Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belong to Sir ACD and in this reincarnation Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC. We own nothing and are only writing this for fun.
AN: Collab between Trulywicked and Acherona. Thank you kindly for your comments and please enjoy this chapter.
Tell Me This Night Is Over.
Chapter Seven.
In another part of London, Sally Donovan was having a not so merry Christmas. She's seen Lestrade being all cozy with Mycroft Holmes and now she didn't dare to stay. She had to hightail it out of London and even Britain, she didn't want to get caught and she definitely didn't want to end up like one of those snipers. Things were falling apart quickly and she was not about to go down with this ship, she'd worked too hard for that to happen.
Packing a bag with the essentials only she reached for her phone and sent off a text to a number Jim had given her in case of emergencies. If anyone could help her now it was him. Jim's lost little children had to stick together, did they not?
Watching the happy little gathering through two windows and a sniper scope as John Watson was nearly buried in baby essentials; Sebastian Moran glanced at his mobile as it buzzed. He checked the text and felt his lip curl in disgust. Sally Donovan. He'd met plenty of women in Jim's network who were like her but none that Jim had willingly worked so closely with toward a common goal and that got to him. It had irritated him every time she'd tried to sidle close to Jim, to use her body to try and seduce him. Not because he'd ever thought Jim would take her up on it, Jim had more class than that, but because the fact that she'd thought Jim stupid enough to fall for it had been fucking insulting.
Jim had the intelligence to go up against Sherlock Holmes and his older brother at the same time and that little twit had thought she could scramble his brains with sex? It was an insult to Jim's mind and he'd always wanted to put a bullet through her skull for it. Now she was texting him for help? Seb shook his head. He'd go see what the little chit wanted and then come back here to continue the last task Jim had given him.
He sent her a text back to meet at Hern Hill at the entrance to the sewers, stowed his rifle, then gave the party in Baker Street a respectful salute. He admired John Watson, and envied him a bit too. The man was living a life without his genius, the same as Seb was, had watched his heart jump from a building and lay blood splattered on the pavement in front of him. Both he and John Watson were the ordinaries caught up in the whirlwind of a genius, providing the steady currents needed to keep that whirlwind from collapsing in on itself. Only they had anyway and both he and Watson had been helpless to stop it. He respected the army doctor for that reason, felt empathy with him. The envy came in knowing that Watson was one lucky bastard in that a quirk of biology was letting him carry a bit of his genius back into the world while Seb was left with a struggling criminal network and a task.
Still he respected and empathized enough with Watson that he hoped he'd never have to follow through and put a bullet into the man's brain. As he caught a taxi and watched London pass by on his way to the meet, he thought of how pissed Jim would be to know that, out of that odd kindred respect for Watson and a little bitterness and anger at Jim, he'd set things up so that if he was killed before Watson, LEOs the world over would be getting details on every little dirty secret Jim had passed on to Seb. Because Sebastian Moran was many things and a vengeful fucker was near the top of that list and Jim had broken a promise not to leave him alone in the big, boring world again.
Sally made her way to Hern Hill, cursing the cold, wet weather. December in London was not pleasant and trudging down to the sewers even less so. Her pack was safely stashed where she quickly could get to it after the meeting with Moran. Her lips curled slightly, she had never liked the sniper, to full of himself but he was the best at what he did and she could use the support at getting at John Watson. She was leaving but there was no way she would allow Sherlock Holmes' genes to carry on. Both Watson and his unnatural spawn had to die.
She caught sight of Sebastian's tall broad shouldered form and walked over quickly, wanting this to be over quickly so she could get warm again.
Donovan didn't waste time on pleasantries, just stalked straight over. "I think I've been made, I'm getting out of London but I think we should finish our task before I go don't you?"
"What the fuck are you talking about our task? I don't share a job with you Donovan and the jobs I'm doing have detailed instructions on when, how, where, and why. If you've been stupid enough to be found out it's not my problem. Your job was just to keep an eye on DI Lestrade and be back up for Renike."
"Such bad language, all the time. How Jim put up with you I'll never know." Sally sighed and fingered the item in her pocket. Things were not going the way she wanted but she wasn't out of ideas yet. "I say our task because I was instructed to drive Sherlock Holmes over the edge so Jim could finish him off...I don't leave a job half completed. The spawn needs to die and Sherlock's faithful dog as well."
"Watson is my job and none of your business," he gave her a nasty smirk, "And Jim put up with me because I knew right where I stand in comparison to him and acted accordingly, because I gave him exactly what he needed and wanted when he asked, plus I'm the best at what I do. Can't say the same for you. If you're going to run then you'd better do it now but I won't be helping. Find some minor mafia figure to fuck into helping you; I have better things to do with my time."
She sighed deeply, knowing that she should have expected it but still, it was such a hassle changing her plans. "I'm sorry you feel that way, I think you could have been useful and made this much easier." She sidled behind him and pulled the knife out of her pocket. The first stab into his throat felt a little strange, like popping bubble wrap but after that it really wasn't that difficult. She could even understand what the appeal was as she watched Moran's blood run wet and hot from his slit throat. Sally pulled the file she'd brought out from underneath her jacket and pinned it to Moran's chest with the knife she'd used. Then she removed her gloves and jacket, sticking then in a bag to be disposed of later. She would have to handle Watson on her own then but she had already taken a skilled sniper down, how much harder could a pregnant has been be?
oOo
Greg leaned against the doorjamb and watched Mycroft slowly peel the layers off in his methodical way, "I'd call tonight a rousing success though I still think you being intimidated by Sentinel were adorable."
"That creature is vicious, you just don't see it. I still think John should check him for rabies or some sort of brain damage." Mycroft shuddered lightly. In all honesty he just didn't like that he couldn't read the dog like he did humans, it unsettled him. "But other than that you are right, tonight was a success and I think John was actually happy to have us there."
"Of course he was. You piss him off sometimes but you're Sherlock's brother, every piece of Sherlock is one he's holding tight as he can." Once Mycroft was in just his shirt sleeves and trousers Greg came over to wrap his arms around Mycroft from behind. "I understand that because I'd probably lock myself in the house and horde everything that reminded me of you if I lost you."
Mycroft leaned back against Greg, placing his hands over his lover's around his middle. His own pulse jumped and his throat closed up at the thought of losing Greg, which was completely unacceptable and unbearable. "You're not going to lose me and I better not lose you, I won't allow it."
"You won't. You are well and truly stuck with me Mycroft Holmes," he pressed a kiss to the nape of Mycroft's neck. "Right where I want you to be."
"Is that so? I suppose it is a good thing that you are stuck with me as well. I am a very possessive man; don't think you would be able to get away even if you wanted to." Mycroft tilted his head to give Greg's mouth more room on his neck. "I am not a good man but I am all yours."
"I'm never going to want to get away. I know just how good you really are and just how bad you can be if pushed," he pressed kisses along the long column of his lover's neck, "And I'm more than okay with it." His hand stroked under Mycroft's shirt, playing the fingers around his navel, "I'm proud of it, proud of you for being able to be ruthless enough to do what others can't or won't to protect the whole."
Mycroft shivered, both at Greg's touch along the sensitive skin around his navel and his words. It was silly to be affected but no one had ever said they were proud of him before, not with such honest ease as Greg just had. His hands went up and behind him to run through the hair at the nape of his lover's neck. "I'm proud of you too, of your strength, your kindness, principles and how you do what needs to be done."
Greg pressed another kiss to freckled skin, "And, I love you. I love the things you do that drive me crazy, like your neurosis about the soap in the shower. I love the things you do that make me melt, like when you 'just happen' to find that old figurine I babbled about losing as a child and crying over for days. I love your voice, the way it can be so soft and deadly or gentle and loving or desperate and impossibly sexy. I love your hands, the long elegant fingers, your eyes, the shifting blues, your skin, all the freckles I get to map out with my mouth, and god I love your body, so deceptively thin in those suits of yours yet strong enough to toss me over your shoulder if you feel the need." He nuzzled at the crook of Mycroft's shoulder, "I love every last centimeter of you and every single quality you have even when I'm pissed off at you."
Oh Gods, Mycroft made a muffled sound deep in his throat and turned around in Greg's embrace smashing his mouth against his lover's almost desperate in his need. He loved Greg too, loved everything about him but he wasn't good at voicing his emotions, was afraid that the words would come out wrong or get stuck in his throat. Instead he hoped he could show Greg how much he meant, that he was everything to Mycroft, everything that really truly mattered. His hands clutched at Greg's shoulders as he devoured the other's mouth.
He understood, he could feel everything Mycroft was putting into the intense kiss and Greg gave it back equally, pulling Mycroft as close as their clothes would allow. He ran his hands up into the neat and orderly hair, completely destroying the order so he could run his fingers through it as he sucked on Mycroft's invading tongue.
Mycroft hummed into the kiss, both giving and taking in equal measure as he worked his hands beneath Greg's clothes, running his hands up and down Greg's back and sides, scratching his fingers lightly over his lover's ribs. He couldn't stop touching, couldn't stop kissing and couldn't stop loving Greg, not even for a moment and he never wanted to either. Mycroft had lived his life knowing that caring was not an advantage but he had been wrong. Loving Greg made him stronger, made him want to be a better man.
Greg hummed into Mycroft's mouth at the scrape of nails and brought his own hands to the front of Mycroft's shirt, undoing the buttons so he could part the fabric and caress the warm skin beneath. He nipped at Mycroft's lips and flicked his fingers over nipples already hard with desire. God he loved how responsive Mycroft was to his touch.
Arching into Greg's touch, Mycroft's nipples drew tight and pointy. God he loved Greg's hands on him, loved his touch. His own hands tightened on Greg's skin before he scrambled with Greg's buttons and fastenings, wanting him naked and pressed against himself as soon as possible.
He was working on Greg's trousers when his phone rang, the 'official' phone. Almost making a whimper in frustration he let go of his lover to answer it, his face growing drawn and his brows furrowing the longer the other person spoke. He was not happy when he hung up, barely resisting throwing the phone across the room. "Donovan has bolted, given the men watching her the slip. She's in the wind."
"Shit," it was hissed and emphatic and very, very irritated. Before he could say anything further his own phone rang, the tone for Dispatch and he met Mycroft's eyes as he answered through speaker phone, "Lestrade."
"Got a 187 out at Hern Hill, sewers. DB is reported as similar to the sniper murders."
"On my way."
Sighing, Mycroft walked over and pulled Greg in for a heated kiss before helping to straighten the other man's clothes again. "Be careful, if Donovan is out there, then there's no telling what she might do." Something about this latest murder didn't sit right with Mycroft, the other snipers had been found on rooftops and the like, what would Sherlock go for the sewers now?
Greg nodded and gently squeezed Mycroft's wrist, "I'll keep an eye on my six, since Donovan's in the wind I'll call in Dimmock for assistance. He can be a bit of a tight arse but he's trust-worthy and good at the job." He pressed his lips to Mycroft's brow, "This completely buggers the morning plans I had too. I'll just have to improvise to get your second present to you appropriately."
"Keep safe and come home as soon as you can, that is the only present I need." Mycroft straightened Greg's tie and gave him another kiss before his lover left. It felt frighteningly domestic but Mycroft couldn't bring himself to be bothered about that. "If anything goes down, just use Anderson as a human shield, that man is so repulsive that he could repel anything."
He chuckled and traced his fingers along Mycroft's cheek, "True enough. Get some rest if you can, at least eat if you can't sleep and I'll see you later." He pulled away and headed for the door, highly irritated at this turn of events.
oOo
As soon as he stepped onto the scene Greg was frowning. It had all the MO of the other sniper murders but it was messy. The other knifing had been one clean swipe across the throat. Not this one, this one was a stab into the carotid; the dead man wouldn't have bled out as quickly and could have managed to get a shot in on his killer. It was sloppy and it felt wrong. He knew Sherlock would have scoffed at his 'gut feeling' and rattled off about his subconscious putting together pieces his conscious mind was too fogged with procedures and garbage to manage to spit out properly. Still it was how he described it and his gut smelled a rat.
He spotted Anderson photographing something and walked over, "Spot something?"
The weasel-faced man nodded at the ground, "A footprint. I'll have to pick it up and get it to the lab to identify it but it's pretty small. Woman, teenager, or a man with really small feet."
"I'd say woman, the soles are narrow, looks like a pair of women sneakers." DI Dimmock crouched down next to the footprint, careful not to disturb it. "Also if you look at the wound, it seems as if someone had to reach up, someone short, that's why the wound doesn't look like the others."
Lestrade nodded and looked back at the body, "And our vic is a big guy, tall as fuck and built like a bloody lorry." He bent to study the pattern of the imprint, "Possibly a falling out among criminals and the killer used the sniper murders to cover it up. Can't tell for sure just yet."
Anderson heaved a reluctant huff, "Hate to say it but Holmes would have been useful here." When Greg and Dimmock looked up at him in surprise he shrugged, "Just because I never liked him doesn't make me completely stupid about his brains." He moved off to get the things he needed from his kit.
Greg just stared after him, "Well bugger me."
"Rather not if it is all the same to you, I like my bedmates just a little curvier and besides, I think my girl would disapprove." Dimmock looked at the body again. "What does the file say?"
"Sebastian Moran. Moriarty's right hand man, with all the crimes that goes along with, and the last on his assigned to hit list is John Watson." His jaw clenched, "I'm starting to think that Sherlock stepped off that roof for a different reason than a ruined reputation. And since when do you have a girl?"
"You don't think I could get a girl? And in what universe is that any of your business anyway?" Dimmock, raised a brow at the older DI. He really admired Lestrade and it was a treat working with him. "I won't even pretend to have known Sherlock Holmes like you did but I think you may be on to something there...Diving head first off a roof on account of a ruined reputation does not sound at all like the man I met."
"I think you're married to your desk Dimmock, no time for a girl," it was a friendly tease before Greg sobered, "Someone's making sure that the truth comes to light and they're taking out the threats to that before they do. I don't know about you but I have a feeling the shit's about to hit the fan in a big, big way."
Dimmock nodded, a slight frown on his features. "I think you are right."
oOo
Back home with Mycroft, he'd just gotten the confirmation that the dead sniper was Moran. It was most definitely time to contact Sherlock again, find out what was going on there for sure. He walked into his study and got his Sherlock phone out again.
'Donovan has made a run for it and Moran is dead. Your work? - M'
'Also, Happy Christmas I suppose. - M'
Across the Channel in a dingy little hole in the wall where he'd just made an anonymous call to tip off the Parisian police force about the criminal enterprise hiding in their sewers, Sherlock felt his stomach freeze over and he replied so fast you'd have thought he'd bonded mentally with his phone.
'WHAT? I'm in France Mycroft. IS JOHN SECURE?!'
'I have continued surveillance on him; he is as secure as I can make him without taking him away to a safe house. - M'
Mycroft knew how well that would go over with a highly pregnant ex soldier on bed rest and he really didn't want to have to resort to that.
'THEN DO IT.'
That was swiftly followed by another text.
'Never mind, your men are idiots. I'm coming home.'
'I shall take care of the arrangements to return you to the world of the living then little brother. - M'
Mycroft hesitated before quickly typing up another text.
'Be careful with John, circumstances have changed. - M'
Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously.
'Is he married?'
'Aren't you supposed to be a genius? Idiot. The man still loves you, no marriage or relationship things can change in other ways. - M'
Mycroft scoffed to himself, really...It seemed extreme possessiveness ran in the family.
With that answer the only thing worse than John finding someone else entered Sherlock's mind and made him feel like vomiting at the mere consideration.
'Is he...dying?'
Rolling his eyes, Mycroft set out to answer, really, his brother was certainly prone to melodramatics.
'What would be the point to protect him if he was? Just come home, it is nothing to be discussed by text message. - M'
'If you are just toying with me I will make your life hell.'
That final text sent Sherlock began making his plans to exit France safely. If it went well he'd be back by John's side by Epiphany.
To be continued…
AN: Sherlock is coming home!