Manhunt
Sherlock and John agreed on one thing: it was all Mycroft's fault.
Had Mycroft simply told John that Sherlock was alive, John would have raged, cursed, and perhaps cried, but he would have understood; and he would have complied. He would have let himself be taken to a safe place, knowing that a killer was on the loose, Moriarty's second in command, intent on finishing his original assignment and taking revenge on the man that had fooled him by faking his suicide. Moran, now knowing that Sherlock was alive, intended to kill John, so John needed protection. Only, Mycroft failed to tell him so. Granted, John refused to speak to Mycroft since the day of Sherlock's fall, blaming him for the destruction of his brother, but if Mycroft had tried, he would have reached him, and be it by talking to Mary. Mary was always the sensible one.
Yet, Mycroft had told John nothing, instead reverting to his usual method of kidnapping the doctor. Unfortunately, John was not willing to be kidnapped, and Mycroft's minions had forgotten that they were not only dealing with a benign doctor, but an ex-soldier who knew how to fight, run and disappear. Which was exactly what he did.
That sent Sherlock into a frenzy. He had barely set foot on British soil after a dramatic rescue mission organized by Mycroft – only to find John gone. Of course Mycroft had tried to conceal the fact that John had just bolted, but Sherlock had learnt a lot during his hiatus, and one thing was how to gather information. Another was how to disappear. So, within one hour, the unthinkable happened: a second man slipped through Mycroft's fingers.
Sherlock knew where John would go. Moran did, too, by tracking John, so Sherlock went there as well. Very simple. He did tell Mycroft, though, so that he could send backup. This was too dangerous to nurse old grudges and protect his pride. He needed to be fast, so he didn't take the high road – he went by boat.
John, knowing nothing, arrived by bus and walked the remaining few hundred meters, making sure the CCTV cameras only recorded a nondescript shape in the dusk. Almost at his destination, he took out his phone and texted Mary, letting her know what had happened, and that he was deeply upset and needed to clear his mind.
Upset was an understatement: his mind was racing, almost as fast as his heart. For when John had run from Mycroft's men, one of them had hissed an angry comment at his companion, a sentence that had conjured up a storm inside.
The brother will go berserk.
The brother. Whose brother, if not Mycroft's? But he was dead. Or was he? John swallowed, realising that all the pain inside had only been asleep, and now it was stirring again, tearing at his heart.
His phone buzzed: Mary was calling him.
"Are you all right?" She sounded concerned, but not annoyed. She would not tell him to stop clinging to the crazy idea that Sherlock was not dead; she understood him too well for that.
"Yeah, I'm okay, it's just – I need some time on my own." John stopped and took a deep breath.
"You think he's alive." It was a statement, not a question.
"Mary, I know it's crazy, and I had given up hoping for a miracle a long time ago, but this – this just–" defeated, he broke off, realizing how mad it must seem. "Please don't think I'm crazy."
"I know you're not." He could hear the smile in her voice.
"You know. How?" He felt amusement bubble up inside him. God, he loved her.
"You're the most sensible person I've ever met, and from what you've told me, Sherlock's the only one who could actually devise such a ruse. So, it's not impossible, and no, you're not crazy."
John stopped dead in his tracks. "You believe he might be alive?"
"No," Mary stated flatly. "But if he is, tell him I'd like to meet him."
"Mary?"
"Yes?"
"I love you."
"I know." She chuckled. "I love you, too. Go, get your thoughts together, I'll pick you up later. We can drive home together, then."
"Yeah." He closed his eyes briefly. "Thanks."
He ended the call and walked on, already feeling better, despite his mind still teeming with possibilities. He needed to think, and he needed a quiet place to do so. Desperately. Yet, Mycroft knew all his retreats, every pub, every park, every stretch along the river. So he went to the only quiet place he was sure Mycroft did not know about, because it was the most unlikely place for contemplation: Battersea Power Station.
The huge brick complex squatted next to the Thames, with its four white chimneys sticking into the sky, surrounded by wasteland, shrubs and decaying outbuildings. The expanse was enclosed by a high wall to keep out trespassers, a disused peer with two old cranes facing the waterside, railroads to the west, industrial buildings to the east and a busy road to the south. John climbed the fence, dodged the security cameras and marched towards the looming mass of brick in the dark. It was ridiculous, really, other people went for a walk along the Thames, feeding ducks; he wandered the empty corridors of an abandoned coal-fired power plant from the 1930s. One had to go to such lengths to avoid Mycroft Holmes. Besides, two other things drew him: the memory of meeting the woman, possibly the only person ever to dent the armour shielding Sherlock's heart – and because he knew how to get in. Anyway, the plant reminded him a bit of himself: old-fashioned, solid, reliable, abandoned.
He reached the side of the building and climbed another fence, landing effortlessly on his feet. Since meeting Mary, he had started exercising again, and it paid off – a year ago, this wouldn't have been quite so easy, but a year ago he wouldn't have felt the need to hide from Mycroft to contemplate the possibility that Sherlock was alive.
John stood still for a while, watching his surroundings and listening out for other trespassers, but he seemed to be alone. The ground-floors were lit by floodlights, illuminating the carcass of the building and probably burning away tons of money each year in order to prevent idiots from getting injured or killed by falling into the flooded holes in the ground or spearing themselves on the steel rods sticking out of the walls. It was a dangerous place at night.
John entered one of the great halls, and avoiding the heaps of brick and mortar, he climbed to the second floor, carefully picking his way between broken tiles and coils of wire until he reached the riverside of the complex, where the shattered windows faced out to the Thames.
There was still some light left, just grazing the surface of the river, making the waves sparkle and outlining the cranes sitting on the abandoned peer. It was almost surreal, the derelict brick building and the glass and steel structures of modern London on the other side of the river. He took a few deep breaths and tried to sort out his inner turmoil.
The brother. Strictly speaking, it could mean anything – and it was highly unlikely that the man had referred to Sherlock. Yet, John had always had his doubts about the suicide, constructing the weirdest theories how Sherlock might have faked it, but when a year had passed and the miracle he had begged for had not come, he had given up. There was no miracle. God alone knew why Mycroft wanted to speak to him now, certainly not because of Sherlock's imminent resurrection. Suddenly, he felt foolish for coming here, skulking and getting all worked up over nothing.
Sentiment, Sherlock would scoff.
John was about to turn away, when his eyes caught a flash of colour on the water – there – he squinted and leaned out of the window. No doubt: there was a boat tied to the peer.
Someone else was here. And this person had arrived in a rather unusual fashion. His soldier's instincts kicked in instantly, his mind racing through possibilities – a crime going on, Mycroft's people following him, partygoers on a nightly spree? Yet, a voice in his mind whispered danger, and no matter how unlikely it was, he had learnt to trust his instincts. And for the first time in three years, he wished he had his gun with him.
John retreated from his vantage point, silently making his way back through the building. Half-way along the gallery, he thought he heard a sound. He froze instantly, all his senses reaching out – but there was nothing. Then, just as he was about to dismiss it as mice or imagination, he heard it again: footsteps, so cautious and practiced in avoiding sound, they could not belong to some ignorant intruder – no, this was a hunter prowling.
The very, very faint sound of metal brushing against cloth, the barely audible rustle of heavy-duty fabric, and combat boots feeling their way through the grit and dust, with the wearer trying hard to stifle the sound – impossible in a building full of rubble and shards of glass. Whoever this hunter was, he was right underneath him, on the ground floor. John forced himself to keep his breathing steady, preparing himself for a mad run down the metal stairs and across the hall. Slowly, slowly he moved towards the inside of the building and glanced down from the gallery into the hall.
Yes. In the large pool of water seeping out across the ground floor, he could see the reflection of a man stealthily making his way along the wall, trying to keep to the shadows. He had a gun. And not just a shotgun or a revolver, this was a sniper's rifle, a high-precision small arm fitted with a telescopic sight. You didn't go squirrel hunting with that. This was a manhunter.
As far as John knew, he was the only prey around here, and no matter how little sense the whole thing made, really, this was not important right now. He needed to get out. Immediately. But running downstairs and dashing across the hall was not a good idea – he'd be an easy target. He racked his brain and decided that climbing down the steel construction on the outside wall of the building was probably his best option – if he could do it undetected. If he failed, the hunter had all the advantages – from the ground-floor, he could quickly access any part of the building, and with that bloody rifle, all he needed to do was kneel down, take aim and conveniently shoot John while he was clinging to the wall like a fruit bat.
He had no choice. John crept across the gallery, holding his breath and desperately trying to avoid making any sound – he was glad that his shoes had soft soles, but still, it was dark, the floor was covered in dust and tile splinters, if he stepped on–
He froze. Damn it. His heart accelerated madly, blood pumping so hard through his veins that he found it difficult to hear – but he was sure, the bloody gunman was coming closer, he was definitely on the metal steps of that rickety staircase, making his way up to the gallery. Had he heard him?
He had to act fast. He retreated into the adjoining building, heading straight for the broken windows; he could already see the night sky and the ribs of the metal skeleton on the outer side of the brick wall, his way down to safety. Even if the gunman heard him now, John had a head start, the side of the building was not illuminated and full of confusing shapes – the hunter might venture some shots in the dark, but it would cost him precious time to get back to the ground floor and out into the open. By then, John would be gone.
Only, he never made it there. Focusing on the window frame, he was already reaching out to climb onto the ledge when someone grabbed him from behind and pulled him back with stunning force, lifting him off his feet. A hand instantly closed over his mouth, smothering any sound before it left his lips, fingers digging painfully into his cheeks; he felt his ribs being crushed to breaking point by strong arms – the air was forced from his lungs, hard knees slamming into him, knocking him off balance, and before he could even think about fighting off his attacker, he crashed into the wall. His opponent immobilized him simply and effectively by squashing him with his own body. The man was tall, muscular, and relentless, and John felt like a fly trapped under a swatter. His ears filled with a screeching noise and his vision began to blur at the edges, pain spreading through his chest, and if he didn't get a decent breath soon, he would be out cold in a few moments. Yet, despite the panic, his subconscious recognized those long fingers pressed to his mouth, and most of all the warm scent of this precious human skin.
Oh God. Dear God.
John's eyes widened, his heart clenched painfully, and he violently jerked his head free, drawing breath, the beloved name already on his tongue –
"Shut up." It was hissed, and barely audible, but so compelling that John's voice died instantly.
He almost laughed – three years of agony, and the first words he got out of him where shut up.
'Good to see you, too,' he thought wrily and squeezed his eyes shut, overwhelmed, willing his heart not to burst. He forced his spinning mind to focus, desperately trying to grasp the impossible: Sherlock was alive. He was here, he was whole; and he was shockingly aggressive.
There was something frightening about the way Sherlock had pinned him to the wall – it was brutal, he was hurting him and there was no need for this iron grip. John tried to wriggle, provoking an even more painful crush. This would not do. He forced himself to relax and felt Sherlock do the same, if only marginally, but enough for John to turn his head, bringing his mouth close to Sherlock's ear – his curls were much shorter, he suddenly realized, and his body felt tough and surprisingly solid; he wasn't wearing his coat but some sort of functional clothing, and he smelled of dust and gun oil and Sherlock, minus the expensive shampoo, which was by no means bad … John stopped his thoughts spinning out of control.
"Sherlock," he whispered, and suddenly, as if he had spoken a magic word, he was released and his friend withdrew, breaking away and quickly retreating two steps, much too far for John's liking. He wouldn't have minded touching him, running his hands all over him, making sure he was alive, feeling his warmth, his heartbeat, his curls where all the blood had been. It was too dark to see his face, but the outline of his tall frame and sharp cheekbones was unmistakable. John wanted to marvel at this miracle, but now was not the time: there was a killer on the loose.
John pointed to the window, frantically gesturing for Sherlock to climb out, but he just shook his head. With a sudden move, Sherlock positioned himself next to the window, furtively glancing out. He then lifted one hand, commanding John's attention, and pointed to a spot on the ground. Frowning, John peered into the darkness outside – and finally, he saw it. There was another man hidden in the shadows, crouching behind the shrubs on the wasteland. Had John climbed out, he would have been shot before he even realized where the danger was. He suppressed a curse: now they were trapped between a killer stalking the gallery and his companion waiting for them on the ground. The man on the gallery had to be close now – and yes, John heard the muffled sound of footsteps. He looked at Sherlock; his friend slowly pulled out a handgun from under his jacket and laid a finger to his lips. John stifled a sigh of relief, even though the weapon was no match against a sniper's rifle.
He tried to get Sherlock's attention, improvising a plan to ambush the man on the gallery, but Sherlock just shook his head, taking out a small object from his pocket. He made a strange gesture and it took John a moment to understand that he was meant to cover his ears. John's eyebrows shot up in confusion, but he did as told. Sherlock looked at him; stray light from below illuminated his features just enough for John to see a sudden grin flash across his face as he flicked the switch. And then the world went up in flames.
Not far away, an earsplitting explosion shattered the silence, followed by the roaring of fire and debris shooting into the sky. The floor was shaking, sending a shower of dust and splinters from the walls, and the night sky was suddenly illuminated by a red glow. The man on the ground instinctively ducked lower behind the bushes, but then broke cover. In one fluent movement, Sherlock took a shooting stance, cocked the gun, aimed and fired two quick shots. The man was thrown onto his back hitting the ground hard, then lay still, limbs splayed out like a broken doll.
John's jaw dropped. "Bloody hell," he blurted, "that was a direct hit!" Before he could react, Sherlock pushed the gun into his hands and shoved him towards the door. "John, go after Moran," he urged, "if you cannot shoot him, try to drive him towards the main entrance, Mycroft's men will be coming from that side. Be careful, even on the run he is extremely dangerous. Shoot him in the back if need be, do not hesitate!"
"What? Sherlock–" John turned in confusion, but Sherlock was frantically pointing at the ground.
"There's another one, don't you see!"
"What? Where?" John looked at the dead man and saw someone hurrying towards the prone figure, a slim and tall shape, moving furtively. "Damn, yes, I see–"
"Go!" Sherlock yelled, shoving him. "Get Moran!"
"Sherlock, you're unarmed!" John tried to push the gun back at him, but Sherlock just climbed out the window. "I don't need a gun," he growled. "Get Moran!"
"Damnit!" John cursed, watching Sherlock climbing down the steel structure with stunning agility. "Who's that Moran guy, anyway?" he blurted, receiving no answer. He looked down at the gun in his hands: it was a Glock 17, the standard issue army weapon, nothing special. "You bloody, brilliant bastard," he muttered. "You've turned into a crack shot." Then he turned and did as told, slinking back inside the building, making sure the sniper was no longer on the gallery.
He wasn't: John peered around a pillar just in time to see the man hurrying towards the waterside, probably heading for the boat. "No, you don't," John muttered and quickly fired a well-aimed shot in his direction. Moran veered away, realizing that he could not get to the boat without crossing the line of fire. Instead, he turned east, careful not to break cover. "That's better," John stated grimly, and suddenly he felt the rush of adrenaline in his blood, heightening his senses and making his pulse race, and a disbelieving smile spread across his face and he felt his heart expand with joy, relishing the thrill of the chase and the certainty that his friend was alive. Sherlock was back. And so was he.
And then he went manhunting.