A/N o.O *cries softly* I am no good at being a writer guys, I am so sorry! I have been finishing up my AS exams (the big finals at the end of our first year of 6th Form for all those lovely non-UK folks out there :D) and scouring for universities and co-writing a production for my theatre group and writing coursework for A2 and generally just being too chicken to face the laptop and write (I think it's a sick paradox that while I am confident in every other area of my life I am a sissy when it comes to writing because I know it kind of sucks :D) SO I AM SORRY ONCE MORE! It was a genuinely idiotic time for me to plan a fanfic for really when I knew I'd be so busy so that's a big mistake of timing on my part D': But you must know dearest readers that unless like, I suddenly come down with a terrible disease or I drop off the face of the earth, I will never abandon a fic because you lovely peeps keep me coming back :') And the fact that I actually really loved this chapter :D
To my Anonymous Fan: You have the credit for forcing me to return! :P Worse than Moffat? AGH, I AM SO SO SORRY! D': Thank you ever so much for your encouragement, I hope this chapter is okay for you :S However, the wonderful advice on the spinning of webs and your name "A fan" has got me thinking… ARE YOU MORIARTY?! IF YOU ARE I PROMISE I'LL GIVE SHERLOCK STRAIGHT BACK WHEN I'VE FOUND HIM, JUST DON'T HURT ME!
Anyways, I hope you guys like this chapter, again apologies that I may have squeezed London's geography a bit; the station I use is Piccadilly Circus (which is feasible I guess)
Disclaimer: The monkeys didn't let me down -_- They don't think they're pretty enough and now I'm trapped in a cave in Everest listening to them cry and give each other pep talks. Great. Fortunately the view is great from here; I'm hoping to spot me some wild Sherlocks from up here!
In John's experience, silence was never a good thing. If Afghanistan had taught him anything, it was that the wait between plan and action was always the time that nerves began to kick in and tighten up your stomach because the wait always gave you a moment too long to think about yourself, too long to think about how suddenly short the life of the man next to you could be if the action didn't live up to the plan. The thought wasn't a welcome one as John shot a sidelong long at his best friend and then into the silent, empty expanse of the hallway in front of them. Sherlock gave a little hand signal, apparently unfazed by the yawning spread of suspicious silence awaiting them. You go left; I'll go straight on, it said. John shifted his body weight to lean, giving him a view of a door that he'd missed in the little entrance to the room, presumably a bathroom.
He nodded, stepping out after Sherlock's drifting coat-tail, hearing the whir of a fan from somewhere inside the hotel room. Sherlock tucked himself in against the wall, allowing John to pass him. His hand moved at the last second and John frowned, feeling Sherlock press something metallic into his hand. It took a few moments to actually register that it was his gun and, sickeningly, John couldn't help but remember who its last target had been.
"You're more likely to fire," Sherlock muttered, like he was stating a simple fact of the case. John opened his mouth to argue but the right words to dispute it evaded him. Sherlock squeezed round him without another word, giving him a firm look before he disappeared down the hall.
John gathered himself, uncomfortably aware of how familiar this all was. Sherlock wasn't a soldier in the precise definition of the word, but he was somewhere in the no man's land between crime and war. John found it ironically amusing that after the horrors of Afghanistan, he had managed to follow another man out into battle. He shook his head and entered the bathroom.
He had the time to observe immaculate white tiles and the little dish of boxed soap before the first fist rammed into his side from behind, making him gasp. He whirled, bringing the gun around to aim but Robert already had the advantage, ducking to the side before John could get any semblance of a clear shot and then moving in close to jab at his stomach. John coughed almost soundlessly, the impact choking him and he stumbled back a little, trying to give himself space before the next blow, but Robert stepped with him, another brutal punch only blocked by John's slightly desperate, flailing arm. The angle wasn't right to get a shot that wouldn't have the likelihood of shooting his own foot off, but that threat soon became a lot less important than the necessity when John saw a flash of wicked silver and, with a realisation that almost made his blocks judder to a halt, he recognised the straight razor in the elder Holmes' hand. Of course he'd use a straight razor. It didn't take Sherlock's observational skills to see the shaving bag on the sink, notice that it was the most dangerous weapon available to a wanted man with no contacts. A desperate man.
John squeezed the trigger to fire but Robert saw his shift in stance as John attempted to move to solidify his aim. He'd never heard more than stories of it happening, but firing from this angle was about as stupid as a man could get if he wasn't desperate as the stories promised that it was easy to break your wrist with the recoil. John wasn't about to take that chance. Unfortunately, Robert recognised the movement and John let out a small cry as the razor blade seared into his hand. The older man's accuracy was frightening when a downward fist to the same hand made John cry out, the gun clattering to the ground and John only managed to kick it away before Robert could grab it. John stumbled back, almost slamming into the bathtub, blocking two more snake-like strikes and managing to put in a less effective one of his own before Sherlock burst into the room.
John stumbled round Robert, the distraction giving him time to make space between him and the other man, glancing longingly at the gun that had skidded under the sink cupboards. It'd take too much time to retrieve it, not quick enough to knowingly protect either of them from that blade. He nodded at Sherlock, assuring him he was alright.
"I've killed men for less than that Dr Watson," Robert mused and John watched in disdain as he used his free hand to pull a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away the speckles of blood from his nose and cheek, "Standard discipline for people on our side of the white picket fence, I'm afraid." He shot him an arrogant grin and suddenly John found that he had no more problems in believing that this man did business with Jim Moriarty. Besides the genuine belief of his own power, Robert Holmes had the strength and the protracted danger that made him such a threat. It made John wonder just who it was that he owed money to, to make a man like this so desperate.
"That being said," Robert continued, pocketing the handkerchief, "The day's not over yet Dr Watson. I'm happy to make you a promise that you won't live out the rest of it, unless Sherlock backs off. I will kill you." The smile turned horribly sinister and John had to remind himself of his drill instructor's persistent yelling to push down the twist of fear that flared in his stomach. He stood up a little straighter, chin jutting in a challenge. Sherlock said nothing, allowing John to meet the threat on his own.
"I wouldn't try it," John said. I had bad days. Sherlock smirked next to him, a proud little gesture that was ridiculously messed up in context, but John got the message. Robert Holmes apparently saw it too as his smile tightened and his attention flicked annoyingly casually to Sherlock.
"I'm giving you fair warning Sherlock," he said, "Back off. Back off or I will not just kill John once I'm through here but I will kill your brother also, right now." John stepped forward at that, a sudden white-wash of fury catching him. Robert spoke like a stern father, scolding his child, but the content made John's world spin nauseatingly. He could never even imagine his father, any father, threatening his own children. But there was a precedent for violence in the Holmes family, a web of double crossing that had somehow resulted in the high-functioning sociopathic miracle that was his best friend.
Sherlock's hand stopped him, grabbing his elbow. Robert's hand moved to his pocket, making John tense but Sherlock kept himself perfectly still, hand still on John's arm.
"One call is all it would take," Robert sighed, lifting a mobile from his pocket, "Rather disappointing in its simplicity really but I'm on a tight schedule I'm afraid, I have a train to catch very shortly. So I'm going to make this quick and simple for you Sherlock. I have armed men waiting to enter dearest Mycroft's hospital room at any moment. An attempt on the life of a government official is sad, yes, but I'm afraid hospital security is only ever as tight as a man's wallet is in his ability to bribe a few people. Should you persist to detain me Sherlock, I'll make the call and I'm sorry to say that Mycroft will no longer be amongst us"
"Call the number," Sherlock dared, words enunciated in a way that only Sherlock could, tight and daring in an almost scary way. Robert Holmes narrowed his eyes at him, suspicious, before breaking into a satisfied grin.
"You're bluffing."
"Try me."
"I think I will," Robert smirked, thumb hitting the call button. John tried to step forward to grab the phone but Sherlock shook his head. Wait.
John watched, just hoping to God that Sherlock knew what he was doing. Robert's mouth opened to speak, his smirk widening and the whole room froze for a second, the atmosphere so dense that it felt as if time slowed sluggishly through it.
A second later however, the smile disappeared, irritation and shortly fury crossing it. John jumped when the phone went crashing to the ground in a sharp, deadly motion and it shattered on the tiles.
"What did you do?" the older man snarled. Sherlock smiled sweetly and John would have told him that now wasn't the time to be smug, had he not felt his own expression twist into a satisfied grin.
"You really think you'd be able to use the same bargaining chip again father? You who is oh so fascinated in my mind? You didn't think I'd have insurance before coming here?" Sherlock said. Robert's jaw clenched.
"What did you do, Sherlock?" he hissed, each word stabbed into the air. Sherlock gave an elegant shrug.
"I imagined that you would attempt to use my brother against me should I follow you, so once I made the decision to pursue you, I immediately warned Mycroft and organised a little extra hospital security. The British government can be a marvellous asset if the situation is dire enough. Not that I'd trust them for much else, but right about now we can assume that your men are currently on their way to some dark little underground prison for treasonous assassins."
Robert's expression had grown more and more furious as Sherlock spoke. It was a sobering image, someone who looked so much like Sherlock with an expression of such hatred towards him.
"There will be consequences for this Sherlock, I promise you," Robert spat.
"I think not." There was a clipped pause before Robert spoke again.
"Do you think you're going to arrest me? Sherlock, I am the police," Robert snarled.
"Actually, you're not. The real police aren't out there working with Moran, they're headed there right now to arrest him, you, father, are nothing but an imposter."
John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. Real police? Sherlock gave a tiny shrug. Almost. Robert gave a short, disbelieving smirk, a breath of a cynical laugh ghosting his lips.
"It seems like you have everything planned out then," he noted.
"It would seem to be the case."
"Pity. I was hoping to do this much more simply."
If either of them had been expecting it, the short, sharp, almost deafening explosion behind them wouldn't have made either of them turn. As it was, they both whirled, John uttering a curse when he was shoved, almost sent sprawling, barely having time to take in the slam of shoes on tile as Robert Holmes bolted past them.
"No!" Sherlock was up already and John scrambled up too, casting a look quickly down the hall at the source of the explosion. He almost laughed. The TV, once a rather respectable hotel room size, had been reduced to a sizzling carcass. He checked his watch as he ran from the room. On the hour. It was ironic to think that Robert Holmes of all people had had the sense of humor to sync an explosion to the hourly news.
The head start was apparently all he needed to disappear and John didn't know how Sherlock remained calm once they lost sight of him on the stairs.
"Sherlock, where-"
"Station John, come on!" John shook his head incredulously. It didn't dawn on him what Sherlock meant until the afternoon air greeted him once more, stumbling from a fire door at the side of the building.
"Come on John! The train, remember? He's catching a train!"
They ran. John thought he could see Robert a little further down the street but Sherlock didn't seem to care, outwardly at least and John knew far better than to just take Sherlock at his exterior value. The sight of the tube station had never looked so welcoming than when John skidded into the entrance, the stairs seeming to coil like a wicked laugh as the pair descended, their feet scampering to a halt when the platform suddenly rose into sight and the vast crowd of waiting people slammed into view.
John scoured the crowd. He could see Sherlock in his peripheral vision, doing the same, his long coat twisting at he turned quickly, looking down the platform.
"Sherlock!" John pointed, the slightest glimpse of the older Holmes melting into the crowd nearest the rail line. Sherlock whirled to look, but John was already pushing through the crowd, sliding past the aggravated travelers. He vaguely heard Sherlock call his name but he was already near the edge of the platform, scanning his surroundings. Robert Holmes had been here, right where he had been standing, he's seen him, so where-
He slammed into someone, hard, not looking where he was going and he immediately took a step back.
"Sorry-" His step back was cut off by a hand sealing round his wrist.
"Quite alright," Robert smiled smugly. John cursed his own thoughtlessness, for a second considering his means of escape but his mind whited out momentarily when he saw the straight razor held deftly at the other man's side so that it was almost unnoticeable for the regular passerby. John very nearly cried out when Robert yanked on his arm and he stumbled forward, turned so that his back was pressed against him and, for one horrifying second, John honestly thought that Robert had stabbed him.
No pain came however and it took merely seconds for John's brain to scramble past the fear and right itself. Think about your surroundings, make your enemies, determine your friends. The razor was pressed, hard, into the side of his shirt and while John doubted that it would be large enough to cause sufficient damage, Robert was no doubt as deadly with a knife as he was with a gun and if, by some chance, he managed to avoid puncturing a vital organ, he was sure that his captor would have no real problem in ensuring that he bled to death in fewer minutes than the average ambulance response time.
John's anxiety dipped significantly as he assessed his situation however when he spotted Sherlock, mere steps away, apparently also assessing his position.
"Don't be so obvious, Sherlock," Robert warned and the tone was a cold echo of a time where John could imagine Robert Holmes knelt in front of a tiny Sherlock, urging him to observe, not just to see.
Sherlock got the message, creeping ever so slightly closer, but turning himself so that he faced the platform, inconspicuous amongst the crowd. No-one gave the scene a second glance, nothing out of the ordinary even occurring to the minds of the too-busy Londoners crowded around.
"Better," Robert commented and John hissed as the razor pressed a little harder, nipping into his side. Sherlock tensed.
"Now, Sherlock, I am very, very tired of all this running around and playing games, do you understand me? I want those names, Sherlock and I want them before my count reaches three or else I am going to put the tip of this razor under Dr Watson's ribcage and into his lung and, if I'm feeling particularly merciful, I might have him dead in under five minutes, are we clear?"
Sherlock's gaze was fixed at the wall on the other side of the platform, whether not daring to look or daring Robert by not looking, John couldn't tell. He got his answer a second later however when Sherlock turned his gaze to his father and it was all John needed to see. In fact, it was more than John had ever wanted to see. The cold, uninhibited fury was not just a promise that Robert would pay for his threats, it was a sickened, carnival-mirror reflection of everything John had never wanted for his best friend. Sherlock, without maybe even considering it, would kill to keep his friends safe. The man with no emotions had enough compassion, enough rage, enough love to kill a man for his friends, his landlady, his DI, his brother. What did you do, all that time, while you were away? It was all that John could think of. Where were you? Who did you- He stopped thinking. Didn't want to think about it. He only wanted to concentrate on how Robert was still talking, when he really shouldn't, even though the heart-stopping expression had passed from Sherlock's face. It was better to think of that than to try to fathom the vast, churning, unsettling enigma that was Sherlock Holmes; to try and decipher how a man so dangerous, so utterly inscrutable even to John, could be the one person he felt safest with.
"Make your choice Sherlock. One." Evidently Robert's patience had worn thin.
"I wouldn't, if I were you, father," Sherlock said.
"Two."
"Robert, this only ends one way. Release him."
"Three."
"Alright." John looked at Sherlock in surprise, fully expecting to feel the razor push at his side, already preparing to push himself away from his captor at the first feeling of pain, to roll against the body holding him to escape the weapon. What he did not expect was Sherlock's arm outstretched, the notebook from the flat in his hand, offered towards the older Holmes. He felt the man smile behind him.
"That wasn't so painful, was it Sherlock? Even less so for our friend here, thankfully," Robert grinned, cocking his head at John, who gritted his teeth and told him silently where he could shove his thanks.
John heard an announcement over the top of the noise of the crowd. Nobody even noticed when Robert pocketed the razor and took a step back from him, still holding his arm punishingly.
"I won't be seeing you again, Sherlock. I'm sorry to say that this will be goodbye," Robert commented. Sherlock cocked his head at him.
"Odd," he said, "You were never one for goodbyes. And I always seem to end up seeing you again."
"I doubt it will be so." Sherlock smiled slightly, sadly, almost as if he pitied him.
"No, I'll see you again. And Mycroft will see you again and we'll both see you brought to justice. It's just the way it is. Father."
For a second there was nothing. Only the muffled sound of the people waiting for their train, to take them home, to their loved ones. Only the endless, bottomless stare of a whole childhood shared between the two men.
"Don't make yourself out to be the hero of this tale Sherlock, we both know they don't exist. We both know that you're more like me than any of those bumbling idiots in their little worlds, don't we? More like me than that useless waste of a brother of yours." Robert's hand peeled itself from John's arm now. The uncomfortable cold feeling that the absence made had John shivering.
"Perhaps," Sherlock said, "But you should know father; I will always choose him over you."
There wasn't a moment of silence on the platform, but for all John knew, there could have been with the way that the air froze.
"Fine." John wasn't even aware of Robert moving but he jolted when he felt something impact at his back and for a moment he wasn't sure if something solid had hit him or if the older man had indeed driven the knife into his chest, even with the little black notebook in hand. He heard Sherlock shout his name, this time he heard it loud and clear but he was falling and couldn't stop himself. Then, with a force that made his bones shake, he hit something, hard, and found himself looking up. At the platform.
"John!" From where he was, strewn across the tracks, John caught the final glimpse of Robert Holmes, grinning, melting into the crowd, making his infuriating escape as Sherlock reached his hand out, nowhere near to where John was.
It is perhaps the most unfortunate of the world's workings that things always seem to coalesce before ones death. Everything seems to make sense for one moment of clarity and then, a second later, nothing seems to make sense ever again. It all made sense to John Watson at that moment, scrambling up from the unforgiving steel tracks, with what he was certain was a few broken ribs. He made quite the distraction really, for Robert Holmes to make his escape. And now it was perfectly clear. The screaming of the onlookers, crowded at the edge of the platform like paradoxical lemmings, Sherlock's ridiculously lanky, outstretched hand, insistent and desperate. The rumble on the tracks. It made sense because, apparently, now was the perfect time for the London Underground to be, for once, on time. John glanced down the tunnel, saw lights headed his way. Fantastic. A train.
I really don't want to die like this.
A/N Firstly wanted to apologize for the rather random, dark character study that occurred on the edge of the platform. The darkness of a character like Sherlock Holmes is something that really intrigues me because, as well as his choice to be good and his genuine goodness and friendship with John, much like his brother there is something also very sinister to Sherlock methinks. Not in a Moriarty sort of way but there is most certainly a dark side to a man as tormented and intelligent as Sherlock as we've seen glimpses of in the series (I love those bits, such as throwing the man out of the window after hurting Mrs Hudson or torturing the taxi driver before he died, etc.) So yeah, I find it fascinating and wanted to explore it a bit as, after all, in his time away he had to get rid of Moriarty's operatives and while I'm not sure if he's killed anyone, he's certainly dark enough to. After all, we must remember that even John and Lestrade have darker sides. It is inferred that John had "bad days" in the army in which he may have indeed killed a man and he returned a hollow man, haunted by PTSD. Heavens, John even missedthe war. Even bumbling, funny, awesome Lestrade has a wife who cheats on him and he knows it. So I'm interested to look into the darker psyche of Sherlock if anyone is interested in reading :D If not, just yell at me XD I'm considering doing a Christopher Nolan and doing a threequel of NTTSM and doing a darker, more serious fic about Sherlock and Mycroft during Sherlock's disappearance and looking at the dangers of the Holmes brothers :S
Anyway, once again I just wanted to say thanks for sticking with me on this, it means so much to me and I can't thank you guys enough :') I am headed out into China for a week on Saturday so I may or may not be posting before then but if not, I will see you guys next week, bright and early! Thanks again and please feel free to drop a review!