A Deal with the Devil - Chapter 3

John sat at the table with Lucy in his arms and a bottle in his hand. Before him was a bowl of oatmeal, untouched, that had once been warm. His eyes fluttered, barely able to suppress the sleep attempting to blanket him. Coffee. What he needed was lots and lots of coffee.

"Morning," Sherlock announced as he strolled into the kitchen in his robe. He rumbled through the refrigerator before settling on orange juice, then opened a cabinet and pasted on his daily nicotine patches. John said nothing in reply.

"Are we still not talking today?" Sherlock questioned as he sat down across from John, who simply glared back at him.

"Hello, Sherlock. Oh how I've missed you."

"What do you want," Sherlock responded through gritted teeth.

"I want a lot of things, Sherlock."

"What do you want with me."

"No hello? You're not going to ask how I am? That's really quite rude of you."

"I did kill a man. Unfortunately, some people thought he mattered. I guess I don't have the best manners."

"Is that supposed to be a threat? I'm quivering."

"What do you want? This isn't a game."

"That's where you're wrong. That's exactly what this is. A game. My game, to be more specific," Moriarty grinned. "Too bad you didn't see me in the Crown's Jewels, because in this game, I am the queen, and you are nothing but a pawn."

"You're forgetting that I like to beat you at your own games," Sherlock bragged. "I survived your last game. I took down your network. I made you into nothing."

"Oh dear Sherlock, you're forgetting I'm back," Moriarty whispered menacingly. "What have you really done? Absolutely nothing. I survived too, Sherlock. I am the brain, I am the gamemaker, and you? You are nothing. I have more networks than you will ever know about. But you can't kill the system until you kill the brain, and well, you're quite good at failing at that, aren't you?"

"What's stopping me from putting a bullet in you right now?" Sherlock threatened.

"I'd say a bullet into John Watson," Moriarty replied, folding his hands in his lap. "Kill me, and you kill him too. Will that blood on your hands matter? And, do tell, where is your faithful companion? Not here, no. Not on Baker Street anymore." Moriarty leaned in, whispering, "Do you miss him, Sherlock? You can tell me. It'll be our little secret. How did it feel to come back and find out that you'd been replaced? Huh? And who's John with now? Mary."

Sherlock's jaw clenched. "I have not been replaced," he spat back.

Moriarty leaned back in the chair with a smirk. "Sherlock," he cooed. "You're not a hero, Sherlock. You're just like me. Why do you keep playing with the angels? They're no fun."

Sherlock scoffed.

"We're both going to hell anyway," Moriarty whispered. "You can run around, trying to cope with this world, with these people, these simple minded people. Or you could join me. We could have fun," he tempted. "Besides, in the end we're both going to the same place anyway."

"I don't believe in a hell and I don't believe we're the same," Sherlock said flatly. "Anything else? You're cutting into my teatime."

"Well if you won't take me up on that offer, I still owe you, don't I?"

"Are you going to put a bullet in me? Please, that's so cliché."

"You'll see, Sherlock. You'll see." Moriarty casually strolled out the door.

Sherlock let out his breath, frustrated with the open-ended puzzles and homicidal games of Jim Moriarty.

Moriarty's head popped through the doorway. "Oh, and for old time's sake," he grinned.

Before he could move, a red light filtered through the window, landing between Sherlock's feet, quickly followed by a whizzing bullet.

"Cliché, I know," Moriarty laughed, "but I couldn't resist. Oh, and it looks like I don't owe you any longer." He left.

"How could you be so stupid?!" Mycroft yelled. It wasn't often that Mycroft really yelled, although it was common for him to call his younger brother stupid. "Don't you see what you've done? You are banned from the Moriarty case, Sherlock!"

"Sherlock, I'm bored," Moriarty complained into the phone.

"Why are you calling me?" he replied flatly.

"Because I'm bored, Sherlock. Let's play a game."

"I thought we already were in your game."

"Okay, why don't you entertain me? My cards say I have a sniper ready to splatter the brains of John Watson in front of his wife. Your counter?"

"What do you want Moriarty?" Sherlock's hand was shaking slightly as he held the phone to his ear.

"I'd say a good card to pull out right now would be the Indigo File from your brother Mycroft. How about a trade? You get John Watson's life, and I get those files."

"I don't even know what files you're talking about," Sherlock replied honestly.

"Sherlock, dear, you don't need to know. All you need to know is the trigger is ready and I want those files. By midnight. I'll see you then." The line clicked shut.

"Dammit, Sherlock! Do you even know what was in those files?"

"I... I had to save John," Sherlock stuttered.

Mycroft let out a deep breath. "Sherlock, you can't be part of this case anymore. You can't have access to this information. You're letting emotions override your reasoning."

"I don't have emotions," Sherlock replied. "What was in the file?"

"You didn't even look?" Mycroft asked in disbelief. "Where is your curiosity, O Great Detective?"

"Don't mock me Mycroft. I was running out of time. John was in danger."

"Sherlock, I can't tell you what was in the file. That was classified information that you handed over to Britain's greatest homegrown terrorist. Willingly. You're banned, little brother, and lucky I pulled strings so you wouldn't be prosecuted for treason."

"Mycroft..."

"Get out before I change my mind."

"What's the real reason you were off the Moriarty case?"

Sherlock looked at the curiosity blazing in John's eyes, and the concern tugging at the corners of his mouth. He couldn't tell him. It would shatter the broken man. He was already so fragile. The tears were still fresh in his eyes, staining his face, dripping onto the infant in his arms. Sherlock didn't have emotions. But why is this man my weakness?

He couldn't answer John's question. But he couldn't lie to the man either. And he knew if he didn't speak up now, the words would come out later, in another letter, from Moriarty himself. He had to phrase things correctly, had to word it to soften the blow in any possible way. Sherlock remembered the pain he felt from the bullet slicing through his flesh as he nearly died on Magnusson's office floor. The pain he felt now was so similar as he managed to bring the words into his throat, choke on them, and finally let them out.

"John, put Lucy back down."

"What? Why?"

"Just please, please listen to me." He waited for the baby to be placed carefully in the cradle. "You should sit down."

"Sherlock, what the hell happened?" John felt behind him and stumbled into his chair, refusing to take his eyes off the taller man. The worry lines grew deeper in his face.

"John, I... Moriarty. I made a deal with him."

"You made a deal with the devil?" John asked in disbelief.

"Please, just let me finish," Sherlock begged. "I made a deal with Moriarty. If I gave him a secret file, he wouldn't take your life. He was going to kill you, and I couldn't let him."

"Okay. Okay," John nodded. "That's reasonable. What was on the file?"

"I... I didn't get a chance to look at it before I handed it over. I was running out of time. The deadline, John. So I just gave it to him." Sherlock could feel actual tears begin to well in his eyes. Fuck, he thought. I never cry. But the words were too painful, and the pain was too strong for his meticulously built emotional defenses.

"Sherlock."

There's so much worry in his voice, Sherlock sadly noted. "I... I didn't find out until later. Moriarty sent me a letter, shortly after you received yours."

Dear Sherlock,

Thank you for being such a dear and giving me those Indigo Files. They were greatly appreciated. I know they must have come at a high price for you. Mycroft probably won't tell you the big secret you let slip, so I'll be a kind gentleman and let you in on the secret. The files were about me, but I'm sure you guessed that much already. I've been a naughty boy, Sherlock. I had a naughty plan.

But you should really thank me. I'm writing you this lovely letter, giving you secret information, and... wait for it... I gave you back John Watson. Got rid of that bloody Mary. Lucky us. My plans were almost foiled. I had a rat trying to warn the government, but without the files, they lost all the information to act upon anything. The names, pictures, identities, everything on the team I had working inside the hospital. Making it impossible to figure out who to watch, who to ban from the maternity ward. Making it easy for my team to kill the bitch.

I'd thank you, but I think you should really be thanking me.

You're welcome

Sherlock munched on a piece of toast and watched the sleepy-eyed John Watson try to stay awake and feed his daughter, a task which seemed to be quite a struggle for the father. "Want me to feed her?" he asked.

John glared.

"Lestrade said they have a serial killer that likes to behead victims. Want to come with me?"

No response.

"Dammit, John!" Sherlock yelled, losing his temper. Lucy began wailing. "You haven't said a word to me in a week! A whole bloody week!"

"You killed my wife!" John finally shouted back. "What do you want me to say? You killed Mary!"

"Bloody hell, I saved your life! I didn't know! I didn't know what was in the file!"

"Like hell you didn't. You're Sherlock Holmes. You know everything."

"I put a bullet through a man's skull to protect your wife, John Watson. I murdered a man to save her. And they were going to send me to my death. I did all that for Mary. For you."

"And then you decided to make a deal with the devil," John shouted over his infant's cries.

"I was trying to save your life! That's all I was trying to do. I was trying to save you." Sherlock's voice cracked at the end as he felt the pain returning, seething like the wound from a bullet hole. "I... I was trying to save you," he repeated, a barely audible whisper, before his head hit the table.

"Sherlock, what the hell," John complained, but the curly head didn't move. "Sherlock?" He walked around the table, still carrying the baby, and took one of the pale hands. Only a slight pulse could be felt.