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CHAPTER 24

2111

Sofitel Hotel

Melbourne

VIC Australia

"Bob, you've barely said a single word to me the entire ride home," John said, as he trailed in after Sherlock and watched in exasperation as the detective ignored him and walked further into the room, not switching the lights on as John closed the door. "What have I done?" the doctor felt a pang of hurt and irritation as Sherlock didn't reply.

"Sherlock," The doctor let out a huff as he realised that there was no getting through to the detective who collapsed on the couch and switched the TV on to drown out John's voice.

"You know what? Fine." John flicked on the lights with more force than necessary and then took his coat of and threw it at Sherlock as he walked towards the bathroom,

"Be an arse. Like I care." Grabbing the bathrobe, John stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

Sherlock didn't move but instead focused on calming himself down, the blazer warm over him, smelling exactly like John. Yes, he was irritated when the agent looked at his John that way, but as he lay there, he quickly realised that it wasn't that. It was the fact that John blushed. It was Sherlock's job to make him blush, not anyone else's, damn it.

And he realised just how possessive that made him.

Sitting up slowly and turning the volume on the TV right down, he glanced over to the closed bathroom door and sighed, falling back to the cushions, the sound of the running shower loud, seeming to echo through the suite. Before Sherlock could do anything about it though, a confident knock sounded at the door. Getting up, Sherlock walked over and opened it, to find Lestrade smiling at him, holding a bag of Chinese,

'Thought you'd like a noodle box," he said,

"A what?" the detective asked,

"Use that brain of yours, Sherlock," Lestrade walked into the suite and Sherlock shut the door before following him to the couch,

"What are you watching?" the DI asked, looking at the screen,

'Dunno…sports," Sherlock said, dropping down next to Lestrade. The DI removed three boxes from the bag and took one for himself,

'Where's Sally?" Sherlock asked, deciding that, despite his bad mood, John would not be happy if he were not courteous to their guest – John's best mate.

'Oh, she's gone out for dinner with...what's his name…Matt,"

'Matt?"

'Yeah, he asked her if she wanted dinner. Wonder how she'll react when she finds out he's married," Greg chuckled and Sherlock had to refrain from saying she's done it before, why not one more time?

Sherlock grabbed a box and the chopsticks,

'You can use the sticks?" Lestrade asked, twirling the noodles around his fork,

'Yes. I learnt in Japan," Sherlock said,

"You were in Japan?" if the DI's eyebrows went any higher, they'd disappear into his hairline. Before Sherlock could tell Lestrade he was stupid, the bathroom door opened and steam flooded the room, from which John emerged, the fluffy white bath robe he was in so different from his daily clothes Lestrade had to stop himself from laughing out loud. John frowned slightly as he saw Sherlock, but his face lit up when his gaze landed on Lestrade,

'Greg!" he called out and the DI rose to his feet to hug him,

"Nice robe," The DI teased and John laughed,

"Shut up," John took the chair that faced both Sherlock and the DI and he steadfastly ignored Sherlock,

'So, how was today?"

"I came to ask you that," Lestrade said, "Nice winnings, mate,"

"I know, right? That was my luckiest streak. Why can't these things happen when I'm playing for money to go into my own bank account?" he whined and the DI chuckled,

"Luck's a bitch,"

'You can say that again," Leaning forward he picked up the noodle box and chopsticks,

"You know how to use those damned sticks as well?" Lestrade asked,

"Yeah I learned in Afghanistan," Even Sherlock cracked a smile at the look on the DI's face.

Sofitel Hotel

Presidential Suite

Melbourne

VIC Australia

Sophie Laurent paced backwards and forwards as she tried to figure out how to get out of this damn hotel without her partner knowing. He would literally kill her if he knew she didn't want to be here. There wouldn't be a chance for her to apologise to the madman.

Three years ago, Sophie was a girl on the street, pregnant, and a drug addict, she had nothing. Then she ran into Stewart Howell, who took her in, looked after her until the baby was born and even found a good home for the baby. He was a different man then. He was a sweet twenty-four year old who wanted to help her. Then, a year later, he got involved with a European gang. Everything went downhill from there.

The man she thought she knew disappeared and he became a cold hearted killer, not the man who saved her from the drugs and gave her a second chance.

Sophie had to get away from here. The abuse heaped on her, the constant reminder that she was a tramp whom he let in out of pity, was a bit much. He was driving her insane. She knew if she could get enough money and run, she could start again somewhere, go to college, finish her arts degree and get a good job. Yes, she owed Howell for her survival, but she has repaid that debt in the beatings every other night.

She heard footsteps outside and her heart jumped – he was home. Running quickly, her feet making no sound on the carpet below her, Sophie ran into the bedroom and leapt onto the bed, falling gracefully and closing her eyes – pretending to be asleep.

The door banged open and confident, arrogant footsteps walked into the room. Sophie kept her face perfectly blank as he walked into the room. He stopped at the foot of the bed, and she could hear his breathing. It was soft, quiet.

"Ah, Sophie," It was so gentle, she barely heard it and wonder briefly if he was drunk, "Why are you so beautiful?" The words washed over her and she felt a stab of guilt as the memory of a week ago came back. She had wanted to pick up that knife. She had wanted to kill the man who was making her life hell.

But maybe…

Maybe he was still the man she fallen in love with?

His jacket dropped onto the bed and Sophie wisely kept still as her partner went about his nightly routine. Perhaps escape can wait? She thought before allowing herself to drift off.

As Howell reached the bathroom, he turned so that he could get a glance at his sleeping partner, and, after making sure she was asleep, he reached for the phone in his back pocket. Dialling a number, he put it to his ear and waited. On the second ring, it picked up,

"Scotland Yard, how can I help you?" the operators voice sounded loud and clear,

'I need to contact a prisoner,"

"Which one?"

"Jim Moriarty," There was a pause on the other end of the line,

"Are you family?" she asked,

'Yeah,"

There was another pause,

'I'm sorry sir, no one can get in touch with this man,"

"It's Stewart Howell, I'm calling from Australia, I need to talk with him,"

"I'm sorry sir,"

"Listen, put your boss on,"

"Sir," there was a flick and Howell waited, before a gruff voice answered,

"Hello?"

"My name is Stewart Howell. I have four billion dollars a year invested in Scotland Yard. I need to speak with Jim Moriarty. Put me on, or you will be responsible for huge funding losses," The man on the other line had to stop himself from spluttering. He knew that name, and it was true. Howell was a major sponsor.

"Yes sir," The cop put Howell on hold and called up the high security prison. The warden answered immediately,

"Hello?"

"It's Chief Walden, I need Jim Moriarty on the phone."

'The madman?"

"Yep, its urgent,"

"I'll get him right here, sir," The chief as put on hold and it was a minute before Jim answered. The voice was smooth but cracked slightly,

"Hello?"

"You have a call," With that, Walden switched lines and connected Howell with Jim,

"There you go," with that, he hung up and left the men to talk,

"Hello?" Howell said, 'Jim?"

"Stewart?" the psychopath's voice went up and those dark, dark eyes glinted for the first time in months, the dirty white top he wore so different to the tailored suits he loved,

"Jim. Listen. I need a favour,"

"I'm in prison, Stewart," Jim said, dryly, "I should hardly need remind you about that,"

"I know, friend," Howell paused, "I need a hit man for a murder,"

"Well, well, very direct aren't you. That means it needs to be done soon," Jim's accent became more pronounced as a laugh entered his voice, "Always so predictable, Stewart," Howell laughed on the other end,

'Always annoying, Jim," he said,

"Touché," There was a pause, "Who is it then?"

"Man by the name of Bob Maxwell,"

"English, well bred,"

"Obviously," Howell said, before continuing, "Engaged to Pierre Mannu, French national, permanent resident of Manchester, billionaire,"

"Oh I see now," Moriarty said, "One of you clients. No, wait," The man smiled, "He will be your client. The fiancé's in the way,"

"Always perceptive Jim, that's what I love about you," Jim chuckled,

"I'll see what I can do,"

"Don't give me that crap, you're Jim Moriarty, you can do anything." Jim laughed outright this time,

"Fine, expect a call from me in three days,"

"That's more like it," Howell smiled, "Talk then,"

"Bye," Jim hung up and Howell sighed.

It drained him when he had to talk to Moriarty. The man was a genius – but a crazy one at that. He said one thing that tipped him and he would be in trouble. Running a hand across his chin, Howell opened the door and flicked off the bathroom light, deciding he should probably turn in.

2230

Sofitel Hotel

Melbourne

VIC Australia

Sherlock watched from the bed as Lestrade and John – changed now into comfy track pants and a T-shirt, no jumper needed in the heated suite – laughed softly at the comedian on the TV. Sherlock had 'gone to sleep' about an hour ago, but was angrier than he had ever been. John had said three words to him in three hours. Three! It was utterly preposterous.

He had tried to make conversation, by asking John whether he liked the noodles, and the doctor said, "Yes, they're good," before turning back to Lestrade to continued their topic of conversation – rugby.

Slowly, Sherlock sat up, his pitch-black locks of hair falling into his eyes, and neither of the men noticed,

"I'm going out," he announced, getting of the bed and finally, finally, John's head snapped around a worried frown appeared on his face,

"Where are you going?" he asked,

"Out," With that, Sherlock grabbed John's overlarge jacket and, after pulling on a pair of boots – they may have been Lestrade's, Sherlock walked out of the room to a "Sherlock!" from John.

Only the TV could be heard in the apartment and Lestrade looked at John, "Lover's tiff?" he asked and John threw him a sceptical look,

"Shut up," he muttered, "I just hope he doesn't go and do anything stupid,"

"It's 10:30 at night, of course he's not going to do anything stupid, Lestrade said and John threw one of the fluffy cushions at him, wiping the smug smile off the DI's face.

Outside the Sofitel Hotel

Melbourne

VIC Australia

The night air blasted Sherlock and he glanced up to see that the sky was clear, meaning the temperature had to be below ten degrees Celsius. Stepping onto the empty streets, the detective looked left and right. There was nothing there, and the light from the Hotel was lighting up the street more than the street lamps that were scattered around the city. Sherlock was not entirely sure why he was out here, alone, and why he couldn't go back inside, kiss his husband – wait, what? Husband? – Sherlock swallowed as the word hit him like a sledgehammer. In his head, not for undercover purposes, he just called John his husband.

Subconsciously, surely, The detective wasn't convincing himself and decided that now was not the time to think about it. He pushed it to the back of his mind and continued on his train of thought, I probably should go and apologise…

The detective was about to turn around and head back inside when a scream echoed around the corner. He froze. He could go back inside – it was probably just a party girl slightly drunk, nine out of ten times, it is, he thought, but John would never forgive me.

Sighing quietly, Sherlock wondered when John became his conscience and walked towards the scream. The light from the hotel faded into the background as the detective kept on walking. He turned a corner and found it empty.

Walking down the streets, Sherlock listened for the slightest change in the quiet streets. There was nothing. Deciding the scream didn't mean anything, Sherlock turned around and the last thing he saw was the street lamps before everything faded into nothing, accompanied with a rather sharp pain in the back of his head a muted, but penetrating,

"Yes!"

There we go. Cliffhangers are back!

*dances*

lol :D

Aza

xoxo