Author's note: Reviews and followers – woohoo!
I can promise you – no, wait, that would spoil it for you. Anyway, something's happening in this chapter. That I can promise.
I don't own anything, please review.
When John entered the lab after having said goodbye to Mike and promised to visit him and his girlfriend soon, Sherlock was texting on his phone, which could only mean one thing.
"You've figured out how the rifle looks like then?" he asked.
Sherlock nodded, not interrupting his task. "Light, small, easy to conceal".
"Well, that makes me feel better. A weapon that someone can carry around without being noticed" John commented, slowly walking over to the table and looking at the bullet. Sherlock said nothing.
"Who are you texting?"
"Mycroft. He knows every man capable to build such a rifle".
"Of course he does". John leaned against a table and ran a hand through his hair. So far for normality.
Sherlock looked up from his phone. "John, are you alright?"
"Of course I am. Nothing like a deeply disturbed sniper to give you all the adrenaline you need". John chuckled humourlessly, and Sherlock frowned. "You do know this is not your fault?"
"Yes, I do. But there's a difference between knowing and feeling, Sherlock".
Surprisingly, Sherlock nodded and simply went back to texting. After he'd put away his phone, he said, "There's nothing we can do until we get more information. We might as well return to Baker Street". John followed, because his friend was right – there was nothing else to do.
At least he thought so during the cab ride and for a few blissful hours at 221 B. Sherlock did an experiment in the kitchen, John tried to watch crap telly and relax, although it was difficult not to think about Moran.
What had he been thinking about when he wrote "IOU"? Simply killing John? Torturing him? No idea was particularly pleasant, and the doctor soon realized that he wasn't paying attention to the telly anyway, so he decided to attempt to read.
Needless to say, he didn't really succeed – and neither did Sherlock, for that matter. He grumbled more than he usually did, and at one point threw something that John was sure was a petri dish against the wall. This case was bothering the consulting detective as much as him.
And then John Watson got a text from Sebastian Moran, and once again he was forced to lie to Sherlock Holmes.
At first, he thought it was from Greg or Molly or even Mike – his old friend must have realized he was on edge – but no.
Café across the street. Don't worry about your bodyguards, I've sent them on a goose change. Oh, and should you happen to tell your dear consulting detective anything – you do realize that the kitchen is visible through the living room window?
S
John swallowed, knowing all too well what the message implied. It was true; the table Sherlock sat on was indeed visible through the living room window – especially if you happened to be in the still empty building on the other side of the street, where Moriarty had planted the bomb that had started the game, and Moran might be waiting at the café, but if he had taken over Moriarty's web, he had more than enough henchmen...
Mycroft was most likely busy searching for the man who'd built the rifle, and Moran would definitely be able to trick his team. He might not be Moriarty, but he was clever enough – he wouldn't have been chosen for special training otherwise.
He took a deep, shaky breath, and Sherlock apparently noticed, because he wanted to know what was going on.
"Nothing. Sarah just texted me – she just got of her shift and wants to have coffee to catch up. Don't worry – Mycroft's surveillance, remember? I'll be back before you know it".
"Alright" Sherlock replied, looking back into his microscope, and John didn't know whether he should be worried that the consulting detective had once again trusted him.
He left the flat and went to the café. As soon as he entered, he knew why Mycroft's people – at least as long as they'd been watching the street – hadn't recognized Moran.
The last time he'd seen him, during Moriarty's "game", the sniper certainly hadn't been brunette and blue-eyed – and he looked a few inches shorter too, so he must be a rather good actor. But John would know the look he shot him anywhere – there was only one person in London who would look at him so full of hatred, and it was Sebastian Moran.
With a strange feeling of history repeating himself – why was he always forced to lie to the person he trusted the most? – John sat down opposite the new most dangerous criminal of London.
Moran smiled humourlessly. "John".
"Sebastian" John replied, as calmly as he could.
"Don't worry, I won't kill you – at least not yet". There was no doubt in John's mind that it was Moran's ultimate goal, though; he probably just wanted to make him suffer before he did it.
"Well, that's some comfort – but why?" he asked.
"You took the most important person in my life away from me" Sebastian answered, and John couldn't resist to anger him some more, even though he shouldn't. After all, he'd just said he wouldn't kill the doctor, hadn't he?
"Don't you mean the person you loved?" he inquired.
Sebastian's jaw tensed, he brought his hand up to wipe his mouth, and John's gaze couldn't fail to notice how it shook –
He would recognize that tremor anywhere.
Maybe he and Sebastian had more in common than he'd thought. A shiver ran down his spine.
"That's none of your business" Sebastian spat. His eyes narrowed, and John had the feeling that the sniper was trying to find a weak spot, to find a way he could hurt John as much as the doctor had hurt him.
He was right. "You should know – you're living with Sherlock Holmes, of all people".
"I do – but he's my best friend. I'm not in love with him, desperately hoping to make him love me through sheer determination" John replied, feeling sweat trickle down his back.
Sebastian's hand suddenly shot forwards and grabbed John's right wrist. He'd underestimated the sniper's reactions – as Sherlock would say, "stupid".
The most dangerous criminal in London pulled, and John thought it better to comply. As soon as he was near enough, Sebastian whispered in his ear, "You may not be. But, as you said, he is the most important person in your life. And your limp hasn't returned, John, so he must provide you with enough adrenaline to get through the day. Just imagine, for one moment, if this – Sherlock, the cases, everything – were taken away from you".
John started to breathe heavily. Of course. He'd been so stupid; he should've known that Sebastian's threat wasn't directed directly at him.
He was going to kill Sherlock.
No: he was going to try to kill Sherlock. Because there was no way John would allow it.
Apparently Sebastian thought the same because he let go of John's hand and added, as soon as the doctor had settled back in his chair, "And it will be. In three days, nothing of the life you have built up for yourself will be left".
"And why are you warning me?" John inquired.
"Because" Sebastian said, slowly, "no one will believe you".
"And what makes you think that?" John's confidence was returning by the minute; Sherlock knew the truth, Greg knew the truth, Mycroft knew the truth – there was no way Sebastian could make them believe he'd lied to them.
The sniper smiled, as if he was able to read John's thoughts. "Wait and see, John. I usually deliver on my promises – especially now. Oh, and – you might tell Sherlock what I just said. I'll be long gone by the time you do, of course – the only reason I told you to lie to him before was because I'm not particularly keen on getting caught by big brother – or you taking his side at the last moment, either. I'm not going to make the same mistake Jim made". He looked pained, and John, despite everything, felt pity for this man who had fallen in love with a psychopath and was trying to take revenge for the man he'd loved, who would never have done the same for him. If Sebastian had died, Jim would simply have got a new "pet" and forgot all about the sniper.
And, to his everlasting shame, he felt a strange pride at the same time – if Sebastian would shoot him now, Sherlock wouldn't rest until he'd caught him, he was sure.
"Three days" Sebastian hissed and stood up, ready to leave. John couldn't say whether he'd read the pity in his eyes or was just tired of their talk – Moriarty had often lost interest, sometimes even in the middle of a sentence.
"Suppose I would call Mycroft now" he said.
"Suppose Sherlock would be dead before you'd dialled the number" Sebastian replied and strolled out of the café.
John returned to Baker Street a few minutes later and explained everything to Sherlock. The consulting detective wasn't pleased.
"Why didn't you call me, or Lestrade, or even Mycroft? John, simply because he threatened my life – this is ridiculous!"
John was just going to give a rather heated reply when Sherlock's phone rang. He answered sounding still angry. "Yes? Of course. How could I refuse?"
He hung up and looked at John. "Are you coming, or do you want to spend your last three days differently – or mine, for that matter?"
The doctor decided to ignore the bite in the question and simply answered "Of course I'll come", which seemed to take Sherlock slightly aback – he even looked slightly ashamed when he went to put on his coat, and John shook his head. No matter what happened, he would never be able to stay angry at Sherlock Holmes for long.
Greg was waiting for them when they arrived at the crime scene – a public park.
"The body, or rather the skeleton, was found an hour ago – must have been dumped here less than two hours ago."
He led them to the dumping site; the skeleton was lying on his back, and as John watched Sherlock kneel down next to it, he couldn't help but feel that, no matter what Moran's game was, he would be alright, as long as he stayed at his best friend's sight.
Author's note: I actually intended John and Moran to have one big scene at the end – just one – but then I had another idea. And I couldn't resist. So, yes, be prepared for – drama!
Inner fangirl: Slashy subtext! Slashy subtext! Slashy subtext!
Me: Really? I hadn't noticed.
I hope you liked it, please review.