Two days later and no one had had passed through the door of 221 save Mrs Hudson. No one took the 17 steps up to 221b, nor did anyone question the insubstantial amount of noise that usually filtered its way through the thin walls.
John watched the CCTV footage in silence.
Not once did the curtains twitch, nor the blinds shiver. It was as disconcerting as it was pleasing. Sherlock obviously had heeded John's warning but… For all John knew, Sherlock had indeed perished – not by John's hand, but instead a freak chemical-based accident. It honestly wouldn't be too equivocal an idea; the foreboding cloud of yellow fumes that hung, unexplained, across the kitchen ceiling had long been labelled too hazardous for human interaction and yet Sherlock insisted on testing it regularly for changes. There were weapons of every persuasion hidden within the crevices of the sofa; countless enticing poisons in unlabeled cartons; the lurking piece of uncooked chicken that Sherlock had used on numerous occasions to beguile John into making him tea, under the guise he would eat the chicken should he not.
All in all, Sherlock was a hazard to himself and those within a thirty mile radius of him. And it was this fact that had John's vigilant caring streak flare up within him.
John sat alone in the CCTV room within Liberty House, blinking away the lethargy providing his eyelids with a familiar heavy feeling. Liberty House was the secluded country home Moriarty owned in aid of training new editions to his cooperation. The room John was currently in was small, but comfortingly so. It had been too long since he had been allowed time by himself – Jim insisting John was provided with a companion for the journey from London deep down into the West Country and then Moran badgering him incessantly asking if he was feeling alright. A little alone time was exactly what the Doctor ordered.
Except it seemed Moran had other ideas on the matter.
Hearing the all too familiar click of the door, John twisted in his seat to see the habitual sight of Moran's blond hair poking from around the mahogany – a rueful half smile defining the scars and contours along his handsome face.
"Have you seen my Marksman?" He queried, green eyes roaming the room, "If Jim's got his hands on it all hell will break loose."
"Haven't seen it, mate." John replied. "But if Jim has got it you are royally fucked; he said he wanted a gun to use on Davies when he took a shower."
"Fuck." Moran spat, storming forward and reaching out to place an identical wooden chair next to John's, setting it down and straddling it. "You can't have a gun in this place without it being fuckin' used on a naked bloke."
John couldn't help but smirk gently. "You got that right."
Shaking his head, Moran scratched his head absentmindedly. John could see delineation in his hair; parts that fell longer than the rest. He must have cut it himself again. Often now, John found himself in tune with Moran's habits – a military man like himself had habits and routines, and it was rare to see Moran falter from them. He had no doubt Moran had memorised his routines in turn.
"House hunting?" Moran smirked, spotting Baker Street on the nearest monitor.
"Double checking." John deadpanned, familiar now with the concept of joking about death. "Y'know, in case I missed."
This caused Moran to snort lightly. With a roll of his eyes he announced; "Not even you could miss from point blank range, Watson."
"And that's as close to a compliment as I'm going to get from you, isn't it?" John chuckled, his boyish face crinkling in amusement, "Awh shucks."
"Shut the fuck up, Cinderella, or the only thing coming your way will be my fist." Moran retorted, eyes narrowing. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"The only thing coming my way?" John responded, with a coyish raise of his eyebrow- utterly unable to pass up such a blatant chance for an innuendo.
The sniper only narrowed his eyes further.
"You really are asking for it, aren't you?" He asked. The two blonds eyed each other with playful glints in their eyes.
Intent on gaining a rise from his acquaintance and therefore buying himself some time alone, John continued, "You know if I didn't know you any better I'd say you were flirting with me, Moran."
"Bitch, please." Moran slinked backwards against the back of the chair, his lips curling almost inexplicably. "If I was flirting with you, you'd damn well know about it."
John put on his most convincing condescending tone; "You couldn't flirt with Jim on viagra if you needed to."
Shifting again, Moran's piercing gaze became almost predatory; half leering, half threatening. The small surveillance room seemed to shrink slightly. "I could have you whenever I wanted, kid; don't pretend you don't know who you're messin' with here."
"You're not as big as you think you are, Moran." John leant forward to begin switching off the several screens he had been viewing – heart firmly pounding in his throat. He felt the small tickle of a breath careening his ear as Moran bent closer, positioning himself unflinchingly within John's personal space.
"Oh yes I am." He hissed dangerously.
xxxxxxxx
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Mycroft had deceased from answering his mobile.
Drip. Drip... Drip.
Heaving an agitated breath, Sherlock paced across the rug.
Drip.
Sherlock had freely admitted his possessive streak; his need to control and be in control, and now it was howling inside him, clawing at his sides. Get John back, the possessive creature writhed as it howled, pained, he is yours – not Moriarty's.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
He had broken the tap again. Controlled explosion. An outlet for his anger. Dull. Uninteresting. Monotonous. Insipid. Not John. Need John.
Drip... Drip…
How had John expected him to stay unnoticed within the confines of his own flat? Yes, it was commonplace for him to stay practically comatose for weeks at a time; capitulated in his own mind in reflection, but now he had reason to pace – reason to break free.
And as much as it pained him, he needed his brother if he was to go through with his plan.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Bleep.
Finally.
Snatching up his mobile from the coffee table, he accepted the incoming call with nimble fingers.
"I need a favour." He blurted, before his own arrogance could still his tongue. He could practically hear his brother widening his eyes in shock.
"What kind of a favour, brother dear?" Came Mycroft's sonorous tones, pitched higher in surprise.
"I know what you did." Sherlock lowered his voice threateningly, "I know that you gave Moriarty information to hurt John, brother," He spat the word with vehemence. "And I am warning you; if you don't aid me in his recovery I will burn the GPS chip I know for a fact is placed within this iPhone and you will never see me again. That I can freely promise you."
There was the faint buzz of silence resonating from the other end of the line, broken only by Mycroft's sharp intake of breath.
"That man is a farce and a coward; I will have no hand in returning him to you. His love for you was fake, Sherlock, and as much as it torments me to point it out, the sooner you cease in your pining for him, the easier it will be to ease him from your heart."
The matter-of-fact tone Mycroft had adopted sent fissions of ice-cold annoyance along Sherlock's spine. The detective launched back into his pacing, his free fist curling and uncurling as his anger came and subsided periodically.
"It's honourable to hear just how much faith you put in me, Mycroft, that I cannot endeavour to make a man fall in love with me." He snarled. It had been difficult enough concreting the idea of John's love in his mind without Mycroft's dismissal of it – but John and his previous encounter two days back had helped, if only a small bit.
"I have no doubt that one day you will come across someone whom is worthy of your love. " Mycroft admitted, "But that day is yet to come, Sherlock. And the sooner you realise that, the better."
"You know what," Sherlock pondered, "I've heard Africa is delightful this time of year. My previous threat still stands, Mycroft. You know me to be a man of my word and I will not hesitate to-"
"Must you be so stubborn!" Mycroft roared, suddenly. Sherlock seized up in surprised, eyebrows flying up his forehead. "Can't you see this man is no good for you?"
Mycroft's rage had spurred on his own, and Sherlock found himself raising his voice. "I'll have you know that John is worth twenty of you. Good or not; that man has become my life, whether you find that to your liking, I couldn't care less, quite frankly. Why, why do you insist on taking away the only thing, the only person, I care for on this blasted planet?"
Sherlock discontinued his pacing and flared his nostrils, breathing heavily from his outburst. The only way through Mycroft's hardened exterior was to convince the man John's return would be in Sherlock's best interests. That was, after all, what Mycroft proclaimed to care most about.
"Sherlock…"
Mycroft's long suffering sigh rung out, and Sherlock felt the first tendrils of hope filtering through.
"Is this wise? Your obsession with John is… well, unhealthy to say the least." Sherlock felt his heart sinking. Mycroft continued, "I can't help but feel your explosive personality may, in time, succumb to the monotony of a relationship and in turn you will seek more… addictive substances. John may be acting as your fix for the moment – but what will you do should he fail to meet your compulsion? You may be the one in need of him now, but he is broken, Sherlock. Inexplicably broken. He will need looking after, and what will happen when you find yourself no longer craving his company? When you drop him in search of cocaine, or your more usual vices? John isn't like us, you know – his feelings for you will remain. And when you break his heart, where will he turn? To his alcoholic drunkard of a sister? To his mother? He has no one, Sherlock. No one but you."
His brother's speech caused the rare event of a brain-blank. Sherlock hesitated, mouth hanging ever so slightly open, on the verge of replying but unable to form the correct words.
His brother was, as ever was the case, right.
He had been so caught up in loving John it had never occurred to him that perhaps, just maybe, he had been using him all along as just another way of obtaining a fix. Not once when John was around had his mind strayed along the dangerous trails to linger on the solemn wooden box he had hidden in the deep recess of his wardrobe.
"Are you starting to understand me, brother?" Mycroft asked, snapping Sherlock back to the present.
Yes, John was like a drug to Sherlock – that much Sherlock would willingly accept. But there was something about the drawn out, solid, almost weighty feeling of happiness that John supplied him with that he knew would never fade.
Maybe, after a few years, he might not feel the same excitement when John spluttered out an awkward, "Would you like to go to bed with me?"
Maybe, it was possible that John's snoring, or his ridiculous jumpers would grate on the frayed ends of Sherlock's nerves due to long exposure to them.
But, John made him happy; a feeling that Sherlock was all but naïve to before he had met the man. That, he would have to fight for.
"John will be looked after, because I will look after him." Sherlock began slowly, his tone convincing and unwavering. "He will be happy, because I will make him happy. I will not allow him to suffer in the hands of Moriarty, just because you will not call up on this favour. He is not a fix to me, he is my boyfriend, and the sooner you realise that the sooner we can get down to saving him. Understood?"
In the silence that followed, Sherlock took up pacing again.
"Understood." Mycroft echoed distantly, and Sherlock let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding in. It was always worth while to have Mycroft on hand.
"Oh, and Mycroft," Sherlock added, awkwardly. "I can't leave the flat, John was sent to assassinate me and I am currently posing as a corpse."
"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock." Mycroft groaned. "Why did you refrain from mentioning that? We could have saved ourselves this argument. I'll be right over."
Sherlock felt distinctly smug as the sound of Mycroft ending the call rang out.
xxxxxxxx
"You're not being serious?" John choked, springing back, his jovial expression lost. The first monitor gave a low whine as it shut down.
Moran flared his nostrils, but the killer glint in his eyes dulled as an almost unnoticeable sly smirk wormed its way across his face.
"You fucker!" John yelled, throwing a punch at Moran's arm, "Christ, mate, I thought you were going to jump me!"
"Your face!" Moran snorted and pulled back, a dirty laugh falling from his lips. "Oh man, I would pay to see that again, that was hilarious."
"Don't pull that shit," John shuddered, breathing in relief. Moran was scarily adept as an actor. "Jesus, you've been spending way too much time with Jim, you psycho."
"Psycho or not, you still fell for it." Moran grinned to reveal a set of neat teeth. "Absolute classic."
It never failed to surprise John just how much nicer Moran looked when he smiled. The man was handsome – of course he was – but when his lips spread into a grin, his scars fanned out and his face seemed less worn. He seemed more normal when he smiled, somehow.
"You need a new sense of humour, Moran." John huffed, glaring daggers at the blond hitman.
"I'm sure you'll find your way to get me one," Moran replied, his cheeky grin unfaltering. "'Cause you love me so much."
"Oh no," John rolled his eyes theatrically, voice monotone, "You've discovered my deep passion for you. How awful."
"Yeah, and don't you forget it." Moran laughed.
Just as the third and final monitor fizzed to a blank screen, the bell signalling all recruits were to return to their bunks trilled through the empty halls, clear and shrill to the ears.
Moran couldn't help but tease; "Looks like it's past your bedtime, kid."
"Past my bed time, and time you should be back licking Jim's arse." John countered, the two of them rising and heading for the door in tangent.
"Urgh," Moran sighed deeply, fumbling for the light, "Don't remind me."
"Oh don't worry, I will." John teased, his adorable smile lighting up his face. Moran found himself staring. Oh dear.
xxxxxx
Drip.
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale; Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.
Drip… Drip…
Sherlock's elongated fingers danced along his trusty revolver, glancing and deliberating between blowing his cover and perishing from boredom. Mycroft had arranged his arrival for twenty minutes from now. Twenty. Minutes.
Enough time to do something productive… or blast patterns into Mrs Hudson's walls.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Not long now.
xxxxxx
Moran caught John's wrist just before John exited the surveillance room, his hand large enough to secure its way around the entirety of John's.
"-What?" John turned, eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "Hey, let me-"
"John…" Moran's voice was low, lower than John had heard it before, and his eyes were wide, green irises glinting underneath thick eyelashes. It took John a second to realise just how close Moran was to him, their bodies an inch or so from touching.
"Yes, what?" John tried in vain to hold his voice steady, but Moran's truly earnest gaze was unsettling him.
"I…" Moran sighed, his voice heavy. "I know I was joking about it just now, but I think you're really great. I mean, really great. I've not had a mate like you for a long time, and I appreciate that."
This was not good. John shook himself mentally.
"That's cool man, I think you're great too. I should probably go though, the bell's rung, and y'know how Jim is when-"
John cut off his babbling at the feeling of his wrist being drawn into Moran's body, pulling him in closer, pressing the length of John's chest against Moran's.
"No, no, you're not getting it." Moran snarled in irritation. "Ah, I had it all planned out – what I was going to say, how I was going to say it – and now you're looking at me with your god damn fucking puppy eyes and I can't think straight."
Twisting his wrist from side to side, John struggled not to shudder. "Moran. Let me go." He tugged his wrist back, harder this time, more forceful, but Moran's unyielding grip only fastened tighter. Moran peered down at him with blown pupils.
"You have no idea what you do to me." He purred, leaning in as if he was inhaling John's scent. "No idea at all."
No, this was wrong; this was all wrong! John wrenched himself away from Moran, face crumpled in confusion and rising disgust. Did Moran mean-?
"No, this isn't right, I-I'm sorry." John spluttered, a flush rising across his cheeks.
"John- John, mate," Moran's face became imploring and horribly open. It left John feeling lost and uncomfortable. "That came out all wrong, let me start again-"
"I think you've said enough…" John mumbled, his embarrassment only become more deep-seated.
"Please, just give me a chance," Moran conjured, full lips puckering slightly as he spoke. "I know you're still getting over Sherlock, and I respect that, but we could be so good together. Can't you see that? I'd look after you. I'd treat you good, you know that I would."
"Look, Moran," John started, breathing deep for courage. "I- I'm flattered, really, but I'm honestly not up for a relationship right now." With you. With anyone but Sherlock. "You have to understand that."
"I do, I do," Moran pressed, stepping closer. John mimicked his step, and moved backwards, feeling his back hit the wall. Trapped. "But I want you, John, I want to be with you," He crept another inch forward, until John could feel Moran's heat radiating from his body. "I want you now."
"I really don't think-!" John managed to squeak out before an unfamiliar warm feeling pushed insistently at his lips. Moran was kissing him. "Moran-!" The press of Moran's lean, muscular frame had him pressed delicately against the wall of the surveillance room, his lips working and kissing at John's, trying to gain a response. As the wall dug and drilled into the all but fresh wounds of his back, John arched away, but in turn drew himself closer to Moran – who took this as an acceptance.
Moran's hands fell gently onto John's hips, squeezing them tenderly and renewing his attack on John's lips. No, no, this shouldn't be happening… but… Fatigue set in. The familiar broken feeling Moriarty had helpfully provided him with. Why fight? Accept your fate. Accept it.
It was a shock to the both of them when John started to kiss back.
xxxxx
A/N: Aha, bet you weren't expecting that! Fun fact. 'Liberty House' is a fictional place I'm basing on Liberty Hall in She Stoops to Conquer which I had the pleasure of watching at the National Theatre last Monday. It was brilliant, by the by, and I recommend you all to go see it.