Mycroft was precisely on time; not a second off if you went by the polished engraved silver of his pocket watch. But then, he did pride himself on the little things. He let himself in, prudishly wiping his feet on the welcome matt, before taking to the stairs. Out of breath more than he cared to mention, he knocked twice, awaiting Sherlock's approach.
How had his brother, exactly, gotten himself into such a mess? He had always been one for seeking out trouble, and if not – trouble certainly found him. He and John were made for each other.
He let out an impatient sigh when Sherlock failed to open the door to him.
"Sherlock, it's me." Mycroft tapped the point of his umbrella against the door once more. "If you expect me to stand outside your door for much longer, do think otherwise."
Suddenly, the sound of scuffling emitted from behind the door, and within the same second it was wrenched open, revealing a very different Sherlock to the one Mycroft had seen at the discovery of John's 'secret'. He stood tall, proud, dressed in what Mycroft knew, regrettably, was his combat gear.
By combat gear, Mycroft wasn't referring to camouflage and cleverly concealed weapons. Oh, no. This was an urban war they fought; they stood on concrete ground – bore the weapons of their minds on their sleeves. Having decided taking his impatience out on the wall was as trite as simply doing nothing, Sherlock had set his mind on a better impulse: planning. He stood dressed impeccably in a medley of blacks and browns. It wasn't ostentatious enough that he would stand apart from a crowd, but at the same time it was an outfit that excluded the air of someone who was ready to fight.
Ready to win.
He wore a round-neck black top, dark brown combat trousers, a black material jacket and chunky, high boots that were laced aridly half way up his shin. But most importantly, he wore the smirk of someone who was going to get his way.
Mycroft groaned internally.
"You're late." The younger Holmes turned away from the door, taking up position over the coffee table, which was coated in several layers thick of paperwork.
Knowing better than to rise to his brother's incorrigible statement, Mycroft stepped inside the flat and shut the door behind him. "I take it you've already culminated some idea of what you need me for, brother dear."
Sherlock's head jerked up from where he had been perusing his paperwork. "Of course."
"And…?" Mycroft pressed with a tilt of his head.
With a prolonged sigh, as if Mycroft should have deduced his entire strategy by now, Sherlock gestured to the sea of paper earnestly. Mycroft pulled his reading glasses from their case in his pocket and placed them meticulously on his nose, peering down.
As the writhing mass of lines focussed into words, Mycroft's heart sunk down past his knees.
"You want to storm Moriarty's headquarters?" A scoff, "Is that wise?"
Sherlock dropped the amused smile he had been wearing whilst examining his brother's glasses. "Obviously. John aside, Moriarty's recapture matters to you, surely? This man is intent on destroying the world simply because it bored him..."
"Now that sounds familiar," was supposed to be an internal remark, but it slipped past Mycroft's lips before he could stop himself. He cleared his throat pointedly. "So, what – you expect me to supply you with the men you need to pull of this stunt?"
Sherlock nodded, "Some guns wouldn't go amiss, I believe."
"Sherlock, you do realise I don't run the military aspects of this country's Government, don't you? I can hardly order twenty men from the Queen's Army on a whim."
"Pull in some favours," Sherlock growled, "Put the army on red alert – Mycroft, this is Moriarty we are talking about here, not a puerile military display sent to retrieve a slice of cake for you."
Sherlock was playing a very dangerous game here, and Mycroft knew it. By taking the Moriarty angle, he was flaunting the idea that Mycroft actually cared for Moriarty's capture. Yes, the man was a menace, but he was hardly top priority. Wilf Hudson was wreaking havoc in America; seventeen murders since his release were pushing the FBI to breaking point and yet his capture was yet to happen. There was the mess in Afghanistan to deal with; the press had had a field day after the discovery of the death of three soldiers, and the capture of one after a futile documents transfer. Explanations of that debacle were yet to be released.
So many problems; so little time.
"And, anyway," Sherlock noted, "You said you'd help."
"You've become entirely nonsensical, brother – remind me never to fall in love as you have."
To this, Sherlock simply smiled. "Indeed. Now do shut up, Mycroft, and help me plan; we attack tomorrow."
xxxxxx
The next morning in the darkness, John perched on the edge of his bed, head hanging in his hands, wondering what the hell he had done.
He had… he had actually… Christ, he'd actually… gone and kissed Moran. Well… Moran had kissed him. But wording it differently made no impact on the reality of it all. It had still happened. He had still let it happen.
Knowing he wouldn't be able to sleep, he slunk upwards from his bed, heading for the recruit's common room. It was 5:08am; it was doubtful any of the other recruits would be awake. With days filled with target practice, hand-on-hand combat and constant demeaning jibes, everyone fought for as much sleep as possible. If you lost sleep, you'd suffer the next day. That much was made known.
As John entered the common room, he realised he wasn't alone. Liam Jones was settled along the length of the settees, still in his training uniform. He looked up as John arrived, before returning his gaze to the telly.
"You alright, mate?" John asked, rubbing a tired hand over his face. The blond took rest on one of the armchairs, pulling his knees up to his chest.
The Irishman on the settee grunted noncommittally, "Tanner." he replied with simply.
John found himself pricking with annoyance. Tanner was one of the 'teachers' at Liberty House – known infamously for his inch thick skin and ability to bring a grown man to tears. Yesterday's lesson on long distance shooting had resolved in Jones being beaten by Tanner's curled fists after he failed to pick off all seven targets. Jones wasn't even at Liberty House for his shooting skills; the man was a tremendous hacker and had succeeded in bringing a whole plethora of banks to their knees. John eyed the ugly, purple bruise culminating over his companion's brow. The pain must be keeping him up.
"Don't listen to him, he's a prick." John checked over both his shoulders on impulse as he insulted a man exactly a foot taller than him. "An absolutely colossal prick."
Jones chuckled at the conviction in John's voice. "Ah, Watson; you always know what to say to cheer a guy up."
"Comes with the territory," John laughed, causing Jones to shake his head, unable to keep from smiling.
His deep-pitched Irish accent became hushed. "You'd best be careful, Watson; if one of the other guys over hears you saying stuff like that you'll find the shit beaten outta you."
John shrugged, "Nothing I can't take." He mused for a few moments. "How's things with you and Healy?"
"Not bad, not bad," Jones scratched at his ginger hair absentmindedly, a fond look glazing his eyes. "We were supposed to be meeting tonight, but I can't help but think he's gone and forgotten."
Healy was the assassin Moriarty had imported over from Ireland, a dark-haired cheeky bastard whom Moriarty favoured highly. Rumour had succumbed to truth over the fact the man could out-shoot Sebastian Moran. Now that, John wished he could have seen. John was one of few to know of Healy and Jones' relationship – having completely by accident interrupted them mid-embrace whilst looking for his bedroom. Late at night was the only the two could spend time together, what with conflicting schedules and the raging homophobe that was Tanner.
As if on cue, a lanky, bright eyed assassin adorned with his trademark smirk made his way across the common room, making his presence known with a loud, cheery, "Did anyone miss me?"
This was met with a snarky, "Don't be daft," from Jones. "Your own mother wouldn't miss you if you up sticks and moved in with your dashing gay Irish lover."
Healy gave a roll of his azure irises, "Well, it's a good thing I haven't got myself one of those then, isn't it, Jones?"
Watching the two of them flirt effortlessly sent pains to John's chest – the intimacy of it all dredging up repressed thoughts of Sherlock and himself, but also the stark reality of it all. He had always seen criminals as little more than people behind bars and this was awakening him to the truth; they were indeed people, not printed names on newspapers.
Healy landed himself comfortably on the settee, Jones' head resting on his lap. The assassin wove his spindly hands into Jones' cropped hair, before noticing John's fixated gaze on the two of them.
"Would you like to join in, or somethin'?" He remarked, cocking a dark eyebrow. John shook himself and drew away his gaze.
"No thanks, threesomes aren't really my thing." Resting his chin on his drawn-up knees, he smiled gently. "And away, I'm taken."
"Awh, but Watson we could've been so good together." Jones crooned from Healy's lap. A look of comical scandal broke across Healy's face.
"Shut it you," The assassin bowed his head, folding in on himself to bring his face closer to Jones'.
"Make me," Jones' teased, arching his neck to bring their lips together.
John turned his head away bashfully, suddenly feeling very extremely like a third wheel. Putting on a show of looking tired, he yawned emphatically and got up to leave. Jones tore his lips back from Healy at the sound.
"Don't leave on our account," The Irishman was wearing an almost full blown blush.
"I'm not; I'm just tired, honestly." John lied, "I'll see you in the morning, Jones. Healy. Try not to make too much noise, yeah?"
Healy's smirk grew into a grin, "I'm not making any promises." He sniggered, causing the more withheld Jones to flush further with embarrassment. John couldn't help but shake his head.
The two recruits waved him off as he turned to leave, before asserting their attentions on each other.
Slowly, John returned to his room, his heart ever so slightly lighter. Jones was the bloke he had travelled up from London with, and it was warming to see him happy. If there was one thing he could say about the recruits at Liberty House, it was that he would easily name more than a quarter of them as his friends. Although he hadn't been their long – Moriarty's establishment was more like a community than a company; you got along with most people, had fun in your spare time even. It was… although he wouldn't say out loud – nice.
Laying back across his bed, John flung his arms up to cushion his head, and after a few heady moments, he fell fitfully to sleep; dreams filled with the sinewy lines of Sherlock's body crushed against his own…
xxxxxx
The formation of men finally came to halt from their prone positions amongst the grass, a collective hush falling upon them all.
They waited.
Dressed in black, layer upon layer against the harsh icy night, the group awaited their signal to advance. Liberty House stood illuminated a hundred yards from their location, tall and ominous – silhouetted against the ebony sky. The only noise amongst them was the sound of ragged breathing.
They waited.
Movement in the windows; a portrait passing across a window – a man preparing for bed. Perfect. Their advancement would be completely unpredicted. There would be resistance – of course there would – but nowhere near the amount needed to still the press of Mycroft's mass of soldiers.
Sherlock cocked his balaclava-ed to the side, intent on catching the Head of Operation's eye. He was impatient, itching to move. The man beside him caught the look and nodded silently. Ready.
Every muscle in the soldiers' bodies tensed, sensing the moment of attack nearing. Years of training culminated in this one moment. Guns were hitched higher in their grips. Set.
The man in charge gave a single, austere nod of his head.
Go.
"Big Brother, this is Alpha Team– ready for lights out." The man hissed into his receiver, and in the same second the entire building foremost plunged into darkness.
That moment was all they needed.
"Go, go, go!" was roared, as the soldiers surged to their feet, boots pounding on the dirt before they began scaling the electric fence. They had fifteen seconds to climb and dispatch forward into the garden before the power returned, the fence re-electrified and the foreboding machine guns that adorned the walls of Liberty House were charged and aimed at them.
Thuds rung out as the bulk of men hit the ground, sprinting forward to take up their positions. By Sherlock's count there were sixty men advancing with him, twenty holding the fort behind the fence, and four that were currently at his flat clucking over the laptop he had used to break into Moriarty's computer system.
It hadn't been easy; Moriarty wasn't stupid – but at least he was methodical. He had based his entire computer network on a series of mazes. Dead ends and false leads furnished the mazes, questions from obscure TV shows popped up with the intention of misleading the hacker. Algorithms programmed by Jones himself were planted deep within the maze, and to add another level of danger to it all – if you took one turn in the maze, you were locked out completely.
But there was a solution to every problem.
Moriarty is left handed, meaning he favours the left side – most of the turns are to the left then. The false leads were marked with the formula 'r0rr3'hidden within; error backwards. Obvious. The questions were from shows with confusing plot lines; shows that would hold Moriarty's interest for more than an episode. Dark humour; murder common occurrences would appeal to him. "Are you local? (Y)/(N)" reference: League of Gentlemen. Obviously. John's favourite show also (irrelevant) Answer: (Y). Left turn. Then the algorithms; password upon password. Those… Those were harder. Longitudes and Latitudes were required – the place of Moriarty's birth, his first kill; personal questions designed to hitch a fault. But Sherlock worked through them all. He worked through it all.
Lights up and the sound of uproar. Bullets ripped through the air as those who stood behind the fence covered those advancing, their guns rattling as round after round cascaded across the stone walls.
The fastest of the men began to reach Liberty House. They used the butts of their guns to smash windows, hauling themselves in. Calls of, "Nobody move!" and, "Put your hands on your head!" ricocheted through the night, barely audible against the background of gunshots.
Panting, Sherlock reached the house and brought the butt of his gun down on the glass of a window. He held his gun at an awkward angle and pulled himself through into an empty unfurnished room just as the flood lights outside illuminated the gardens. A heavier, more solid gunshot sound filled the air, and Sherlock felt his heart sink like stone.
The snipers were on the roof.
By now, a silent alarm was awakening every recruit in the house to the threat. Sherlock could hear above him the heavy patter of footsteps as the men struggled into their uniforms in the darkness. It was only by sheer force of will he didn't imagine John doing so.
Gun in hand; Sherlock stalked forward, eyes narrowed. John was most likely situated deep within the house; the newer recruits - being less experienced - would be no good on the outer shell in the event of an attack. The adjacent corridor was empty, almost eerie, and so he continued onwards, alone save for the noises that rung around him. He took a set of stairs upwards, moving with silent, swift movements.
Too late, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
Sherlock turned sharply in alarm, and felt a searing pain shooting on the back of his skull. He fell forward with a single yelp, scrambling forward as he did so.
Sebastian Moran stood over him, sneering evilly. He had his prey exactly where he wanted it.
xxxxxx
A/N: Sorry this took so long to write – I had problems with how to go about le aforementioned rescue. Please review and let me know what you think of it!
P.S. To "Guesswhofoundyourfanfiction" I know who you are. And let me tell you: If you continue reading I will hug you. I will hug the heart out of you. O_O