To Paularushing: we're pretty much in the middle of the story!
And to all my faithful reviewers: thank you for your encouragement!
Since it's the weekend and I don't really want to split this part, two short chapters and a longer one.
The Spider
"MORIARTY!"
They all froze.
Greg Lestrade, peering over the door of his car, frantically signalled his officers to hold back, and they did. Sally Donovan scowled, but obeyed, too, and so did the members of the task force, although Lestrade was not in command: the scene in front of them had them stopping dead in their tracks.
Dr John Watson stood alone, gun in hand, facing Jim Moriarty. The Consulting Criminal, flanked by two of his armed bullies, had just emerged from the building, heading for a getaway car only a few feet away away from the brightly lit entrance.
All John Watson knew was that Moriarty was about to escape again, and he would not allow it.
James Moriarty stopped, a wide smile spreading across his face. "Dr Watson!" he called as if seeing a long lost acquaintance. "What a pleasure! Perfect timing, indeed. Are you here to see your friend die – again?"
Calmly, John replied, "I'm here to put a bullet in your head." His hands were perfectly steady, aiming the gun at a spot between Moriarty's eyes.
"Oh, that is …" Moriarty blinked, "funny. Because at least two guns are pointed at your head. The moment you pull that trigger, your brains will be splattered all over this place." His eyes slid to the glass canopy and down to the glistening marble floor. "What a mess that will be."
"I don't care."
Something in the dangerously low voice made Moriarty pause. Raising his brows, he shoved his hands into his pockets, a bored look on his face. "So, what's keeping you?"
John's hands gripped the gun a little tighter, but his attention never wavered. "You have one chance, one chance only, to surrender. If you don't, I'll shoot you."
Moriarty pursed his lips. "You'll die. Your wife won't like that."
"She'll understand."
"No," Moriarty shook his head, "Sherlock would, but not your wife. She's your sweet Mary, hoping for hearth and home and all those dull things," he rolled his eyes. "John."
John scoffed. "Mary's not sweet, she'd rip out your tongue, you bastard." He aimed carefully. "Do you surrender?"
"Do I look like it?" Moriarty shrugged.
"No," John snapped, and his finger began pulling the trigger.
"Stop!"
John froze, and all heads turned: a shadow descended from the canopy, crashing onto the lower glass roof covering the escalators, the fall barely broken by a rope.
John jumped. "Oh, ff-Sh – Sherlock!"
All gunmen swivelled towards the commotion, except John: he pulled the trigger. But the moment's hesitation was enough: Moriarty jerked to the side, and the bullet only grazed his head, leaving a stream of blood gushing down his throat.
John swore and threw himself to the ground to escape the defensive fire, just in time before all hell broke loose.
The noise was deafening, with bullets whistling past and glass virtually exploding all around him. John crawled behind one of the pillars carrying the canopy, desperately trying to get a clear view, but he could not move without getting into the line of fire. Shards of glass were raining down, and the noise made it impossible to detect Moriarty's position. He quickly peered round the pillar anyway, a bullet promptly smashing into it, sending a shower of razor sharp concrete pieces into his face.
He had seen one thing, though: Moriarty running down the escalators, Sherlock following hard on his heels, nearly getting shot in the face. And Moriarty was laughing, relishing the thrill of the chase, exclaiming, "Good! You're not boring now, Sherlock!"
And then they were gone.
"Damn it!" John yelled, slamming the pillar with his flat hand in frustration. Why had Sherlock done that? Moriarty would be dead now if Sherlock had not intervened. But then again, so would he. "Damn you!" he yelled, not sure whether he meant Moriarty or his former flatmate.
He had to chase them down. John took a deep breath and looked around – Moriarty's men were crouching behind pillars and plant tubs; there were not many of them left, one after another was being taken down by the task force and the police. He could see Lestrade crouching at the side of his car; but before he even dared to move, John saw a task force unit rushing towards him, ducking behind riot shields; they ran straight past him, stopped at the entrance and formed up. John watched, eyes widening in surprise, as they sent up men to the canopy. It was when they came down, however, that his mouth fell open in astonishment: shielded by a heavily armoured officer, none other than Mycroft Holmes was lowered to the ground, his hair slightly dishevelled and his clothes badly rumpled.
"Take cover, Sir, if you please!" the team leader demanded. However, after touching the ground, the first thing Mycroft Holmes did was smooth out his fine three-piece suit; then he ran a hand through his hair, flicking it back into place; and only then did he deign to take cover behind the protective wall of shields and bullet proof vests.
John gave a burst of hysterical laughter. He really did not know which of the Holmes brothers was more eccentric.
His laughter died when Mycroft, protected by the task force members, bore down on him. Greg Lestrade was rushing up too, and before he even realized it, he was swamped by special force members.
"John, you alright?" Lestrade grabbed him by the shoulders.
"Yeah, yeah," John huffed, "but I'd be better if Moriarty were dead. Bastard."
Lestrade cocked an eyebrow. "Me too, but I wouldn't like you being dead. That was bloody foolish, John!"
"Not as foolish as Sherlock," John sighed, rubbing his forehead.
"Yeah, the sodding daredevil … have you seen him come down the side of the Shard?"
"No. What? What?" John blanched and turned to look up the sky-high glass monolith.
"Gentlemen," Mycroft interrupted them. "As far as I understand I have to thank you for alarming MI5 to this threat. The evacuation of this building and that of the surrounding area is in progress – although I doubt that it will be completed in time. Has the bomb been found?" He turned to the team leader of the unit.
"It's been located, Sir, but it cannot be accessed or defused easily."
"So the threat is immediate." Mycroft quickly glanced at his watch. "Remove these men from the scene," he ordered calmly. "Is my helicopter ready?"
"On its way, Sir."
"Stop! Hang on a minute, Mycroft." John dug his heels in. "You can't just remove us!"
"I certainly can," Mycroft cut him off. "And Sherlock would never forgive me, if you were to die in the blast, John."
"You have to find Moriarty!" John erupted in sudden rage. "You were wrong, Mycroft! Moriarty is alive and Sherlock is not mad! You were bloody wrong!"
"Indeed," Mycroft admitted softly. "And we will find Moriarty, as soon as we have picked up the signal Sherlock planted on his phone." He turned to the team leader of the task force and rattled off a staccato of orders, setting the machinery in motion. Once done, he swiftly turned back to John and Lestrade. The DI had a sceptical look on his face. "So, what now?"
"You will be taken to a safe place," Mycroft declared.
John rolled his eyes. "Heard that one before."
"It is still the best course of action. Now please excuse me," Mycroft declared, dismissing them.
"You can't just take us out of the game!" Lestrade protested, arms akimbo.
Mycroft stopped, turning back to them. "Surely, it is obvious? Moriarty's recklessness is unprecedented. He intends to detonate the bomb via remote control from a safe distance – almost certainly using his phone. We only have minutes left," he stated, his brows raised, "for I believe Moriarty's idea of a safe distance may fall short even of the military's."
"And he'll do it from a point where he can watch," John snapped. "Wouldn't want to miss the show."
"Riverside," Lestrade muttered. "Best place to watch."
"That is most likely," Mycroft agreed.
"Sir," a young man came running towards them, all excited. "We've picked up the signal!"
Nerd, John thought automatically, taking in the ill-fitting shirt, shoes, pullover and haphazardly thrown on bullet proof vest, incorrectly fastened.
"It's really clever, Sir, we had trouble picking it out at first because it's hidden among others – really clever – the target won't identify it-"
"Thank you for the information," Mycroft cut the enthusiast short. "Just proceed. Where is the target heading?"
"Nowhere, Sir, that's the strange thing."
Mycroft frowned. "Explain."
"It was moving at first, but it's stopped. There could be a number of technical explanations-"
"For God's sake!" Lestrade grabbed the lanky technician by the shoulders, shaking him. "Where are they?!"
Jumping with fright, the young man blinked owlishly at him. "London Bridge."
"Thank you," Mycroft said calmly, turning to Lestrade and Watson. "Now, if you'd be so kind as to follow these gentlemen." He nodded at two men in dark suits who had appeared silently during their encounter with the technician. "They will escort you to my helicopter to ensure your safe transport out of the danger zone. I'll be with you shortly."
John looked at Greg; and Greg silently nodded. Then they both pretended to do as told.
A safe distance from Mycroft, John suddenly yelled, "Moriarty!" pointing madly behind him; the two men turned, and before they knew what was happening, John and Greg had absconded.