Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock! Sherlock belongs to its rightful and respected owners! Enjoy!
Ch. 2-Give and Take
"What do you mean you're leaving?" John's incredulous question echoed throughout the flat, as the military doctor stood in the middle of the main room with a mixture of anger and confusion on his face.
"I mean, I'm removing myself from the country of England for a period of time," came Sherlock's smart response from the bedroom where he was packing a small suitcase full of clothes. As he folded his clothes and placed them lightly in his bag, Sherlock had to take deep breaths. He hated the thought that he was abandoning John like this, but he just kept telling himself that he had to do this for John's safety.
As he was thinking to himself, Sherlock's phone lit up with a ding that meant he had received a text message. Picking up the phone hesitantly, as he could only assume who was texting, Sherlock opened the message.
Pack your purple shirt. -JM
At this confusing message, Sherlock growled and typed back,
Why? -SH
It didn't take long for his phone to light up again, only this time it did so twice, with two dings.
Because I said so.
And don't bother arguing. x -JM
Making a noise halfway between a grunt and a sigh, Sherlock searched through his drawers to find his purple dress shirt at the bottom, still folded from the last time Mrs. Hudson did his laundry. Pulling out the silky fabric, Sherlock tossed it onto the bed, moping around and trying to find something to keep himself occupied with besides packing.
"Who keeps texting you?" John's both curious and suspicious question came from down the hall.
"Client," Sherlock replied without hesitation. He couldn't think of anyone else, if he said Molly or Lestrade, John could easily ask and find out he was lying, and saying that Mycroft was texting him was risky, because John knew that Mycroft didn't like to text.
So of course, as soon as Sherlock said this, his phone rang out.
You're my client. -JM
Sherlock, having had enough, threw the phone away from him and continued packing furiously. Stuffing his clothes and toiletries into his bag, he stormed out of the room and nearly ran into John, who was coming down the hall to find the consulting detective.
"Sherlock, I...I still can't believe you're just leaving," John's tone softened, and Sherlock forced himself to remain calm as he turned to his best friend.
"It's just work John, I'll be back."
"If it's just work," John protested, "why can't I come with you?"
At this, Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked into the kitchen, searching the cupboards for a few chemicals he was planning on packing. When he didn't get an answer, John followed quickly behind the detective, brow furrowed. He stood in the middle of the kitchen for what seemed like ages as Sherlock whirled by him, seemingly oblivious to his best friend.
"Sherlock!" John finally snapped, breaking the silence.
"What John?" Sherlock hissed back. "What?! You're going to go with me? Oh, so you're just going to leave Mary and the baby alone then. Right, because that's going to happen."
John started back at Sherlock's shouting, before regaining his composure and speaking as calmly as possible.
"Mary can take care of herself Sherlock, I have no doubts about that."
"And I have no doubts that you won't leave her," Sherlock replied, before leaving the kitchen. John stood, hands on his head, trying to not let his emotions get the best of him. In reality, he would love to go on an adventure with Sherlock throughout Europe. He needed time away from Mary to sort out his exact feelings about her, because when he forgave her, he was only doing it so Sherlock could focus all of his attention on Magnussen and not be weighed down by their fighting. In hindsight, it was pretty useless, as Magnussen still targeted Sherlock somewhat successfully, besides the part where Sherlock killed the blackmailer. Guilt coursed through John at the thought of that night, as John blamed himself for Sherlock becoming a murderer for him and Mary.
"Sh-Sherlock!" John brought himself out of his thoughts and left the kitchen, walking back into the living room where Sherlock was searching through the various piles of paper scattered across the room.
"I'd go with you before I'd let you go alone," John spoke shakily. This earned him a skeptic glare from his best friend before the detective went back to rummaging.
"John, I don't see why you're making such a big deal about this, if anything you should be happy," came Sherlock's reply. "I'm telling you that I'm going to leave this time."
"Not funny," John sighed.
"Wasn't trying to be."
Upon saying this, Sherlock grabbed a few papers and stood up, walking towards his room. But before he could leave, John grabbed his arm, forcing the detective to stop ignoring him.
"Sherlock," John whispered. Knowing he couldn't resist forever, Sherlock looked at John, who stared back with concern. In this instant, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to let John go with him, to beg the army doctor to come with him as they hunted all across Europe.
But the startling ding that came from his room reminded him of why he couldn't do that.
"I...I'll be safe John," Sherlock promised, detaching himself from John and going to his room. He appeared a few moments later with his suitcase and his coat on, collar turned up as always. It killed him to look at John, who seemed so small and scared at the thought of him leaving again.
"So this is goodbye?" John's voice sounded strained, like he had to force himself to say the words.
"For now, yes," Sherlock nodded. He went to depart, but on a whim, quickly dropped his suitcase and lunged at John for an awkward but heartfelt hug. The two embraced for a quick moment, before the detective pulled back just as quickly as he had wrapped around John. This seemed to cheer John up somewhat, and his best friend smiled and offered him a joking punch to the arm.
"Don't be getting into too much trouble," he joked.
"I won't," Sherlock smiled, happy to see John not as worried. "Goodbye John." Before John could reply, he grabbed his suitcase and bounded down the stairs. John watched out the window as Sherlock hailed a cab, giving 221B one last look before disappeared inside the car and was off.
"Goodbye Sherlock."
"Somebody get me an aspirin!"
The shrill voice sounded from down the hall, and immediately there was hustle, as a bottle of medication was grabbed within a moment's notice along with a glass of water (cool, not cold, just as boss wanted it). After the two items were placed on Jim Moriarty's desk, the consulting criminal barked at the grunt of low importance who had place them there to get out.
He had been in a particularly good mood today, until he watched the annoying little goodbye between Sherlock and his pet. God how he hated Dr. John Watson. The man was little more than a bug compared to him and Sherlock, but did that idiot consulting detective care? No, of course not. After spending years with a near abusive older brother who always derided him, why wouldn't Sherlock want his own personal cheerleader?
Swallowing the aspirin, Jim forced himself to see the positive side of the situation. Sherlock was on his way there at that very moment, ready to do whatever he was ordered. While it was for John's sake, Moriarty was up to the challenge of seeing how much the detective was doing this for John's sake, rather than his own desire to hunt and kill. It would take time for Jim to groom Sherlock until the consulting detective knew nothing more than crime, but Jim had always loved a challenge.
And Sherlock Holmes was the most challenging person he had ever met.
Fifteen minutes later, the cab stopped in front of Jim's office, what the rest of London thought was an old abandoned house that hadn't succumbed to destruction yet. However, Moriarty had skillfully hidden his operations beneath the house, and had managed to keep this place secret from Mycroft and all of those other government hounds.
Moriarty's ears pricked up as he heard the door open above him, and slow, calculated footsteps cross the threshold. His adrenaline began to course through his veins, and he had to force himself to calm down. It wouldn't do to have Sherlock see him in a state like this, not when Sherlock had to believe that Jim was in control. After a few moments, the footsteps were back, pacing quickly back and forth. Breathing in and out, Moriarty looked around the room to make sure everything was set up correctly. There wasn't much to check, just a simple wooden chair and the tattoo machine, but it gave the man some peace to be reassured that everything was ready to fall into place.
It gave Moriarty pleasure to know that today, Sherlock would begin his descent into darkness.
After pacing for a moment upstairs, Sherlock knew it was useless to stall any longer. Gathering his courage, he pushed open the door that led to the basement of the house, where he had been told that Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal, was waiting for him. With each step and creak of the stairs, Sherlock felt like he was being pulled closer and closer toward the psychopath, and soon nothing would be able to pry him from Moriarty's grip. The feelings were ridiculous, but they still terrorized Sherlock nonetheless. As he placed his foot on the last step, the lights came on, and Sherlock, blinded, closed his eyes for a moment while they got adjusted. When he reopened them, he took in the sight before him. Jim Moriarty was standing before him, behind a chair, and looking at him with that same desire his gaze had held at their last meeting.
"Sit," came Jim's quick order. Not wanting to start anything just yet, Sherlock bit his lip and walked over slowly toward the chair before hesitantly sitting in it, watching Jim like a hawk the entire time.
"Well, that was easy!" Immediately Jim's tone changed, to that fake joyous screeching that unnerved Sherlock so much. "If you follow orders that nicely Sherlock, we're going to get on fabulously!"
"As long as your orders help me track down my targets, I'll gladly follow them," Sherlock replied, trying not to let his voice crack.
"Of course!" Jim smiled widely, showing an array of white and sharp-looking teeth. "Speaking of business, I've got something for you!" Sherlock watched as the consulting criminal pull out a paper from his pocket. He walked over to the detective who was still seated, and pulling out a pen, placed the items in Sherlock's hands, letting his own fingers freeze for a moment against the detective's flesh before pulling them back.
"What is this?" Sherlock asked as he unfolded it.
"You're smart, you figure it out," Jim replied. After a few moments of scanning it, Sherlock's pensive gaze wavered. Moriarty watched eagerly as the detective held back a snarl and signed the paper. Folding the paper back up tightly, Sherlock threw it at Moriarty, who caught it with ease.
"You really are making this too easy for me," Jim smiled as he opened the piece of paper, pleased to see Sherlock's signature on the document, confirming that the Holmes boy would give himself over to the Moriarty crime organization and do whatever he was told.
"But I wonder," Moriarty's grin turned wolflike as he walked over to the tattoo machine. Sherlock's eyes followed him, and though he had a fair guess about what that was there for, he still gasped silently in revulsion. Dragging the machine over to where Sherlock was sitting so that the resulting screech would unnerve Sherlock even more, Moriarty grabbed a needle with jet black ink in it.
"Is this all a charade? A few nice gestures before you fight me tooth and nail and leave me once I've helped you with your little mission?" Sherlock's eyes never left the needle as Jim got close to him, edging him on with the taunting words.
"It's not a charade," the consulting detective finally choked out.
"Don't lie to me Sherlock Holmes," and Jim's tone changed again, changing to dead serious as the criminal threaded his fingers through Sherlock's hair, yanking at the curls so that Sherlock was looking at the ground, his neck exposed for Moriarty and his needle.
"I'm not going to let you slip through my grasp again, Sherlock Holmes," the words weighed on Sherlock's shoulders, and as hard as he fought to free himself from Jim's iron grip, he couldn't move.
"You're going to learn to appreciate me," Jim continued. "You're going to learn how much I can do for you. You're going to learn to like me Sherlock, whether you want to or not. You gave your soul to me my dear, and now it's my turn to take it from you."
As the needle pressed on the base of Sherlock's neck, not surprisingly, the detective fainted, going limp in Jim's grasp from exhaustion and fear. Before continuing on with his plan, Moriarty bent down to whisper in Sherlock's ear, even if the consulting detective couldn't hear him.
"I don't want to burn the heart out of you anymore Sherlock. I want you to burn the goodness out of your heart, until it beats for no one but me."