Genre: Drama, angst, friendship
Spoilers: End of series 2, "The Reichenbach Fall"
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence, mentions of drugs, swearing

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Doomed to Crash


People scream, scramble from their seats, rush towards the doors as flames lick at the walls, cross the floor, reach for the compartments. The plane dips, its inner structure screeching in protest as it is twisted by the intercontinental current. I am glued to my seat, doomed to observe and deduce my fellow travellers, to read their thoughts.

A male, recently married, his shining wedding ring the proof, office worker, wealthy. His wife, in the first months of pregnancy. An elderly gentleman, a frequent visitor to India, tanned, haggard, wrinkled, wearing a shirt which barely protects him from the ferocious air conditioning on board. Two Indian students, on return to their chemistry studies somewhere in the north of England. All condemned of the vanity of manhood to succeed over nature, of the arrogance of sending millions of human beings onto their respective journeys high above the earth with the help of steel, plastics and carbon fibres. All of them, including me, are doomed to suffer their fate as an offering to the God of Flight.

The huge aircraft dips again, violently, and I scream, grasped by the pull of gravity. Suddenly, I am falling, a solid structure behind me, rain hitting my body, panic tensing my every muscle. The impact shatters every single one of the twohundred and six bones of my human body, but there´s no pain, only a dull throbbing in my chest as I cry out in awe. John is calling me in his best doctor voice to me to stay awake, to stay with him, to live. His voice is unfamiliar, strangely high-pitched and soft, and I don´t trust it and keep floating until he grips my shoulder.

"Sir? Sir? Are you alright?" the same voice asks and I wonder why my best friend is calling me "Sir" and open my eyes, only to find myself scrutinized by a flight attendant. "Are you alright?" she repeats her question.

Blinking, I stretch my legs, feelig the pounding ache of the knife wound on my chest. "Only a bad dream," I answer tiredly, my voice slightly slurrying. She leans closer, flashing me her best ready-for-service-smile. "Can I get you anything?"

"A glass of water, please. And a blanket."

She nods, leaves and is back in a wink, leaving me to the comfort of the thin blue microfibre fabric and the consolation of two strong, morphine-based painkillers.

One week in Delhi, and Chandra saw a need to ration my dosage. One week in Delhi and I have taken up smoking again. One week in Delhi and I know that Moran is the secret force of Moriarty´s web and as congenial an opponent as Moriarty was, if only a very different type.

After one week in Delhi, on my final journey back to London, my confidence whether I will win this game is rapidly faltering.

Mycroft has booked a British Airways "Class World" arrangement on my request, since Roylott junior is on the same plane. One of Chandra´s friends has informed us accordingly just in time. Chandra and I have watched Roylott checking in his luggage, and it looked suspiciously large for a one-week-trip. My Indian host has accompanied me to the gates, pulling me into a tight hug, slipping a small package into the pocket of my jeans. It held a plain silver bracelet, elegantly crafted, wide enough to mask the edge of the scar which marks my left forearm as long as I wear long-sleeved clothing. "Will keep you from harm," his note said, and I smiled. I felt bad for cheating on him when I entered the pharmacist, determined to buy some more of the tablets Chandra had so reliably made sure I wouldn´t take too many of.

They are not at all having the desired effect, since they seem to warp my already violent nightmares into even darker, futile scenes. And they are weak substitutes for the cigarettes I crave and not allowed to light on bord.

My thoughts return to the problem at hand, Roylott and Moran. Mycroft didn´t know that Moran would be in Delhi, trading snow leopard furs for opium, but he must have been suspicious of the man. The Colonel is obviously one of the most important people in the web´s drug-dealing business. He has most probably been promoted from being Morbier´s personal torture expert to his current position. But there is no evidence so far that he is Moriarty´s heir. Even if he is not, though, he is a very determined man. And he will remember my face, though perhaps not yet suspect my identity.


After nineteen months and two days and an eleven-hour flight I am finally setting my feet on London ground again, hopefully to never leave again. As I walk through customs, Roylott not far behind, I lean towards one of the officers, discreetly pointing at Roylott´s large suitcase.

"I would take a closer look at this man´s luggage, if I were you," I prod. "He was boasting the whole flight about big game hunting and how proud he is of his prize." On my swift and discreet departure I spot the officials rounding on Roylott, still smiling when my mobile notifies me of a new message. Mycroft, telling me where to meet.

On my way to arrivals, entrance three, I step out of the building several entrances earlier to hastily smoke one of my well-hidden cigarettes. No use in aggravating my brother already.

Mycroft has come in his private limousine. "Welcome to London," he greets me, eyeing me with concern, before he steers the vehicle out on the street. We were never too enthusiastic on meeting in recent years, and I am weary of the secret plans he might have devised for me. Anyway, he has already seen what he needed to estimate my condition: my tanned face, my bandaged hand, my ever so slightly dilated pupils.

Since his remark has brought back a memory I would rather not be reminded of, of the first chase through London streets with John, I prefer to remain silent. In return, I observe his stiffer than usual posture, his adverted eyes and the force his knuckles lock with on the steering wheel.

Something is wrong. Very wrong.

"What is it?" I ask.

Mycroft doesn´t answer while he avoids the shortcut to the motorway, taking us onto a route which brings us straight into the heart of the city. The main afternoon traffic has ceased, and we are passing familiar sights and places. I realize that he takes the scenic route to his house on purpose and I am grateful for this small act of brotherly kindness.

"Your place?" I finally ask, terribly tired and already freezing in face of the November night outside even though the heating is on full blast.

"Only for one night. There are several things you must know before we proceed," he replies.

"Moran was in Delhi," I report. "He sells opium."

Mycroft nods. "He is the main force behind the web´s drug business in south England and Scotland. What is your impression?"

"He´s as much a tiger as Moriarty was a spider. He´s a force to be reckoned with."

My brother sends me a glance. "I thought so. He is clever, too. Too clever to believe in our ruse, actually. Or at least very distrustful." A traffic light stops us and he faces me fully, his face clouded by a frown. "No use keeping it from you any longer. John has been attacked. He´s in hospital."

My heart clenches. "How?" I breathe hoarsely.

"Two men clubbed him unconscious with iron bars while he was visiting your grave. He suffered a major head injury."

"I need to see him," I croak, numb with shock.

Mycroft shakes his head. "You can´t. I suspect Moran wanted to trick us. He wants a reaction. If you go and see John now, the two of you are dead. Oh, and please refrain from assuring me again that you are dead," he proceeds, stopping me in my tracks. "It´s getting tedious, Sherlock."

Leaning back in my seat, I can´t stop my whirling thoughts. My brother has closed the subject and will not answer any additional questions at present, so I make an effort to stifle my impatience and want to hear more.

This doesn´t help to ban the feeling of guilt which is slowly building up. John has been gravely injured because a criminal maniac wanted information about Mycroft´s plans, about me. This was never supposed to be the result of my betrayal of John at St. Bart´s. It should never have happened, John should have stayed safe. Protected.