Chapter 4:
After interrogating Miss Wenceslas, they finally have the bomber's name.
Moriarty.
Not an entirely uncommon surname and as such it doesn't lead him anywhere. With nothing else to do but wait for the next message, Sherlock resorts to watching whatever crap telly it is John has left on. It's not very entertaining; in fact, it's downright infuriating, how oblivious these people are about the most obvious things.
Still, it passes the time in a manner that means he doesn't have to be alone with his thoughts and ruminations about John.
This whole case with the bomber couldn't have come at a better time, and yet Sherlock knows he's not enjoying it as much as he could be. And it's not got anything to do with morals or the fact that people's lives are at stake either. He could care less about either of those things, unlike John.
It's because, no matter how hard he tries to become absorbed by the case, the puzzles, the tricks and twists, he finds that there is always a running monologue in his head about John.
Is John alright? Is he hungry? Tired? Is he thinking about leaving now? Will he leave Sherlock the minute this case is over? Or during? Is John still angry about the argument, or is he mad about Sherlock's lack of tact? That thing Sherlock just said definitely ticked John off; will he say something about it? What would John think about this? Should he ask? Or would that only trigger yet another fight?
It was enraging, to constantly have this stream of thought dedicated to his partner. To not be able to use his brain to its full potential on this case. John was hindering him, and it was risking Sherlock's ability to properly solve this case.
And yet, the man persisted in tagging along. He persisted in trying to help, despite knowing that that usually resulted in a fight. He persisted in staying, even when it was becoming startlingly clear to Sherlock that he wanted to do anything but.
So why. Was. He. Still. Here?
At the moment, John was upstairs in the second bedroom - John's room; they hadn't shared a room in many months now so they may as well call it what it is. Sherlock hadn't a clue what he was up to, and he was trying extremely hard to keep it that way by focusing only on the programme he was watching and not the shuffling noises of John moving around.
Because if he allowed himself to think, to wonder, for even a second about what John may be doing, his thoughts would spiral and he would be focused on John, John, John all over again. And it was already so hard as it was to stay off that track.
Time passed excruciatingly slow, with Sherlock dutifully ignoring John and trying to focus instead on crap telly.
By the time that John was coming and joining him in the sitting room, he felt that he'd done a rather admirable job at keeping him from his mind. That is, until he was standing there in front of him.
"Let me guess - and mind you, I never guess. You want to talk." Sherlock says as his eyes quickly scan over the doctor and deduce his intentions instantly. It's obvious in the way he's holding himself - straight and tall as if walking into battle; which is rather accurate, he supposes. It seems all they've done lately is battle.
"Yes, I do," John tells him as he grabs the remote beside Sherlock's elbow and flicks the TV off before Sherlock can so much as protest. Lips thinning, Sherlock grips his knees that were tucked up underneath his chin and narrows his eyes at John.
"About what? How I've managed to ruin everything somehow? What atrocities have I committed this time round?" Sherlock asks as he unfolds his legs and places his feet on the ground to better address the man.
"Don't, Sherlock. It's not like I'm creating these things out of thin air." John all but scolds, eliciting a scoff from Sherlock.
"Oh, please. Do lecture me on how abrasive I am toward the rest of society. I'm sure it's not something I haven't heard before, from yourself no less." Sherlock mocks, and for a moment he has the brief thought that this is yet another argument. One that has sprung up from seemingly nowhere.
"And isn't that just the point right there? I constantly have to tell you; these aren't just... toys for you to mess around with Sherlock. This game you're playing, with Moriarty? It needs to stop. You can't keep forgetting that these are real human lives, lives that end unlike ours." John admonishes, but Sherlock doesn't want to hear any of it.
"Yes, tell me more about needlessly allowing human suffering while reminding me about all of those wars you went and fought in. Bit of an unfair advantage, no? For an unkillable soldier to go in and slaughter the opposing side?" Sherlock asks archly with a raised eyebrow.
"That's not the same." John all but seethes.
"No? How so? Is it that you didn't mean to kill them? Living in delusion doesn't suit you, my dear John." Sherlock scolds, as one would a child, and the satisfaction he gets at seeing the tone get under John's skin is unparalleled.
"Or is it different because you were the one killing? You were the one putting lives at stake. When I do it, it's wrong, but when you do it... well, no need to dwell on it then, right?" Thankfully Mrs. Hudson's out because Sherlock can see the desire to yell in the shaking of John's frame and knows that this go-around is going to be rather spectacular.
He wouldn't be surprised if it ends in Lestrade showing up due to a noise complaint.
"It's different because I'm not getting any kicks from it. I don't go to war because I enjoy it-"
"You can lie to me all you like, John, but lying to yourself?" The words are scathing, no longer tinged in teasing and mockery, as Sherlock leans forward in irritation.
"I go to war because humans don't know how to do anything else! I go to war to save lives! Army doctor, remember? Besides, this isn't about wars, this is about you getting yourself into some game with a madman!" John shouts. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock pushes himself up and out of his chair and walks to the window.
"Is it? Because it sounds like you're attempting to start yet another fight with me on how awful of a human being I am." Sherlock says as evenly as he can manage despite the sudden wave of exhaustion that takes over.
"Sherlock, he's been kidnapping people and decking them out in semtex, all for you. Because you enjoy it. Jesus, the last one was just a kid! And you... You don't care!" John spits out, stepping closer to Sherlock. There's still plenty of space between them - more so seeing as Sherlock had gone to the window - but just that step closer makes the hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck stand at attention.
It's not that he's afraid of John, or worried he'll do anything as stupid as to attack him, but with him just that infinitesimal bit closer, the air between them feels all the more condensed. It's buzzing, snapping, heating up, becoming suffocating, and Sherlock wishes John would move away as he had rather than come closer.
"Should I be concerned about every single human life? All seven billion of them? Should I be sad when every day a hundred thousand of them stop breathing? Did you know, on average, every second that passes, someone dies? But we don't. Which means I should be sad that they do, right?" It's an insane expectation, and even more so when Sherlock has always been this way. John knew what Sherlock was like in the 1500's, so why should he expect him to be different now?
"But we've had this argument already, haven't we? About putting me on a pedestal. So what is this really about, John? What fight are you really trying to pick with me?" Turning away from the window to glare at John, he awaits the answer in silence. It must be big, this perceived slight of his, to make John this worked up.
If only Sherlock had actually done anything to actually deserve this anger, then maybe they would have been able to talk this out calmly, or at least, much calmer than they were doing now. But John is still mad - shocker - about their separation and is still punishing him for it without outright admitting that that's what he's doing. Even to himself.
"Fine. Fine, you wanna know what this is about? It's about the fact that this Moriarty guy is all but declaring his love for you and you don't seem to care. In fact, you're encouraging it!" John shouts. Blinking, Sherlock can't help the laugh of disbelief that bubbles up and out of him.
"I've always known you were an idiot, John, but this takes the cake! Jealousy?" He laughs, looking the doctor up and down to determine whether this really was what this was about or yet another deflection.
"Jealousy? No, not when you're practically running into this guy's arms. I'm not gonna sit here and play at obliviousness. We both can't die, but I won't be your stable option; the one you come back to because there's no one else left and it's convenient. Either you want me, and only me, or you don't. Commit to one or the other, but you can't have both." John says caustically, only further shocking Sherlock. The consulting detective was left in a disbelieving stupor as he realises that John truly believes the outrageous assumptions he's made.
As if Sherlock would go to anyone else - a normal human no less - when he could have John instead. The only person he's ever wanted. He's about to say so when John continues on in that same scathing tone.
"If you don't want to be with me, just say so. If you want to go and run off with someone else, someone who will eventually die, by all means, go ahead and do it. But at least have the decency to let me know about it first." With his piece said, he turns on his heels and marches for the door without giving Sherlock any time to think up a proper response.
"You're not allowed to leave me again!" It's instinctive, that reaction to John's departure, but it's the truth all the same.
This time it's John who scoffs, hand on the doorknob as he looks over his shoulder at him.
"Not allowed? Are you forgetting that you're the one who got us separated the first time? And this time as well. I'm over two-hundred years older than you, Sherlock. I think you will find that I will do as I well please." And with that, he's flinging the door open and stomping down the stairs.
And when the street door opens and slams shut, the last of Sherlock's breath leaves him in a woosh.
0-0-0-0-0
With John gone, silence fell, smothering and oppressive.
How had John managed to get everything so wrong? Sherlock, in love with someone else? As if that could ever happen!
It was so outlandish, so preposterous, that it was almost laughable.
Almost, because in the end it had resulted in John leaving, and while Sherlock had silently found himself hoping that he would, just to find some relief from the tension of the past few months, he hadn't wanted it to happen like this. With him finding yet another outrageous claim to be mad at Sherlock about; to somehow blame this whole thing on the detective when he had only been trying to fix things all this time.
When the shock finally wore off, Sherlock found himself enraged. How could John have done this to him? How could he have spun this all on him rather than own up and take just a little responsibility for this mess?
And then came the worry. Would he ever see John again? Could they ever become friends after this? Was Sherlock going to be left alone for the rest of time? Wishing for a death that would never come?
And eventually, the numbness and denial. He didn't need John. He didn't need anyone. He would be just fine by himself. He had the work, and the Work was something that would never leave because as long as there were idiot humans and crime, there would be the Work.
Which led him back around to the realisation that there was still one wit left in this grand game he and Moriarty were playing. All he had to do was wait for the next message, the next puzzle, and he would be able to forget about John for at least a short while while he focused all of his attention on the case.
It was the perfect solution, and so Sherlock sat himself indifferently in his chair, mobile in hand, and hoped the blasted thing would go off.
It took time - time which Sherlock spent bouncing his leg impatiently and working very, very hard to think of nothing but the case - but finally, there was a buzz followed by the standard message and picture.
'Fyftly, the mynde, whan the fourth have wrought; Retayned all tyll the minde have made'
Beneath the message was a picture of a pool that, while unfamiliar, surely meant something to him. This would be the final wit, memory, and as such it likely had to be something he already knew, something he would have to recall.
Pleased by the welcome distraction, Sherlock stood from his chair and began pacing as he tried to recall any instance in which he had encountered a pool. What did it have to do with this puzzle? With this bomber? It wasn't as if Sherlock were especially fond of pools himself - in fact, he couldn't actually remember the last time he had been to one.
Which means it's not a memory of his own he needs to recall. It's to do with something else. Someone else. Where else has he known someone to be involved with a pool?
And then, ah, the epiphany.
The answer alighting itself in his mind, Sherlock moves to the desk and wakes up his laptop. Opening the search engine, he looks up the details of the Carl Powers case. A boy who drowned in a pool, the puzzle that started it all, the one that had been repeated in the third wit. There was a connection to this case between it and the bomber; possibly he knew them, more likely he'd killed them.
Was it to be a confession then? A recollection of the events? I've done it, and I got away with it? Why reveal it now, then?
Because genius needs an audience.
It all made so much sense, Sherlock thought as he took note of the pool's location and all but sprinted from the flat. The perfect crime, gone undetected by the police and therefore undiscovered for the genius that it was. With an inflated sense of confidence at having gotten away with it, the bomber would go on to commit even more crime, but with all of them going unsolved, it would make sense to challenge the one person in the world who could actually solve them.
The one person in the world who could understand the ingenuity for what it was.
Genius loves an audience and Sherlock knows that better than anyone. Being able to show off his deductions and leaps of logic fills him with a thrill every time he does it, and as such, the same could then be said for Moriarty, a criminal who never gained recognition due to the fact that no one was listening.
As he sat in the cab, awaiting his final challenge, Sherlock could feel the smile stretching across his face. No longer was he worried about John and his feelings and their relationship that had crumbled and burned to ash. Instead, it was The Work, which is just how it should be from now on. Why bother with all that other nonsense when he could focus instead on the straightforward, uncomplicated matters of solving crime? There was no disappointment there other than the occasional boring case, and even then, there was always something else to move on to. Some other crime to be investigated.
When he had finally reached the pool, it was midnight and there was hardly a soul on the street. Shoving his hands into his pockets, Sherlock had some idea of what may be awaiting him inside the pool. Clutching the gun - John's, military issue provided to him by Mycroft to add credence to his military story, decidedly ignoring the fact that even military weren't supposed to bring the guns back home with them - in his pocket all the tighter, he glides over to the front doors of the building.
He may not be able to die, but a way to defend himself would help in avoiding any unnecessary wounds that may create questions.
Stepping through the doors, Sherlock navigates himself to the pool with ease. There's the uncomfortable heat, along with the cloying smell of chlorine in the air, but Sherlock ignores it all as he scans the room for anything out of the ordinary.
Just as he's thinking that this clue is going to be harder to find than he first thought, someone walks out of the locker room.
And Sherlock reconsiders everything he had thought about this game.
Because John Watson is walking over to him, face straight and posture relaxed, if tensed a bit at the shoulders.
He remembers thinking, earlier, how happy he would have been had John constructed this game for him, as a means of apologising. He remembers scratching that off of his possibilities because John cherishes human life - as evidenced by their earlier fight; one of many on the subject even if it hadn't been the real motivation behind John's anger at that time.
But now, to see John walking over to him, he thinks that he's not very happy at all to see him, and it isn't just because he's still mad about their fight; which he is, mind.
No, it's because he knows John so well to know that there is no way he is here for any other reason than because Moriarty has gotten to him. In what capacity, Sherlock isn't sure yet, but he's willing to bet it's nothing good.
"John." Sherlock greets, voice calm and even despite how very not calm he feels at the moment.
"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" John asks, just as calm and even as Sherlock. His face has yet to even twitch in any sort of way, and so Sherlock is still having difficulty reading what sort of situation it is that they're in.
"Bet you never saw this coming." John continues when Sherlock doesn't immediately respond. Ignoring him, Sherlock glances around the room but can't see anything else that may indicate to him what's going on.
"What... would you like me... to make him say... next?" Ah, an earpiece. Feeding him lines, much like he had his previous hostages. Hence, John is a hostage rather than his enemy at this moment.
He hopes. He really, truly hopes. John can live through a bomb, but Sherlock cannot live through John turning into something he hates the most, all because Sherlock made him angry one too many times.
"An apology would be nice. He did leave the flat in such a huff." Sherlock says lightly, trying to keep the relief from his voice. He's not supposed to be relieved to find that his husband has been trussed up in explosives by a mad man, after all.
"Finicky things, these pets. Minds of their own, wouldn't you agree?" It's not John's voice anymore, but another man's. It's familiar, but only just so, and Sherlock can't quite place it as he watches a man dressed in a suit step out of one of the back rooms.
"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?" The words slither lustfully through the air, and while Sherlock can see them sparking another bout of anger - jealousy, he knows now - through John, Sherlock brushes them aside. Still, he can't help but want just a small bit of payback for the way John has been treating him lately, and so he allows one corner of his mouth to raise up as he pulls the gun from his pocket and points it at who can only be Moriarty.
"Both." He answers with ease, enjoying the twitch of John's jaw muscle as he clenches his fists.
"Jim Moriarty. Hi!" Moriarty greets cheerily, a large smile of his own plastered on his face as he addresses Sherlock. The way he says it and his posture indicates to Sherlock that he's supposed to recognise him, but other than the name, he can't place him.
"Jim? Jim from the hospital?" That rings a few bells, but Sherlock doesn't allow any outward response to the words to show as he keeps the weapon trained at the man.
"Oh. So much for the wit of memory, hm? But then, I suppose it was rather the point; to be forgettable." Moriarty says lightly. He's still on the other side of the room, but Sherlock tracks him with ease as he slowly makes his way over.
He's so focused on his target that he barely notices when a red laser appears on John's chest, slowly rising to his forehead.
And doesn't that just throw a wrench into his plans?
While it would have been tedious, and maybe even a little tricky, to take care of Moriarty without him cottoning on to either of their immortality, witnesses would make this very difficult indeed. Because if John gets shot now, there will be multiple - Sherlock isn't sure how many snipers there are, but he's willing to bet it isn't just the one - witnesses to his 'death'. That means Sherlock will have to take care of them all himself, without also being shot, and be entirely positive that there aren't any survivors.
"I don't like getting my hands dirty. You understand, right?" Moriarty teases as he continues moving ever so slowly towards him and John. When Sherlock still doesn't reply, Moriarty continues.
"I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see... like you!" This catches his attention, and for a moment he's able to put the thought of witnesses and danger from his mind to focus back on Moriarty; an actually interesting, normal human.
He's fascinating, just as much as he's dangerous.
"'Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister?', 'Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?'" Sherlock jokes, eliciting a wider smile from the man.
"Just so." He agrees.
"Consulting criminal. Brilliant." And he means every word he says, which is maybe why John has such a visceral reaction to it as his face twists up in disgust.
"Isn't it? No one ever gets to me... and no one ever will." Moriarty says severely.
"I did." Sherlock counters as he cocks the gun.
"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way." He concedes with a slight shrug. Sherlock's gaze flickers briefly to John, but the man is as stone still as ever. After his look of disgust, he had managed to smooth his features back into a blank slate that made it difficult to read exactly how he was reacting to everything or if he had any ideas for getting out of this situation they had found themselves in.
"Thank you," Sherlock says once he refocuses back on Moriarty.
"Didn't mean it as a compliment."
"Yes, you did."
"Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirtings over Sherlock," Oh, another look from John. He truly does not like Moriarty, and while it shouldn't, it amuses Sherlock all the more.
"Daddy's had enough now!" The criminal sings before Sherlock can become too lost in his amusement.
"I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off." Sherlock quirks a smile at the man's words and tilts his head slightly to the side.
"Not much threat, though, is there? You've taken my husband hostage - probably soon to be an ex after the spectacular row we had earlier - and you, what? Think that will do anything to deter me?" Sherlock asks, and he can see the flicker of surprise in Moriarty's eyes before he blinks it away and grins all the wider, walking up to John finally and grinning at him.
"Oh, you hear that? Seems there really is no love lost, is there?" He purrs, and while John doesn't outwardly react, Sherlock can see that it was taking everything within him to not cringe at the criminal's close proximity.
"You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead. I really am curious what you might say to that." Moriarty prods when John doesn't look like he's going to say anything. Yet, the doctor remains stubbornly silent which isn't surprising to Sherlock.
"No final words? Because it seems hubby here is pleased as punch to let you go kaboom!" Moriarty says as he mimics an explosion with his hands. Still, John doesn't say anything which seems to amuse Moriarty all the more as he laughs almost manically.
"Why don't we get right down to business then? D'you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?" Moriarty asks as leans forward slightly and grins.
"Oh, let me guess, you'll kill me," Sherlock says blandly, not at all threatened by the common misconception of his mortality.
"Kill you? No, no, not at all, don't be obvious. Well, eventually, one day, but I want to save that for something special. There's no rush." The grin grows, but as ever, Sherlock is unaffected. Seeing this, Moriarty frowns and straightens again, voice lowering as if telling a secret.
"If you don't leave me alone, I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you." He threatens menacingly, and while it's a threat he's never heard before, he can't help but scoff.
"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one," Sherlock informs as he glances at John who is still statuesque in his lack of movement.
"But we both know that isn't quite true," Moriarty says, still with that low voice but with the frown morphing back into a knowing grin as he fixes the lapels of his suit and turns on his heels.
"Well, I'd better be off. So nice to have a proper chat." He calls as he raises a hand in farewell, undeterred by the gun still trained on his back.
"What if I was to shoot you? Right now?" Sherlock questions, still deciding whether it was worth the risk to try it or not. His words spark something in Moriarty as he turns around to look at him again.
"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face. 'Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock. Really I would. And just a teensy bit... disappointed. And of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long." And he means it, which is proof enough that he truly thinks he has the upper hand. In a way, Sherlock supposes, he does, because he's brought witnesses that would no doubt spread the word about not only Moriarty's death but Sherlock and John's lack of.
But if they weren't there - or if Sherlock had a clear shot of them - then he would be the one in control right now. Because Moriarty doesn't know about their immortality and truly thinks Sherlock would never allow John to be shot.
He's still debating on whether there is a way to reveal the sniper's location, or how many of them there are when Moriarty continues.
"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes." He says in farewell, beginning to walk away again.
"Catch you later," Sherlock replies, looking for even a second of a chance to take a shot at him.
"No, you won't!" And with that, he's gone which is irritating in of itself.
He could have caught Moriarty here and now, and yet he'd let him walk out unharmed instead.
"Alright?" Sherlock asks John flatly, not turning his eyes away from the door that Moriarty had left from as he lowers the gun.
"Fine." John answers shortly, already shrugging himself out of the explosives and tossing them carelessly aside. It lands by the edge of the pool, but neither of them pays it much mind.
"So much for leaving me," Sherlock says as he eyes John, looking for any sort of injury he may have sustained when kidnapped. however, even if he had gotten hurt, there wouldn't be any sign of it at this point so it was a moot effort.
"Trust me, I was trying." John retorts as he brushes his hands over his shirt to smooth out any wrinkles.
"Hm. How fitting that my new fling found you first and brought you back." Sherlock mocks with a sneer. It's probably not the best time to be hashing this out, but the argument is still so fresh in their minds that he can't help but bring it back up now that they're in the same room.
"Look-"
"Sorry boys, I'm just so changeable!" And suddenly there are multiple laser sights on John, as well as Sherlock if John's eye line is anything to go on. Immediately, Sherlock has the gun raised back up as Moriarty all but skips over to them, a smile wide on his face.
"It's a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it's my only weakness." And Sherlock feels this is a very apt conclusion, because now Moriarty is back, and he can make a rather accurate guess as to how many snipers there are, and most importantly, he has a means of eliminating them all in one shot.
"You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you but... everything I have to say has already crossed your mind." Moriarty goes on, oblivious of how big a mistake it is that he's just made. Swinging the gun's aim from Moriarty, Sherlock points it directly at the explosive vest discarded to the side and glances at John who is watching him with a firm look on his face.
"Probably my answer has crossed yours," Sherlock says as he looks back to Moriarty, staring into his eyes.
It's the most elegant solution, in the end. The explosion would certainly kill Moriarty who is only inches from the bomb, and it would ensure that the snipers on the upper level would perish as well. There wouldn't be enough time for them to escape, and the floor would come crashing down and bury them in the rubble.
There would be no survivors, except for Sherlock and John.
"Are you familiar with the rest of The Pastime of Pleasure? Specifically chapter 41." Sherlock asks calmly, a smile lifting his lips as a frown turns down Moriarty's.
"How He Was Arrested By Death; yes." Moriarty answers as calm as Sherlock is, yet Sherlock can see the tension that he is trying to hide in his frame.
"Rather fitting now, isn't it? 'But whan I thought longest to endure; Deth with his darte arest me sodenly;'" Sherlock quotes, speaking each word with the correct pronunciation. It's reminiscent of a time when everyone spoke that way, but times have changed and language evolved.
"You're truly willing to kill both yourself and your pet here just to get me? I'm flattered, that you think you couldn't get me any other way." Moriarty attempts to mock, trying to cater to Sherlock's sense of humanity and pride.
"Oh, I could certainly get you in some other, convoluted way. But why bother? Besides, I won't be the one dying here. And neither will John, that's for certain." Sherlock tells him with a widening grin as he steps forward, unperturbed by the snipers still aiming for him.
"And do you know why that is?" He asks darkly, voice pitched low.
The sound of a gunshot echos ear piercingly through the pool and there's the sting and burn of a bullet lodging itself in Sherlock's right shoulder, but he only holds the gun all the tighter as the bullet falls to the floor. A through-and-through. That's good; it would have been such a pain for John to dig it out later if it had gotten sealed in his shoulder.
"Because you can't kill an immortal," Sherlock says in answer to his own question. Pulling his shirt aside to show the gunshot wound, he watches as Moriarty's eyes light up in fascination as the skin pulls and stitches itself back together without even the hint of a scar.
"Amazing. The things we could do-"
Before he can say anymore, Sherlock fires his own gun and the room is engulfed in the blast.
0-0-0-0-0
Sherlock's never been in an explosion before, so at least that's something new that he gets to experience.
First, it feels as if it hits his chest in a staggering blow. It knocks the air out of him, and when he attempts to breathe in it's a painful struggle. Next, it hits his head and face, clearing the sinuses and creating a pressure so intense it almost feels like his head may be the next thing to explode.
All at once, there's the sound of the blast, followed by the heat and the sharp sting of shrapnel flying at him and searing his skin. His ears are ringing and the ground is vibrating as the whole building begins to collapse, and his vision is obscured by the dust and rubble falling down around him.
The blast itself has thrown him back a ways, and suddenly there's water surrounding him, and while he's never experienced an explosion before, he's drowned plenty before and he'd really like to avoid it another time around. Still, trying to swim upward is difficult when you can't tell which way is up and there's still rubble falling and pushing you back down. With the explosion having knocked the air out of him earlier, he can only hold his breath for all of a few seconds before chlorine water is flooding his mouth and lungs. It's unpleasant in the extreme, but he pushes the thought aside and pushes off a chunk of concrete to propel himself to the surface.
It had all taken but a minute or two, and yet it felt as if it had been hours.
As he breaks the surface, he can see the building still shaking around him as the ceiling collapses and walls buckle and fall. It's extremely difficult to see anything with all of the dust in the air, but Sherlock pushes through regardless and swims to the edge of the pool as best he can.
"John?" His voice is hoarse and there's a twinge in his chest - ribs and lungs have both taken heavy damage, but they're already repairing themselves. Every second that passes, it becomes easier to breathe.
"Here." Pleased by the response, Sherlock makes his way over to where he'd heard the muffled sound. He trips multiple times on metal railings and rubble, but eventually, he finds John with his arm pinned underneath a relatively big chunk of concrete. It's nothing John can't move on his own, but with the position he was in, he wouldn't have the leverage to do so. As such, Sherlock is quick to help, digging out the space around it as much as is possible before pushing the chunk away and freeing the doctor's arm.
"Thanks," John says as he grabs the arm to his side as it repairs itself. It will take a few minutes for that kind of damage to be healed enough to allow function, but so long as John keeps it tucked safely at his side it should be fine.
"We should leave. Someone will surely have alerted the police to this mess." Sherlock says as he's turning away to find a way out. The way he'd come from is blocked off, but they manage to get into the locker room where they find a back exit that isn't entirely closed off. They have to push aside more rubble and stone, but soon enough they're back outside and breathing in as much of the fresh air as they can.
"We can't take a cab in this state. We'll want as few witnesses to us being here as possible." Sherlock is saying as he pulls out his mobile and begins forming a text message.
"Right, which means we probably shouldn't walk home either. At least, not on the main roads." John agrees as he glances around for anyone that might have seen them exit the back of the building. They can hear a crowd building in the front, but so far there's no one back here.
"Precisely. This way." Sherlock says as he sends the message off and pockets the mobile before taking them into a nearby alley. They follow it for a bit before turning off into another, and then another, and then they're on the main road which Sherlock can see confuses John for only a second before a nondescript black car pulls over to the kerb.
"Mycroft?" John questions, clearly recognising the car as a similar one to the one that picked him up before.
"He has his uses," Sherlock affirms as he gets into the car, followed close behind by John. The driver doesn't bother waiting for an address before he's pulling back onto the road and driving toward Baker Street.
The ride is silent as both Sherlock and John refuse to truly acknowledge each other. They're covered in dust and blood and their clothes are sliced in places where shrapnel hit them, and all Sherlock wants to do is go home, get cleaned up, and go to sleep. Normally, he would be too high on adrenaline after the night he'd had, but he's just so exhausted from fighting with John and then facing Moriarty that he'd really rather not deal with any more of it tonight.
Still, he knows that he won't be so lucky, and so the second they reach 221, he directs John up to his room to get fresh clothes and then shower. Sherlock does so afterwards, and then he bags their destroyed clothing and gives it to Mycroft's assistant who is waiting patiently outside the door for him.
From there, he has John make them tea and sets the telly to a random programme before grabbing his violin and standing at the window.
Predictably, Lestrade shows up before the hour is up.
"Did you get my messages?" Lestrade asks, slightly out of breath as he holds up his mobile. Turning to look over his shoulder, Sherlock stops his melody mid-note to gesture with his violin bow to his own mobile lying face down on the sofa.
"Sorry Lestrade, we were, uh, rather preoccupied." John apologises sheepishly as he comes out with a mug of tea.
Using their relationship to his advantage while he still can by implying that they were either engaging in romantic relations - unlikely, seeing as everyone knows of their arguing - or - the much more likely scenario - they had been fighting yet again.
It seems Lestrade assumes the latter as he glances warily between the two of them and nods.
"Right. Well, there was an explosion." Lestrade tells them as John moves to sit in his armchair.
"Where at?" The doctor asks with a frown as he takes a sip of his steaming tea.
"A pool, of all places," Lestrade tells him as Sherlock turns to look back out the window.
"Know anything about it?" The DI asks him next, to which Sherlock rolls his eyes, even if the man couldn't see it.
"I don't see why I should." He answers diligently while playing a few more notes of the interrupted melody from earlier.
"Maybe because it happened to be another of your pal's bombs?" Lestrade elaborates, to which Sherlock puts on his best sham of interest. Setting the violin bow down, he spins to face Lestrade with a smile.
"Oh, now that is interesting. Was there a note left behind?" He asks.
"Well, if you count approximately five bodies as a note, yeah. Not sure if there are any more or not seeing as we're still searching through all the debris, but that's what we've come up with so far." Lestrade informs him. Humming in feigned interest Sherlock glances to John who is still sipping his tea casually.
"What are five people doing at a pool in the middle of the night?" He asks as if to himself.
"Will you come?" Lestrade asks. Smiling wider, Sherlock goes to grab his coat.
0-0-0-0-0
It's tedious business; pretending to not know anything about a scene. If it weren't for the thrill of covering up his and John's involvement, it would be downright boring, but as it is there is a slight thrill at knowing they're pulling one over on the blind idiots of New Scotland Yard.
It really is quite lucky for humanity that the two of them have yet to turn to a life of crime.
It's determined that there were actually seven bodies, one of which being Moriarty - not that anyone but Sherlock and John knew that - and for a few days the police are under the assumption that Moriarty had been the newest hostage while the rest were the muscle intended on getting him in place and strapped in explosives. After it had been determined that the bomb had been shot, it seemed to strengthen the theory. The hostage had fought back, got hold of a gun, and shot the bomb, killing them all.
Somewhat the correct conclusion, but not at all for the reason that they thought.
After finding that they couldn't identify the supposed hostage, Sherlock was quick to steer them into the right deduction that it hadn't been a hostage at all, but Moriarty himself. From there he was able to spin a story about one of the hired snipers actually being a plant from a rival criminal that resorted to blowing them all up to avoid there being any connection back to said rival should someone happen to survive.
With all of the snipers being criminals in the first place, it hadn't exactly been a hard sell. Lestrade had simply been happy that they wouldn't have to worry about Moriarty in the future.
And so, John and Sherlock returned home without anyone being the wiser to the fact that they had been at the pool that night. It was as satisfying as it was relieving, and for a moment he had all but forgotten about the arguing and the fighting and the separating that had preceded this event. Being back at the flat though, brought it all back to the forefront and he dreaded the moment John reiterated his decision to leave due to Sherlock's supposed lack of commitment.
It took longer than Sherlock expected, for him to bring it up, and when he did, it wasn't at all he was expecting.
"I was wrong." It was a correct statement, but Sherlock hadn't thought that John would admit it so easily. It seemed his surprise was evident to John as well as he frowned and Sherlock attempted to school his features before he inadvertently started yet another argument.
This one seemed so promising, after all.
"In assuming you were going to run off with Moriarty." John elaborated when Sherlock only continued staring blankly at him.
"Was it me killing him that did it for you?" The snide remark leaves his mouth before he's even fully aware of it, and he winces internally at antagonising John when he seemed to actually be attempting to make things right. It was just so easy to turn to spite after every conversation leading there eventually. Habitual, even.
"Sorry. Do go on." Sherlock says as he shifts uncomfortably in his chair.
"I am too. Sorry, that is. I shouldn't have accused you of wanting to go off with him. I was just angry and picking fights and... well, you were right about that too, I guess." He ends this with a defeated sigh as he comes out of the kitchen with two mugs, one of which he hands over to Sherlock.
He hasn't made him tea since all of their fighting started. It's almost apology enough that he has now.
Sherlock doesn't say anything though, mostly due to the fact that he doesn't trust himself to not say anything snarky. Instead, he waits silently for John to continue, curious as to what he may say next. It takes a minute, but finally, he continues.
"You were also right that I wasn't allowing myself to forgive you. I've been thinking a lot about that ever since you said it and I realised I was so angry that I didn't want to stop being angry. I didn't tell you back then because I didn't want the last thing we remembered of each other for 500 years to be a fight, but leaving it to fester like that didn't help either." Sherlock looks down into his tea at those words and finds he can't fault John for that logic.
That night, 500 years ago, John had been furious. Enraged even. After he'd come back from the pub, he'd seemed calmer, but Sherlock had been so wrapped up in his own fear of being separated that he hadn't thought too much into his partner's sudden change in emotion. He'd chalked it up to him having gotten out his anger in the form of drinking.
So for him to have still been angry, and yet shoved it aside to ensure that the last memory they had together was something nicer than a fight? It was a consideration Sherlock isn't sure he would have had the forethought to have had if the situation had been reversed.
"And now that we're together again, all I do with you is argue anyway. You've tried to make things right multiple times now and I didn't let you. I wanted to keep fighting, to make it impossible for you to be forgiven. It was petty and unnecessary and I should have tried to fix things instead of making them worse." Swallowing hard, Sherlock clears his throat and looks up. The silence indicates that John has finished his piece and is awaiting Sherlock's response, but there are so many things he wants to say that he isn't sure where he should begin.
"I'm sorry as well. For not apologising for getting us cursed, to begin with." He starts, feeling that that's a good place to begin. He'd done some thinking of his own over their many fights and realised that while many of the things John had accused him of were deflections, the blame for the curse had not been.
Sherlock truly had never owned up to getting them involved with the witch and cursed. He still maintained that he couldn't be faulted for not knowing it was a possibility, but he had allowed his ego to take hold. John had told him time and again to stop stealing, that it would only wind up with them in trouble, and he'd ignored him simply because he wanted to do whatever it was he deemed interesting or exciting.
"For another, I am sorry for not listening as attentively as I should have. If I had taken into account your prior warnings I could have avoided this whole mess in the first place." It's a stiff and formal apology, but it seems John doesn't mind as he nods in acceptance of the words which is relieving as well.
"I appreciate that, Sherlock. And just so we're clear, in the future you need to listen to me as well. Not everything, but the stuff that matters, alright?" John says, and while Sherlock wants to debate what is classed as 'the stuff that matters' he manages to stave it off in favour of nodding his acceptance.
"And I'll stop prolonging this fight. I'm going to listen too, and accept your apology. I'm not happy you got us cursed, and I'm still upset about it, but I'm not upset with you. not anymore." It's reassuring and Sherlock has to take a deep breath to keep tenuous emotions at bay as he nods.
"So... we're good?" Sherlock asks tentatively.
It's easy; far too easy. They had come so close to leaving each other. So close to finally breaking things off for good. And yet, here they were now apologising and forgiving each other with only a few simple words.
What had taken weeks and months of arguing had been solved in seconds, and Sherlock was cautious as a result.
"Getting there, I think. I don't expect we'll be entirely over it so soon, no matter how much we apologise, but... I feel... better. About things. You know?" John asks. His eyebrows are furrowed in thought as he takes a sip, and Sherlock finds that the doctor means his words. He isn't simply brushing over his previous anger but instead moving on from it at his own pace.
"I... yes?" Sherlock says more in question than answer. It makes John smile in response and he sets his mug down to lean forward with his elbows on his knees, holding out a hand for Sherlock to take should he want to. Tentatively, Sherlock moves into the same position as John and outstretches his own hand to grab at John's.
"It's alright if you're not. I mean it this time when I say I want to fix things between us. I don't want to go without you Sherlock, but if you don't think we should, I understand. If you want me to stay up in my room, or you want me to leave altogether, I will. Really." Sherlock would very much not like that, but he understands why he should probably consider the options regardless.
After all, John has made this same promise before, to try and fix things between them. Who's to say that in another week's time they won't have reverted back to the fighting and the arguing and the accusations? Sherlock should keep a safe distance for now until John can prove that he really is going to change.
But he doesn't want to. He wants to welcome John back with open arms and do his best to ignore everything they went through to get to this point.
"Maybe keep your room for now." It's with great reluctance that he says this, but thankfully John doesn't fight him on it. Instead, he squeezes Sherlock's hand and nods.
"I can do that. Maybe we should just start from scratch, then? Start this whole thing over." John suggests. When Sherlock only stares blankly in response, the smile returns on John's face and he releases Sherlock's hand to sit back. Clearing his throat he holds out his hand in the space between them.
"My name's John Watson." He says in faux seriousness. Raising an eyebrow at this, Sherlock slowly extends his own hand to grab John's in a shake.
"Sherlock Holmes." He greets back, rolling his eyes as he does.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes. I look forward to getting to know you." Releasing their hands they both stand from their chairs and smile at each other.
"Sherlock, please. The sentiment is shared." He assures. From downstairs they can hear the street door open and close as Mrs. Hudson returns for the night from Mrs. Turners and that seems to be the cue to end their discussion for now.
"Well, I think I'm gonna get ready for bed then. See you in the morning, Sherlock." John says as he turns to head for the loo. Sherlock doesn't say anything in response, though there's plenty he could. When the door closes behind John, Sherlock finds himself falling back into his chair with that all-familiar hope rising with renewed vigour inside his chest.
Maybe things between them will work out after all.
"Sherlock, dear!" And of course, where there's gossip to be had Mrs. Hudson can sniff it out in an instant. She had been as aware as everyone else of his and John's relationship troubles and had acted accordingly. The resolution of those issues must have triggered some type of shift that only nosy landladies could sense.
As the old woman pokes her head in, she scans the room for John. When she sees no sign of him she enters cautiously, an envelope in hand that she holds out to him.
"Hello dear. I was just coming in and saw this was left for you. Must have been a personal drop-off, this late." She says as she walks within reach. Taking the envelope, Sherlock watches as Mrs. Hudson glances around again for John, a look on her face that signals to Sherlock that she wants to say something.
"What is it, Mrs. Hudson? John should be out shortly if you wish to speak to him." He says as he looks at the envelope he now held. It didn't have a return address or any indication at all of who sent it, and the lack of postage indicates Mrs. Hudson had been right to assume it had been dropped off personally.
"Oh, it's nothing, really, just... Well, is everything alright between you two? It's just, there's been so much arguing and I know how that can turn out, what with my husband and all. He would get downright nasty sometimes, especially when-"
"We're doing better now, Mrs. Hudson. Do stop your worrying." Sherlock tells her in his blandest tone while all the same being grateful that she'd cared enough to ask at all. The only other to do so had been Lestrade. Everyone else had been keen on watching and hoping they might go at it in public.
"Truly? Because men sometimes, they say one thing, you know and then-"
"Really, Mrs. Hudson." He cuts off before she can go off on another tirade about what Sherlock is already silently worrying about himself. She looks unsure for a moment, but then there's the sound of John opening the door and that decides things for her.
"Well, if you're sure. I'll just be downstairs." She says before hurrying off. Sighing, Sherlock turns his full attention to the mysterious envelope as John walks back into the room, glancing at the open door.
"Was that Mrs. Hudson? What did she want?" He asks as Sherlock begins ripping open the flimsy paper to find a letter inside.
"Yes. She was being her usual nosy self, rest assured. She came to drop this off." Sherlock answers. As he's pulling the letter inside out of the envelope, John comes over to try and determine for himself what it is.
"A letter? Who from?" He asks as he grabs his abandoned mug and drains the last remains of cold tea from it before taking it to the kitchen.
"Uncertain. No return address. No postage either. Mrs. Hudson found it when she came in." Sherlock says as he scans the page, a frown growing on his face. It isn't a very long letter, hardly enough to fill the page, and while it isn't signed off, he can make a guess of at least who may have sent it.
''Obey! he sayd, as ye may be sure.
You can resist nothing the contrary
But that you must obey me naturally.'
Seems that isn't the case for either of us, is it?'
"Who's it from, then?" John asks as he walks back in. For a second, Sherlock debates whether he should answer truthfully or not, and then immediately realises the many repercussions that could have on their hardly renewed relationship.
"I'm not sure, but I believe it came from someone from the pool." He admits finally as he looks up at his partner. For a brief moment, John doesn't react, and even when he does it's nothing so spectacular as shouting or throwing things. Instead, he merely blinks.
"Pardon me?" He says. Looking back to the letter, Sherlock reads the poem written in Old English before holding it up for John to see.
"It's the next couple of lines of How He Was Arrested By Death. The poem I recited to Moriarty." Sherlock explains as he tries to pull any other clue of who this is from from the writing or the ink or the paper itself.
"Okay... so maybe..." John trails off, surely trying to find some sort of explanation of why someone would have sent it and how it relates in no way to Moriarty, but they both know that would be a tough conclusion to come to.
"Audio? Maybe Moriarty was recording your conversation somehow and someone listened in?" He asks feebly, to which Sherlock shakes his head.
"This last line indicates that the sender themselves is also immortal. Or, at least, unkillable. Why add that part to the letter if not to imply they had defied death as well in the explosion?" Sherlock asks, finally setting the letter down to look at John.
"I don't know. You don't actually think there's someone else like us, though, do you?" John asks sceptically, which is fair when thinking about the fact that in all their centuries they had yet to find anyone else who was immortal like them.
"I suppose it's not impossible. If we are, why can't there be others? Perhaps they've gone on thinking they were the only one, only for us to prove them wrong when I blew the pool up." Sherlock suggests.
"Yeah but... Jesus, you don't think it's Moriarty, do you?" John asks worriedly. Whether it's because he fears what Moriarty might do, or because he fears that Sherlock may fall for him after all, Sherlock is unsure.
"Unlikely. Moriarty's body was taken to the morgue where a full autopsy was done. He should have healed long before that point." Sherlock explains as he steeples his fingers to his mouth. That's not even to mention the fact that Moriarty had been legitimately shocked by the revelation of Sherlock's own immortality as well. The consulting criminal would surely have been more amused by the healing rather than outright shocked had he himself also been immortal.
"The same could be said for the snipers they found, too." John notes, to which Sherlock nods in agreement.
"Yes, which means that there was somebody else at the pool, likely another sniper went unaccounted. They healed from the explosion, and much as we did, they vacated the area before anyone was aware that they had been there in the first place." Sherlock mumbles to himself as his brain kicks into overdrive to try and make sense of all of this. He thinks back to every second he and John spent at the pool, both with Moriarty and with the police, and tries to find any hint of there having been another immortal in their presence.
"So now we've got an unkillable criminal out there to deal with?" John asks, and Sherlock isn't sure whether the idea worries the doctor or intrigues him. For his part, Sherlock can't decide how he feels about it either.
Because on one hand, there's someone else out there like them. Someone who might have answers to this whole immortality business. But on the other, there's an immortal out there who, unlike Sherlock and John, has resorted to criminal activity. There's no telling what someone like that could do. What damage could be done.
And then there was also the potential that this person outed Sherlock and John as immortals to everyone they knew. Or worse, the entire world.
What was stopping them? The potential of outing their own immortality? If anything, that would only bolster the fear surrounding them. It would work out in their favour for all of those in the criminal underworld dealing with them. If word got out of an unkillable killer, they would have all the power they could ever need.
There were too many unknowns. They didn't know who this person was or their motivations, and because of that, Sherlock didn't know what they should expect.
Another segment done! I think the next story I do for this series will be more of a filler, but I do have many ideas still for things to come. As always, I don't know when exactly I'll get the next story up, but it is in the works! I'm having too much fun with this series to give up on it at this point.
Also, thank you all so much for reading and interacting with these stories. It means the world to me that so many people would take the time out of their day to read my stories!