Idiots
Two hours later, John found himself in a hospital waiting room, trying to grasp the events of the night. Mary was still undergoing examination, but things were looking good – the X-rays had shown no broken bones. Sitting in a beige room with blue chairs, a green carpet, and children's paintings on the wall that looked like someone had thrown a paintbox at it, he tried to sort out his feelings. They were more than a little mixed.
Sherlock was alive. His miracle had been granted.
Sherlock was also extremely aggressive. Within one hour, he had shot one man, nearly killed Mary, attacked John, and threatened to blow up everyone with a hand grenade. Certainly not boring.
John tried to make sense of it, but failed. When Sherlock had ambushed him in the dark, saving his life by pinning him against the wall, he had recognised his friend easily enough, although this new violent streak had been disconcerting. But later, when Sherlock had almost killed Mary, it was as if the man had turned into a robot – not listening, not thinking, not caring about the consequences, unstoppable.
His reaction to John's attempt to treat his injuries after the fall had been just as disturbing. Coming out of unconsciousness, Sherlock was bound to be confused and react on instinct, but this degree of panic and violence was beyond normal. What had provoked it?
John guessed it had been the combination of several things: the hands holding him down, the wet cloth on his face, and half-consciousness triggering fight-or-flight mode. As an army doctor, John had a pretty good idea what sort of experience led to such reactions. It made him cringe.
Regarding Moran and Sherlock's sudden reappearance at Battersea Power Station – God, the press would have a field day! – he didn't even try to make sense of that, hoping that Sherlock would explain it to him. There was a lot to explain. For example, why he was not dead; or why he had jumped off that roof in the first place. And why he had made John watch. John was sure it had something to do with Moriarty, but he really would like an explanation, now, after three years, and an apology too for the living hell Sherlock had put him through, and some justification for staying away for so long, and to be honest, he really, really wanted to punch him for granting him this miracle and then ruining it right away. But most of all, he just wanted to hug the idiot.
Maybe punch first and hug later. That sounded sensible. If he showed up. He had no idea where Sherlock was – yet again.
In the end, it was Mycroft who did the explaining. Immaculately clad in his customary three piece suit, an umbrella swinging at his elbow, Sherlock's brother sauntered into the waiting room, looking serene. John stiffened immediately.
"John, good to see you, I hope Mary is not seriously injured?"
Given that they hadn't met in three years until the involuntary encounter among a circle of trigger-happy soldiers two hours ago, the elder Holmes seemed remarkably untroubled.
"Hopefully not, no," John grated and sat up straight.
Mycroft sat down next to him, crossing his legs.
"You knew, of course?" John asked, without looking at the elder Holmes.
Mycroft did not hesitate. "Naturally I knew Sherlock was alive. He needed resources, obviously. Both money and information."
"So he worked for you." John pursed his lips.
Mycroft gave a short laugh. "Sherlock only works for himself and his own purposes, that has not changed, John."
"Then what has?" John felt his anger rise at this careless attitude, dismissing the fact that he had been suffering for three years believing Sherlock had committed suicide.
"You tell me."
"How could I?" John barked, "I've barely met him, and in the minutes I did, he shot one man, tried to kill my wife and, oh, did a pretty good job of almost throttling me as well. Seems to be a new sport of his. He definitely didn't do that before –" he hesitated, his voice faltering. "The fall."
Mycroft looked at his umbrella, twirling it gently. "The fall, yes …"
"Care to explain?" John turned towards him, anger, disappointment and pain written all over his face – but also with a note of hope in his voice.
And Mycroft did. In dry words he described Moriarty's plan to have John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson shot if Sherlock did not kill himself, and how the criminal mastermind had blown his own brains out to prevent Sherlock from making him call off the snipers, forcing Sherlock to go ahead with his dangerous plan to jump off the roof of St. Bart's.
"How exactly he faked the suicide is something he will have to tell you himself, for he did not care to explain it to me. He spent the last three years trying to track down every single person who knew about Moriarty's plan, and who would therefore be able to carry it out or pose a danger in any other way. In doing so, he uncovered quite a number of crimes and delivered several high-profile criminals to the respective governments – or at least ensured that their activities stopped. Moran is the last man he's hunting. He was the sniper trained on you, John, and what is more important, he was Moriarty's right hand man. Ruthless, skilled and loyal. Possibly capable of taking over at least part of Moriarty's business. His intentions are clear: he wants to kill you and then take Moriarty's place."
John looked at the bodyguards standing outside the waiting room. So from now on he wouldn't even be allowed to make a trip to the loo without company.
"Of course, that is not going to happen," Mycroft continued, taking out his pocket watch and looking at it. "He cannot truly take Moriarty's place. Moran is no fool, but he is by no means brilliant." He put the watch back into the fob. "He'll be a decent enough criminal, though. Mediocrity suffices, I suppose," he sighed.
John scoffed, "Yeah, what the world has come to."
"No need to be sarcastic, John," Mycroft smiled mildly. "However, protection for you, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson is essential. Though I believe Moran is interested in you alone." He looked up, his blue eyes searching John's face. "You certainly have caught his attention. You were a soldier, just like him, and tonight you have proven that you are more than his match." He raised an eyebrow. "He enjoys the hunt as much as Moriarty enjoyed the game."
John closed his eyes and groaned. "God, I am so fed up with this."
"Understandable." Mycroft stared at the wall, his attention seemingly straying.
John pursed his lips. "So, where is he?"
Mycroft frowned. "We don't know, Moran does know how to hide –"
"I'm not interested in Moran," John snapped.
"Ah," Mycroft stiffened, probably because he was not used to being wrong in his assumptions. "Sherlock. Of course."
"I thought he would do the explaining." John couldn't hide the disappointment in his voice. Still, he braced himself before asking, "How badly injured is he? I mean, he did take quite a fall, again," he added, his eyebrows shooting up. When he did not receive an answer, he asked in a much softer voice. "How is he?"
"I don't know," Mycroft said flatly.
"What do you mean you don't know?" John snapped in irritation. "Don't tell me he has run off again! Mycroft, seriously, you don't lose people like that –"
"And I don't." Mycroft stabbed at the floor with his umbrella. "No, I have made very sure my dear little brother does not slip away this time. But I don't know how he is – if you are referring to his physical and mental state. He cannot be touched."
"What do you mean, he cannot be touched?" John stared at him in utter confusion. "He was bleeding quite a lot –"
"He doesn't allow anyone to touch him. You'll see."
John fell silent. He didn't know what to make of this, but it sounded bad. He thought back to Sherlock trying to choke him. John cleared his throat. "Mycroft, I don't know what happened to him, but the way he reacted after the fall when he was barely conscious and I tried to help him – is it possible that he was –"
Mycroft cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Do not mention any of this to him. Now is not the time, John. You of all people know how important it is that the victim is ready to talk about it. Sherlock, clearly, is not."
"Oh-kay," John frowned. "So, what exactly happened? You mentioned you had him rescued from – uh – Russia?" John looked at Mycroft questioningly, but Mycroft seemed to freeze up. "Oh, come on," John mocked, "don't tell me I wasn't supposed to know, and you were so angry out there you blabbed about it. I was a soldier, Mycroft, I've handled confidential information before." Taking on a threatening tone, he added, "Don't you think you owe me a few answers, after three, bloody years?"
"Yes, you are right," Mycroft conceded. "Very well. You are correct, Sherlock was captured a while ago and held prisoner in Russia. He had obtained secret information – a lot of it, accumulated over three years."
"What kind of information?" John interrupted.
"All kinds. Ranging from counterintelligence and organized crime to terrorist activities. Whatever he came across in connection with Moriarty plus several tasks I had given him, since he was in a unique position-"
"You mean, no one knew about his existence," John grated. "No rules. I bet that came in handy."
"It did." Mycroft was untroubled. "However, his last task remains unfinished. Sherlock was captured, but before he was taken, he managed to hide the phone on which he had stored the data. Very valuable data, believe me." Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "He was only sporadically able to transfer data to me, so most of the material was actually on his phone. It is a special phone, of course."
"Of course." John scoffed. "I bet something like Irene Adler's, a fancy gadet that can store date, cook pasta and blow up the building if you punch in the wrong number."
Mycroft gave him a long look. "Not quite, but not too far off either. The phone is indeed secure – it cannot be unlocked without Sherlock's password. If someone attempts to take it apart, the data is destroyed."
"You said he hid it – you've got the phone, then?"
Mycroft remained silent for a while. "No, we don't. Sherlock was on top of a building when he-"
"Oh no, no," John groaned, "not another rooftop. Please tell me this is a joke."
"It is not. And apparently, he did consider jumping, being fully aware of what was awaiting him."
"But he didn't," John sighed in relief.
"He was too busy hiding the phone," Mycroft deadpanned. "He was simply too slow."
"Your sympathy is overwhelming." John rubbed his eyes. "Who took him, and why?"
"The Americans. They wanted the phone, of course."
"Americans?" John looked up in surprise. "You said he was in Russia?"
"Yes, but he was taken by the Americans."
"I thought the Americans are our friends and brothers?" John mocked.
"Sherlock is not exactly in the good graces of the Americans – remember the scandal in Belgravia, John. And since he didn't exist anyway …"
"Yes, it works both ways, doesn't it? No rules." John gritted his teeth. "How did you get him out?"
"I made a deal with the Russians, naturally."
"Naturally."
"Well, that was only logical – after all, the Russians wanted the phone too and they were extremely displeased to learn that the American secret service was operating under their very noses on their own territory."
"The phone in exchange for Sherlock?"
Mycroft nodded, and John pursed his lips. "Fair enough."
"Not quite." Mycroft's mouth twitched in annoyance. "The phone was gone. We don't know where it is. It's lost."
John sat up. "Lost? But how-"
"How did I get him out? Well, the Russians have what they asked for: the phone the Americans had." He smirked. "It's a fake."
"What?" John stared at Mycroft in utter confusion. "Hold on." He frowned deeply. "Sorry, Mycroft, it was a long day, I'm still a bit rattled by an explosion, nearly dying, and discovering that my dead friend is in fact alive. Humour me. I'm a bit slow."
Mycroft gave him a tight-lipped smile. "It is quite simple, but ingenious. Sherlock hid the real phone – and unfortunately it is lost. We don't know where it currently is. Neither the Americans nor the Russians have it. However, Sherlock had a second phone, a decoy, which the Americans mistook for the real thing."
"So all this time the Americans – and now the Russians – were trying to crack the wrong phone."
"Yes."
"Nice. But the Russians are bound to find out–"
"No. Sherlock spent months on storing false data on the decoy phone. It seems genuine – and even if they figure it out one day, they won't complain. Embarrassment, you see." Mycroft smiled sweetly.
"I see." John shook his head. "No, I don't. But – if it was a decoy in the first place, why didn't he give the Americans the password? No damage done?"
"Oh, Sherlock knew he was dead the moment they had the password. He relied on me to find him and get him out."
John remained silent for a long time. "And you did," he said in a soft voice.
Mycroft sighed. "Unfortunately, it took me much longer than I had hoped."
"But you weren't too late," John breathed in relief.
"I'm not sure about that."
"What do you mean?" John's eyes widened with apprehension.
Mycroft hesitated, almost biting his lip, but stopping short, realizing how tell-tale the gesture would be. "Sherlock was tortured, as you have already guessed. He is extremely unstable. I do not have to explain this to you, John, you have first-hand experience. I have been trying to convince him to accept help, but you can imagine how difficult that is. However," his face brightened almost imperceptibly, "I came to an agreement with him that he will undergo treatment once this threat to you and your friends is over."
John rubbed his forehead. "Oh God. Oh dear God have mercy." He buried his face in his hands, trying to process the information. Finally, he looked up. "So, we catch Moran, cut the last thread of Moriarty's net, and Sherlock undergoes therapy. And if we're very lucky, all of us get away with no more than a few scrapes and bruises."
"That's the plan," Mycroft said evenly.
"Somehow, that seems too easy," John sighed.
Mary was sitting in a hospital bed, pale as a sheet, her throat bandaged. Apparently, she had refused to wear a neck brace, and she was glaring disapprovingly at the cheap gown. When John entered, she proceeded to glare at John.
He stopped dead in his tracks, eying her warily. He hadn't expected her to be angry – but on second thoughts, it was his best friend who had almost killed her, and he had spent a long time running after said best friend, abandoning her in a derelict building swarming with soldiers. He instantly felt so guilty his stomach heaved. When she read this on his face, she broke into a grin and gestured with her hands.
John frowned in confusion and looked at her like a very unhappy puppy. She laughed – almost; the sound was instantly cut off and had her wincing in pain. But finally, he understood her gestures: she wanted pen and paper. John went to fetch some.
She huffed with relief when she got hold of the notepad, virtually tearing it from his fingers. After scribbling furiously, she pushed the pad at his face.
John slowly read out the sprawling letters. I want to go home. NOW.
He looked up. "Mary, it would be better if you stayed at least one night to be watched–"
It was the loudest NO ever written. John's eyebrows rose. "Okay, I suppose I'm a doctor, too, and I can watch you as well."
Scratching. Good.
"Okay," John cleared his throat, looking around. "I guess I can't just call a taxi, Mycroft's men …" he trailed off, realising that he had to explain the situation to Mary, particularly the bit about the killer. Oh God. Sherlock would not be very popular with his wife, ever.
She glowered at him. His words died on his lips.
Mary started writing again. So, this is Sherlock?
"Uh, yes, the guy who mistook you for some member of a criminal gang …"
Scribbling again. I want to meet him.
"Oh." John looked baffled. "Yeah, in fact, so do I. But don't you think it would be better – I mean, when you have a voice?" He eyed her carefully.
Need no voice. He can deduce me.
"I suppose so," John muttered. "I just thought you might want to be able to yell at him?"
She grinned.
"Listen," John looked down, shuffling his feet. "I think I have some explaining to do about Sherlock's behaviour-"
The notepad almost hit the tip of his nose, being waved in front of him – he flinched and jerked back, realizing that this was Mary's way of telling him to shut up.
She scribbled again. The Ice Man was here. No need to explain. Want to meet Sherlock asap.
"Mycroft spoke to you?" John's eyebrows almost met his hairline. The elder Holmes must have been to see his wife before he had spoken to John. "Uhm, okay. Good. Then you know. I better arrange for us to be going home, then–" He was so confused he forgot to look at the pad where Mary had been scribbling again. It was shoved emphatically into his face.
YOU must talk to Sherlock NOW. The Ice Man's no good. Make up with Sherlock.
"Uh, Mary, I'd love to make up with Sherlock, it's just … all a bit much and, uh, he tried to choke you …"
Furious scribbling. I'll take it out on him later. For now, he needs to understand that he's welcome.
"He's welcome," John repeated, as if his reading skills didn't exceed those of a seven-year-old. "Is he?" He looked at her questioningly, his brow drawn in the deepest frown.
YES. Idiot.
"Idiot? D'you mean idiot me, or idiot him?"
BOTH.
John sighed. "You know, you remind me A LOT of him."
Mary grinned.