Lestrade gasped when liquid splashed down a faded, pockmarked map of England. "This is Winston-Bloody-Churchill's cabinet war room, you dick! Those maps have been on that wall since the 1940's!"
Sherlock glared, then threw John's cup as well.
"Dammit," Lestrade hissed. He adjusted his collar and turned back to John. "Look, I can't stay. Donovan has a lead on the Waters Gang. It's likely they're going after the Bank of England since it's the only bloody coffer they haven't emptied yet."
Sherlock, who had begun to pace, suddenly stopped and stared at the maps on the wall.
John held up one of the cans of beans. "All right. Thanks. We'll be in touch." He glanced at the statue that was Sherlock, then whispered to Lestrade, "Have Molly get a sedative, will you? He hasn't been sleeping."
"Right." Lestrade waved goodbye, and exited.
"How long has the Waters family been active, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock asked.
"He left, Sherlock."
Sherlock blinked. "How long has the Waters family been getting away with robbing banks, doctor?"
John walked over to see what Sherlock was staring at that was so interesting. "Uh… Two, two and a half years, give or take. Why?"
The detective's dry lips parted. "Here there be dragons," he whispered.
"Huh?"
Sherlock moved stiffly, zombie-like, around the table. "Dragons, John," he said. A grin bloomed across his face. "What do dragons hoard? Gold." Sherlock found a marker, push pins, and started digging into the pile of newspapers John had assembled. "What has Moriarty been doing for the past three years?" he muttered. "Planning, yes, and getting the funds to go through with his plans. He's robbed banks before…"
John's head cocked to the side. For the first time in a week he started to feel hopeful. "You think that the Waters Gang is working for Moriarty?"
Frantically, Sherlock started writing names on Churchill's maps, pinning up newspaper article and pictures, marking locations and drawing lines between them. "How else does he make money? Secrets. As Richard Brook he told secrets to Kitty Riley. Everything about me that he learned from Mycroft. Kitty was a journalist who – surprise, surprise – has been working for a newspaper that was owned by—"
"Charles Augustus Magnussen," said John.
Sherlock didn't hear him. "Charles Augustus Magnussen. Charles Augustus Magnussen, who knew so much about me – who knew about my dead dog for Christ's sake! Imagine how much money Moriarty could've made by selling little tips like that to the Napoleon of Blackmail, who he got connected with via Miss Riley."
"Oh, my God," John whispered. Not for the first time and certainly not for the last, he was in awe of his friend.
"And why hasn't the Waters Gang been caught? Why has Moriarty murdered people who might have cause to hate me, but not the one person who has always publically despised me so much that she calls me a—"
John had to sit down. "A freak…"
When Sherlock's deductive mind finally started to run out of steam hours later, almost every inch of the map was covered in black ink.
"Churchill is rolling over in his grave," said John.
To Be Continued