A/N: See my End Note for explanation of the update gap.
The chopper blazed through the London sky onwards toward its goal. Sebastian Moran piloted, with another agent present as Co. Between them, they managed to alert the receiving facility that housed Moriarty's medical complex of the incoming casualty and also arranged for certain "other" considerations that Jim had made known in the first fifteen minutes of the flight. Moran still shuddered to remember that wild eyed stare as his boss had spoken to him minutes ago when he had gone to check on him.
"Anything I can help with back there, Boss?" he had called out behind him. But upon receiving no response, he nodded to his copilot, Jason, to take over while he investigated. There was a sinking feeling to this whole affair. He had known it was bad when he saw the shot taken. A sniper himself, Moran conceded that the injured officer had made an excellent shot. A hit between the scapula and spine, and with so many life sustaining organs or vessels in that track. This all meant nothing good for Sherlock. So yes, he had known the detective was bad off. What he wasn't prepared for at all was the sight of his employer.
James Moriarty knelt above Sherlock's pale, half naked form holding a blood soaked wad of gauze to the wound with straining arms, one hand under the other man and the other over where the exit wound was formed. The criminal's muscles were locked in complete tetany, almost vibrating with the force behind them. It made it seem that even though he was only holding pressure to a wound, that he was really holding back an explosion of titanic force. But was the explosive substance within, or without? The on looking agent had to wonder…
It was so odd, seeing Jim like this. Moran had seen a priest once, in his youth, who had seemed to display an equal fervor in that position when knelt at the beds of the dying. The man would close his eyes and seek the sinner's absolution with a complete and whole dedication of his body and mind. So, too, here, did the world's most powerful crime lord.
Moran repeated his earlier question, his offer of aid, mostly in an effort to get the kneeling man's attention, as Jim seemed worlds away. But his words did nothing, registered not at all in the awareness of the man before him. And Sebastian stood uneasily, unsure of what to do. His boss was an intemperate man at best, and even the greatest of intentions could end in one screaming in pain…or worse. Shoes came to mind…. Better to just head back to the cockpit and help call in instructions probably, as it seemed there wasn't anything else to be done for the injured anyway. Time and speed were what the detective needed.
And he was just about to turn away when a twitch through the criminal's shoulders caught his eye, and Moran stopped. The sinking feeling returned in full as he waited. He knew of Jim's "episodes" in the past. Had been in his employ during the last one, in fact. They had lost many men that day… But he was loyal to a fault, and so he remained as he was, and awaited instruction. He did not wait long before the criminal's voice came across to him. So grating in comparison with Moriarty's usually cool and smoothly cultured accent; the words seemed ground out of the depths of the madman's bitter and hateful heart, laced with broken glass and shrapnel. They floated, disconnected and halting, as if the man before him were a beast remembering the methods of speech and articulation.
"What…I need…right..now…" Jim was staring down and took a ragged breath in between. "…is the man…who took from me… The man…who took this," he nodded down to Sherlock, never once breaking his gaze off of the detective, "from me." And then the dark eyes came around and made contact, seeming to wither and strangle any happy thought they might alight on in the process. The criminal's stare seared through the essence and being of Sebastian Moran, who stood transfixed, with no thought but to avoid ever eliciting this response from the madman on himself. The Irishman spoke once more, pushing through the fear that had hazed the agent's vision. "I will…take…from him also… Bring him to me…now."
Sebastian shook his head free of the memory and did what he was best at. He stood in as second and issued orders via radio call and text. All in contact knew the drill. And they were paid well enough that they should be. The medical bay was ready, with the surgical team prepared and bags of packed red cells ready for transfusion during the anticipated procedures. Any operations that Jim needed to be personally involved in were set on hiatus for an unknown time. All taken care of and ordered in a string of professional training. But the very first call made by Moran…was on the topic of his current apprehension. A certain sniper who had taken something he wasn't even aware of from a man who had never known he'd had it. The agent on the other end of the radio didn't question the order, but Sebastian felt the need to clarify as he ended the communication.
"And Trev? Make sure of it. The boss…he's…bad." Moran glanced to the back of the chopper, though everything was lost in shadow, then turned back to face forward. "Really…bad…"
John lay dying. Or at least, he felt he was. He had no wound to leak out his life from. He had received no blow to his body that had damaged vital organs. No poison ran through his veins. But so, then, why did he feel death so keenly at this moment? Life seemed an impossibility to continue with, so surely he would be relieved of it any minute now as he lay on the concrete staring up into the sky through which a very seriously injured detective had just flown…maybe to his death.
But no. It wasn't to be. Someone was calling his name, shaking his shoulder, asking if he was alright. He wasn't. God, he wasn't. This was worse, so much worse, than anything before. That shot, it was a good one. And it would have hit Jim Moriarty right in the heart but for Sherlock's body blocking its path. He saw that tall, lanky form stumble forward from the shot once more in his mind's eye, and he tried to banish it.
He allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, Greg patting him down as he did so, checking for injuries. You can't find them, not these kind, he thought. And Greg soon realized this, too, speaking up as he did.
"He'll be alright, mate. You'll see. Sherlock's surely had worse than this by his own hand," he jested badly. John only nodded absently, feeling a disconnection with events around him. His only thoughts surrounded the bloodstain on the pavement at his feet as he allowed himself to be led away. The voices of people around him ran together and blended into one numbing doldrum of sound that washed over him with a touch of nausea. But one voice came across despite this.
"Yeah, banged up pretty bad, but I still hit one of the bastards anyway," the speaker's somewhat beleaguered tone reached into the depths of the doctor's despair and ignited a flame that roared forth with the fury of a thousand suns. He could feel it pour forward into his gut and spread throughout all of his limbs like a supernova of painful emotions. And. It. Erupted.
John Watson, always so calm and level headed. Slow to anger. Peace seeking. No. Here sprung a man with no thought as to the consequences of his actions. Indeed, his singular point of interest lay in destroying the one who had brought his world crumbling down around him. The one person who he could justifiably thrust his anger upon who was present. A sniper who had made one shot. One shot that had unhinged the last pin to John's sanity in this time.
He launched himself at a full crashing run across the fifteen or so feet that distanced him from the speaker, the murderer. And the sniper had just a moment of realization before John Watson battered into him full throttle with death in his eyes. They fell together, and John managed to dislocate the man's right shoulder before hitting the ground. The left arm was no bother either, bending it just so. The awkward angle and the pressure applied at just the right point produced a broken elbow just as easily as when John had learned the move all those years ago.
The doctor's fists found the man's face then, and those standing around them finally began to recover from their stupor and disbelief that one of their own was attacking from within. A tooth broke loose as the man underneath cried out. The nose crunched once. Twice. A fistful of the sniper's hair was torn free as the bystanders leapt into action finally and forcibly dragged the screaming army surgeon off of his prey.
John howled wordlessly and twisted, fighting wildly with his restrainers to get back to the man who had hurt him so badly with his one shot. But the arms around him were too many, and he was pulled down shortly after, Lestrade straddling his chest and kneeling on both his shoulders to immobilize his arms. The detective was speaking to him, but John couldn't hear it. He saw only that stumble from grace. Heard only that single crack of a gun.
Across from him, the sniper was lifted to his feet and helped over to a waiting ambulance. After tucking him into the stretcher in the back, the paramedic closed up the back doors and climbed into the driver's seat. The engine roared to life as he reached for the radio to make his call in to headquarters. He smiled as he relayed his message.
"Number 2?" A moment of silence passed before the light flickered on the handset and a different pattern of static rushed over the speakers, signaling that the recipient had heard but chose not to speak. The driver nodded to himself and finished, "We got him."
E/N: No, I am not dead! But I am so sorry to all who were reading this and got to where I kind of fell off the face of the earth after chp 38. I honestly hate that when I am reading these fics and find that the author chose not to continue the story. My excuse is this: I have had a LOT of upheaval in my "real" life over the last 6 months or more. Divorce, moving, having to temporarily house my dogs (my babies) elsewhere, changing jobs, changing vehicles, possibly finding that love can still exist in this world even after all of that other bullshit, and now about to move yet again….. In short, life happened, and it sucked mostly. I do not know if I will be able to continue this fic to the end. I certainly have it mapped out in note form already, so the plans are there. This chapter was 80% finished when I stopped writing 6 months ago. I found it today and thought, Dammit, I should just finish it up a bit and post it. Even a little bit further in the story is better than none. Right?
My friends, I truly lost my muse for this fic. That is the main problem. Life destroyed it within me. I can remember feeling such passion and emotion while typing the words for it, almost feeling like I was there with the characters. Now, it just feels like I am typing a story with little to no passion poured into it. And I don't want to do that to this story that I have begun. Finishing it as a half-ass version of what I intended is just not okay with me. Otherwise, I would have just typed out the ending in about 7-10k more words and let it be. I don't want that if I can help it. I don't know that I will be able to update often, or if I even will after this chapter. We'll see. I just don't want the story to build and build and then when you hit this climactic part of it…it flops on the emotional investment scale. I really hope you can understand and forgive me. I love this story, I really do. Typing it gave me a great deal of happiness and an emotional outlet like no other. Thank you for reading it, and for posting about it. It is appreciated deeply.