Potters Fields
Potters Fields Park at night glowed in the light of the surrounding buildings as John wheeled Sherlock towards the sweeping expanse of grass. Tower Bridge was looming in front of them, illuminated by spotlights, and the Tower itself squatted on the opposite side of the Thames. Along the walkway, a chain of streetlamps cast a warm glow across the path, in stark contrast with the harsh white lights installed under the three steps running along the entire length of the fields. During the day, those would be occupied by people taking a break and enjoying the view, now, the park was oddly deserted.
"Over there," Sherlock mumbled, directing John to the far end of the green expanse, closest to Tower Bridge. John parked the wheelchair next to the tall steps and sat down on the stone surface, side by side with Sherlock. The light from underneath the steps cast an eerie glow on their faces, making them both look gaunt and worn out, and John thought this would be the death of them, sitting in the cold air on moist ground, as he tugged the blanket around Sherlock's shoulders, noticing how hollow his cheeks were.
Lost in his own worries, he didn't even notice that he had laid a fingertip to the almost invisible bruise under Sherlock's eye, where the ice pick piercing into his skull had caused the haemorrhage. He swallowed hard, swamped by uninvited images of what Sherlock might have become, his mind destroyed, and the horror was made all the more vivid by the memory of Sherlock faking unconsciousness, slumped in the wheelchair, his head yanked back by Moriarty's man, eyes rolling into the skull. It ignited an unexpected panic in his chest, sending his heart into a frenzy, the sound of it filling his ears with white noise. It was the light touch of Sherlock's hand on his wrist that snapped him out of his mental trap. He let go, his hand falling into Sherlock's lap, staying there, cradled by cold fingers.
"John," Sherlock's voice was much warmer than his skin, and his eyes were bright and intent, focused entirely on John. "It will be over very soon."
"What, exactly?" he bit out for the sake of saying something, terrified of bursting into tears.
"The fall," Sherlock said calmly. "It ends here."
"I thought it ended on the pavement of St. Bart's," John remarked dryly. "Looked bloody final to me."
"Yes. But I kept falling three years," Sherlock explained, his voice suddenly light, incongruous with the weight of his words. "And now the fall is broken by my safety net." He turned away, looking out over the Thames.
"What do you mean?" John asked, the panic suddenly rising again.
"You." Sherlock smiled, "and Mycroft, of course," he conceded resignedly.
"I don't understand," John blinked in confusion, irrational fear taking over and making his skin crawl.
Sherlock exhaled slowly, turning his face back towards him. "I once said alone is what protects me – I have never been more wrong. But I do not make a mistake twice."
"Um, that's good, I guess." John cleared his throat, looking around. The hairs on his neck were prickling, and he didn't know why. "So, what are we doing here?"
"Waiting for Mycroft, of course," Sherlock sighed, pulling John's hand, still cradled in his, into the warmth of the blanket.
John was pleasantly surprised by the affectionate gesture. "Sherlock," he began, but broke off, breath catching in his throat: suddenly, the light from behind was blocked out, and the oblong shadow of a man with an umbrella loomed up, casting them into darkness.
"So sweet," a familiar voice chuckled. John stiffened as light footsteps sounded on stone and the man brushed past him to parade languidly in front of them, immaculately dressed in a grey suit and matching coat.
John's face fell, and he fought the sudden urge to jump up and throw a few punches, but he felt Sherlock's hand tighten, holding him back.
A sneer greeted him, as observant eyes noticed the small gesture. "Oh, I hope I'm not severing the tender bonds of love, here. But, Dr Watson, you're a married man, now – what a pity, given that Sherlock has just discovered his sexuality in Russia. But then you are not gay, are you?"
John just stared back coldly.
Moriarty's mouth split into his best predatory grin. "This is a turn-up, huh," he drawled, looking at Sherlock. "Last time we met, you were waiting for me, and your brother appeared. This time, you're waiting for him, and it's me showing up." He laughed softly. "You got it wrong again."
Sherlock heaved a deep sigh, cut off by a quickly stifled cough. "What makes you think so?"
Moriarty stopped his pacing and faced him squarely. "Well, the fact that I am here. And your brother is not. He's on a wild goose chase, following a trail I left for him, so subtle only he can detect it," he sniggered, "which is why he believes it's genuine." Moriarty's face creased into a pained grimace. "Too bad for you."
John stiffened, remembering with growing horror that Mycroft had indeed hinted at following a lead on Moriarty.
"And why do you bother with all this?" Sherlock breathed.
Moriarty's face became deadly serious. "I told you, I owe you a fall. And fall you did, but you were cheating. Running off, fooling everyone with the help of sweet Molly Hooper – oh, don't worry about her," Moriarty rolled his eyes at John, who's face had transformed into a mask of horror. "I won't harm her. I like the idea too much that the lamb is such a little lioness." He grinned to himself. "Though I'm a bit envious of the kind of loyalty you inspire, Sherlock. But you seem to have picked up on it: taking that bullet for dear Dr Watson … and now look at you," Moriarty's eyes roamed over Sherlock in the wheelchair. "I could break your neck with one hand."
"You'd have to break mine first," John growled, anger flaring. "And that won't be so easy."
"Oh, ouh, yes, I forgot!" Moriarty guffawed. "I all but forgot about the pet. Dogs do tend to defend their master. But then, they get their throats cut for it. Come to think of it, please hand over your weapon, Dr Watson. It is rather visible in the trousers of this fetching blue outfit. If you don't, I'll have one of my snipers shoot Sherlock in the shoulder. Don't think I don't have guns pointed at you just because there are no red dots dancing on your chest. But don't worry, I'm not gonna kill Sherlock, I want him as a pawn to negotiate with his brother. Or," he sneered, "as a toy, perhaps."
He stepped in front of John, holding out his hand expectantly. John hesitated, his heart pounding so hard it threatened to burst; he briefly considered pulling the gun and shooting Moriarty straight in the head, but he felt Sherlock tugging on his fingers, so he gave in, handing over the gun.
"Good boy," Moriarty taunted and flung it over his shoulder straight into the Thames.
"What is it you want?" Sherlock asked, sounding bored.
Moriarty stepped closer and gave him a calculating look. "I told you, Sherlock, if you don't stop prying, I'll burn the heart out of you. But you kept prying … taking my network apart, enduring weeks of dull reconnaissance work, living in squalor, killing all those boring people – despite my best efforts to obstruct you. Not bad." He raised his brows, twisting the umbrella with one hand, not unlike Mycroft. "But you really surprised me when you got to the big fish Michail, stealing his secrets without him ever noticing." He barked out a laugh, grinning into the sky. "You made my day when you scampered off with that phone after having shagged Irina senseless. Really, Sherlock, you should be grateful: I made you discover hidden talents in you; but I'm grateful too," he nodded, abruptly serious. "Those were the most amusing three years of my life. Watching you excel – and suffer. I was never bored. But it's enough now." He rammed the umbrella into the ground. "You've all but destroyed my network, my finest sniper is in custody, and I'm no longer in the Russians' good books. I need to return to rebuild my empire. Now, I owe the world a resurrection, just like you. Though I have loved this …" He smiled to himself. "Well, back to business. Your brother will be of infinite help to me, given his position and his resources."
"If you think my brother would do anything endangering Queen and country, you're a moron," Sherlock drawled. "Mycroft is boring. Boringly quaint, loyal, and predictable. Born and bred British. This is why you were able to play him so well."
Moriarty just shrugged. "We'll see. If he doesn't comply, I can still keep you as my pet." He sauntered towards Sherlock, leaning forward. "It's a pity, though, that you'll never be as loyal as the good doctor here. Just imagine, Sherlock, you and me, our minds combined," he cooed, bringing his face close to Sherlock's. "We would make the world tremble in awe and fear."
Their eyes were locked in a silent exchange that had John watching in confusion and disgust. Just as he was about to lean in and interfere, he felt Sherlock slipping something into his hand under the blanket. It was a syringe, he realised, plunger pulled back, cap covering the needle. He had no idea what Sherlock planned, but he obviously wanted him to conceal the syringe, so he hid it in his palm, and when he withdrew his hand from Sherlock's lap, let it slide into his sleeve.
Moriarty and Sherlock were still studying one another, each assessing the opponent with a relentless glare. "No," Moriarty breathed, "I can't convince you to leave the side of the angels, but I can do other things …" he trailed off, and lifting his hand, he delicately raised the blanket and moved the sheet aside, revealing Sherlock's chest. Trailing his fingertips around the tape securing the central venous catheter, he muttered, "So damaged. Imagine what I could do to you." Grinning, he slid his hand further down, peeled the sheet away and exposed the wound dressing; lingering there, he asked, "What did it feel like when the bullet hit you and that lung shrivelled up, choking you from within? Similar to the waterboarding?"
John couldn't control his boiling anger any longer. "If you don't stop molesting him, I'm going to–"
"John," Sherlock cut him off, his voice cold. "He's provoking you, don't you see?"
Moriarty straightened his back abruptly. "Too bad. But I suppose one can't have everything."
Sherlock just scoffed.
John pressed his lips together, the veins in his temples throbbing. A strange mixture of rage, fear, hatred and desperation coursed through him, threatening to block the clarity he normally felt during situations of extreme danger. He bit his lips to make himself feel something other than the useless desire to launch himself against Moriarty and rip off his face.
"Oh, Dr Watson, you're such a kill-joy," Moriarty frowned. "And sooo booring. I don't understand why Sherlock keeps you around."
"The loyalty thing, remember," John snapped with false mirth.
"Oh yes," Moriarty sighed in annoyance. "That's why I shall have to kidnap both of you. Can't coerce one without threatening the other."
John pouted."Why bother at all?"
Moriarty looked at him with mild interest.
John raised his shoulders. "Why come for us at all? Why now, why not earlier in the hospital? You had plenty of time."
"Sherlock," Moriarty prompted.
Sherlock huffed impatiently. "He had surveillance in the hospital room, obviously, John! He knew I was about to wake up. There's no point in kidnapping a corpse."
"Or a vegetable," Moriarty drawled. "Boring."
Stunned, John gaped. "You, what?"
Moriarty sniggered. "It was sooo endearing, watching you crying your eyes out and fussing over Sherlock." He laughed out loud, "You are a veritable mother hen, Dr Watson! Cooing over Sherlock, changing his bandages, bathing him, pleading with him." He smirked. "Like an old couple."
"Are you envious?" John quipped, surprising himself.
Moriarty's face froze for the fraction of a second. "Don't be ridiculous."
"If you were so well informed," John retorted, "then why did your men not go straight to our room in the hospital? Why search the entire ICU? Was it to enjoy watching us running?"
"I'd love to say yes, Dr Watson," Moriarty sighed, "but in fact, they were just being idiots. That's what happens when you employ army guys. They're like trained monkeys – do everything by the numbers. Anyway, I knew all I had to do was follow the phone signal. Of course Sherlock would eventually call big brother." He sneered at Sherlock, who just shrugged.
Moriarty abruptly turned his head, listening. "Ah. Punctual."
The sound of a boat drawing nearer at full speed filled the air; within seconds, the roaring engine approached the embankment. "I prefer to travel by boat, these days," Moriarty drawled. "So much quicker."
"Hardly a surprise," Sherlock raised a brow, "after your bungled getaway on London Bridge when you were so ingloriously stuck in a mundane traffic jam."
Moriarty shot him a look of pure hatred.
A police boat pulled up alongside the wall lining the pathway, bumping into it softly.
"Lucky for you that the tide is high, wouldn't want to get that suit slimy climbing down a rope ladder, would you?" Sherlock mocked.
"Not lucky, Sherlock," Moriarty stared at him coldly. "Planning."
John scoffed. "Huh, nice cover, pretending to be the police."
"If you want to hide in a flock of sheep, wear a sheepskin." Moriarty shrugged.
"So," Sherlock sighed, "what is your brilliant plan?"
"Oh, it's rather straight forward," Moriarty replied. "We'll get on the boat."
"You don't seriously expect me to get up and climb on board that boat," Sherlock snorted.
"No, actually I expect Dr Watson to help you."
"Don't," Sherlock retorted.
"Oh," Moriarty rolled his eyes in annoyance. "Don't be such a fusspot. Just get it over with."
"No," Sherlock declared, looking bored, and John just sat with his arms folded, carefully cradling the syringe in his sleeve and pretending to be unimpressed.
"On the boat now," Moriarty sang out smiling, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets.
Sherlock just pouted.
"You know I can force you, Sherlock," Moriarty said casually.
"What, you'll call some of your bullies out from behind the trees and drag me, yes?" Sherlock snorted. "It'll be a while until they're here. Long walk."
"Oh, don't be silly," Moriarty scoffed. Without bothering to turn around, he snapped a finger at the boat, and immediately two burly men, both armed, came out from the cabin and began climbing over the side of the boat. The first was just stepping onto the brightly lit wall of the embankment and preparing to jump down,but suddenly, there was a hiss, followed by a dull thud; the man baulked, jerking backwards as if punched; for a second, a fine red spray gleamed in the air, then the man fell back down, body going limp. His companion yelled in surprise and instantly threw himself to the ground, taking cover on the boat as several shots hit the stone wall, sending razor sharp chips flying.
John's heart clenched in shock, adrenaline racing through his veins. He saw Moriarty turn, reptilian eyes darting back and forth, realisation dawning on him; saw him swerving towards the boat, but there was only one thought in John's mind: protect Sherlock. "Get down!" he yelled and threw himself over Sherlock, trying to cover him. Sherlock, however, had launched himself forward, darting out of the wheelchair and lunging for Moriarty. John landed painfully across the chair, tumbling down, and accidentally knocked Sherlock sideways, sending him crashing to the ground. Growling in anger, Sherlock grappled Moriarty's legs, bringing him down as well.
John scrambled to his knees and crawled towards Sherlock, trying to cover him, but Sherlock squirmed away, refusing to let go of Moriarty who was furiously lashing out, almost kicking him in the face.
"Get him, John!" Sherlock roared, tangled in his sheet and desperately trying to avoid the vicious kicks. John saw the sudden glint of metal in the light, and without thinking, he hurled himself towards the criminal, lunging for the gun in his hand. Horrified, he thought the nightmare on London Bridge was repeating itself: the muzzle was suddenly pointing at him, and as he grappled for the gun, Moriarty managed to twist it towards Sherlock. John bellowed in rage and threw himself over Moriarty, pinning him down with his weight and simply, desperately biting him in the wrist. He was vaguely aware of the criminal dropping the weapon and crying out, the scream oddly turning into a mad guffaw of laughter. "Good!" Moriarty scoffed, "done a lot of schoolyard fighting, have you, Dr Watson?"
John just snarled and reached for the gun but could not grab it – instead, he manged to give it a push, sending it slithering out of reach. Moriarty used that moment of distraction to punch him viciously and shake him off; before John could get a hold on him, he rebounded and made for the boat.
John cursed and quickly ducked his head as bullets whizzed past him, shattering the windows of the boat. The engine was roaring, he realised, ready to cast off as soon as Moriarty was on board. Squinting out from under his arms, he saw armed police forces swarming across the green expanse.
"John!" Sherlock bellowed, "don't let him get away!"
Groaning, he turned his head to see Sherlock feebly trying to get up.
"Damnit," John snarled, getting to his knees, crouching low to avoid the line of fire. He saw Moriarty successfully dodging a bullet – but then a shot went off at close range, hitting him in the leg and sending him sprawling. Confused, John twisted his head to see where the bullet had come from, and his eyes fell on Sherlock, lying on his side, panting madly, Moriarty's revolver in his hand.
"Get him, John," he spluttered, "he wants them to shoot him." Coughing, he rolled onto his stomach and dropped the gun, eyes fluttering shut as he breathed, "The syringe, John …"
And finally John understood: Moriarty wanted to get killed. He couldn't make it to the boat – the police would stop him; and even if he succeeded to escape, Mycroft's men would intercept the boat easily enough. But Moriarty intended to avoid being captured under all circumstances, and all he had to do was pretend to pull a gun: then, the police would shoot to kill.
But Sherlock wanted him alive, so John jumped to his feet and tackled Moriarty on the ground. They grappled and scuffled with each other, John almost getting choked to death as Moriarty managed to claw his fingers into his throat; his vision blurred and everything turned grey and blotchy, but just as the world seemed to crumple in on itself, he brought the syringe to his mouth, pulled off the cap and blindly stabbed the needle into flesh. He had no memory of pushing the plunger, and apparently he had passed out for a moment, for when he came to, he was lying on his back, spluttering and coughing, and Moriarty had crawled away from him before collapsing.
Police was swarming all over the place now, and his first instinct was to run straight to Sherlock, so he shook off the helping hands trying to make him stay on the ground; but he needed to make sure Moriarty was no longer a threat – too often the criminal mastermind had fooled them; so he scrambled to he knees and croaked: "Tie him up! Tie the bastard up, for God's sake!"
And they did.
In a daze, he found his feet; staggering, he stumbled forward, desperately trying not to fall again despite the earth swaying madly. "Sherlock," he groaned, shaking his head to clear the lingering fog from it, and all of a sudden he had to fight a bout of nausea making him retch: all he could see was a pale figure lying outstretched on the ground, face down; two policemen crouching next to it; a sheet, half-draped across the body, and no movement, no movement at all – a shroud and a corpse.
"Oh God, please no," he gasped, stumbling forward. From the corner of his eye, he saw someone running at full speed, sprinting across the stretch of grass, long legs carrying the man faster than his companions, outrunning all of them. Something was incongruous, he vaguely thought as he fell to his knees next to Sherlock, but only when his fingers had found the pulse point and he had reassured himself of the blessed throbbing of the artery did he realise that the runner had been Mycroft Holmes.
"Is he–" Mycroft broke off, coming to a halt as if thunderstruck, eyes fixed on the still figure in recovery position.
"He's alive," John assured him, thinking that Mycroft had to be extremely upset if his deductive skills let him down so badly. "Just out cold from exhaustion – it's a miracle he didn't collapse earlier." He looked at Mycroft, who still just stood there with his face flushed from running, a rare expression of concern on his face. He looked pretty much ready to keel over himself, John thought. "Don't worry too much, he's doing fine. He's probably hypothermic and we need to check for fractures, though I don't think he's broken anything. I'm more worried about pneumonia and infection," he sighed as he checked Sherlock's breathing again.
Mycroft took off his jacket, and kneeling down, he wordlessly folded it up and placed it under his brother's head; one hand remained lightly on Sherlock's shoulder, John noticed, while the other briefly sneaked into his curls.
As soon as the paramedics arrived, Mycroft stepped back and John did the same. They gave him a blanket and offered to take him to an ambulance as well, but he refused. So they both stood and watched as the team took charge, covering Sherlock with a thermal blanket and monitoring his vitals.
"So," John said after a while, "you knew Moriarty was laying a false trail for you?"
Mycroft heaved a deep sigh, undoubtedly aware of what was coming. "Yes, John, I expected him to do so."
"So you knew," John carried on relentlessly, "that he had surveillance on the hospital."
"Yes," came the cool reply. "A most convenient way of tracking him and his associates."
John turned to face him squarely. "Did you also know he had eyes in the room itself? That he saw me, breaking down, snivelling like a child? That he watched as the doctors examined your brother, as the nurses attended to his needs, cleaned him up, changed the bandages, disinfected the catheters, suctioned his lungs?"
Mycroft looked at him calmly. "Why else would I have him moved to this particular room?"
John just gaped, speechless, as the horrific realisation dawned on him.
Mycroft graced him with a smug smile. "Anyway, as far as I know, most of these rather intimate ministrations were carried out by you."
"Sherlock hardly tolerated anyone!" John barked.
"Naturally," Mycroft smiled.
"What do you mean, naturally?" John spat. When he received no answer, he rolled his eyes. "Oh not you, too! I've had enough of those stupid allusions–"
"I'm not alluding to anything, John," Mycroft smiled benignly. "I am, however, extremely grateful to you for your devotion. And so is Sherlock, I am certain."
"I'm not so sure he's grateful for Moriarty watching him in his weakest moments," John grated, anger still burning almost painfully in his chest.
"Oh, but he knew, of course," Mycroft replied lightly.
"He was in a coma, for God's sake!" John burst out.
"Sherlock understood as soon as he woke up. Consequently, he deduced my plan immediately." Mycroft gave him a smug smile.
John's face fell. "That's why he wanted to get away," he stated, baffled. "He was so hellbent on leaving the hospital – he wanted to lure Moriarty away before he could wreak havoc in the hospital; he was playing the bait!"
"I see, you follow," Mycroft's smile was now dangerously close to a sneer.
John stood, pondering in silence whether he should be annoyed, and if so, who was to blame, and whether he was a fool or not. In the end, he settled for simply being happy that both Sherlock and Mycroft had faith in him. God knew, Sherlock would need someone to trust if he was to deal with the physical and mental consequences of the torture. But they would tackle that later, and together.
As they both watched the paramedics working on Sherlock, John mused, "He wasn't so clever, after all, then. Moriarty, I mean. He underestimated you."
"Perhaps," Mycroft replied without taking his eyes off Sherlock. "Moriarty's error of estimation was due to the fact that he calculated my reactions according to what he knew about me from the past. I believed Moriarty dead – that was my greatest error – so, before his reappearance, I acted as if we were dealing with normal crimes and average criminals. Once I knew Moriarty was back, I had to level up. He failed to foresee that I would."
"You mean you gave up on the idea of having Sherlock sectioned," John said mildly, "and finally had faith in him."
Mycroft sighed heavily. "If you insist on simplifying it to this, so be it. However, Moriaty made another mistake, John, a mistake far graver than underestimating me."
"And what would that be?" John asked, folding his hands behind his back.
Mycroft seemed entirely focused on watching as Sherlock was put on an ambulance stretcher. "He didn't realise that my brother – despite our differences – had faith in my abilities."
John chuckled. "Just say it, Mycroft."
"What?" Mycroft Holmes looked at him in bewilderment, and John felt a sudden surge of glee. "That Sherlock trusts you, and that you trust him. Blindfolded."
Mycroft pouted, scrutinising him intently, but he remained silent.
John just smiled, adding, "I might even be so bold as to say: you love each other."
That," Mycroft Holmes stated, taking a deep breath, "would indeed be very bold, Dr Watson." With that, he turned and sauntered over to the policemen and the officer-in-charge waiting to report to him.
~ 0 ~
A few more chapters, because I couldn't get myself to stop here.