A/N: So this chapter is a pinnacle, of sorts. And thank God I tricked Revella into stepping away from her own works in order to proof it a bit for me. This chapter felt like it was never going to finish itself. There was just too much to convey. So I chose to omit some things, hopefully to place in later chapters. I am truly grateful for every comment I get. And any time someone wants to know something specific, please keep messaging me. I really don't mind. It just gives me an opportunity to talk even more about my favorite pastime! This chapter has a lot of feels for me, and I hope for you, too. If you don't at least think about shedding a tear or two, then dammit I'm not doing my job, and I need to know! LOL! All of the characters will be altered in a major way from the events that transpire in these 9000 words to follow, though I'm not finished with this first book yet, so hang on. Still many chapters to go! Tragedy abounds, so pull out the tissues here…
Strange. Jim was strange today. Their day. Sherlock had awoken on the day of their great Museum heist to a lonely and cold bed. So different from the mornings of the previous week. And so unexpected, after last night. He had wandered the halls until coming upon the other man, already dressed impeccably, as if to make an impression on their enemies. Keeping up appearances. The criminal seemed to have chosen all shades of gray for the day's activity, and Sherlock wondered if Jim quite saw the irony of the color scheme inherent in the three piece suit. The only thing to stand out was his choice of tie, a deep crimson red. The devil himself couldn't have looked better in the same outfit. Jim had been absorbed in his computer work for the time being, and Sherlock had used that opportunity to shower and make ready himself. He chose somber for this day, all black. Shirt, jacket, trousers, shoes, socks….but a smooth, dark silver tie. It made his eyes seem even more otherworldly in complement.
Outwardly calm, inside his mind spun on its axis. Tilted. Reversed. Toppled. He couldn't resolve the revelations that last night had brought to his awareness; and, he thought, to the other man as well. He had anticipated a sort of oddity between them afterwards, or maybe even a sort-of closeness. Something. But he certainly hadn't expected to be met by this distracted, hyper, almost childlike and gleeful man that Jim appeared to be today. Quickly vacillating between action and immobility. It was…like the old Jim. The one before all of "this" had happened between them. Not that the criminal seemed oblivious to their new status, but just…he was strange.
And Jim's reversion to his more classic criminal exterior had caused further introspection to occur within the detective himself. After all, the job this day would potentially harm many people. People he knew and had once cared about. Still cared about? He was unsure how exactly he felt about this. When he thought of the day's events and who might be attending from the opposing side of the law…..he shuddered suddenly. This wasn't right. Something wasn't right.
He stood still and dredged deep, searching, looking, digging. Why was this not right? Lestrade would be there. What had he ever done to Sherlock but given him cases to occupy his mind, keep him out of trouble? And Anderson and Donovan were certainly annoyances, but had they ever really done much of anything to earn what would probably befall them this day? And Mycroft….surely he would become involved by this point as well? Brother dear… Sherlock growled. They may despise each other nowadays, but there was a time, long ago, when a frightened little boy was often comforted by his older brother's distractions and stories of pirates….
Wrong. This was wrong. He knew it. Felt it. But also…he couldn't find it in himself to care. His emotive response was just….empty. Blank. Missing…
Why didn't he care? He groaned in frustration at finding no solutions. His brow furrowed, and his eyes clenched shut as he searched ever deeper through his mental hallways and store rooms. Somewhere. It was here somewhere... It had to be.
He had cared once. He was sure of it. In the beginning of his time here with Jim, he had not been able to clearly picture much of his past. Now, though clear, they felt…wrong, awkward…altered… What had changed? Wait… He blinked. What was that? He had seen something, for just a second. There and gone. Something….some kind of …something….dammit. Where…? Yes, there it was! A signal, a code, a word… A way of passing on notice of danger to come, yes, but also a symbol of friendship and camaraderie. He had it! But where had it come from? He rolled the words over in his head:
Vatican Cameo….
What an odd combination to make. But the words gave him a feeling of knowing right from wrong. A feeling of unending and steadfast loyalty. How had that come about? And when had he ever used it before? He frowned as he tried in vain to recover the memory, but it was like trying to catch wet glass- sharp and slick, and ultimately all he did was hurt himself trying. Shit. Well. The origin really didn't matter, he supposed, as long as it got the result he wanted.
But what did he want?
Damn! It was frustratingly horrid to fight his own memories! All he could figure was that it must have been Lestrade whom he had shared it with. Who else would he ever need to give a code for danger like this to? And now, since Lestrade had been determined by him to not be a threat, he set to a new resolve. He wouldn't go against Jim….he could never do that again, he reasoned. That also felt wrong. But, it didn't mean he couldn't work to mitigate damages to those chosen few. Yes. He could do that. And he would. He walked over to a desk in the room he had paused in and pulled out a marker. His mind buzzed as he brought it to one hand, and then the other. Yes.
XXX
When he found the criminal again, the other man was talking animatedly to the agent Sherlock had seen most frequently on jobs of this magnitude. Sebastian? Yes. Definitely Sebastian. Possibly Steve, but probably Sebastian. Jim turned away from the other man when the detective entered the room, smiling widely. Others (mainly those who were not named Sherlock Holmes) would have termed the grin deranged.
"Sebastian was just telling me that everything is under way." His voice dropped a bit. "Are you ready? Time for the fun!"
Sherlock first applauded his own ability to remember the agent's name mostly correctly when heard it from the criminal's own lips. Then he moved forward to stand almost touching the shorter man, but he didn't reach out. The psychotic aura that Jim exuded this day was distancing him a bit. Not worrying, just curious.
"I should hope so," Sherlock began, "We already recovered the artifact days ago from the idiot whose house you blew up, though it took long enough. And from then, we've just been…what do you criminals call it? Biding our time? Awaiting opportunity?" And Moriarty shook a finger at him.
"Ah ah," he chastened. "Wasn't me. Those were your pyrotechnics. And don't be so quick to say 'you' criminals, honey. You're just as culpable as I…." The detective shrugged at the truth thrown at him. "Still, we tortured the fool long enough that I truly thought initially that maybe he had just invented the storage place he had given us."
"Torture is often an unreliable means to get results," agreed the detective. There was a heavy pause before the response came, full of meaning that he couldn't quite glean.
"Yes…..it can be…" agreed Moriarty, something dark moving within his eyes as he stared across at Sherlock. The he spun back round to Sebastian, who merely stood observing their exchange, and waved his hands in a 'shooing' fashion. "Well, off you pop! Do make sure you have the chopper well-fueled. Sources say they're bringing almost everything for us. I suppose I should feel flattered. Even big brother Holmes is going to be there…" Jim clapped his hands lightly. "But, while I'm sure he'd love to bring the entire army down around us, he could hardly justify that just for the sake of rescuing his little brother. Therefore, I am expecting to be met with heavy ground forces and next to nothing in way of air coverage."
Sherlock looked on impassively, still unsure of how he felt about the whole affair. He was excited, and thrilled, to be a part of such an intriguing game, but…something was…wrong…. He looked at the back of his hands, specifically at the markings he had placed there earlier. He flexed his fingers studiously. Wrong.
XXX
John pulled the vest around his chest, securing its bullet-stopping power around himself. He looked to Greg, who was doing the same. Today was it. Today, they would have Sherlock back. He had to believe that. Only…this was Jim Moriarty. And John couldn't help but accept the reality of just how brilliant the man was, no matter how little sanity he might possess. And with Sherlock possibly helping him….it didn't bear thinking about. Still, they had had two weeks to prepare for this. They had people inside the museum, posing as staff. They had officers on the ground, ready to respond from a distance of about 100-140 meters. They had snipers set to be covering from every available surrounding rooftop as part of the government's contribution to this. Mycroft would be air bound in a helicopter to monitor things from the aerial perspective. And they had all agreed that the British Government operative would also be the one to lead the entire operation, offering a central point of control, so that they didn't all end up getting in each other's way and could function in a more coordinated manner.
John glanced at the clock. A quarter to two. Their source had said that Moriarty's hit was to go down around 3pm. They had plenty of time. Everyone else was already en route and setting up last minute plans as unobtrusively as possible. Perfect. It had to be…perfect. Air tight. He sighed, trying to expel all of his stress and worry. Greg looked up at him.
"Got it, mate? Ready?"
"As I'll ever be." A great sigh escaped him still, though. "And you know something? All my time in Afghanistan….I never felt like this." His eyes searched those of the Detective Inspector.
"It is a different perspective on the civilian side of things, I guess. More pressure to prevent collateral damage and all," Lestrade offered.
"Yeah, I guess." And Greg gave him an odd look, but John shrugged it off, saying, "Let's just…get this bastard good, yeah?" And he grabbed his gun, shoving it down his back pocket, and slung his jacket over his shoulders before heading for the door. DI Lestrade followed in his wake, shaking his head.
Greg thought of Mycroft, already taken to the air a few miles away. He thought hard of the man's ominous words to him all those weeks ago. That he would take the shot to bring down Moriarty…even at the expense of his own brother's life. Something cold and dark resided within those Holmes brothers for the elder to be so callous. But then...wasn't that potential why they were in this mess in the first place?
XXX
Jim stepped up and through a trapdoor, long thought to be useless, in the floor of the main storage area of the British Museum, Sherlock following closely behind. He did so hope that the Yard would be out in force. He'd be insulted if they weren't. He glanced at his watch. It was ten til 3, and his men were already quietly taking out the police officers who thought they were so well hidden amongst the staff. And the four snipers on the museum roof? Ha. They were his own men. Bought and paid for. They would miss every shot. Silly coppers, crime is for crooks… He waltzed in, practically thrumming with an overflow of enthusiasm to get on with the job. This was to be the unequivocal statement of their solidarity of purpose. His eyes raked over the man beside him, noting that Sherlock still carried the small package in his arms. The detective set it on the nearest desk, stopping to look around and get his bearings as he pulled up the mental map he had made earlier.
"Server room should be just a ways down the hall," he smiled at Jim as he finished, and then imitated the other man's soft Irish accent, "No rush…"
The criminal turned to the taller man suddenly and crossed the short distance between them, lightly setting one hand on the detective's hip. He stood there for a moment, just studying the other's features, almost as if he still probed for a faltering of the detective's resolve. But that wasn't his intention at all… Jim stared…just to stare. He enjoyed the view. But his own countenance was always so laced with venom that no one had ever been able to interpret this as such. But Sherlock could... The criminal tilted his head after a few moments, coming back to earth and all of its frailties as he spoke.
"Why don't you go ahead and get started down there? I'll be along shortly once I'm sure everyone is in place. Then we'll shut this place down and make one hell of an entrance…or exit, rather."
XXX
Mycroft Holmes hovered in the air approximately one mile from the site of the Museum. They were slowly progressing forward as the time ticked away. He needed to be about one quarter mile or so away when it began, hanging just out of the line of sight. They had already predicted the path which Moriarty's own escape craft would approach and leave from, so he considered himself relatively safe from being noticed (though he doubted it would matter to the master criminal anyway). He was present in a surveillance and tactical lead capacity mostly, not to engage with any of the enemy officially. Unless the opportunity presented itself.
He glanced at his assistant, Anthea, who piloted the helicopter's controls currently. Multitalented, she was. He honestly couldn't ask for more in an assistant. Skilled in physical combat, tactical planning, and able to operate several types of armed forces heavy machinery, she was often even able to anticipate his needs. She was the only person he would ever choose to have his back during such a sensitive operation as this. His own resolve had been set weeks ago, when he had recognized the dark thing that Sherlock seemed to be opening up to. It was horrifying, the potential that his brother would have if ever he truly let go of all moral codes. And though it would likely kill him inside…Mycroft prepared himself for the worst choice to be made of his life. It sickened the still and silent heart that beat somewhere hidden within him. He had never thought to have to do this…never again…
XXX
John and Greg arrived at their destination with about twenty minutes to spare. They were briefed on the set up, and everything seeming to be in control and going as planned. Which actually made John more nervous than anything. Nothing was ever perfect with these kinds of operations. Though, Greg took it as reassuring. John knew they had radio links to every unit placed around the museum, CCTV feeds, security camera footage inside the building itself, and the addition of several extra surveillance cams that had been installed over the prep weeks located in key positions. The room they occupied was located in a building just across from the museum itself, the best of the surrounding vantage points, and was filled with screens showing every possible angle and detail of the surveyed space possible. All available computer systems analysts had been gathered into a small space on one side of the gargantuan room, senior agents all and with many decades of experience shared between them. Any of Moriarty's usual tomfoolery with hacking should be headed off easily enough. He hoped.
Surely there was nothing else to be done? And no way to evade their extensive plans for the apprehension and arrest of James Moriarty? At least, John couldn't think of any. Which still wasn't comforting. He took slight reassurance in the fact that they had never before been able to plan ahead for a specific crime being committed by the madman. And here they'd had two weeks! It had to be enough. Yes. For Sherlock…it had to be enough….
XXX
Jim crouched down by the multiple ports available to him through the museum's supposed top notch secured servers. Heh. They just weren't used to his class of criminalization. Was that a word? Well, it was now if not. He moved a few wires around, inserted two different USB drives, and then accessed a third port with his own laptop. He grinned back at the detective, who stood stone still and observing. His eyes caught for a moment on the back of the detective's right hand, and some markings thereon. Jim knew the object of his affections was an odd bird, though, so he dismissed the letterings as some part of the other man's usual quirkiness for now. The letters were written across the taller man's knuckles, from the pinky end of the hand to the index side, spelling out TCHAJM. But he let the thought flow out of his mind for now as he set back to work.
Sherlock had seen James notice the writing, and subsequently dismiss it, so he moved his hand to a less visible place, the other having been contained within his pocket during the criminal's stare. The left's dorsal surface read out an equally gibberish set of letters: XVSAWT. They both meant something to him, but he had made sure that the criminal would never be able to discern it. At least, not this day. And that was all he needed anyway. It would be gone before the other man ever had a chance to fully examine it.
James motioned for him to approach, and he did, coming to stand just behind Jim's right shoulder as they had agreed upon. He glanced up and behind to his left at the security camera that should have already alerted NSY as to their whereabouts within the building. But the police wouldn't move until they were sure of what they were doing there. Because, as of yet, they hadn't actually done anything threatening. And there was never any solid information or evidence on James Moriarty, so they needed to wait until the pair had committed some crime or another to move in. And also, they were just plain scared. Jim did that to people.
Sherlock checked his position with the security camera to his rear once more before settling into place. Before him, the criminal made a few minor adjustments to the angle of the laptop's webcam, sat back, and with a click of the mouse….let the show begin.
XXX
The lights in the museum dimmed, leaving only the emergency lighting functioning. People slowly came to a stop in curiosity, waiting to see if the generators would kick back so that they could continue on their way. But then security began motioning for people to leave. An announcement over the intercom pleaded the same case: everyone was to leave the grounds. There had been a credible threat called in, and they needed everyone to evacuate as calmly and quickly as possible while it was investigated. And as the throng exited the building, several of the crowd saw what they thought was proof of this threat in the form of several dozen officers of the law stationed outside of the front entrance that ran along Great Russell Street, all at a minimum safe distance of 50-100 meters or behind solid structures.
The public exodus was accomplished very efficiently, and within about 10 minutes, the building was fairly cleared out, being swept from top to bottom by Moriarty's men. The officers stood by for now, awaiting orders, and also hoping that all civilians would be safely out of the way when the madman decided to do whatever it was he had planned this time around.
The exiting crowd thinned, trickled, ended. And as the members of the force crouched, wary, behind shields and car doors alike, the first strains of a melody began to seep out of the museum doors. Classical. And if anyone had an ear for music, then they would be able to label it as Mozart's Lacrimosa. The beautiful notes floated through the doorway and hung suspended in the empty corridors within. And in the museum's server room, the webcam clicked on, the little red light notifying its actors of their timing.
XXX
John and Lestrade stood in as calm a manner as they could manage when informed that people had begun to file out of the museum; and then they watched through the security cams as the patrons were herded out. Each was made sick in turn that it was beginning. Though they knew it would happen, having the confirmation now upon them was…chilling. And so they watched.
This was a good thing, though. Less civilians in the way. And when the music started, they knew… They knew the game had begun. And they waited for the first move to be made, their eyes trained on the camera that offered a view into the museum's server room. Sherlock and Jim Moriarty stood there in front of a laptop, presumably to send a video, if the screen of their computer was anything to go by. There was no audio to accompany the feed, and so the DI and ex-soldier watched in eerie silence as the two geniuses calmly discussed something between themselves. There was nothing of any interest on the other surveillance screens with them in the recon room, although other eyes were assigned to keep tabs on the feeds anyway.
The make-shift tactical operations center was silent as everyone watched for the last pin to drop, the first chess piece to be positioned. They saw Moriarty reach out his hand and click with the mouse pad on the laptop, Sherlock blank behind him.
All doors to the museum locked. All auxiliary power units failed, except the ones immediately surrounding the server room, leaving the rest of the building in total darkness. The majority of the internal camera feeds to the police were cut off as well. Everything but those positioned and powered within the grid of the server room, that is. And the criminal's eyes closed as he clicked again and brought up the direct feed, arresting the screen of every computer in the operations center, which now suddenly showed his peaceful expression beaming back at them all, eyelids closed.
All officers in the room watched as Jim Moriarty finally made his move.
Deceptively honest brown eyes opened to gaze in maniacal glee at the webcam, with everyone in the room feeling as though he was looking directly through them. Jim tilted his head to the left, as if stretching, and turned his eyes to the far right, as if looking back at the detective standing on that side, though it was more to draw the eye of the viewer to the fact that Sherlock was still with him. Prat. Then those murderous orbs turned back to the screen, a slight smile alighting his sinful features, and John felt a shiver run down his spine at the soulless expression thereon. This man was the most dangerous thing the ex-soldier had ever encountered. And his best friend stood with him….. But did he truly stand with him?
"Hullo," the cool Irish tones began. "I see you all showed up to play our little game." A larger smile. "Well, I hate to disappoint, but I really don't think you all are going to enjoy the little show I have planned here for the day." Then his expression shifted to surprise. "But wait! Before we start…." He turned back to Sherlock, who handed him a box from a table to their right and promptly overturned into Jim's palm. "Ah, yes. I come bearing gifts. Do you know what this is?" He held up the piece. "This is the Orencia Diamond. Late 1300's they believe. Given as a gift to some prince or another. The details won't really matter to you." He tossed the golf ball sized stone into the air and caught it, its facets winking and sparkling in the light as it spun down. "It used to be on exhibit here. Well, actually it still is. At least, a very good copy is. Check with the museum staff, and they'll confirm it was stolen about seven months ago. The reason it has not been reported is so that they wouldn't anger the family who donated it for display."
Lestrade motioned to some of his men on the side to get on top of confirming whatever the madman was saying. He for sure didn't want to caught flatfooted with this man, whatever the reasoning for this strange discussion. And as he did directed his team, Moriarty continued, and the DI's gaze returned.
But John had eyes only for Sherlock. Something was just never right when he looked at the detective anymore. From that first polaroid they had received of the dark haired man sitting at the breakfast table, to the recordings of his interactions at the car dealership, he was always "off." He had the look of someone who was always preoccupied with something else. Like he was constantly trying to remember a fact or recall how to do a certain task. And now was no different. He even stood differently from the man John had thought he knew. Look at that…. He never folded his hands behind his head like that. It was too informal a stance for the often formal seeming Sherlock Holmes. The doctor was so caught up in observing the taller form that he barely heard the other words Moriarty was explaining.
"Yes, stolen ladies and gents! And here we are, they unlikely duo, returning it to its rightful place." The criminal paused for effect, giving everyone in NSY time to process the oddity of what he had just said. Returning it? "I happened to, ahem, apprehend a certain criminal at large the other week by the name of Hugo Baltini. Do look him up. I'll even give you intermission. You lot always have trust issues." The screen went dark and began the old Windows system screen saver of stars flying towards the viewer.
Lestrade turned to his aides and fellow officers, hands open as if to ask "Well?" And they all began researching, until one finally found it about thirty seconds later and informed him of the named man's criminal background. Extensive. Baltini was wanted in three separate countries for theft of anything from jewelry to human trafficking. At large for greater than thirteen years. Considered very dangerous, with a mob to back him up. John processed the information as he heard it flying at the DI. So, this Baltini person is another at large "super-criminal" type? And now Jim had him, too? Great. The screen feed came back up a few seconds later.
"My sources say that you've been able to ascertain the man's background? Good, that's good. Then you'll admit that he was, in fact, a very bad man?" A laugh followed this, as if he saw the irony in his statement. "Yes, well, then…. Sherlock and I, we encountered him during a certain sensitive operation of our own…." His smile deepened in malice as he finished. "Believe me, he will no longer be an issue to the good officers of New Scotland Yard."
Everyone in the recon room stared at the screen in confusion. What? Moriarty had killed the other man then? Baltini? To what purpose? They waited expectantly, sure that this couldn't be all of the information the man on the screen would feed them. And they were right. Jim's face lightened somewhat after his last declaration, and he smiled wistfully back at Sherlock before turning to face the screen once more.
"Yes. We helped you. Can you imagine?" He laughed loudly, and most likely in the most annoying manner as he could manage. At least, that was how John interpreted it. "We didn't really need the diamond…but it gave us such a wonderful idea for our introduction as business partners that we just had to thank you somehow. And now, I'll just leave this present here…" he placed the diamond on the table top and made as if to stand, "…and we'll just be going." The entire room of officers held their breath. It couldn't be this easy. "You know…" Jim stopped and sat back down. "It can't be that easy…" He chuckled, "But you already knew that."
He slammed his fists down on the table to either side of the laptop suddenly, startling all who watched. "You all need lesson, I think." Then he paused and blinked slowly, realizing his pronoun error. "We think." His unsettling black-eyed gaze resettled on the camera lens in the laptop's screen as he whispered, "So we've got a surprise for you!" The criminal reached out his hands and lifted the laptop with him as he stood.
XXX
"What's that?" John asked suddenly, peering at one of the monitor's that viewed the server room from the rear. Its screen was occupied mostly by Sherlock's tall and dark form. The doctor walked closer to get a better view.
"What's that, mate?" Lestrade asked, having only half registered what the other man had asked.
"That," John pointed to Sherlock's head, upon which his hands were resting as if he had leaned back and cradled them around it, giving a full view of the dorsal surfaces of them.
The DI came around from where he was watching the laptop cam feed from Moriarty and stood in front of the screen in question. The tech assigned to this monitor backed up and made room for them. The ex-soldier touched the area of the screen he was most concerned with, where the detective's hands rested, and Greg examined it with him.
"Looks like…" the DI trailed off. "I dunno. Maybe some kind of writing? Did Sherlock have tattoos on the backs of his hands?" John shook his head in the negative. On the screen, the detective and Moriarty moved to leave the room, bringing the laptop with them so as to keep the feed going while they walked. "Then what the…?" The doctor turned away from Lestrade.
"Can you rewind that and zoom in on his hands?" he asked the tech, who then set to pulling the image up clearer and more focused.
They both turned their attention briefly back to the occurrences on the laptop feed, where the view bounced while Jim walked and held the computer one-handed, chatting amiably to them as the taller man accompanied him.
XXX
"I think you're all going to like the surprise I have in store for you…oh, or maybe not…we'll see. Not robbery…no no no. Too dull. Easy. No. I have a bit more…flare, shall we say?" Jim finished speaking and glanced back at Sherlock with a smirk. "And I even had help this time!" Sherlock's face was almost blank, but those with a quick eye could note the small reflection of a grin upon his lips also. This alone pulled the last of the hope from the watchers' hearts.
The two men didn't walk far before they came to the front doors, and Jim halted abruptly. He passed the laptop to Sherlock, who then turned its camera to face the criminal as the other man spoke.
"I'm coming out now, boys! Unarmed…. Oh, except for this…" And Jim reached into his pocket to reveal a deadman's switch. "I don't have to tell you what this is, but….you don't know what it's connected to. Maybe something. Maybe nothing. And if it's nothing, then you should also be aware that I have orders for many many bad explodey type things to occur should you take your mark on either of us." He paused, finger to chin. "Hmmmm…. Guess that means you better not shoot?" He shrugged, sounding bored. "Your choice…. Also, you never know what else I might have on me…." The hand holding the switch came round to fill the viewing screen as he activated it. "Now, then….let's play!" He flicked sunglasses out of his pocket with his free hand and placed them on his face, then pushed the doors open just as Sherlock tossed the computer aside, effectively ending its viewpoint.
XXX
"I've got it," the tech cried out, startling John and Greg. "There's two different views here," the man said. "There's this one, where there's more letters," he pointed to one screen, "and then there's this one, with fewer letters when his fingers cover some of the others." They both huddled in front of the screens with their enhanced views of the back of Sherlock's hands. John whispered the letters out loud. One set for each hand. He read the one with all of the letters first.
XVSAWT
TCHAJM
Then he looked to the screen beside it where Sherlock's interlaced fingers had covered half of the letters. In fact, they had managed to easily cover every other letter, revealing an entirely new meaning. And John's breath caught...
VAT
CAM
…
…
…
No. Could it be? Vatican Cameo…but, but… His eyes were wild, and Lestrade saw them. The ex-soldier's mind raced as he considered the implications of this. His eyes darted back over to the monitors now covering James and Sherlock as they exited the building and came to stand some distance in front of it. Then he looked back to Lestrade, and in his heart, he knew what the message meant.
"We have to go. Now." And John's harshly whispered words shocked the DI.
"What? Why? What're those letters for? Calm down a sec, and tell me something!"
"No. No time. It's a code. For me and Sherlock. Danger. Imminent violence. We have to get out of here!" His eyes flicked once more to the ongoing drama down in front of the museum, to the switch held in Moriarty's fist, and his heart dropped. "There's no time! He knows!" And John grabbed Lestrade's arm and began to pull him towards the door.
XXX
All was deadly silent in the immediate vicinity as Jim's hand came around to Sherlock's and passed its burden to the detective. The taller man looked at it as if uninterested. Then he slowly held it away from his body, and his fingers unfolded from around the kill switch. It fell with a clank to the ground at his feet. Several dozen other pairs of eyes watched its descent as well.
Five seconds passed…nothing. A few more...still nothing. Those who watched remained tense, looking all about themselves, but were hopeful that this was yet another of the madman's "jokes." Moriarty himself, looking like the highest class of criminal in the dark sunglasses, smiled beatifically up and around at his audience as he reached a hand out to his side. Shortly thereafter, Sherlock's larger one slid home, leaving them palm to palm as Moriarty stepped forward a few paces, bringing the other man with him.
XXX
Lestrade saw the kill switch fall, and his heart dropped with it. But then…nothing happened; and he resisted John's urgent tugs. He motioned for the man to hold for just – one – second; and he pulled his radio out of his coat pocket to check his other rooftop teams and tell them to be on the lookout for, well, anything at this point. But…there was no response. There was no response… In fact, there was no anything…as if they had no reception. Or had been shut down somehow…. He banged the device on his thigh, heart rate starting to climb as he began to get the gut feeling that John was right.
XXX
Jim halted shortly thereafter, looking neither left nor right, just staring straight ahead. His hand came up to his face slowly and removed the sunglasses, tossing them casually aside onto the ground as he turned to face the taller man. Fingers of officers all around them rested, itching, on triggers as the criminal reached up and straightened the detective's collar and brushed at the front of his suit jacket. He really did look fetching all black. The criminal's lips were moving, and the surveillance teams with parabolic microphones attempted to aim with a precision born of desperation, hoping to catch a hint at what was taking place down there between the two men.
XXX
Lestrade yelled at his surveillance team to evacuate the building as John began to pull him away again. He was making headway toward the door, slowly but surely pulling the DI with him. And then….
All monitor feeds shut off.
They stopped and stared for a second before John resumed his frantic evacuation, even more so now. Seconds later…
The power failed, and they were left in darkness.
John's heart fell, and he redoubled his efforts. They were at the stairwell now and starting down it, one floor underneath the rooftop. He screamed encouragement behind him as he and Greg ran full tilt down the stairs with several other officers following after.
XXX
"Fairy tales and nursery rhymes, my detective." Brown eyes flicked up to meet endless cerulean. "Have I told you how much I love them?" A hiss went off the top of the museum as a flare gun fired. Jim smiled ever wider, and Sherlock looked down at him with his own strange sort of understanding that Jim knew, one day soon, he would miss fiercely enough to draw him into death's embrace. He refocused. Flare's off, here we go… he thought. He and the detective brought their hands up to each other's ears in synchrony, gently placing ear plugs in for each other. And Jim began to sing slowly while smiling up into the taller man's face. It didn't matter that they couldn't hear him…it was too much fun not to!
XXX
The ex-soldier and DI were halfway down when they heard the first strike and stumbled on the stairs.
XXX
"London Bridge is falling down…."
BOOM! The roof and last two floors of the first of ten buildings surrounding the museum exploded, sending up black clouds to blot out the sun, scattering bullet-grade debris, and killing every operative thereon.
"…falling down…"
A second and third building went up the same way.
"…falling down."
A fourth and a fifth…
"London Bridge is falling down…"
A sixth and seventh…
"…my - fair - Lady!" Jim practically cackled as he finished, and the last three buildings' roofs and top levels went up in flames, leaving the main force of the tactical teams dead or incapacitated.
XXX
John crashed to the ground just inside the exit as their building shook around him, Greg falling beside him seconds later. Somewhere above, they heard a groan of woodwork and masonry, causing them to scramble to their feet and practically fall out of the door where they came down hard and rolled. The other operatives emerged in similar states. And John tilted his head back to take in the roof, what was left of it anyway. The floor they had been on was gone, and debris had fallen all around the surrounding area. Some still rolled down from where it had landed precariously on other rubble. He considered them lucky to have gotten out at all.
XXX
The silence was suffocating and eerie. Far off moans and cries reached attentive ears almost as whispers. Bits of ash rained down on all like a cold Christmas in Hell. A look around could easily find similar results on all other buildings encircling the museum. Fire, ash, smoke, and death held a monopoly here that couldn't be denied.
And amidst all of this, in the center of the destruction, with fire and smoke burning high into the early afternoon sky, Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty stood together. Jim laughed hysterically, almost doubled over from the effort of trying to breathe while doing so. The detective stood by with a look that said he was pleased but not sure why. Although he knew he was happy because Jim was happy. That was no doubt of the most importance to him. He was unsure if his coded message had gotten through to Lestrade, though, or if the DI had gone up with any of the buildings. Either way, he found himself pleasantly thrilled to be standing here with this man, his own private creator of puzzles. For surely there was no one else in all the world who could so perfectly match Sherlock in intelligence and flexible morals?
The detective looked around himself, at the fiery death and horror they had caused. Breathed it in. It was…so…beautiful. Affirming. He closed his eyes, felt the heat of the flames on his skin, as if Hell was already reaching out to claim him as its own while he stood here with its prince. The laughter finally ceased beside him, and he could tell by the sound of the other's soft footsteps that Jim had come to face him.
He opened his eyes once more, gazing on the features of his one-time nemesis. He felt…he felt… A sigh escaped his lips, and Jim looked up at him, tilting his head curiously. The detective then flashed the other man a smile more like the ones that usually graced the criminal's own face, and pulled him close, pausing just as they came nose to nose.
Jim looked deep into Sherlock Holmes' eyes and saw the insanity, his own insanity, reflected therein. Perhaps it was a touch less refined…but still, it was there. And it was his. He was his…
Jim closed the distance between them quickly, capturing the detective's mouth in a kiss that burned more fiercely than the blaze they had created around them. They pulled their bodies closer, lips moving together comfortably, familiarly now, and let the whole world fall away from them as they connected…ruined heart to blackened soul.
XXX
Mycroft had watched with a calm sort of horror as his little brother took part in the blast. His chopper hovered just outside of the flames' range as he sat in indecision. Most of his team was down, dead or otherwise. He scanned the grounds, noting the two figures in the center of it all. He continued looking to the West, where he knew the command center had been set up, with Lestrade and Watson within. And…what was that? He pulled forth his binoculars and scoured the grounds in front of that particular building. There! He spotted them. That team looked to have made it out mostly intact. But… But how? His eyes flew back to the two men in the center of the conflagration. What if…? But no. Surely not? But how else could the DI and the ex-soldier have escaped without some sort of forewarning? Even Mycroft's own team of intelligence officers had been caught unawares.
So….
He continued scanning the area, awaiting Moriarty's escape craft, due any second now. But what his eyes found instead took what was left of the elder Holmes' heart and crushed it.
"No…" he whispered as he watched a rooftop.
XXX
John looked across the burning streets and courtyard in front of the museum as he finally was able to stand from where he had fallen. The carnage and casual mayhem surrounding him made it seem almost surreal as he gazed across the 100 meters or so that now separated him from the very man he had once hoped to save, and the other whom he had sworn to kill. He almost fell once again when he tried to place weight on his twisted ankle. Damn. He hadn't realized it was sprained that badly. Still, he looked to the injured limb, and then back up to the two individuals across the way from him. Lestrade and the officers beside him seemed to be regrouping too slowly for his liking, and so he began to limp off in the direction of his quarry, reaching for his gun as he did so. He would end this, one way or another. Then he cursed as he realized it wasn't there. Well, guess it'll be "another."
XXX
Jim finally pulled back from the kiss when he heard the blades of his chopper approaching as they cut through the heated air. Sebastian would be ready to go as soon as he got it near the ground. The criminal smiled into his detective's face, reveling in the still-present shine of soft madness reflecting back. He thought to say something witty, but then Sherlock grunted as if he had already noted something of particular humor. Jim questioned him with his eyes, imploring him to share. But the detective just stared back with an unreadable expression.
The look made Jim uncomfortable, which he was about to comment on when the man before him stumbled against him. The criminal's hands reached up to briefly grasp at the taller man's shoulders, thinking to chide him on his lack of social grace until he realized his hand was wet…and red. Very red….
Panic flashed through Jim, and his eyes sought out those eternal blue ones once more, noting the new and unfamiliar lines of pain thereon. His heart thudded once, hard. And he gasped as Sherlock fell forward into his arms, almost pulling him down with him.
He settled them on the ground and looked back to where the chopper was landing a short distance away. He thought he heard someone screaming Sherlock's name, but didn't recognize the voice. It should be him, but he found himself paralyzed from without and within. He couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't act. Here in his arms, a repeat of his life's horror. Perhaps he had not done it directly this time. But all the same…he was the eventual cause.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. Sebastian. Right. They needed to move. But his eyes scanned back across the way, in the direction of where the bullet must have originated from. Where could it…? Ah. There. He saw the figure of one of the very few survivors leaning out of a window, looking to be about half-dead themselves. So. A sniper was missed. His gut clenched. Not for long…. he thought as he attempted to stand, and with his agent's help, managed to drag Sherlock to the helicopter and load him on the floor of it. Sebastian hopped in the cockpit as Jim clambered unceremoniously in beside his fallen detective.
The criminal ripped the jacket and shirt from Sherlock's pale skin as quickly as he could. He may not be a military physician, but he was a fucking genius, damn it. Surely he knew enough of anatomy to stifle anything truly heinous from happening in the twenty or so minutes it would take them to reach his private medical base? Yes. He had to. And so he did. Finding the main shot had entered from the right shoulder. No exit wound, though. That could be good or bad, depending on the caliber that was used. He didn't want to consider the ramifications if it had ricocheted inside the man before him…
He quit thinking and set to positioning the detective so as to minimize strain on the heart. He used an aid kit in the chopper to apply thick gauze to the entry wound and applied pressure. At least it wasn't gushing. But who knew what internal bleeding there might be?
Jim looked to the now even paler features of his detective, noting the sheen of cold sweat that now covered him. The eyes that always held such a vibrant intellect within were glazed now, unfocused, and the other man's head gently lolled to the side as the helicopter banked into a turn. And all the criminal could see was his mark, there upon the detective's skin. His. He had done this. All of this. Everything…
And he realized then that the only good he was to the detective was as a means of applying force to the wound. For all of his brains and cleverness, Jim could find nothing else of any use that he could do. He couldn't fix this. He couldn't…fix this…
The chopper cut the air on its way out of the area of destruction, with Sebastian putting every bit of maneuvering into the flight that he could manage that would enable them to reach their destination faster. Below them, on the ground, just reaching the lift off point perhaps 20 seconds after they were in the air, John Watson fell across the bloodied cobbles, his injured ankle finally giving out on him. He rolled from his stomach to his back, looking up at the aircraft that carried his best friend, hoping against everything, and yet finding that he hurt inside no more or less with the knowledge of Sherlock being either dead or alive. It was all too much. Just. Too. Much.
His eyes tracked the helicopter through the smoke as it left the area. It cut a lonely path through it all. And within, James Moriarty bowed his head in silent tears, the first in a very long time. And he held on…and held pressure.
XXX
Mycroft saw it all transpire, his heart truly dying when he saw that the marksman had made the kind of shot he had given the orders for weeks ago. His brother was hit, maybe fatally. And now was the time to sweep in and arrest the two men. Jim Moriarty, mastermind of so much that was wrong in this world, was incapacitated. And by something the elder Holmes had never thought to see from the madman. No matter.
As he looked on, he was struck by the memories that flooded back through his mind. Sherlock, four years old and climbing into Mycroft's bed, frightened beyond words of the possibility of what could be in his own closet.
Sherlock, later that same week after Mycroft had taught him how to be a pirate so as to fight off anything that may come through the portal that was the same closet. How the boy had laughed in glee when his older brother had brought him that plastic sword!
Sherlock, all gangly limbs and unruly black curls as he tried to sit still at dinner, where they pretended not to be ignored by their parents as they spoke of children's games.
Sherlock, crying because their father was always so cruel to a boy with such peculiar mannerisms…but his big brother made him smile again by taking him outside and showing him how to catch frogs with an improvised net.
Mycroft sighed as a tear made its way down his cheek. Now was the time for action. He could capture the most wanted man in the world, secure the safety of millions even. But…if he did….Sherlock would never get the kind of care his body needed right now. It would be delayed, if it wasn't already too late anyway. But what of his duty? If he failed to act now, he would be reprimanded. Severely. And then he would be of no use to his brother at all afterwards. And so, what was his decision then?
He closed his eyes, feeling once again those small, scrawny arms wrap tightly around his neck and hug him close. And he knew his answer. He turned to Anthea, speaking slowly so as to be fully understood.
"Anthea…take her down."
She nodded in confirmation and began to drift them over past the fiery circle of burning buildings to set down in the courtyard where the criminal's craft had recently lifted off from. She turned when she felt his hand on hers, and met his eyes. So hurt, and so serious.
"No, Anthea." He paused, with a deep breath. "Take her down." And she felt a chill flow through her, though she had been half expecting something of the sort for a while now. And she understood. She truly did. She had spent five years attached to the hip of the man beside her, and she recognized his very subtle emotional responses. Her attention refocused as he continued speaking.
"We were too close to the initial blast. The concussion hit us and threw us into a spin. I was knocked unconscious, and you were able to bail out of the side." She began to protest, but he cut her off. "It is not believable should I not go down with it. Too convenient that we both escape, you know." Then he shrugged in a most un-Mycroft manner. "You never know, I might survive. People do all the time." He gave a small, sad smile, and then held out his hand. "It has been an honor to work with you, my dear. I count myself very lucky."
She stared at his hand for a minute and then pulled him into an embrace for which he would never admit he was everlastingly grateful for. And when she released him, her eyes were glossed with unshed tears for the quiet bravery displayed here today. Then he nodded to the exit, and she took her cue. If she stopped to overthink it, she might not be able to go through with it.
Mycroft checked his restraints once more as she checked her own parachute pack. Then she opened the side door, looked back once, and jumped. The elder Holmes watched her go, marveling at her loyalty and courage. Then he sighed and kicked the control stick hard, breaking it and sending the craft into an immediate spiral.
He closed his eyes and hoped he wouldn't get too sick. The thought of vomit on his corpse was just too distasteful. But it wasn't so bad. His training had prepared him for much worse than this. His training had prepared him for death. And here it was, reaching up to catch him as he fell.
His thoughts circled around and around. He thought of his parents, and then dashed that idea. He thought of his murdered agents and operatives this day and all the days in his past. He thought of his own elder brother…and wished that things could have been different. Wished that the poor man could have had his own elder brother to watch out for him, guide him, protect him…die for him…
But in the end, he thought mostly of a certain curly haired young lad who used to have a propensity for dreaming. Who played pirate whenever he had spare time. Who played violin for Mycroft when he was unwell. Who demanded bedtime stories of all the fairy tale creatures. And who thanked him again and again for being his big brother…told him he loved him, and never wanted him to go away…
The ground met him with a clash and clamor of metal breaking and bending in unnatural ways, the blades spinning out and into the turf. And the air was filled with smoke for the second time that day, though it went mostly unnoticed as compared to the first blasts near the museum. But within the horrific crash, amongst the debris and burning metal, a man who had never known peace, found it.