~I DO NOT KNOW WHAT HAPPENED WITH THE FORMATTING! I AM SO SORRY!~
(this is a reload of chapters 7 and 8)
Chapter 7
Thank you to yeahyeahyep, thatworldinverted and jen for all of the everythings. Also a big thankthanks to FoxyK for the beta. She came into this late but her skills are amazing! Aaand, there's nothing more pathetic than an American trying to sound British, so my britpicker is Bat and THANK YOU.
-Now-
It was raining again.
Sherlock continued clicking away on his laptop, lost in his head. It had been so long since John has seen him this way that he had to forcibly stop himself from grinning goofily at the way Sherlock had thrown himself into his plan.
The plan that John still knew nothing about.
Still, things had popped along rather quickly for the past fortnight or so (John had been unconscious a few of those times so he was unsure of the exact number of days.), enough that John was rather enjoying not being tortured or furious or heartbroken. And the familiarity of seeing Sherlock being... well, Sherlock was a comfort in its own right.
He sat in the squashy armchair, tapping his fingers on the armrest, jiggling his leg and staring out into the rain. He couldn't see exactly where they were. He had put together that it was a lodge of some sort, the kind that bored Londoners went to when they wanted to experience 'rustic' living, but that didn't tell him much. John had only peeped out of the heavy curtains once, and Sherlock had been so furious at him that John hadn't since. The front windows were massive, easily taller than Sherlock. There was some kind of poufy thing on the top (John thought that it was called a valance but he wasn't entirely certain. His mum used to attack every window in the house with the bloody useless things, but that was the extent of his knowledge) that allowed about a foot at the top of the window to be seen. It was enough to see the rain against the window pane, and plenty for a dim sort of light. But no one could see inside the tall windows.
Sherlock had seen that the lodge was stocked with several different amenities. There were books, but no telly. Internet access, but John had no laptop or phone. There was quite an abundance of food, and John's favourite blend of tea, and John appreciated that.
It had been two days since Sherlock had made John breakfast.
They had been strangely quiet around each other. John had been... well. To tell the truth, there was so much unsaid between the two of them, he didn't quite know where to start. He couldn't imagine anything more uncomfortable than discussing one's feelings with Sherlock Holmes of all people. John snorted under his breath at his own understatement.
Sherlock ignored him.
John bit at a hangnail, thinking. It was raining outside, and the dull crash of thunder and rhythmic patter of the rain was driving him a little batty. He'd had plenty of time to think, really. He thought about what he had almost done, and how Sherlock had stopped him. He thought about how they'd been almost tripping over each other in the tiny little safehouse flat, and how much John was enjoying Sherlock's guilt. Every single apology had sounded like the most beautiful of music. He wasn't exactly proud of that, but he could be honest with himself. Watching Sherlock's awkward apologies had been... nice.
And true. John knew that Sherlock would have had compelling reasons to do what he had done, but that didn't excuse those months of utter devastation that he'd felt, believing that Sherlock was gone.
So here were the facts, as John saw them:
One- He was stuck here for an indeterminable time, waiting for Sherlock to fill him in on his grand scheme.
Two- Neither of them had spoken about the return of Sherlock's drug habit, nor the sex that had followed John's rescue.
Three- Sherlock had said that he loved John. He had said it and John had not acknowledged it, not trusting that Sherlock wasn't attempting to manipulate him again.
Four- John had said some terrible, hateful things to Sherlock. He had not apologized. Everything had gone pear-shaped after he'd stormed out of the flat like an utter knob. Yet, even with everything that he had said, Sherlock had not rested until he'd found John.
John bit his lip. When Mycroft had casually mentioned the fact that Sherlock had been so obsessively watching him, John's first reaction had most definitely not been anger. Embarrassment, perhaps. Confusion. It had thrown John for six that Sherlock would feel any kind of attachment to him. Certainly, it had crossed a few lines, especially when John figured that Sherlock must have gotten quite an eyeful those few times. But... if John didn't exactly mind some of those lines... if the idea of Sherlock watching him had caused John to harden in his trousers more than once...
But it was a moot point, considering that absolutely no watching of any sort had happened since Sherlock started focusing his attention on drawing out Moran. The anger had come later, once John had realized that Sherlock had lied to him, had forced him to watch that beautiful brain leaking out onto the pavement... and he still didn't know why. Oh sure, he'd put a few things together. He wasn't a complete idiot, no matter what Sherlock thought. John frowned and added that to his mental list.
Five- Sherlock had orchestrated this whole scheme to fake his death, and John didn't know why.
John froze as an idea- a terrifyingly perfect idea occurred to him. The problem was that John had never done anything like this before. Even with his girlfriends, John's sex life had been well... Not boring, per se. Unadventurous. He'd only ever brought the one stranger home to his flat after Sherlock left, and while he had been careful - no matter how heartbroken he was, John was too much of a doctor to be unsafe- the sex had been more angry than particularly kinky. John blushed at thinking the word, and shifted a little in his chair. Three continents of men and women had given him plenty of experience, but not a lot of anything weird. He wanted... well, that was obvious. John wanted Sherlock. He wanted to apologize for some of the terrible things he'd said. He wanted to stop being bored. Orchestrating sex probably wasn't the wisest way to accomplish all of those things, but they would probably work in a fix.
He licked his lips and glanced across the room where Sherlock lay sprawled on the bed, oblivious to anything but the glow of the computer screen.
John heaved himself to his feet and made his way to the kitchen for a glass of ice water. He felt a bit like an idiot, but the last time he'd seen it had been... yes. There it was, by the sink. A rather pricey lotion and not something that John would normally use, but it would do in a pinch. He walked across the kitchen to get ice, jumping a little as the lights flickered with the storm outside.
The frantic tap of keys didn't pause. John walked back to his chair, setting the glass of ice water on the little table and picking up the book. Sherlock hadn't given any indication that he was even aware of John walking in front of him, but John wanted to make sure that nothing was screaming what he was about to do. If Sherlock happened to look up, he'd be able to deduce what John was planning from an eyelash on his cheek or something, and there went his surprise. And his apology. And his orgasm.
He forced himself to read, shifting so that he was sitting on the lotion. A few casual sips of his water had him feeling quite ridiculous. Anticipation was making him even hornier, and John finally gave it up as a bad job, setting the book aside on the table and stretching back as though he were planning on a quick kip. Nothing that he hadn't done before, nothing that should tip Sherlock off as just not on.
John started slowly, in his head, remembering how desperate Sherlock had been to kiss him, the almost punched-out look of shock on his face when John had wrapped his hand around both of their cocks. Oh yes. That was nice. His cock twitched, and John shifted again, slouching down a little in the chair so that his bare feet were planted on the floor. He cupped himself, decades of familiarity with his own prick causing him to catch the sensitive spot under the glans with his curled fingers on the first try. John licked his lips, darting another glance up at Sherlock.
He still hadn't noticed, and was staring blearily down at the muted glow of the laptop screen, fingers flying as he clicked from site to site, mapping out his schemes and plans with careful, acute attention to detail. He had to have been aware of the lightning on some level since he had unplugged his laptop wire from the wall, but he had no other reaction.
Still, John figured that he was due a break.
John tightened his grip on his dick, shivering a little at how hard he was. In just a moment all that furious, fine attention would be focused on him and... Christ. He pressed his thumb to the slit over the softness of the well-worn trackies, and couldn't help the low gasp at the sensation.
Sherlock's fingers froze mid-click, and John watched as Sherlock jerked his gaze up to John, eyes growing very, very wide as he stared, gaping a little in shock.
John knew how he had to look, face red from what he was doing, the tented tracksuit bottoms, his hand wrapped around himself, sprawled in the chair so that Sherlock would have an almost perfect view. John pulled at the elastic, pulling them down and out so that his cock sprung out.
Sherlock's swallow was audible, even across the room.
John sat up a little so that he could pull off his t-shirt, only wincing a little as the bruised skin pulled. He lifted his arse and kicked off the rest of his clothes, reaching for the bottle of lotion.
"Sherlock."
Sherlock jerked his gaze guiltily to John's face. Hi pupils were dark with interest.
"Come here, Sherlock."
Sherlock almost flailed, tripping and fumbling the laptop in his haste to comply. Fortunately the computer landed on the bed. Sherlock was several feet away when John spoke again. "Stop, Right there is close enough."
John didn't expect Sherlock to fall coltishly to his knees as though his legs had just stopped working, but he couldn't say that he didn't appreciate the look of him like that, poised on all fours on the floor in front of him. John could have kicked out his leg and rested his toe on Sherlock's shoulder, but he didn't want to... he didn't quite want Sherlock to touch him yet.
The flip of the lotion's lid was very loud in the quiet room. John didn't look away from Sherlock's wide eyes. Having all of the detective's attention like this was absolutely... it. God. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he watched John wank himself, slowly keeping the pace steady.
"I think that you like this." John was rather proud of how his voice didn't break. Sherlock's mouth was still open, and John watched his small, pink tongue as it flicked nervously over his lips. For a second he saw the confusion in Sherlock's gaze; it made him stop, pulling his hand away from his dick so that he could focus properly on Sherlock.
"No, none of that now. I'm sorry for what I said. Before." Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, visibly thought better of it, and shut his mouth. It was obvious that he didn't believe John in the slightest. John watched as Sherlock moved slightly forward, as though he wasn't sure if he were allowed. He kept darting little glances up at John's face.
John swung his sore leg up over the arm of the chair, making sure that it was out of the way so that he wouldn't bump the fragile, healing skin of his burn. He knew that he was blushing, and from the low, dark sound Sherlock made, John knew that he had to be presenting a hell of a view.
John closed his fist around himself again, the slick sounds of the lotion loud in the quiet room.
"Do you like this?"
Sherlock nodded frantically, reaching absently for the bulge in his jeans.
"Stop, Sherlock." John didn't miss the almost wounded look Sherlock shot him from under his eyelashes. "I'll tell you when to touch yourself. I just want you to watch. For now." John's grin was neither sweet nor kind and Sherlock visibly shivered, placing his hands on either side of his legs as he rocked back onto his heels into a more comfortable position, so that his bum was settled on his feet. John licked at his lower lip, dragging the callus of his thumb over the head of his cock. "See, though. What I'd really, really like is to have your fingers, yeah?"
Sherlock gasped.
"Yeah." John drew out the word with fervour. "Those lovely, long fingers stretching me open so that I can fuck myself down on your cock." John spoke as though having a conversation with himself. "But, I can't, now can I?"
Sherlock actually started to nod his agreement before he blinked, then shook his head in dissent.
John would have smiled if he wasn't so focused on what he was feeling. "I can't... Sherlock. You're quite clever, and you'll put it together."
John reached down and took one slick fingertip, sliding it around his hole, knowing what it had to look like by the punched out look on Sherlock's face. He shifted on the chair, opening his legs the littlest bit wider as he teased himself, keeping his gaze on Sherlock's.
Sherlock was digging his fingers into the fabric on his legs, as though he was trying desperately to remain still. John could clearly see the line of Sherlock's dick pressed against his leg in the tight trousers. He watched the knowledge in Sherlock's gaze sharpen and Sherlock was speaking almost before sucking in enough breath to speak, words almost stuttering as they tripped over each other.
"You were hurt and disappointed in me for succumbing to my habit. Obvious, expected even. While I can assure you that I was never foolish enough to put myself in danger with a dirty needle, you have no way of believing my claim. That is why." Sherlock stopped abruptly, as though he forgot how to speak. His fingers clenched, bone white on his thighs.
John bit his lip as he teased with the first finger, stroking the outer rim before pressing inside. He was tight, and the position left him unable to reach how he wanted. It wouldn't do to hurt his ribs or his burn after all- even to put in his little show for Sherlock. John couldn't deny that he was more than a little furious at him, even though he was equally sorry for the cruel things he had said before they were captured. This was probably more than a bit not good, but John was enjoying putting on a show, because he knew Sherlock was watching. It was a bit odd. Sherlock didn't strike him as particularly submissive, really. But this? The detective was perfectly content, even greedy, on his knees in front of John. His face was flushed and sweaty with his thin chest almost shuddering as he sucked in breath after trembling breath.
"Sherlock. Come here."
Sherlock shuffled forward awkwardly on his knees, then leaned forward so that it was John's turn to huff out a shocked groan when Sherlock's breath ghosted against his skin. He took a deep breath and continued. "That is why we cannot have... sex without protection."
"You've been prepared for everything else. I don't suppose you brought a johnny with you."
"I brought twelve. Naturally."
John laughed at the way Sherlock's ridiculous lie rolled off his tongue. He couldn't even fathom Sherlock at the chemist's buying rubbers. Sherlock, who had obviously had enough of the slight streak of submissiveness, leaned over and kissed John's knee on the exact same spot as before on the faded, yellow bruise. It wasn't a particularly dirty kiss, but John's whole body jolted. Sherlock reached up to grab the lotion and worked it between his fingers, tilting his head to stare up at John along the length of his body.
"You do know that a water-based lubricant would be more comfortable."
John stopped moving his fingers and stared at Sherlock in shock. "How exactly would you know?"
"Don't be an idiot, John. I do masturbate. I'm quite efficient." He reached out and lightly wrapped his fingers around the base of John's cock. John shuddered at the view of Sherlock's long fingers clasped under his own. "It's just fruh-friction, John." Had John been able to better focus, he would have been downright smug at the obvious stutter of breath, proving that Sherlock wasn't as unaffected as he pretended to be. John braced his other foot against the cushion for leverage so he could push up into Sherlock's hands. Having Sherlock as an active participant rocketed his already tense libido up to the breaking point.
"Friction. Is. Is..." John groaned, taking one slick hand and scrambling at Sherlock's shoulder to bring him up so that their mouths could touch. "God, it's ... yeah. Like that." Sherlock kissed him hard, already having improved with the slight bit of practice they'd had, tightening his hands around John's length until John came with a strangled groan of Sherlock's name.
John kissed lazily at Sherlock's mouth, content to watch as Sherlock took his hand and shoved them into his trousers, not bothering to unbutton them before he was coming, collapsing against John as though he'd lost all the strength in his body.
John just lay there, horribly aware at how dirty his hands were, at how uncomfortable at how clammy he felt with the sweat drying on his body and needing terribly to itch at his arse. The lotion had clearly not been his best idea.
Sherlock started laughing weakly, pushing himself up on trembling forearms. He rested his forehead against John's sternum for just a moment and heaved himself all the way up. "I told you that a different lubrication would be less..." He trailed off as John twisted awkwardly, itching furiously, only to burst out in a full belly laugh at the ridiculous (and only slightly embellished) faces John made for his entertainment. John managed to pull the tattered scraps of his dignity around him as he heaved himself to his feet, making his way to the shower so that he could wash himself properly.
He was vaguely aware of Sherlock washing himself in the sink and changing his clothes. The silence was not as awkward as it could have been, but was still a bit weird.
"Sherlock?"
There was no answer. John tipped his head back and continued washing his hair. If nothing else, he was tremendously clean. John heard a muffled crash and stuck his head out of the curtain, listening. Nothing.
"Sherlock?"
There was still no answer.
John sighed. Break over then; back to business. Still, getting off to alleviate boredom had been moderately successful. He had rather hoped that he could keep Sherlock's attention for longer than he had done, but that was Sherlock on a case. John knew better than anyone how Sherlock was when that brilliant mind was focused on the work. Since the result was their safety, it was hard to complain.
John twisted off the taps and wrapped a towel around himself, stepping out of the shower and wiping the steam from the mirror. He rolled his eyes at the crumped, come-covered towel Sherlock had tossed into the corner with his pants and trousers, smirking a little at his reflection. He wasn't near 100% yet, but the forced convalescence had done its job, which, John assumed had been Sherlock's plan. John checked the burn and rebandaged it. It was still quite sore, but there was no sign of infection, although the healing skin was pink and fragile-feeling.
There was a knock on the door.
John froze, his eyes narrowing in the mirror. Sherlock didn't knock. Until very recently, John hadn't been aware that Sherlock knew how to knock. He especially wouldn't knock like that, with such a jaunty rap-a-tap-tap. John looked around the bathroom for something, anything he could use as a weapon. Paranoia caused his heart rate to triple, but his hands were steady as he calmly knotted the towel around his hips. There was nothing at hand, unless John fancied winging a stick of deodorant at whoever was on the other side of the door's head.
He had the choice of going out guns blazing, or going out and pretending that he had no idea at how wrong everything was. Perhaps that would give him some sort of an advantage. With that decided, John put his hand on the doorknob, pushing it open and forcing a tone of normalcy in his voice as he called out again for Sherlock.
John was completely unprepared to see Mycroft standing there, hands folded casually over his umbrella as he peered over Sherlock's shoulder so that his mouth was hidden from John's view behind Sherlock's head. Sherlock was sitting so rigidly that he looked as though he would crack at the slightest provocation; listening to Mycroft's whisper with his face frighteningly blank. Except for his eyes. Sherlock's eyes were more furious than John had thought possible.
"Mycroft."
John darted his gaze around the familiar room, looking for some other danger. The only other person in the room was Anthea, who had actually stopped texting long enough to give John a long, very thorough once over. John had to fight the urge to tighten the knot on his towel.
"John." Mycroft straightened, bypassing the chair where John and Sherlock had just had sex to seat himself primly on the small settee. John had to force himself not to look over at Sherlock. Instead, he crossed to the bedroom and fished around for some clothes, ignoring all three of them as he crossed back into the loo, closing the door with a small click. He dressed on autopilot, uncomfortable with leaving the two brothers in the same room. The only sound to mark his leaving was a small squeak from the door.
The brothers seemed to be communicating only in eyebrow twitches, although Anthea was obviously a bit concerned. She kept shooting quick, nervous glances at Sherlock.
"What's all this then?" John ignored his wet hair and crossed to the kitchen to make tea. By this point, he knew how both the Holmes siblings took their cuppa and was able to watch them both out of the corner of his eye as he went through the familiar routine. He had no illusions that his observation went unnoticed by either of them. "Anthea? How do you take your tea?"
"None for me thanks." She flicked a glance up from her phone, her gaze skittering once again towards her employer and his brother, before firmly fixating back on her mobile's screen.
The scene was almost domestic as John crossed the sudden gulf of space to hand both Holmeses their tea. Sherlock barely spared John a glance. Instead his sharp gaze was almost painfully intense as he took in his brother's almost apatheticly calm demeanour.
"So how did I mess up this time?" John spoke with a little smirk.
John crossed his ankles and blew on his scalding tea. The cheap ceramic felt blissful in his too-cold hands.
Mycroft's reptilian gaze flicked once towards where John stood, before he carefully took a sip of his own tea. Even John could tell that Mycroft was avoiding the question.
"Oh do shut-" Sherlock broke off with a gasp. He sat straight up in his chair as though electrocuted. The tea crashed onto the lino with a clatter of broken crockery.
Before John could blink, Sherlock was up and moving, his fist hitting Mycroft squarely on the jaw. John could only gape, slack-jawed as Mycroft overbalanced in the chair, sending the whole thing tipping over so that the back of Mycroft's head hit the surface with a meaty thud. Sherlock was on top of him before John crossed the room, getting in another truly painful-looking punch right to his brother's nose.
"That will be ENOUGH!" Anthea calmly grabbed Sherlock by the back of his curly head, catching his arm in a move that looked almost bored, managing to twist Sherlock off her boss with the simple momentum of Sherlock's rather gangly flailing. There was a sharp kick to the back of Sherlock's knee, a sweep of a stylish Jimmy Choo, and Sherlock fell to the floor with a pained-sounding whumph of lost air. John would have been narked, but he saw how she was careful not to really hurt his furious flatmate. John almost caught a heel to the face as Sherlock struggled, fruitlessly attempting to break Anthea's hold. She kicked off her heels with a sigh, pressed her weight onto Sherlock's back, kept his arm bent behind him, with the other shoulder pinned to the ground.
John stepped over Sherlock and assisted Mycroft with his bloody nose, ignoring the snarling, spitting man throwing a rather spectacular wobbly on the floor next to him.
"I ab afraid I rader deser'ed that." Mycroft's usually condescending tones were muffled by his attempts to control the bleeding with his own silk handkerchief. John did an about face, grabbed the nearest tea towel on the radiator, and held it to Mycroft's face, still staring at Sherlock who had not given up his fury one whit. If Anthea hadn't been holding him so solidly, John had no doubts that Sherlock would be inflicting some other form of harm on his brother's person.
"You deserved to be chinned and a bloody nose? I can't wait to hear this." John's tone was mild. He was certain it didn't fool Mycroft for a moment. John bent and righted the chair, batting away Mycroft's unhelpful hands with an annoyed huff of air. "Quit poking at it." John gave it a careful tug to test the cartilage. "It's not broken at least."
Mycroft stepped back with a strangely wounded look at John's doctoring technique. John found that he was quickly approaching his tolerance for either Holmes and their rather insane brand of quirky behaviour. He left Mycroft once again seated in the chair, dabbing fussily at his nose, turning to the still silently fuming Sherlock. John kneeled down, ignoring the crack of his cartilage as he knelt.
"Come on then, genius. Tell us what he has done now." John's voice was purposefully gentle. "Can't be all that bad, now can it?"
Futile words. John was beginning to get the inkling that he would want no part of whatever it was that had infuriated Sherlock so.
Sherlock twisted his body, attempting to throw off the small assistant like an angry bull would its rider. Athena was like a particularly stubborn burr, her seemingly slight body perfectly comfortable holding down the struggling detective for what looked like hours. John felt himself reaching down and holding both of Sherlock's cheeks, gently guiding his face so that their gazes met.
Anthea made a truly horrifyingly adorable 'aww' sound and leaned back slightly so that Sherlock could look up at John without straining himself. "Come on then. Tell me. It will take me too long to put it together myself."
Sherlock seemed to collapse on himself like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Anthea calmly rose, made a dark sound in the back of her throat at the small ladder in her stockings and slid back into her shoes. John had no doubt that she was armed, and absolutely no doubt that she wouldn't hesitate to use any force necessary to subdue Sherlock, should her employer's safety require it.
"He." Sherlock stopped, his gaze changing as he focused completely on John. Sherlock ran a nervous tongue over his lips and John had no desire to check his movement; he lightly brushed his lips over Sherlock's, both of them rolling their eyes at the repeated 'aww' from Anthea.
"Tell me."
"Mycroft. My... brother has used you as bait!"
The statement, although said with Sherlock's normal flare for the dramatic, caused very little stir on its audience. "Tracking device. Likely placed in. In my sodding messenger bag." Sherlock jerked out of John's hold and stomped over to his deplorable-looking rucksack. "I caught the bug on my phone in Cairo- never dreamed that the tubby miscreant would be clever enough to. Oh. Of course. Irene." Sherlock whirled to the bag and ripped it open and inside out, searching. It didn't take him long. He held the small wire with the miniscule oblong tracking device up with another snarl, and then flung it into Mycroft's tea. "The bomb. Obvious. Had to have had some kind of leak of information to Moran. My own brother used me to track your whereabouts until you were kidnapped! One agent couldn't possibly have gone as high as serving on our detail in MI5 without being thoroughly checked out by my sibling's ever-diligent bulldog over there."
Mycroft made a sound of protest, started to rise, looked over to Anthea who stood placidly inspecting a fingernail, quite obviously came to the conclusion that she could handle herself, and settled back into his uncomfortable chair. John was quite hard-pressed not to smile.
"Think on it, John. You were researched and moved to that warehouse within hours of our initial meeting." Sherlock was pacing now, his speed increasing as his conclusions fell from his lips. "I could not fathom how Mycroft could have such bumbling incompetence in his corps of minions. No. No. He used you, John. Like a lamb to the slaughter, to draw out the bigger prey lurking just out of his reach." Sherlock whirled to meet John's gaze, the triumph of connecting the dots overshadowed by his righteous anger that of all people, John would be used so callously by Sherlock's brother.
John scratched the back of his head, wincing a little. He looked from Mycroft's bleeding nose, to Anthea' s carefully apparent boredom, and back to Sherlock, standing in the middle of the room, almost quivering with barely- suppressed rage.
"Ah." John sighed. Oh, bollocks. There was no way this was going to go over well. John saw the slight shift on Sherlock's face, the minute tensing of muscles in his jaw and knew that Sherlock was beginning to truly understand. "Of... of course he did, Sherlock. Use me as bait, I mean." John paused again, meeting Sherlock's betrayed gaze with his own unflinching one. He would not apologize for this.
"Who do you think gave him the idea?"
Chapter 8
This chapter was not britpicked, (sorry guys!) but I have oodles of thanks for FoxyK, Diva, and jlm for everything. Sorry, you'll notice that I split this into two chapters, with the second chapter to be posted soon. This part does leave off on sort of a cliff-hanger, so if you want to wait to read, it should be up by erm. Wednesday. Or you can subscribe to the author alert.
This is a pretty graphic chapter. Please see the notes at the end for specifics.
-Now-
He could have heard a pin drop. John watched the knowledge of what he'd just said slowly register on Sherlock's face and refused to wince. John straightened his shoulders and stood his ground, jutting up his chin slightly. He wouldnotapologize. Sherlock blinked once, then again more rapidly before narrowing his gaze. John watched as colour crept slowly up his cheeks.
"You…."
"Yes. Me. I told your brother to use me as bait. Why shouldn't I have done? He wanted to draw out Moran and I wanted to help." John shrugged. "It was logical."
Anthea made a small sound in the back of her throat. Dimly, John became aware that she was looking at Mycroft much the same way Sherlock was looking at him. It was rather on the disconcerting side, to say the least. Usually she was so unruffled. Some odd little part of his mind noticed that Mycroft was very carefully not making eye contact with his assistant.
Sherlock stood stock still for several more minutes, then whirled in a flurry of sudden activity, furiously scrubbing his hands through his curls as he thought, baring his teeth in a snarl.
"Now, Sherlock..." Mycroft's oily tones only served to remind both Sherlock and John that he was still in the room. Sherlock crossed to the window and stood with his forehead against the drapes, his shoulders heaving.
"Leave us."
John and Anthea shared a quick glance, then as one turned their gazes back to Sherlock. John found it very difficult to not to go to him but knew that, injuries or no, he had a rather spectacular chance of landing on his arse if he touched Sherlock now. Mycroft's nose could attest to that. Before Sherlock had... left, he might not have been so prone to using his fists, but this Sherlock was more aggressive than John was used to.
Mycroft sighed as though coming out to ... wherever Sherlock had contrived for them to go into hiding was only a minor inconvenience. Maybe for him it was. John still had no idea what country they were even in. As Sherlock was quick to mention (and often exploit) Mycroftwasthe British Government after all. A helicopter to the bloody middle of nowhere would not be too much of a stretch of either manpower or discretionary funds.
"You have three hours, brother mine."
Sherlock said nothing and John could only ignore the tightening of his throat as the door closed behind them with a small click. More to have something to do than for any latent desire to drink tea, John did an abrupt about-face and went into the kitchen to make some. Filling the kettle and switching it on was calming. He had to shake his head when he automatically pulled down two mugs. Even when Sherlock was... gone... it had been hard to break that habit.
"You know it's weird that it's not weird when I make two cups." John's voice was falsely bright, conversational. He wasn't entirely sure that treating Sherlock's mood like an everyday strop was the wisest course of action. Sherlock was stubborn enough to let it go on for the next fortnight if John let him. Best to have it out. "Took me awhile. I can't say I ever got over it, really."
"You were going to kill yourself. That was not part of Mycroft's plan." Sherlock's voice was closer than John had anticipated, and the low baritone caused a small flinch that John was unable to hide. He turned to see a Sherlock that he almost didn't recognize, closed off and so cold looking as to seem inhuman. "Swallow a bullet and leave a mess for Mrs. Hudson to find in the morning. And they callmethe emotionally stunted one."
John winced. "No firing pin." Sherlock didn't even blink. John felt himself needing to explain, as though he had to excuse his actions. Which was laughable when he thought about it, given recent events. John was fairly certain that he would see Sherlock's coat flying behind him in his nightmares for several years to come. John sucked in a sharp breath. "When it came down to it, duds made my skin crawl and blanks-" The tea whistled and John poured, fixing his own and leaving Sherlock's on the countertop. "Blanks could have caused a fire. On my face. Wasn't really looking forward to that. And... no. To answer your other questions, Mycroftdid know." John huffed a sigh and took a too-hot sip of his scalding tea. "Shit. You are going to want to sit down for this. I can't see how it matters now, telling you." The last John said more to himself than to Sherlock, but he had no illusions that his former flatmate did not hear him by the way his shoulders drew even more tense with suppressed emotion.
Sherlock very carefully did not touch him as John walked back through the doorway and sat down on the settee. Sherlock tried using his height to his advantage, looming over John to get him to talk, but John calmly waited him out, taking the occasional sip of his tea. It was Mycroft's time table that he was working against after all. When Sherlock sat down as far away from John as the room would allow, John began again, rolling his eyes.
"After you jumped, I was... a bit of a mess. In a state. Was more than a bastard to Mrs. H, drinking too much, fucking far too much, getting into fights... whatever I could do to keep my mind off of it. Never really worked. I hated the smell of stale alcohol on my skin after a night out, couldn't stand myself after bringing home a random shag to the flat, and Molly got to the point where she wouldn't look at me when I needed her help with medical care... anything I couldn't reach myself. Of course, I suppose nowthathad far more to do with you than with her." Sherlock didn't respond. John hadn't really expected him to. It was a bit of work to keep his voice calm and inflectionless as he spoke. No matter how calm he seemed, it still gutted him that Sherlock had felt that he couldn't go to John with his plan. That Sherlock didn't trust him enough.
"About a week later, Mycroft came to me with a file. Can't say as I was particularly pleased to see him, to tell the truth." Sherlock didn't even snort at this. John took another sip of his tea and sighed. "Details on a Sebastian Moran. Sharp-shooter, suspected of working with that Irish bastard you were so fond of, linked to three other terrorist organizations that Mycroft was aware of." That caused Sherlock's body to jerk in place, his eyes turning even more glacial. "So the plan was to offer myself up as bait to draw him out. I didn't have much of a reason not to, and I rather liked the idea of not sitting on my arse, being pathetic."
Sherlock snorted... and John lost his temper. It flared up like an ember suddenly consumed with oxygen.
"Look! You don't have much of a leg to stand on given that youjumped off a fucking roof to play Moriarty's little game. Oh, sure you can tell yourself that it was for Lestrade, or for Mrs. Hudson, or even for me, but we both know that it was for the game, Sherlock. The bloody fuckinggamethat you love so much. You're not angry that I ran into the line of fire. You're just livid that you didn't get topull the strings."
Sherlock flinched as though John had struck him.
John set the tea down with a decisive click, ignoring the liquid that splashed back onto his wrist. It was quite difficult to reign in his damnable temper. John watched his hand as it trembled, then pointedly stopped trembling. He flexed his fingers once, then once again as he stared at the small splash of tea as it rolled over his knuckles and down onto his jeans. He wiped it absently and forced himself to look over at Sherlock. John was furious at himself for feeling guilty at the naked emotion on Sherlock's face- emotion that Sherlock either could not or would not stifle. His eyes were closed, the flush high on his cheekbones as he leant back in the chair. The rest of Sherlock's face was horribly pale. The normally elegant fingers that he'd usually steeple over his mouth in his favourite thinking pose were shaking, much like John's own.
Pointedly keeping his voice calm, John started again. It was more difficult than he imagined. "Mycroft suspected that Moriarty had a second-in-command. As I said, the name he gave was Moran. But, Moran was a ghost. No trace of him. Someone was taking down Moriarty's syndicate-" John couldn't help the pointed look he gave Sherlock here- "and not even that was enough to bring the bastard out. So... we laid some traps of our own." John pinched his nose. "You weren't meant to be there, you know. To see me shoot myself, or to call to stop me.that threw quite a spanner in the works, let me tell you. Your brother wasapoplectic." John scraped his fingernail over the small stain, too cowardly even to attempt to meet Sherlock's gaze. "Even after, it was a bit of a slapdash bit of planning. Mycroft was adamant that the both of us continue on as bait, and I was just as adamant that... you stay safe." John shook his head at his stupidity. John trailed off, out of words. There was nothing else to explain, really. He had done what he had done, and he would do it again if it meant Sherlock stay safe.
"I see." Sherlock's voice was utterly devoid of inflection; a simple acknowledgement of facts. He stood and turned, walking calmly to the facilities and shutting the door behind him with a quiet click.
John thought his heart would stop. He was used to Sherlock throwing things, to him stopping around the flat, over furniture and around stacks of books as he thought or expressed his displeasure. Quietly standing and shutting the door- the only door in the large open space that afforded any privacy- was bizarrely out of character, and John did not quite know what to do with it.
You weren't meant to be there, you know.
Once, when Sherlock was young, he had fallen out of a tree. Regrettably, he had been unable to blame the entire incident on Mycroft, as he had been off at school at the time. Sherlock had deleted the details of why he had been in the tree in the first place, as well as the particular incident that had caused him to lose his balance and fall, but Sherlock had never deleted the feeling of landing, of the velocity of his body striking the hard, unforgiving ground and all of the oxygen in his lungs immediately dissipating.
He stood there clutching the porcelain of the sink basin so hard that his fingers were numb, trying to remember how to breathe. He had not been struck. His solar plexus and lungs were undamaged. He had not been shot, nor had fallen from a great distance.
Hearing John's explanation caused him to react in the same way.
Sherlock was not... this was not something he... It made nosense! Stubbornly, he refused to meet his own reflection in the mirror. He forced himself to suck in a gasping, heaving breath, knowing that he sounded like an asthmatic.
He became aware that his knees felt wobbly and Sherlock sank to the floor, turning so his legs were stretched out in front of him, back against the tub staring blankly at the door. He desperately needed to bring his hard drive back online, because he felt like all of his synapses had gone on strike. His mind was wrapped in cotton wool, the thoughts fuzzy and indistinct.
If this was one of the so-called "benefits" of embracing strong emotion, then Sherlock wanted no part of it.
Sherlock became aware that he hadn't, in fact, lost consciousness. Still breathing, then. Obvious. His breaths were a little too fast, and he made a concentrated effort to calm the pace of each inhale and exhale.
This was ridiculous. He had no time for such ... nonsense. Mycroft had given him three hours, and Sherlock knew better than anyone that if he did not present a fully-realized and operable plan then Mycroft would take over the entire operation. Sherlock would be neither invited, nor needed, and John would be... gone.
Unacceptable.
Sherlock found himself fully aware of the irony of using John as a... emotional barometer. Now though, the barometer was giving him readings Sherlock could not process.
Sherlock made a face at the loo roll.Thisis what he had come to. Maudlin Metaphors. And alliteration, apparently. Still... he did not have time for an extended jaunt into his Mind Palace. Instead, he shut his eyes, drawing himself into his thinking pose, and firmly boxed up the feeling of John's lips pressed to his trembling ones, the feel of John's fingers cupping his jaw, on John's taste, on what it felt like to wake up next to...
His stomach lurched, shoulders sagging in defeat. How was he meant to process all this? It was just... too much. His clumsy attempts to get John to notice him, to want him even slightly as much as Sherlock wanted him had all contributed to the mess he now found himself in. Sherlock had pushed and schemed... and now? Sherlock sucked in another breath, biting his lip. He couldn't think like this, and if he couldn't think then...
The door flew open with a crash. Sherlock jumped, adrenaline flooding his system. John caught the door on autopilot, stepping inside and into Sherlock's space. He stood there with his shoulders heaving, staring at Sherlock as though he had to memorize every inch of his skin. As though there'd be a quiz later. Sherlock was not quick enough to process the emotions on John's face before they were abruptly stifled. Why was he..? Oh.Oh. Obvious. The knowledge of what John thought was inexplicably painful. He bent his head, staring hard at the floor, clasping his hands in front of him between his raised legs.
"I was not running in here to shoot up, John." Sherlock didn't even try to mask the exhausted apathy in his tone. What was the point? One shouldn't trust an addict. Every action, everyreaction was to be under constant scrutiny. It spoke of a lack of trust, and really. What reason had Sherlock given John to trust him? Everything that John had said out there had the appalling distinction of beingtrue. Sherlock's throat tightened, the feeling causing his eyes to burn.This is what his actions had produced. His "grand" plan. John was right. Sherlock really was immeasurably stupid.
To Sherlock's great surprise, John did not nod and leave him to his misery. Had Sherlock not been feeling quite so gutted, he would have smiled to see yet another instance where John Watson did the unexpected. Sherlock jerked his gaze up from the floor when he felt John sit down beside him with a little grunt of pain as his knees popped. John did not put the expected distance between them, instead sitting so that their shoulders and thighs touched, John's legs stretched out in front of him. They were quiet for several minutes until John slowly reached out and touched Sherlock's cold hands, spindly fingers tangled together so tightly that they looked bloodless. Sherlock was struck by the visual of John's fingers on his, and stared stupidly for several minutes.
"I don't think we could have fucked this up more if we'd planned it all out in advance."
Sherlock was shocked into a snort of agreement, and turned to John. John moved so that he trailed his hands up from Sherlock's clasped ones, up his arm, to his shoulder until he was cupping Sherlock's neck, straining up a little so that he could tip their heads together. Sherlock felt his traitorous heart give a feeble sort of leap, only have it lodge firmly in his throat when John spoke.
"I'm not sorry, Sherlock. I won't be kept safe like some damsel in distress. You said that it could be dangerous and..."
"Here you are." Sherlock's voice was not his own, deeper and gritty than his normal speaking voice.
"Here I am." Sherlock could not see John's mouth from this angle, but he could tell from the words that his doctor was smiling. Incredible. Unfathomable.Never. Boring.
Neither one of them moved for quite awhile, even though Sherlock's head felt like it was stretching like a piece of taffy, ready to fall off his neck. He became aware that they were breathing in sync. It was strangely calming, and made the crushed, sick feeling in his stomach dissipate somewhat. Perhaps Sherlock had not ruined everything after all? Could that be even possible?
John sighed and pulled away slowly. Sherlock was at once utterly heartbroken and simultaneously filled with the shaky beginnings of hope. Though John had not initiated a kiss, he had not pushed Sherlock away either. Though Sherlock was gutted, the affection heartened him; perhaps... perhaps Johndidwant him... not as a lover, but maybe still as a friend?
Sherlock was a glutton in all things he found interesting, but in this perhaps he should not ... push. Let John take the lead for the emotional side. Sherlock copied John's movement, letting his head fall back against the glass of the shower with a small thud. With John here it didn't hurt as much to attempt to box up all his feelings once again. Well, perhaps notallof them. And if the boxes were more... baskets with ill-fitting lids, that was Sherlock's problem. He had no doubt that he could do this.
But not without his blogger. Not without John.
"Your arse of a brother will likely parachute through the fireplace if we do not stick to his three hour warning. Although, I am curious to see what he would do if we weren't ready."
And just like that, everything clicked into place. Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath, his body tensing before he sprung up, like a spring that had been coiled too long. He wrapped his fingers around John's wrist and pulled him to his feet, sternly ignoring the visceral memory of what the muscles and tendons under the skin of John's wrist had looked like when he-
Sherlock huffed an impatient breath and mentally jammed the lid back onto the basket, shoving a heavy book on top of it, before flouncing out of that wing of his Mind Palace and locking the door.
"Mycroft's latest intelligence- well, Anthea's really. My brother doessoloathe fieldwork- shows Moran in London. He's been keeping his hand in trifling matters, more to taunt us than to accomplish any real crime as Moriarty had done." Sherlock couldn't help the slight pout that accompanied this statement. John caught it and hid his own smile by biting his lip. John followed him out of the loo, seating himself at the small kitchen table once again. Sherlock made a short detour for his laptop, then sat it on the table in front of the two of them.
"Sherlock..." John was strangely tentative. "I think you need to tell me everything."
Sherlock thought it was rather well-done of him that he didn't mention thathe wasn't the one who had so recently been so... distracting. Not that he minded, exactly.
Oh, damn.
He frowned mentally and added a cinder block on top of the book on top of the basket in that wing of his palace. He did not have the leisure to delete all of... that. He would simply have to concentrate.
"Of course." He opened his laptop and quickly typed his password, careful not to meet John's gaze. It wasn't cowardice per se, but he simply did not want to startle John out of this new, fragile mood; one where John wasn't particularly shouty. "As I said, Moran has been feeding Mycroft information. I did not know that you and he had been... working together to make Moran show his hand." On the whole, Sherlock was rather proud of how even his voice sounded there. He cleared his throat.
"So, now you have something that Moran wants. Shouldn't be too hard to get his attention."
Sherlock frowned down at his tracking spreadsheet. He had the data, and now knowing the final piece of John's involvement made things slot into place like the tumbler in a lock. He couldsee the elements he needed float up from his laptop screen, twisting and arranging themselves as though watching a film on fast forward, with each sequence and plan folding out in his brain with all the abruptness of a suddenly unfurled umbrella. Sherlock frowned slightly. Umbrellas. Mycroft. Would need to be in place; this plan unfortunately required the use of his minions. The timing would have to be impeccable. And John. John was simply vital, like the oxygen added to flame before the explosion.
"What are you thinking, Sherlock?"
Sherlock blinked, frowning, the images in his mind floating away, leaving John's familiar face blinking at him. He was uncomfortably aware that he had been staring for several minutes, lost utterly in his palace.
"How are your injuries?"
John's eyebrow rose. "Bit sore. Nothing I can't handle."
Sherlock once again saw their earlier act-
No.
Saw John sitting next to him in the loo, waiting, mirroring Sherlock's pose. John had acted in Sherlock's best interests, performing the service that he needed the most at the time, utterly ignoring his own not inconsequential pain from Moran's last attempt to play with them.
Sherlock could not stop the barrage of images; his eidetic memory seeing with perfect detail John in that sodding fuckingboxcurled up, terrified, naked and somehow smaller than John should ever be, his arm wavering as he raised the gun...
With a movement so sudden that it caused John to jump slightly in his chair, Sherlock reached out to grab his mobile, noting with a twist of his lips that his arse of a brother had sent a text moments before, no doubt knowing exactly what had transpired here. It had perhaps been a bit ambitious to think that Mycroft would not know his every move.
-Will return in ten minutes, little brother. Be ready.
Ugh. Insufferable prat.
John didn't like this.
John didn't like this atall.
He had accepted that there would be a certain level of smoke and mirrors when dealing with Sherlock, but once Mycroft was added into the mix…
John felt like he was in an overly dramatic Bond film.
First was the choice of location. Sherlock had sworn that their meeting place was not his preference, and indeed had shown John the text that Moran had sent with the address. John's throat had tightened. He did not think that he would ever forget that address- the smell of chlorine or the claustrophobic pull of that fucking parka weighted with Semtex. Sherlock had seemed oddly blasé about the entire thing, as though the choice of location had no secondary memory for him at all. Perhaps he had deleted it. That possibility bothered John more than he wanted to admit.
The setting of the pool lent a level of ambience that was, quite frankly, ridiculous. Sherlock had said, almost offhandedly, that there had been some teenagers who had drowned after roughhousing. They had fallen over the upper decks and one boy had struck his head on the concrete, dying instantly when he broke his neck. Sherlock had sniffed and muttered something about Darwin-'Darwin? Ofcourse, I know who Charles Darwin was, John.Obviously.'- winning in the end, but as a result the area was still under renovation. The workers had quite obviously left rather quickly. Mycroft's doing, of course. The detritus of a busy workday still hung about with paint, scaffolding and the materials to build up the railing. The pool must have recently been refilled, with its cover covering the width of most of the length of the pool. Clearly they had left part of it uncovered to test for chemicals. The lights were off, leaving everything quite dark. The changing rooms had already been renovated, so that there were fewer rooms but slightly larger, offering more privacy. You could no longer see anyone's feet when they changed, and the doors had locks. It all provided a strange realization: this was not a film. This was very, very real.
Still, that seemed all on the up and up, until John factored in the fact that if Moran picked their meeting place, then there had to be some sort of plan involved. Second was to sweep the area and make sure that Mycroft had his people in place. No bombs that they could find (given their location- John wouldreally rather have some sort of definitive proof that there were no bombs anywhere about, thanks.) and Mycroft's minions were deployed around the area, on scaffolding and in the bleachers above.
It was beyond mad that Mycroft's people were likely in the same places that Moriarty's snipers had been. It was a little awe-inspiring (not to mention terrifying) that Mycroft could make things happen so easily. And so quickly. Well, not that Mycroft was there. Fieldwork. John smirked.
Anthea was on-site instead, curled up in one of the locker rooms, and John honestly couldn't say that her presence made him feel any less arbitrary. She had obviously had extensive military training that made John feel a little abashed that his form wasn't quite as precise as hers. Sherlock, John, Mycroft and Athena all had small earpieces so that they could communicate. Athena would handle the minions, Sherlock would handle Moran (per the text) and John... well John was not entirely sure what his function was. He could not see her from his hidden perch in the small press box. He had a bird's eye view of Sherlock pacing fretfully. He could see the shadowy outline of the ten SIS agents, but only because he was looking for them. It was frustrating beyond belief that he was up here, where it was quite obviously deemed rather more safe, than down by the pool with Sherlock. Per the usual, he was on the outskirts of Sherlock's orbit. Sherlock had been insistent on John's presence, if not his involvement.
Waiting on the signal that Moran was approaching was intolerable. He could hear the rhythm of Sherlock pacing, the staccato click of his shoes echoing slightly on the concrete around the pool. Sherlock's nervous energy was almost contagious. John pressed his forehead against the cool wood of the booth, fighting to get the adrenaline under control.
"Small motorbike approaching."
Anthea's clear, calm voice caused everyone in the facility to jerk to attention. Mycroft had cleared the neighbourhood for three blocks in all directions, so an approach of a vehicle was a cause of interest.
"One rider, male. Knapsack on his back."
John sucked in a shaky breath, tensing his muscles, ready for action. He wasn't as sore as he expected, but supposed that the sudden spike of adrenaline was cause for some his wires being crossed.
"Let him approach." John could see Sherlock straighten, focusing on the door of the facility with every pore of his body. John shivered a little. John heard the calm voice in his ear tracking the movements of the lone motorbike's occupant. The door swung open with a bang and John watched Sherlock flinch, immediately aware that it was not Moran in front of them. The man was dressed in biker leathers, and was both taller and heavier than Moran.
"Sherlock Holmes?"
Sherlock cocked his head. John couldn't see his face from this angle, but could guess that he was rolling his eyes.
"Obviously. Where's Moran?"
"I've been instructed to give you this." The man reached into his jacket and things got rather intense for the next few minutes, with three agents appearing out of nowhere, forcing the man to his knees, then onto the concrete surface around the pool as they searched him.
John froze, hearing something that sent his heart thudding crazily in his chest. He felt as though he'd been punched in the stomach, hard and fast.
"Sherlock."
Sherlock ignored him, all his attention on the man on the floor. One small part of John's mind was glad to see that he seemed to have listened to his and Anthea's warnings, and was somewhat patiently (well, patient for Sherlock) waiting for the SAS to do their jobs.
John heard it again and his skin crawled. That wasn't possible.
"Sherlock..."
Sherlock glanced briefly up at him, his attention obviously diverted. John decided to investigate for himself. It wasn't like his post was necessary to the plan after all. That was why he was up here and the action was down there. Crouching, he made his way out of the press box, waiting until he was almost there before speaking again. John's time in the military had given him many skills, and moving silently was only one of them. "There's a ... ringtone. It's muffled. I think it's up on the scaffolding." John started moving carefully, listening to the damnable ringtone grow louder and louder as he moved closer. He wasn't sure what made him pop the earpiece out of his ear, but it seemed dreadfully important that he make absolutelycertain, absolutelypositivethat what he was hearing was correct.
It was Stayin' Alive. Moriarty's ringtone.
John felt like he was moving through treacle. He could hear his heartbeat thudding in his ears.
From far away, John heard Anthea's tinny-sounding voice tell him to stop his approach and ignored her as he walked towards the large construct of scaffolding. He could hear conversation by the pool- the unidentified man insisting that he was just supposed to give something to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and only Sherlock Holmes, to Sherlock's confusion when the object was just an envelope.
John climbed up the ladder, wincing at the pull in his shoulder. "Looks like a box." He couldn't see much. It was a shadowy object in the corner of the scaffolding. The sound of the ringtone was loud enough to pick up over John's earpiece, and he heard Sherlock's "oh" of surprise the same time Anthea's voice cracked across the earpiece, shouting. "John,stop!"
John didn't particularly want to stop. His mind was whirling with the idea that this was oh, so obviously a trap, that he should spring it before Sherlock was hurt, that something was going on that not even Mycroft could control. He felt his shoulder screaming at him, warning him that taking his weight that way after being dislocated was a very, very bad idea.
"John."
Sherlock's long fingers tightened around his wrist, halting his hand before he could touch the box. It looked to be an old-fashioned steamer trunk, that wasn't there before during their initial checks. John could see the weathered leather, the brass straps and large combination lock; anachronistic with the age of the trunk. John flinched as he blinked back to himself, confused as to how Sherlock could be here on the scaffolding with him. Sherlock was breathing heavily as though he had just chased down a criminal, sweat lightly dusting his upper lip.
Dimly, the part of John's subconscious with the medical degree bleated about PTSD and shock, but that did not keep him from reaching again to the trunk. The box.John had been in a box. Was there someone there? WasMoriarty there? Sherlock had cleverly faked his death, and Moriarty was at least as clever as Sherlock so-"
"John." Sherlock's fingers tightened on his wrist, then let go as though burnt when John looked up to meet his eyes. Sherlock had been holding him so tightly that the imprint of his fingers flared pink before fading to John's normal skin tone, visible even in the shadowy darkness of their hiding spot.
"Oi, is 'e okay?" The head of one of the MI6 popped up on the other end of the scaffolding, pulling himself up and grunting in pain as he knocked his knee on one of the paint cans. There were roughly thirty feet from one end of the wood to the other, with the box situated on the far end, near John and Sherlock. The MI6 agent bent to rub his knee and when he stood, the moonlight flashed malevolently on the Browning High Power the man held in his hand and John felt Sherlock go very, very still next to him.
"Come over here, Johnny boy."
John could not help the small, hurt sound he made at hearing that voice again. Gone was the accent, the attempt to hide in plain sight. Moran stood there with one eyebrow raised in triumph as John tried to swallow against the sudden lump of terror in his throat. With a blink, every single way Moran had tortured him sped through his mind like a film on fast forward. He took a step back, noticing almost absently that Sherlock's hand had clamped onto his shoulder like a vice, turning his body slightly so that he was closer to Moran than John was.
No. That wasn't right. He should protect Sherlock, not ...
"You've gone to a great bit of trouble to get us here. What is it that you want?"
"John, you have five seconds to move next to me and kneel or I will shoot Sherlock in the head. BOOM. Some of that clever might get all ... over... you..."
Oh god. His voice. That bloody sing-song cadence again. Too much like Moriarty. Moriarty too much like Moran. Was it on purpose? Affected? John sucked in his breath and pulled his mind back to Moran's order, moving forward, kneeling and placing his hands behind his head. No. Maybe he would just shoot him, let Sherlock have enough time to go, to get away to...
"Move a little... yes. Good." John felt the cold barrel of the gun against his head. "Good little pet, isn't he. Jim wasn't very fond of him, but I'm starting to see the appeal. So!" Moran grinned. "Here's the deal. Sherlock, you like puzzles. I will give you a puzzle, but you must solve it quickly. I see that you opened the envelope I gave you, yeah?"
Sherlock was strangely silent, his attention focused inward. John was almost unsurprised to see four laser red sights dance over the paleness of Sherlock's skin. There were already too many parallels to what had happened here previously.
"You..." Sherlock's voice was blank, the look on his face slowly morphing to one of acute confusion. "This." His eyes darted around to where his brother's minions should have been before skittering back towards John.
Moran threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoing eerily through the pool. "Are you putting it together yet? Have you figured it out?" John felt the scrape of the barrel of the gun move from the base of his skull up to his temple. "No?" Moran made a tsking sound.
The ringtone went off once again, startling Sherlock into a flinch.
"Ah, Ah Ah Ah... Sherlock! You look like you need a clue. Whatever is the matter? Can't think so well when your precious Johnny boy is being threatened?" Moran's tone changed, becoming more intense, focused. "I could just shoot him now and be done with it."
Sherlock's tongue flicked out to wet his lips in a wholly uncharacteristically nervous gesture, his gaze falling to John's before jumping back to the trunk. It gave John almost a physical jolt. John could see shock there, terror. Desperation. It all helped push the floaty, bizarre feeling down somewhat, allowing John to think. It was not easy. He could smell the chlorine from the pool, and the slightly sour stench of Moran's sweat, memorable in brutal detail from when John was on that table in the warehouse.
John would get Sherlock out of this. He couldn't begin to say where everything had gone to shit with their little plan, but he would be damned if Sherlock did not make it out alive, preferably unscathed. He could do that much.
"You won't. You need me, and you know that I won't coopera-"
"Ah, but I don't. Need you. Such arrogance. Do you really think that I would set up this little party just for you? I.had. you.But, yes, it is time to move this along. All this drama. It does make me miss Jim. Did love his bit of theatre, that one."
Moran was quiet for a moment. John felt like he was clawing his way out of a tub of oatmeal, his synapses slow and uncoordinated with disuse. He understood that he had missed something... something vital in Moran's speech, but could not focus well enough to make the connection.
"Now. Sherlock, you've no doubt worked out how this will all play out. My associates have informed me that big brother will be here soon. I've left a few... surprises for him. I know he rarely does field work and one must make an effort to make it... exciting." Moran's grin gleamed in the moonlight. "And what he finds here will depend largely on you. You've no doubt already worked out what my little present is. Of course you did, clever boy. Now here's the rub." Moran kicked at John, who actually lost his balance for a moment before catching himself. White-hot agony flared and for a moment, John thought he was going to lose his balance and topple off the scaffolding. Moran had kicked him hard where he'd been hurt, and John could feel the healing, fragile skin tear in protest. "Standup!"
Everything tilted crazily as John clambered painfully to his feet. The jolt of agony had cleared his head somewhat, caused him to focus. He heard commotion from on the floor by the pool and had to force himself not to flinch towards his gun. The barrel of Moran's weapon was no longer pressed against John's head as he gained his feet, eyes downcast. Instead Moran had turned it on Sherlock.
He heard Sherlock make another low sound when Moran tossed the zip tie to John. "Come on now, time is wasting. Attach yourself to that pole there; one wrist should be fine. No, your dominant hand. Come on, come on. Good. Now make sure it's ti-" Moran kicked out at him again. "Unflex your wrist and tighten the fucking thing, Watson!" John did, seeing no choice. The floaty feeling had all but dissipated, leaving utter dread in its wake. Without thinking, John had effectively immobilized himself with his arm in front of his body in such a way that he had to twist painfully to still be able to see Sherlock. Stupid,stupid!The muscles in his shoulder stretched and burned, tendons and ligaments spasming painfully. Terror left a sour taste in his mouth.
"Now. Sherlock. You have exactly two choices. In a moment, that ringtone is going to go off once again. You will make the decision- either you open it and I shoot your little pet here, or you give him the envelope so that he opens the trunk, and I shoot you. If you refuse, of course, the last thing you see of Johnny here is the blood spray when I put a bullet in his brain. Decide before the tone stops, Sherlock. Either way, big brother is going to find quite the mess when he arrives."
"This is to get Mycroft."
Moran snorted. John jerked his shocked gaze up to Moran, but before he could say anything Sherlock stood, baring his shoulders. "Ofcourse it's to get to Mycroft." His smile turned nasty.
"Sherlo-"
The ringtone went off.
John cut off what he was saying so quickly that he bit his own tongue. John watched as Sherlock stood frozen in indecision, eyes darting around the pool for the briefest of seconds before settling on John's. He was utterly floored to see that Sherlock's eyes were wet with the shimmer of unshed tears. He watched Sherlock swallow so hard his Adam's apple bobbed. Sherlock's lips trembled once before he turned and began furiously working at the combination lock.
"Sherlock don't you fucking-" John mangled the sentence before Sherlock had the lock undone. He heard Moran start to laugh, heard the twoclicksas the trunk's fastenings sprung up, and couldn't help the scream ripping from his throat as everything exploded.
To his later shame, it took John what felt like several minutes to react. He clearly saw the force of the flashbomb cause Sherlock to stagger backwards, and the shape of something flying through the air, burying itself in Sherlock's body. Already off-balance from the shock of the explosion almost directly in his face, Sherlock fell in what, to John, seemed like painfully slow motion, arcing off the scaffolding and into the pool. Once Sherlock landed, everything sped up to real time. Sherlock's limbs sprawled helplessly onto the plastic warming cover of the pool. The splash of water geysered as the force of Sherlock's landing drove him down to the bottom of the pool, water weighing the top of the plastic down so that Sherlock was wrapped in it, trapped under several feet of water. John didn't even realize he was trying to jump after him until the sharp edges of the zip tie cut into the meat of his wrist.
Moran was actually hunched over, still chuckling, as though John had told him a joke with a mildly amusing punchline. "It wouldn't be fair if you didn't have a choice too, Johnny!" Thesnick of a switchblade caused all of John's attention to focus on the gleam of the blade. "Either I escape into the ether, and drop this for you, orrrrrr..."
Later, John could not coherently say what Moran had offered. His long-dormant instinct had his weapon back in his hand, firing before Moran could finish his taunt. There had not even been enough time for Moran's face to register shock before the neat little bullet hole sent Moran to his knees before careening sideways off the scaffolding, landing with a broken-sounded clatter on the spectator seats below them.
Desperately John cast about for the switchblade and saw it gleaming, caught precariously against one of the paint cans, acutely aware that the thrashing sounds from the pool were slowing down. John felt the plastic cut into his wrist again, blood making the surface slippery as he reached for it, just barely grabbing the end with his searching fingertips. Panic was clawing at his mind as John began counting in his head, cutting himself free with a small grunt of pain.
Now that John could see, his heart plummeted into his gut. The cover had moved with the force of Sherlock's landingstill, it was still, it wasn't fucking movingso that it would not be possible for John to dive into the water without becoming wrapped in the deathly plastic himself. John scrambled down the ladder and sprinted for the pool, knowing he was too late but unable to make himself stop.
There was another explosion to his left and the sound of shouting but John didn't spare either a glance before was plunging into the water, slicing at the plastic with the knife. He saw the bloom of crimson as Sherlock bled out into the water and refused to stop, the counting in his brain reaching red, terrifying digits like a furnace whose indicator had gone to the danger zone. John finally was able to plunge underwater and free Sherlock from the plastic, but the small switchblade had not been able to do its job quickly enough to help Sherlock. His face was pale; eyes open and dull as John sliced the plastic away from him, pushing up from the bottom of the pool so they both broke the surface. John gasped oxygen in two great gulps, only to lose it as he almost went back under. Sherlock wascrushinglyheavy, and John almost lost his grip twice as he struggled to get them to the edge of the pool.
There was no time for this!
John fought the hands that reached down to him when they pulled Sherlock's body from the water, instinct warring with common sense before he let him go. John pulled himself from the water and pushed the black-clothed person out of the way, already moving to start rescue breathing. He had to work around the large bolt in Sherlock's shoulder. Dimly, he became aware that Anthea fell to her knees beside him, taking Sherlock's wrist and feeling for a pulse, still bleeding freely from a gash in her temple, contusions already blooming on the side of her chest compressions- and the irony of fact that John was pressing to the mental tune of 'Stayin' Alive was not lost on him-, check breathing. Tilt. Airway. Breath. Breath. Press. Press. Press. Press. Press. Press...
The swirling mass of chaos around him seemed far away as John worked, pushing out all doubt. Time was meaningless. All his focus was on Sherlock's unresponsive chest, his cold, clammy lips.
The wet cough and gurgle was the sweetest sound John had ever heard. John moved back, turning Sherlock on his side as he coughed and wheezed, vomiting up water and bile. John knew that he was clutching Sherlock's shirt, that he was still in shock by the way he suddenly became aware of Mycroft staring at the both of them, eyes narrowed. John dropped his forehead to Sherlock's, heart still thundering with reaction. His eyes burned, so he shut them, just breathing for a moment. John felt the cool slide of Sherlock's cold fingers on his cheek and his eyes fluttered open, moving away just a little so that he could meet Sherlock's gaze with his own.
"Juh-John."
TBC
Okay yeah the formatting is a bit farked up? I'm not exactly sure why. If you see something I missed, please let me know. Final chapter/Epilogue up by Wednesday!
(NOTES:Specifics for this chapter are: Angst, discussion of suicide, PTSD, Drowning, medically but TEMPORARY character death, mind fuckery, and overly dramatic bad guys.)