Heartlock

In which there are dealings, a dinner party and a curtain rod duel

Heartlock.

That was what they called them. That was their little nickname, their little joke.

By they, Sherlock was referring to 'everyone within the area of London who is not myself or Lana.'

They were everywhere; at the coffee machine at Scotland Yard, in the texts from Mycroft, in snide comments from Anderson, in awkward smiles from LeStrade.

That name. The label of their relationship.

Heartlock.

The worst part was that Lana didn't seem to care about the name. She didn't seem to care that everyone knew.

"How can you be okay with this?" Sherlock asked as he watched Lana type out her latest article one grey Tuesday afternoon.

"Stop staring, I can't concentrate when you stare." She replied. "And anyway, why are you NOT okay with this?"

"It's a label; I can't stand labels," He responded, throwing himself dramatically into a nearby chair as though the thought of having a relationship label was a mark of certain death.

"You have been dealing with labels since you started making headlines again. As soon as the press got wind that you were still alive, they were calling you- what was it? The Vampire?" She snickered. "Personally, I think Heartlock is a much better label than that or Hatman and Robin, don't you?"

"I LIKED Hatman and Robin!" John chimed in from the kitchen, refilling his third- or was it fifth- cup of coffee.

"Shut up, John," Sherlock replied.

"Besides, Sherlock, the nickname isn't in the media; it's just a name within people we know. Why are you so worried?" Lana's eyes narrowed with amusement as she snapped her laptop shut. "Personally, I think that the only reason you're so concerned is because it's what they call you behind your back. You don't think people shipped you and John before I came along?"

Sherlock stared at her as though she had just expressed desire to become a herder of water buffalo. "What do you mean, me and John?"

"They called us Johnlock." John said as he leaned against the mantle to watch Sherlock's rising angst and Lana's growing humor. (By they, John was referring to 'every member of Scotland Yard, Mycroft, Missus Hudson, most of London, and the entire fan girl readership of his blog.')

John and the skull shared a look; they both agreed this was much better than any crap Telly.

Lana set her laptop down and was on Sherlock's lap in three steps. "Don't over think this one too much, ok genius? It's nothing to worry about."

"I don't' know what's more concerning; the fact that you don't care or the fact you're such a bad liar. I can always tell when you're hiding something."

"Right," Lana said, kissing him and sliding off his lap onto the floor. "I'm going out. Do we need anything?"

"Coffee"

"Milk"

"Sugar"

"Stuff for dinner"

"Lighter fluid"

"Nicotine patches"

"Ok, just stop there." Lana smiled and grabbed her coat and wallet as she headed for the door. "I'll cook tonight; don't worry about it. Don't wait up!"

The door slammed behind her. Neither of the men asked where she was going as they heard her go down the stairs. She did whatever she wanted, just like the two of them. The system was based on everyone being able to live their own lives and trust each other not to do something stupid.

Wait, hang on. Who am I kidding? This is Heartlock we're talking about.

….

Lana swallowed and pushed through the crowds of tourists as she moved down Shasbury Avenue. Around her, the city hummed with the sounds of life, beating with the pulse of a thousand living souls. Everyone had their own place; their own hopes and dreams and loved ones.

She hitched her bag more firmly and kept moving to avoid losing her nerve- and possibly her lunch- on the pavement.

Lana had heard plenty about Moriarty. More than she cared to know, to be honest, and definitely more than she wanted to admit.

Because Lana Heart was a journalist, through and through, and like any good journalist, was naturally curious.

She sincerely hoped Sherlock hadn't hacked her laptop too much in the past few months, because if he had, he would have found The Files; the extensive library of documents and reports and photos and stories about the world's only consulting criminal hidden away in her hard drive. She had found everything she could when John had told her the stories of their encounters with the dark-eyed, playful psychopath that had developed a worrying appetite for Sherlock.

But The Files had grown extensively in the past several days, when The Text had come.

Because besides everything Lana knew about Moriarty, the most prominent thing was the fact that he was supposed to be DEAD.

He had put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger and Sherlock had watched.

So what kind of demon could cheat the devil? (To this day, Lana was never sure whether she was talking about Sherlock or Satan: or maybe both.)

She could see the sign for Scott's café growing in the distance; a little café, tucked into a wall against the London smoke and fog. Everything else seemed to fall away from her line of vision as she moved toward her fate.

Am I going to die?

She didn't want to think about that.

But what else can you think when you're facing the prospect of meeting a murderous psychopath?

The warmth of the interior hit her with a wall of steam as she pulled off her jacket and pulled her most stoic face. Scott's café seemed normal enough, but she was dating Sherlock Holmes; nothing could ever be what it seemed.

She took an empty corner booth and closed her eyes, immersing herself in the warmth and chatter of the room around her. Maybe, if she wished very, very hard, she could become invisible and no one would see her.

And maybe Dad will come back and Sherlock and I will actually start thinking about marriage; get real, Lana, she mentally scolded herself as a young waiter stepped up, paper and pencil ready.

"Can I get you anything?"

"Coffee would be great." Lana smiled as he wrote down her order and left the table.

Lana absentmindedly drummed her fingers on the table as she stared across the room. The steam played around her as she stared at the clock. 4:32.

She knew she was on time. So where was he?

Maybe this was all a prank. A childish attempt to get under her skin.

A song by Adele started over the radio as her patience started to fail.

"Maybe you just don't exist," she said to the empty seat across from her.

"Oh, I don't know. I'd say I'm pretty real."

Lana's heart seemed to stop. She felt her eyes widen as every part of her seemed to alight with adrenaline; every hair seemed to stand on end…

And yet she was frozen to the spot.

Frozen in her seat as her waiter sat down across from her. Now suited up, he pushed her coffee across the table.

Lana inhaled the smell of coffee and milk and potential cyanide and tried to look as calm as possible. Jim simply smiled and appeared mildly amused. "Hello, Lana."

She swallowed. "Mr. Moriarty, I presume." It came out slightly cracked; twisted by fear.

"I understand your fear but why the formality? It's just Jim, Sweetie."

"Don't call me Sweetie."

"Who are you to make demands? I'm the one in control."

"What do you want?"

"What do you think? I want you."

"Not sure if you know this-"

"Probably do."

"-but I'm kind of taken. By your rival, I think I should mention."

"You really think that matters to me? You're so much more ordinary than I had hoped. What must he see in you?"

"What. Do. You. Want?"

"Direct, at least. And from what I've seen, a damn good kisser. I can at least see where part of the appeal comes." He laughed as Lana's face fell into ridges of shock. "Oh yes, Sweetie. I've been around a lot longer than you think, waiting for the opportunity to burn you three to the ground. And I will admit, it's been amusing, watching your little angst." He leaned in, inhaling the scent of the coffee as he stared into Lana's fear-strung face. "And trust me, my dear, this is only the beginning."

"Look, is there any reason why you're here? Other than to ensure that I tell Sherlock his worst enemy is back from the dead?"

"…but I set fire to the rain, watch it burn as I touched your fa-ace…" Jim sang along with the radio. Eyes closed, rocking back and forth slightly, it was almost as though he had forgotten she was there.

Lana had had enough. Keeping her face calm, she tossed some bills on the table and walked with purpose out of Scotts and into the building rain outside.

It made no sense. Her brain was buzzing with a million questions and theories as she tried to work out in her brain WHAT THE HELL HAD JUST HAPPENED.

I guess it gives her justification not to notice she was being followed until it was too late.

As she passed a bookstore on her left, she felt her phone vibrate. Pausing outside the window display of new detective novels, she pulled the black iPhone out of her bag.

The number was a jumble of random digits, and the message was just one word.

GOTCHA

It was then that Lana felt two things:

Jim's breath on the back of her neck, hot and loud and smelling faintly of coffee, and

The butt of a gun sticking into her back.

"Now really, did you really think it'd be that easy?" Jim taunted as he led her into the bookshop.

"Hello again. Are you going to tell me what you want this time?" Lana asked calmly. Even though her whole body was screaming in protest and panic, her brain told her Jim wasn't about to shoot her in the middle of a public building.

But then, this is Jim we're talking about.

"I thought I made it perfectly clear what I wanted. Must you be so ordinary?"

"You said you wanted me," Lana said coldly as Jim slipped the gun back into his jacket. "Could you honestly be any vaguer?"

"Well then, maybe this will help you figure it out." With a sudden, ferocious movement, Jim snatched a book off the shelf and tossing into her chest. "I hope you've read it; you don't get any more hints."

Lana looked down at the cover; it was a John le Carre's novel; Tinker, Tailor, Soldier Spy.

Yes, she had read the book. And suddenly, what he wanted was painfully obvious.

She looked up, heart pounding, mind racing.

"You want me to spy for you?"

"Finally, you get it. I expected better; really, I did." Jim stepped forward and guided the book out of her hands as she sat there in general shock. Still enjoying himself immensely, he slid the book back onto the shelf, and then took hold of her arm. His eyes glittered with malice and joy. "I don't want much; there's no fun in it if I know too much. But knowing I can get whatever I want from you, whenever I want it; that's what I've been waiting for. Because if you don't, I will kill him."

He looked her in the eye, tightening his grip of her arm and drawing her close to him. "I will kill Sherlock and John and Missus Hudson and your dear old Mum and I will make you watch. Better yet, I'll make you pull the trigger." Jim released her and she took an involuntary step backward. "You better do as I say, because you know I'm not lying. And I intend to make the most of this golden opportunity, hon." He sighed. "Watching you dance; it's going to be beautiful."

Lana couldn't move; she was paralyzed by the look in Jim's eyes; pure insanity and excitement and malevolence. Psycho on a sugar rush.

Jim took a step forward, bearing down on her. "I'm glad we had this little talk, Sweetie. Oh, and by the way," he stepped even closer, "telling Sherlock to stop worrying won't help. If anything, it'll get him even more paranoid."

His lips touched her forehead, sending a tremor down her body right to the tips of her feet.

Jim pulled back; clearly delighted with the effect he had produced.

"Until next time, Lana."

And with a turn of his heel and the swish of the door, Jim Moriarty was gone.

….

She ran.

She ran as fast as she could. No direction, no rhyme or reason; she just ran.

And when she couldn't run any more, she went grocery shopping.

Somehow, after all that had occurred, she still remembered her promise to make dinner.

And because she wanted him in a good mood, she bought Sherlock the nicotine patches he wanted.

As Lana walked toward the entrance of 221B, she felt her heart begin to slow for the first time that day. Despite everything that had happened, she knew she had to tough it out. For Sherlock's sake. For John and Missus Hudson.

And for Emily.

Lana shoved her key into the lock and put on her best poker face as she stepped through the door. Missus Hudson was in the hallway, holding a cup of tea, and her face lit up when she saw Lana standing there, dripping wet and carrying two large grocery sacks.

"Evening dear, let me help you with those. I can't imagine what you were thinking, doing the shopping for the boys on your own, I'm always telling them to do things themselves…"

Lana tuned her out as her landlady set down her tea, lifted a bag out of Lana's arms and led the way up the stairs. It was all so blissfully normal; and yet, everything was changing.

I'm a dirty, rotten little bitch. She thought as she set the bag down on the counter. I'm doing business with my boyfriend's greatest enemy; what am I thinking?

Her thought process was caught short by a curtain rod whistling past her head.

Reflexively, she ducked, looking up to see Sherlock standing over her, shirt sleeves rolled up and holding two halves of the curtain rod like rapiers.

"What's this about?" Lana asked from her position on the kitchen floor.

"An experiment," he replied lazily, dropping to the en guard stance. "Recent development in a case and I need data. So come on then."

He held out one of the curtain rod halves.

Lana wanted to tell him, right then and there what was going on. But she knew that in doing so, everyone she loved would be thrown into a whirlwind of terrifying change.

For now, let everyone have their blessed normality.

If she had known not telling him would end everything, she probably would have shouted it out anyway. Forget their blessed normality.

But she didn't know that.

So Lana took it and immediately took a swipe at his legs. The duel was on.

Several thrusts and parries later, John Watson walked into the sitting room to find this little episode occurring:

Both chairs were over-turned, books lying across the floor like dead bodies, the curtains lying in dusty heaps on the carpet, the Telly turned on to some bizarre channel, and the pillows tossed across the room.

And Sherlock and Lana were in front of the windows, fighting with two halves of the curtain rods. Neither of them seemed to notice John's entrance; they held each other off with such focus and intensity that John highly doubted they would have noticed if a bomb went off in the kitchen.

John blinked twice, and then turned around and went back to his room.

….

Two Days Later

Lana glanced around once and headed upstairs with the mail. Two days after her encounter with Moriarty, she was still checking, not only for a message from him, but a potential letter bomb as well.

Which, knowing Jim, I suppose could have been the same thing.

Gingerly holding the stack of letters as though they might burst into flames, Lana sprinted back upstairs, burst through the door, and immediately handed the mail off to John, who began to sort through them while Lana poured some more coffee and went to wake Sherlock up.

The curly-haired consulting detective was sprawled across his bed, all elbows and stomach and tangled sheet. However, as Lana stepped closer, he opened one eye and lifted his head, the picture of pure laziness.

"How long have you been awake?" Lana asked, setting the coffee down on the nightstand and surveying her boyfriend with mild amusement and disapproval.

"Not long," he purred, stretching out like a giant alabaster cat. Lana bit back the urge to scratch him behind the ears.

"Well, come on then. We have things to do."

Sherlock held out an arm. "Everything seems boring right now. Want to ease the monotony?"

"If that's smart-ass talk for 'let's have sex', then no," she replied, heading out the door. She paused in the doorway, looked back at him, and smiled wickedly. "Maybe later, if you behave."

As she shut the door, she heard him laughing as he rolled out of bed.

When she entered the kitchen, John was drinking coffee and turning a letter over and over in his hands with a brooding expression on his face.

"What's wrong, sunshine?" Lana asked as she reached him.

John held up the letter with a look of exhaustion. "It's an invitation. To a dinner party of Mycroft's."

"So, are we going?"

"I don't know, it seems a little out of profile for Mycroft."

"So what? Either we go and have a good time messing with Mycroft's snooty friends, or we ignore the walrus's request and have our own party with plenty of running around London."

"You want to go?" John seemed surprised.
"Why not? This could be fun. And it's an excuse to go dress shopping with Molly and Sarah." Lana smiled coyly and looked pointedly toward Sherlock's room. "I'm sure I'll find something worth wearing."

John slid her the invitation and picked up the paper. "I actually wouldn't mind going either; I've been trying to find a nice place to take Sarah; I guess this is as good an opportunity as any."

"Well, what about him?" Lana asked, waving her hand in the direction of Sherlock's room.

"What about me?" Sherlock called from the bedroom.

"Nothing, Sherlock; just finish getting changed." John called.

"BORING."

Lana sighed. "Want to go to Mycroft's dinner party with us?"

There was a moment of silence, and then Sherlock stuck his head out of his door.

"A night of my darling brother trying to talk up London's high society? And we get a front row seat?" he looked positively gleeful. "I wouldn't miss this for the world." His face suddenly went back to stoic. "But I'm not talking to anyone unless absolutely necessary."

"That's the sociopath we know and love," Lana replied as she went back to her coffee.

Up next- Blood in the Punch

In which there is foul play, a murder, and some sexy times.

Hi!

So, I'm currently stuck at home with a lovely case of the flu! YAY! But hey, it gives me plenty of time to write. I am in the ZONE right now!

Anyway, Moriarty is back.

And there was much rejoicing. I hope.

Hopefully, this isn't too big of a problem for you guys. Sherlock needs his old foe back (yes, yes you do, Sherlock. You've been too normal up until this point.) And honestly, I just wanted to make Lana squirm a little (sorry, Lana. You can stop banging your head against the table now.) Plus, trying to create Moriarty in my own words sounded like too much fun to pass up. (Jim, put the book down. There was way more references in this chapter then there should have been. Stop laughing, you know it's true.)

Anyway, count on Jim making another appearance soon. But for now, I get to write the chapter I've been looking forward to writing for a while. I've really wanted to put our little trio in this scenario for a LONG time, but the timing was never right, so now I'm finally going to do it.

I think I'll throw a little Panic! at the Disco in there too for fun.

The next chapter may be in more than one part; it all depends on what happens. I'll try to keep it moving along though.

Moriarty is real

Jay