Chapter Title: Remorse?
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Words: 2,424
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC, nor any of its characters…duh. Do I seem like the geniuses that are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, or Mark Gatiss? I didn't think so… Though, I would have John/Sherlock shagging by now if I did own them ;D
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Sherlock fidgeted in his seat and glanced in the direction John had gone. He leaned to the side and tried to find John amongst the waiters and guests waiting to be seated, but Angelo blocked his line of vision.
"One cup of tea for –hey, where'd he go?" Angelo set the teacup down in front of the unoccupied seat and looked to Sherlock for an explanation.
Sherlock looked around Angelo, but didn't see John anywhere. "I –I don't know, actually. He got a call from his sister, but…" Sherlock stood from his seat and collected his coat that was folded over the back of the booth, "I think I may have just gotten what people call 'ditched'."
Angelo nodded, his lips curled into a slight frown. "Oh…I'm sorry, Sherlock," he sighed, not sure how to react.
Sherlock draped the coat over his shoulders and slid his arms through the sleeves, "It's quite alright. I'm sure he left on an emergency," Sherlock assured both Angelo and himself, though he had a slight nagging feeling that it was something much more than just a problem with John's sister. Sherlock nodded once, bidding Angelo a goodbye. "Goodnight, Angelo, I'm sure I'll be back soon."
Angelo picked up the full teacup, now lukewarm, and nodded. "Be seeing you," Angelo smiled. "Good luck tracking down your runaway date."
Sherlock smirked and let his comment slide. He had more pressing matters to deal with.
He strode out the door and brought out his phone, pausing on the sidewalk to find John's contact in his phone. He hit the call button and put the phone to his ear, raising his hand to signal a cab.
A cab stopped and Sherlock shuffled in, the phone still ringing in his ear. "221B Baker Street, please," he spoke to the cabbie, the call going to voicemail. Sherlock ended the call and tried again, praying that John would pick up the phone.
He didn't.
…
John sat back in his seat, watching the scene unfold before him.
Men and women worked to remove the wounded from the blaze, loading them onto gurneys and stretchers, wheeling them to awaiting ambulances. The ambulances would zoom away toward the hospital with the hope that they could save each person that was injured in the fire.
A lady stumbled on the sidewalk, nearly coughing her lungs out from the smoke. She looked back at the burning building and started bawling. Firemen held her back as she struggled to retreat back into the building to save her coworkers and friends. She collapsed all of a sudden, and the medical personnel came to her aid, placing her on a stretcher and checking her pulse. They wheeled her away and John watched as they put an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose to help her breathe.
John balled his hands into fists and held himself from lashing out at Moriarty or Sebastian for what they were forcing him to watch…but something held him back from completely losing it.
He felt no remorse for anything. Even as he watched the dead being zipped up into body bags, he didn't feel an ounce of regret for what he had done.
Truth be told, he didn't feel for the families of the victims. He didn't care that families would be torn apart by their losses. He didn't care that children would be without their mothers, fathers, siblings, cousins, extended family, etc.
He just didn't care.
Was it because the adrenaline was still present in his veins? Or…Was it something else?
Was he changing from 'good old doctor Watson' to something more dangerous?
Question was: Who is the new John Watson?
…
Sherlock bounded up the steps to his shared flat, his steps less than quiet. He pushed open the door and looked around for his flat-mate who he was almost positive would be there.
Sherlock groaned as he found the flat empty with no doctor in sight. He pulled out his phone again and dialed John's number, putting the phone to his ear. He heard it ring once, twice, three-
A ringing phone, mixed with the sound of a mobile device vibrating against a wooden table, sounded from behind him.
He turned slowly, dropping the hand with his phone it to his side.
On the table in front of him was John's phone, Sherlock's name lighting up the screen.
If John's phone was at the flat the whole time, how had John's sister called him at the restaurant?
More importantly, where was John?
…
Moriarty kicked the car into drive and hit the gas, causing John to jolt forward.
John gripped the seat in front of him to prevent himself to smacking his face into it. He shot a glare at the back of Moriarty's head, not caring if Jim didn't see it, just taking pride in the fact that it was one way of getting his anger out.
"Ready to go home, Johnny?" Moriarty smiled, turning the car toward 221B Baker Street.
John remained quiet, not willing to admit that he'd rather go on another crime spree rather than face the whirlwind of deductions that is Sherlock Holmes. Also taking into consideration that John had practically ditched him on their da –outing, he definitely did not want to go home. He leaned back and closed his eyes, hoping Sherlock would be in his mind palace by the time he arrived at their flat; John did not want to face Sherlock right now. Sure, he was confident that he'd be able to lie to Sherlock, but would his lying ability outweigh Sherlock's observation ability? In other words, would John be able to convince Sherlock that he was actually with his sister and not blowing up buildings?
Sebastian glanced sideways at John at smirked, "You don't seem too bothered by what you've just done, John, even considering the fact that you killed a man to accomplish your task…"
John ignored him. He stared out the window and pushed the door open as Jim pulled alongside the sidewalk outside his and Sherlock's flat.
"See you soon," Moriarty smiled.
John slammed the door and glanced up at the window to their flat.
Did the curtain just move? No, no…I'm seeing things…
John opened the door slowly and clicked it shut behind him. He crept up the steps and paused when he heard the consultant's voice calling him in.
"No need to creep up the steps, John, I already know you're there," Sherlock called.
"Do hurry up, Dr. Watson," a familiar accent beckoned.
John swore to himself, "Damn British Government." He hopped up the steps and entered the flat. He looked over at Sherlock who was sitting across from his brother in his sitting chair, the violin perched beneath his chin. "Uh-"
"I tried calling you, John." Sherlock didn't look at him.
John cleared his throat, "Oh –uh, I must have left it here by accident…" He entered the room further and rubbed the back of his neck.
"That's what I would have deduced, but," Sherlock rested his violin on the arm of the couch and looked up at John, "that wouldn't make sense in the fact that your sister called you at the restaurant."
John swallowed thickly, trying to get a hold on his nerves. "Yes, I know. I had my phone, came here, and I must have forgotten it when I went over to my sisters."
"Why did you come here if there was an emergency regarding your sister?" Sherlock inquired.
"Who said it was an emergency?" John snapped, defending his 'innocence'.
Sherlock was clearly caught off guard. "You –uh, I, um," Sherlock cleared his throat, "If it wasn't an emergency, I'm surprised that you couldn't take two seconds to tell me you were ditching me for Harry… She could've waited," Sherlock paused, "You could come here to do heaven-knows-what –which is twenty minutes out of your way to your sisters, but you couldn't just shoot me a text, or even call, to tell me you'd be leaving me?"
John felt his heart break slightly at the hurt tone in Sherlock's voice, but he distanced himself from his emotions (which he found himself getting better at lately) and kept his voice emotionless. "I don't have to tell you where I'm going every time I decide to leave, Sherlock. You aren't my mother."
Sherlock stood and took a step toward his army doctor. "John," he paused, not sure how to approach this, "I'm just concerned-"
"-concerned? Since when have you been concerned for anyone but yourself, Sherlock?" John snapped, knowing he was just hurting the detective even more.
"John, you're not acting like yourself…" Sherlock tried to meet his gaze, but when he did, he found himself looking into a stranger's eyes; not the familiar happy-go-lucky usual bluer-than-blue eyes of his flat-mate. "Ever since…the fall…you've been acting strange. I attested it to your shock in that I was alive and not dead, but as of late, I've been thinking it's something else…"
John laughed coldly, making Sherlock's eyes narrow, "That's your problem; you always overthink everything, Sherlock. You don't think about the consequences of your actions and how people will be affected. When you jumped, my world stopped moving. I had nothing. You were gone and I was alone…again. You think that after a few months of knowing you're alive I'd act normal? That everything would go back to the way it was before? Well, I'm sorry to inform you of this, but you're mistaken. I tell myself that I can trust you again, but I just…can't, Sherlock," John sighed, fighting tears, "So you wonder why I didn't tell you I was leaving? Well, truth is, I didn't tell you because why should I? You didn't tell me you were ditching me."
"That is a childish move of revenge-" Sherlock began, but abruptly stopped when John glared at him.
"Sherlock, brother, I think the topic of your faked suicide should be dropped," Mycroft spoke up, breaking the tension between the two flat-mates. "It would be in everybody's best interests to drop the topic and move onto another pressing matter."
"Speaking of which, why are you here?" John growled, his anger now directed at Mycroft.
"As I have previously stated, I have a pressing matter that needs to be dealt with, and who better to help than the detective duo?" Mycroft forced a smile.
"Oh, yeah? What is this 'pressing matter', then?" John hung his coat up and straightened his jumper. He retired to the couch and poured himself a cup of tea from the kettle on the table in front of him. He brought it to his lips and blew, cooling it enough to drink it without burning himself.
"A bombing," Mycroft replied.
John nearly choked on his tea, but forced it down before he started coughing. He composed himself and put on his best naïve act. "A bombing? Where?"
"Not too long ago a report came in that the pool house had blown up, causing the buildings adjacent to burn to the ground. Thirty people dead; many more injured," Mycroft rotated his umbrella mindlessly on its tip as he talked.
"Where? What pool house?" Sherlock repeated John's question, annoyed that Mycroft hadn't answered him.
"You should know, Sherlock. You went there not too long ago," Mycroft paused to let it soak in.
Sherlock straightened up as it dawned on him, "Moriarty," Mycroft nodded, "The pool house…It's where we first met, and where John was put in danger." Sherlock glanced at John for a second before looking back at his brother.
"So you can see why this bombing is completely suspicious," Mycroft sighed.
Sherlock nodded, "All signs point to Moriarty. It's his façade; theatrical."
"But he's dead," John pointed out, "Or…?"
Mycroft looked between the two men, "We either have an impersonator or-"
"-or Moriarty pulled the same trick that I did," Sherlock finished. "But I watched him die…He shot himself; a bullet through his brain…"
John smiled internally. Moriarty was right. They'd taken the bait and would soon feel lost as the cases resembling Moriarty's usual profile would slowly become less and less 'Moriarty-like' and more and more like a new criminal mastermind had arisen. They were certainly in for a shock.
"John," Sherlock brought him back from his thoughts.
"Huh?" John blinked, looking between the two Holmes'.
Sherlock's eyes softened, "Everything alright?"
"Yes," John answered quickly.
Sherlock stood and straightened his shirt. "I understand if you want to stay home; revisiting the site of your near-death experience can be difficult…"
"No, I'm fine," John assured, standing up. He put on his coat and followed Sherlock out the door, Mycroft trailing behind.
"I expect hourly texts on your progress with this case, Sherlock, John," he looked at them both, "As soon as you have a suspect or perpetrator in custody, I must know about it immediately."
A car pulled up to the curb, stopping in front of Mycroft. "If this man is copying Moriarty or using him merely for muse, then we could have a real dangerous situation on our hands."
Sherlock and John nodded simultaneously.
John grinned as soon as his back was to Mycroft and Sherlock was facing away.
Dangerous?
They had no idea.