SPOILERS: for dialogues from season 2 from part 7 onwards.
Disclaimer: Sherlock and John belong to ACD's grey cells, and each other in that order... Although the B.B.C. version receives full credit for inspiring me to put a pen to paper.
Summary:An AU, where John is Jim Moriarty's fiancé. He finds out about Jim's job and agrees to testify against him, and is put into protective custody as a result, under the alias Victor Trevor. Sherlock meets Victor, sparks fly. Written for a truly unique prompt on the shkinkmeme; so credit for inspiration goes to the OP.
Author's notes:This was something I was working on before Reichenbach happened and temporarily derailed it. The story is now on the verge of completion. This will be a multi-chaptered fic and I will be posting atleast one part weekly. My first real attempt at S/J, so please be gentle.
"Turn around, Sherlock and don't forget the rules," Jim sounded indecently happy.
Sherlock took a deep breath and whirled on the spot to find his brother calmly seated on the chair before the fire-place. On closer scrutiny, he appreciated the fake façade for what it was. Mycroft wasn't himself at all. Every controlled twitch of his face held barely-reined in fury. "Hello Mycroft," Sherlock made his voice deliberately jaunty. "Fancy seeing you here. On a Wednesday afternoon, no less. Shocking!"
His voice didn't betray the panic he was feeling. Unlike the rest of the world, he was fully aware of the scope and extent of his brother's powers. He was caught. The cavalry was probably on its way, or waiting just beyond the door, to hush it all up. It wouldn't be prison for him; that would not be acceptable for a man in Mycroft's position. But there were other ways- the easiest would be to have Sherlock declared mentally unstable and confined in some private facility. A fate worse than a prison sentence, a fate worse than death, to be locked away in a padded room like John… John needs you. Get a grip!
"How…"
"How did I know that my brother was committing treason by stealing highly classified documents from my house, right under my nose?" Mycroft's voice dripped with contempt. "It was simple. I had your clearance revoked six months ago. The instant you offered up the Bruce-Partington Plans on a public forum as bait to a terrorist bomber, you became a security threat I didn't intend to take lightly. However, I never anticipated that my suspicions would be confirmed so dramatically. This is the first time in my life that I have no pleasure in being proved right. As for how I came to be here, you ought to choose your friends more carefully, Sherlock. Even if I had trusted you implicitly, it is hard to ignore a message that warns me with an exact date and time of the supposed attempt."
"Ooops!" Jim cackled in his ear. "Seems like it won't be so easy after all. Go ahead, Sherlock- convince him."
"Mycroft… I can see what it looks like-"
Mycroft stood up slamming his umbrella on the floor in a burst of fury. "What it looks like Sherlock is that you seem to be working with Jim Moriarty now. I see no bombs strapped to you and I have had the rest of your contacts checked. They are all safe and secure, so I don't presume that he has taken any hostages compelling you to take this step. What it looks like is that your lack of common-sense coupled with boredom have lead you to shake hands with the devil. Have I missed anything?"
"Oh, he's gooood! Come on, Sherlock, aren't you going to explain yourself at all?" Jim taunted.
Sherlock felt the tremor that shuddered down his back. "If you are so sure that your brother's turned traitor, why am I still free?"
The expression on Mycroft's face was disturbingly painful. "I promised Mummy I would look after you. It is for the sake of my word to her that I'm offering you a final chance, Sherlock. Leave the case and return to Baker Street. I'll make arrangements for you to leave England tomorrow, get you as far away from Jim Moriarty as I can. It's my only offer and it's non-negotiable."
"Oh this is just priceless! The Iceman melts. No back-up!" The chortling tone transformed to hypnotic, persuasive. "You know what you have to do, Sherlock. Get on with it."
But Sherlock simply couldn't threaten one man for sake of the other. If he went through with the next step, he had to be prepared to see it through. The fingers of his free hand touched the gun in his coat-pocket and flicked the safety off. But he couldn't bring himself to draw it out.
Something of his internal struggle must have flashed on his face for an instant, as Mycroft took a step forward, a puzzled frown diluting the anger on his face.
Jim's hissed reply over the line was like a promise, "I broke John Watson's heart on the off chance that it would get you to play the game, Sherlock. If you screw this up, it'll be his body this time. By the time I'm through with him, he'll beg me to-"
Before he realised, Sherlock had drawn the gun in one smooth motion and pointed it squarely at his brother's forehead.
Mycroft reeled a step back in shock as his hand clenched on the handle of his umbrella. In the next instant he recovered enough to speak though there was a little-heard urgency in his voice. "Don't be stupid, Sherlock. Do you think you can simply shoot me and walk out of here?"
"Sentiment, Mycroft? You really shouldn't have made me an exception to your rule. You have informed no one. There's no back-up. You cared too much about me to have me arrested as a traitor. Huge mistake."
"Don't throw your life away, Sherlock. Whatever he's promised you, it's not worth it."
"Yes it is." The fervent conviction in Sherlock's voice brought a thoughtful expression to Mycroft's face. Seeing as his brother made no move to stop him, he turned to leave. He prayed Mycroft would let him leave without any further interference but-
"And how do you plan on getting the case open, Sherlock?" he called. He turned to find that Mycroft's stance had relaxed somehow and Sherlock knew that Mycroft had figured out that Sherlock was acting under duress. This was his move to unmask any hidden players. Sherlock desperately shook his head a fraction, but Mycroft ignored him and his eyes seemed to linger for a moment on Sherlock's jacket pocket before coming back to his face. His eyes had hardened but the disappointment and anger of a few minutes before had disappeared.
"Even a single mistaken attempt to punch in the code would activate a self-destruct mechanism which would destroy the contents of the box completely. It's obvious that only I am privy to the code."
It was his brother's own way of throwing down the gauntlet.
John had stiffened visibly when the phone had rung. When Moran answered it, what he could hear of the one-sided conversation made his palms clammy. Sebastian had one eye glued to the telescopic sight of the rifle, as he spoke, "Yes he's here now. Are you sure the target will follow?" Whatever Jim said brought an insane smile to his face. "You are unbelievable!" As if on cue he pressed his eye to the barrel again. "Oh there he is now, like a dog to the bone- bang on time. No… I don't see anyone else. Apparently he's all by himself. Bloody hell Jim, you're a genius… Oh alright," His eyes when they locked on John were positively shark-like, "Time for an introduction."
He smirked as he squatted in front of John drawing a photograph from his pocket. The picture looked like it had been snapped from a surveillance camera. It presumably showed the man John was supposed to shoot, holding an umbrella and standing unobtrusively behind the… was that the finance minister? In the photograph he appeared entirely nondescript- reddish brown hair, balding at the forehead, pointed nose, posh suit- a picture of gentile civility which was conveniently forgettable. If his face hadn't been marked with a pointed arrow, John would probably have ignored him entirely.
John swallowed, trying to rub his clammy hands against the back of his trousers, adrenaline making his pulse hammer against his eardrums.
"You want me to shoot someone from the Government?" he asked. He could now see why Jim needed a fall-guy. Moran rolled his eyes, "He's just a minor civil servant, nobody important… at least not officially. Though the only thing YOU should be concerned about is taking the shot and thanks to Jim that's going to be a piece of cake."
John felt hot and cold at the same time as beads of sweat popped up on his forehead. Moran smirked. "Feeling the pressure now, are we Captain? Don't worry; I've seen your record. This job is a snip for a man with your skills."
John's hands were handcuffed behind him and he could feel the tremor return in full force. How the fuck was he supposed to shoot a man if his hand won't stop shaking? He fought to bring his breathing under control. Sherlock! He reminded himself, lying helplessly on the bed as Jim… FUCK! But try as he might, his trigger-hand seemed disconnected from his body.
Moran seemed to enjoy the spectacle as he gave a disgusted chuckle and continued speaking to his Boss. "He's a quivering mess, Jim. I doubt he has enough co-ordination left to tie his shoe-laces right now. I'll do it; you don't need this piece of shit to actually pull the trigger."
However Jim's reply soured the expression on his face. "Are you sure?" He grimaced. "Fine," he spat out. "You're the boss." Without looking at John he transferred the call to speaker-mode. The unpleasant undercurrent to Jim's voice was evident. "I thought we had a deal, John." Before John could gather his wits to formulate a reply, the voice switched to a jarringly cheerful tone. "Fortunately, ONE of us is a man of our word. And I did promise you that when you had to pull the trigger, you would do so quite willingly. And unlike you I keep my promises, darling. Sebastian," the voice ordered. "Let him take a peek."
Sebastian shrugged, but every line in his body was tensed for action as he dragged John forward and unlocked his hands before pushing him towards the window.
Knowing the rules and manipulating them to his advantage had always previously determined victory or defeat in his games with Moriarty. Sherlock took pride in the indisputable fact that he seldom made fundamental errors in judgement. But at this moment, when he needed his wits the most, the solid, logical ground that he had always taken for granted seemed to be crumbling beneath his feet.
Sherlock wasn't naïve enough to have expected the insane criminal to follow his own rules. But alerting Mycroft about the theft had been like throwing in the towel, akin to shredding the game-board and setting it on fire. If Jim wanted the data, what purpose did this action serve? And just when he'd thought that defeat was certain it had been Mycroft's turn to upset all of Sherlock's predictions. He'd upended the board by acting sentimentally clichéd and human for the first time in his adult life. He had actually considered letting Sherlock go, albeit without the data. Sherlock had no reference against which to weigh such an emotional response, neither for himself nor his brother.
Now as he faced his seemingly unarmed sibling, he felt helpless for the first time since he had agreed to participate in this game. He had no idea what Jim was thinking at this very moment, nor what exactly was Mycroft planning, and the ignorance terrified him. Jim had turned him into exactly what he was supposed to be- a passive piece on the board that had no choice in the game any longer.
"Persuade him, my dear," the voice in his ear cooed. "We are going to need that code."
For all his hedonistic tendencies, no amount of pain or torture could loosen his brother's tongue. A simple non-fatal bullet placed strategically to cause maximum amount of pain would have worked on lesser men than Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock knew it was pointless but it wasn't for his benefit anyway. "I suppose it would be too much to expect that you would just give me the code, even on pain of death."
Mycroft's smile echoed in his voice, "You know me too well, Sherlock."
"Oh, to hell with it! This is getting boring." Jim grumbled. "Fine, change of plans. I've had enough of this. Motion him closer so that he's in front of the window too."
Sherlock's eyes widened in horrified understanding as he gestured Mycroft forward with the gun. Mycroft's sharp gaze never left his face as he positioned himself ideally for the sniper Jim probably had on them. That explained Seb's whereabouts.
And the situation took on a veil of unreality as the voice continued to say, "And now my sweet puppet, repeat after me, Gottle o' gear, gottle o' gear, gottle o' gear."
Sherlock's words confirmed what Mycroft had known all along but had been unable to prove- the identity of the hacker. That said, Jim Moriarty finally stepping out into the limelight to take a bow wearing his brother's face was a development he had not anticipated.
All the accumulated aggravation over the years, the cause of Sherlock's endless hostility, the time and effort put into watching his brother constantly, had been to prevent this exact scenario. Sherlock was the only chink in Mycroft's armour. The two reasons why he hadn't expected Moriarty to exploit this weakness to procure the data was that it would have been tediously predictable for someone like Jim who abhorred being unoriginal, and that he had never even for a moment considered Sherlock exploitable.
As Mycroft moved closer, the faint bruise marring Sherlock's cheekbone was thrown into sharp relief and he struggled to control a wave of anger at the self-proclaimed criminal master-mind who had dared to lay a hand on his brother. He didn't doubt that it had been Moriarty who'd dealt the blow; a minion would never be allowed to mark Sherlock like that. However the initial fury was swamped by an even greater rage at the realisation that Moriarty was somehow capable of controlling Sherlock like this. He had expected the theft, having thwarted Jim's plans repeatedly. For Jim to have got such a terrible hold over his brother implied the existence of a weakness in Sherlock's life that even Mycroft had been unaware of. Mycroft blamed himself for missing something this big and now Sherlock was paying the price.
Seeing his normally cold, stand-offish younger brother shake his head and mutely implore Mycroft to stay out of this had been the last straw. By the time this unpleasant business concluded, Jim Moriarty would be sorry for ever having touched Sherlock.
"Jim Moriarty," Sherlock croaked. "Hi!"
Mycroft squared his shoulders and stood straighter. "Mr. Moriarty, I can't say I'm surprised. Though I fancied that I deserved a more…personal introduction."
Sherlock's voice was a dead monotone. "Feisty, aren't we? How can you say this isn't personal? Admit it- you're impressed. I mean, look at him- doesn't he make a beautiful puppet?" Sherlock's gun hand didn't waver though his free had clenched into a fist at his side as he continued through gritted teeth. "Don't worry Iceman, we'll enjoy a more detailed meet and greet some other time. Right now, I'm in a bit of a hurry. So if you would hurry up and give the code to your baby brother here, we could be on our way."
"I think you overestimate your powers of persuasion. There is nothing you can threaten me with that will prompt me to reveal the key-code," Mycroft answered smoothly, his simmering anger hidden behind the bland tone of voice. "However there is another way. Unlike my brother, Mr. Moriarty, we are chiefly businessmen. So I propose a sensible course of action here. How about- I exchange places with Sherlock here. Surely it makes more business sense to procure the key along with the lock and end this unpleasant impasse at the earliest."
Sherlock's expression was locked in a pose of vehement denial which melted into barely concealed relief as he received his next set of instructions. And like a switch thrown, Mycroft saw his brother's features set into a look of determined resignation. "Oh smooth, but I don't think so, Mr. Holmes. Only I am allowed to make new rules in this game. Sure, there's nothing I can do to a big boy like you but-" Mycroft's heart skipped a beat as Sherlock's gun hand, which had so far been locked on him, moved smoothly to place the gun at his own temple- "You'll find that you've rather revealed your hand there!"
"You won't kill him," Mycroft said calmly. "Not like this. Sherlock Holmes isn't any other hostage and you and I both know that."
"True!" Though Sherlock's face had paled even further, his voice remained admirably steady. "But I only value his mind, Mr. Holmes. I could make him… shoot out his kneecaps," Sherlock's eyes closed before he uttered his next words, "Or make him paralyse himself. I don't think you fully comprehend the extent of my control over your brother. I think a demonstration is in order. If you don't spit out the code by the count of three, Sherlock will shoot his left knee off. He'll do it sooner if you try anything else."
Sherlock's voice wavered towards the end as he aimed the barrel towards his knee and Mycroft suddenly found it very difficult to breathe. "One…."
"You will regret this," Mycroft ground out. There was no masking his true emotions now. Sherlock hadn't opened his eyes, as if by keeping them closed he could spare Mycroft the sight. He knew Sherlock had already prepared to go through with it; had already calculated the outcome. Mycroft's eyes raked the angular length of his brother's arm and down to his feet. His cursed eidetic memory reminded him of every instance in the past when he had scorned Sherlock for his enthusiasm for 'legwork'.
"Two…"
There was a faint tremor marring the steady baritone and Mycroft shuddered mentally as he weighed his loyalties against his… regard for Sherlock and found that he was helpless in the face of his own decision.
"Three," This time Sherlock's voice didn't falter-
-Neither did Mycroft's as he uttered in one breath, "76951384672766."
John hadn't known what to expect as he was dragged bodily to the rifle. He watched cautiously as Seb backed away after unlocking the hand-cuffs, the gun in his hand trained unwaveringly on John's head. Some detached part of his mind wondered at what Jim could possibly contrive that would make him a willing participant in this fiasco.
As he focussed the lens, he held firm to his determination to botch the shot, no matter the consequences. But he took one look and swore involuntarily as his heart stuttered. The powerful telescopic lens made the distant image jump deceptively closer and there was a mad moment where he wished he could simply fling his hand out and disarm Sherlock…
…Sherlock bloody Holmes who was standing with a gun in his hand, squarely trained on himself, facing the unarmed man John was supposed to shoot.
FUCK!
The phone remained ominously silent and John didn't have to turn his head to know that Seb had flicked the safety off his gun. "Easy doc," the gun-man taunted. "Point and shoot, remember?"
That was when the phone cackled and Jim came back online. "Come on John, will you shoot already or will you watch on as dear Sherlock cripples himself for life." As if to underline his words, Sherlock's gun-hand dropped down to point the blasted thing at his own knee. The rim of the site was digging grooves into the flesh beneath his clothing but John couldn't tear his eyes away from the stand-off. Jim's voice took on a persuasive edge. "Your life and freedom is forfeit either way, honey. Here's your chance to make a gallant last gesture. Come on, chop chop!"
Desperate times called for desperate measures.
John had already decided to shoot when confronted with the bizarre view and his hands moved with practised precision to adjust the lens and focus on his target. He resisted the urge to thank Jim for making his job a lot easier.
In the space between two heart-beats, he sent up a silent prayer, hoping that it would work this time as well. "Please God, let him live."
He held his breath as he fired.
Sherlock's eyes snapped open before Mycroft could finish reciting the damned code.
He senses couldn't reconcile the steadiness of Mycroft's voice, betraying everything he had devoted himself to, betraying the last thirty years of his life… betraying every admonishment and hateful syllable uttered in Sherlock's presence for the last ten years.
Sherlock had never hated Mycroft more than he did in that moment when he realized that, with a single action; his brother had redeemed himself in Sherlock's eyes.
His ear-piece was ominously silent. It was time to leave.
Mycroft watched as Sherlock's eyes grew too large for his face. This was the first ever time that he had betrayed weakness in his younger brother's presence. Yet, the way Sherlock was looking at him now was very reminiscent of the time Mycroft had personally thrashed a bully who had dared to victimise his brother in school- like Mycroft had suddenly grown ten inches taller.
Before he could say anything in reassurance or warning, the adjacent window shattered with a loud crack.
Sniper! By the time his brain had reached the conclusion, Mycroft was already on the floor, reflexes and muscle memory taking over his higher thought processes momentarily. He thrust a hand in his jacket as he crawled away from the window, speed-dialling 9 on his phone which would automatically activate the coded alarm. One glance confirmed that Sherlock was on the ground as well, but he wasn't moving.
Sherlock wasn't moving!
Mycroft forgot all about the sniper as sheer panic propelled him towards Sherlock's prone form. He waited for the second bullet as he hooked his arms under his brother's shoulders and hauled him towards the safety of the kitchen. Once there, he turned over Sherlock's unresisting body and tore open the jacket to find a deep red stain spreading over the white shirt. He muttered an oath as he yanked the shirt open to find the entry wound low on the chest on the right side. Sherlock's breathing was shallow and rapid, his eyes half-closed as he muttered incomprehensibly, hands twitching weakly at his side.
The position of the entry-wound puzzled him for a moment. It wasn't possible for a sniper to miss that far. The shooter hadn't intended to kill.
Mycroft pulled a clean towel from the worktop and pressed it tightly to the entry-wound with both hands. Sherlock gasped as his eye-lids flew open to focus on Mycroft's face, pupils hugely dilated, panic etched over his expression. "Shh," Mycroft soothed. "Help's on the way, Sherlock. Just breathe." But Sherlock's hands scrabbled frantically to clutch the front of Mycroft's waist-coat, even as he struggled to speak between agonised breaths.
"John…find John Watson. Jim'll…he'll kill…Kitty…ask Kitty… central London. Find…Don't let him…" Sherlock gave a final moan before lapsing into unconsciousness.
Mycroft pressed down harder to try and staunch the bleeding as the sound of distant sirens grew louder.
(To all the readers who will continue to read the story even after a month's gap, my sincerest apologies. My only excuse is that I found this part incredibly difficult to write. I hope you liked the result.)
