Omigosh, it's been two whole weeks… I am so sorry, guys! Well, I did say not to expect quick updates, right? I wish I could just quit school and write all the time x3 This is where the plot is going to actually start, sorry it's taken so long and if it's been boring. This chapter took me a long time to write, I was having trouble with how to actually begin the plot. And homework. Hope it's worth the wait, please drop a favorite/review/follow! That's really the only way I can know if you guys are liking it, so please pleaseplease let me know what you think!
Boring. Boring, boring, boring. Wake up, go to work, come home, eat dinner, go to sleep on the couch. Nightmares. The nightmares were the most interesting thing that had happened to John in the past week. Maybe Sherlock had been onto something – the "suffocating chains of domesticity" were slowly boring John to death. He couldn't take it any more.
John got up and put his empty cereal bowl in the sink. It was a Sunday, so he didn't have to go in to the office. He pulled on his coat and went outside, calling a cab.
John stared out the window on the way to 221B. He didn't think he could stand another week of this monotony. He hoped Sherlock had gotten a lead on Moriarty.
John entered 221B expecting to see Sherlock playing the violin or ensconced in his mind palace. He was surprised to see Mycroft standing in the middle of the room talking to Sherlock, who was, of course, ignoring his older brother. He looked rather childish, sitting in his chair plucking at his violin as he had a tendency to do when Mycroft came round. John had a sneaking suspicion that Sherlock had started playing violin in the first place just because Mycroft hated the sound of it.
"They will be expecting your reply by Wednesday," Mycroft was saying. He turned around upon hearing John enter, and said, "Oh, hello John, I was just -"
"Leaving," Sherlock interrupted, jumping up from his chair. He put down his violin and picked up his laptop from the desk.
Mycroft nodded to John, hesitated a moment, then left looking rather frustrated.
"So what was that about?" John asked, turning back to Sherlock.
Sherlock had sat back down in his chair. He steepled his fingers under his chin. "Not important."
John could see Sherlock starting to go to his mind palace. "Have you got any leads?" he asked.
"Leads? No, not really…" Sherlock said. He was gazing distractedly at his laptop, and didn't say anything else.
John figured Sherlock hadn't eaten in a while, and he didn't want to know what Sherlock had filled the fridge with in his absence, so he went to get some takeaway for lunch. Sherlock would be in his mind palace for a while. It was only 11 now, but by the time he came round, it would probably be past time for lunch.
John didn't hear anything coming from the flat when he came back. "Sherlock?" he called up the stairs, hoping his friend would come out of his reverie long enough to eat something. Still not hearing anything, he went up the steps. Sherlock hadn't moved. "I'm home, I got some takeaway," John said. When Sherlock still didn't move, John set about microwaving the food. Luckily there were no experiments in the microwave.
Sherlock dragged himself out of his mind palace. John looked tired. The tremor in his left hand had returned and his collar was turned up in the back – why hadn't Mary noticed that? He registered what John had said as he reentered the flat. "I'm home" – surely just automatic, right? Sherlock could tell that John had been sleeping on the couch recently, he had an obvious crick in his neck. So things were going badly between John and Mary.
Sherlock tried not to smile.
John turned around to see his friend had come out of his mind palace. "I got some food, you need to eat," he said. The microwave beeped and John took the container out.
"I'm on a case," Sherlock said.
John chuckled. "You're always on a case. You need to eat."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but ate without complaint when John placed the tray in front of him.
"So, how's the case going?" John asked.
Sherlock glanced up at John. " You're bored aren't you?"
John sighed and shook his head. "I know I shouldn't ask, but – how?"
"The intermittent tremor in your left hand, the last time I saw it was the first time I met you, when you were bored and missing the war. It's come back." They looked at each other.
John sat down in his chair and picked at his food. "Alright, I am bored. So what?"
Sherlock just shrugged. He went back to his food. They sat in silence for a few minutes.
"You never said… have you got any leads on Moriarty?" John broke the silence. Sherlock stared at his plate. He weighed his options, considering how much to tell John. How much would be too much, too obvious…
"The story of Snow White, the one you told me last week… I may be wrong, but I believe that Moriarty means to act it out. That he has been, it's been playing out for a while now."
John sat back and looked at Sherlock, waiting for further explanation.
Sherlock went through the story again. The mirror told the evil queen that Snow White was the fairest of all. After Moriarty died and Sherlock had dismantled his network, their games had ended. Thoughts of Moriarty had been pushed to the back of Sherlock's mind and instead, he thought only of John. Moriarty's obsession with Sherlock led him to jealousy – just like the queen. He had sent the hunter, Magnussen, who had failed to kill John. Now Moriarty was taking matters into his own hands. The queen had disguised herself as an old hag and given Snow White a poisoned apple that would make her sleep forever. Then her prince came and happily ever after.
Sherlock had a feeling that if Moriarty intended to play this out, there wouldn't be a 'happily ever after.'
"Magnussen was the hunter, and because he's gone, Moriarty is taking it upon himself to finish this." Sherlock locked eyes with John. "John… You need to be careful. Carry your gun everywhere and don't trust anyone."
"Don't trust anyone, what about you?" John leaned back in his chair.
"I hope that you will trust me, John. You can trust Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade as well, but no one else."
"What… about Mary?" John asked. Sherlock gave him a fleeting glance and looked away. "Wonderful. That's great, really… my own wife is trying to kill me."
Sherlock turned back to John. "Kill you? No… And we can't be certain that she isn't working with Moriarty. I don't know. I'm sorry, John."
Sorry… He had no idea. No clue at all what it was like to be torn, ripped apart like this. By someone you loved, someone you hated, someone whom you just weren't sure what to make of. He loved Mary, he did, but he could never forgive her shooting Sherlock. He loved Mary, but he didn't even know who she was.
John sat with head bowed. Silence filled the sitting room. Neither of them moved nor spoke for a good ten minutes.
Sherlock sat up, holding up a hand to silence John's question that he knew would come. He had heard the creaky stair.
Sherlock rose and moved towards the door. The near-silent footsteps stopped on the landing. John braced himself as he saw Sherlock tense.
The door opened slowly. A man all in black walked into the flat.
"When wishing to be stealthy, one should learn to avoid the stairs of old buildings, "Sherlock said, calm as ever. At least on the surface.
"When wishing to survive, one should learn to put their hands in the air," the stranger replied, as he pulled a revolver from his belt.
"I assure you I have nothing to hide." Sherlock raised his hands above his head. "You however… have quite the list. Where are the others?"
"Oh, they'll be here shortly. And when they come, John Watson is coming with me."
Sherlock held the man's gaze. "I don't think so," he said.
"I don't think you're really in a position to say such things." It was quite miraculous that the man had not quailed under the glare Sherlock was giving him now.
"And why wouldn't I be?" Only his eyes betrayed Sherlock's anger.
Sherlock got his answer. The world went dark.