A/N A wild update appears! Okay, so I am so very pumped right now, this note might not even make sense but I'm a very happy bunny. The sun is shining, the new chapter is out, I'm really excited about a new project I'm working on and reader LightontheSeaofSorrow is a secret guardian angel :D Unfortunately, If is now approaching its final chapter, which is the one after this one and will be posted, with luck, Monday morning next week (as I am having to use college computers).
But enough about that, more on this chapter! This chapter was a joy to write :) It's very dialogue heavy I'm afraid, but as a consolidating chapter it kind of needs it and I've tried to characterise as much as possible. Some of the dialogue is more movie-ish in its disjointedness but I really going for confusion and shock in the first half of the chapter, so it's turned out well for me ;)
Disclaimer: Cave is getting damper and smellier by the day. I think the two things are connected but the monkeys are denying everything…
"John, take my hand!"
He felt giddy, light. Sick. The tracks still rattled up and down his bones, jostling his broken ribs agonisingly.
"John, please, my hand. Reach up, come on"
He could still hear Sherlock shouting from some unknown place above him and it was as if the sea of people above him had melted around his friend, pulling his face into a mass of others. There was still that numbness in his muscles, a moment of shocked terror immortalized in his veins.
The veins that, somehow, where still pumping blood around his shaking body.
"Jesus Christ!" John Watson spluttered, his muscles at last obeying his commands and he finally caught up with himself, like a slowly buffering video. He remembered freezing up for a split second, the train rocketing towards him at a speed that John was certain his mind had exaggerated. It was a split second, a short moment of panic that had almost killed him.
Then the second had been gone and he'd felt someone brush momentarily at his shirt shoulder. He'd let out a pained yell at that but it had snapped him awake and he saw Sherlock leaning out precariously over the edge of the platform, trying to get a grip on him.
"John, please!"
Afghanistan took a lot from John Watson, but it also gave him one small gift – decisions under pressure. And the decision to live was a damn strong one. He scrambled over the tracks, hand outstretched, the train thundering, horn blaring.
He slammed onto the platform, feeling his ribs crack all over again as Sherlock and a few, alien, hands yanked him from above like rescuing angels.
"Bloody hell," he swore, clutching his heaving chest. Sherlock's hands were pushing John's own away, checking the ribs with flurried movements. John remembered a suited body lying on the floor of the apartment and Sherlock's trembling hands trying to staunch a flow of blood.
"Are you alright? John, are you alright, are you hurt?"
"They're broken," John gasped. Sherlock emitted a sound, part concern, part frustration and all fury. Other voices were for some reason trying to compete with Sherlock's, telling John that an ambulance was coming, that one of men who'd help to pull him up was a nurse, that his wife was a surgeon and might be able to help. John almost laughed at that. I am a doctor, he thought grimly.
"Your dad-" John began. Sherlock shook his head.
"Gone."
"We have to-"
"He's gone John, it's alright," Sherlock said. John found it in himself to frown, looking at Sherlock incredulously.
"But, Sherlock, he-"
"I'll explain later, an ambulance should be arriving any moment now."
John didn't have the chance to protest before Sherlock was fishing his phone from his pocket and John surpressed a frustrated groan. His attention turned to a few of the onlookers who were slowly being ushered away by staff who'd apparently arrived to disperse the crowd, looking accusingly at John like he had intentionally attempted to disrupt their day.
"Are you alright Sir?"
John ignored the man for a moment, turning his head to avoid the glare of the reflective yellow jacket. He could hear Sherlock, phone in hand, voice sounding… uncertain. John whipped his head round to look at him, eyes questioning but Sherlock said nothing, instead seeming to listen to the voice on the other end of the phone. The detective's uncharacteristic silence seemed to fill up the space around him, turning the air a sickly shade of nervous.
"Let me talk to him," Sherlock said finally.
"Sir, sir, are you alright?"
The aging salt and peppered hair of the man crouching by John seemed to hide the man's brow, making him look almost comically puppy like as he leaned in, like he was trying to check for visible signs of him being a suicide case.
"Yeah, sorry, I'm alright," John lied, "A few broken ribs I think but I just…tripped."
"Easy done, it could have been a bloody awful accident. Someone's looking out for you," the man said, his chin tilting up like he was referring to God. John chuckled at that. Although the detective often tried to make the comparison, John wouldn't exactly liken Sherlock to God.
"He got away?" John heard Sherlock's voice as the man started up cordoning off the line, surprised to hear the oddly relieved tone to Sherlock's voice. "No. No, it's quite alright." That voice, unsurprised and maybe even a little disappointed too, but for the first time in days tinged with the slightest hint of happiness. Or relief, John couldn't quite tell.
"Take care Inspector," Sherlock said and John finally connected the call to a face.
"Is Lestrade alright?" John asked, "Moran, he got away?"
"EMTs are here Sir, we're going to have to get you up I'm afraid. Think you can stand?" Speckled hair was back and John gave a wince at the idea of getting up and stretching the muscles attached to broken bones. He caught Sherlock's nod as he gave his own positive reply.
"Then that's it, they both escaped?" John said. Speckled hair seemed impatient to get him off his platform, already sealing a hand round John's upper arm.
"For now John," Sherlock grinned, "But my father is a cunning man. And I do believe the phrase goes something like, 'like father, like son'?"
Lestrade's eyes crawled open to shouts and the sound of pacing feet. For a moment he considered the idea that he had somehow managed to fall asleep while at home, arguing with his wife and that, as soon as he opened his eyes, she would point a finger in his face and tell him he was working too long and earning too little.
He groaned.
"Sir? Sir, are you alright?" Lestrade gave another groan, feeling suddenly the breathtaking pain spreading across his chest and remembering where he was. Of course I'm not bloody alright, he wanted to say, I've just been shot and the only thing between me and a long wooden box was a damn bullet vest. Instead, lacking the air to speak, he merely blinked up at Anderson, who had finally stopped pacing at the first sight of Lestrade's confused gaze and rushed to kneel by him. Lestrade took a moment to thank bullet-proof jackets and the value of good officers as he realized he'd been dragged to cover.
"Moran's gone Sir, we lost him when-" Anderson cut off as someone gave a particularly loud curse to his right and both men turned their heads to see Sally Donovan, phone in hand, yelling down the receiver. Lestrade's groggy mind caught a few choices and he managed a smile.
"Sherlock called a few seconds ago Sir… he er- he wanted to know how it went," Anderson explained. If his chest hurt a little less, Lestrade might have laughed.
"I think she's summing it up pretty well."
"No," Donovan spat down the line, "You can't speak to him, freak. You nearly got him killed, you got two men killed already, are you happy now? Your little idea got two men killed and Lestrade isn't-"
"Donovan," Lestrade managed to raise his voice enough to at least sound warning, even if it did send flares of pain across his ribs. He wondered if he'd broken them on impact. "Pass it over" He gestured for the phone.
"But, Sir-"
"Now." Donovan scowled, hesitating for a split second before she came to his side, handing him the phone.
"Thank you." They both knew, without more words, that the thanks went much deeper than Lestrade could really express. The phone hit his palm. You're welcome.
"Sherlock-"
"Are you alright Inspector?" Lestrade raised an eyebrow at that, surprised at Sherlock's tone.
"I'm fine, Moran took a shot at me but I was wearing a vest," Lestrade explained.
"You might have sustained some damage," Sherlock said clinically, "I suggest you request medical attention-"
"Yeah, I know that, thanks," Lestrade rolled his eyes, "What about Robert, did he get away?" There was a beat of silence which told Lestrade everything before Sherlock spoke.
"He played an interesting card," Sherlock said.
"I'm sorry Sherlock," Lestrade said. He wasn't sure if it was the right thing to say, wasn't sure if it was something that even bothered the Great Sherlock Holmes, but something in his gut told him to say it, like that very same feeling in his stomach that it was okay to trust Sherlock, that he could still be a good man and that getting shot trying to catch a killer on his behalf really wasn't all that bad of a way to go in the end.
"Moran-" he started.
"He got away?"
"Yeah, I'm sorry Sherlock, he was more than prepared-"
"No. No, it's quite alright." Sherlock's tone was enough to make Lestrade's head start spinning again, the quiet indifference and resignation making no amount of sense in his mind. It was a voice that had lost something and yet, filled with the sort of relief that only came with the knowledge that something still remained.
"Sherlock, are you-"
"Take care Inspector."
The phone went dead and Lestrade was left to contemplate only the cold, hard floor of the darkened warehouse and the cold hard tone of anger that was missing from Sherlock's voice.
"Why is it that Mycroft gets private care and I get stuck here?" John laughed, picking underneath his shirt at the frankly shoddy job of bandaging around his chest. The hospital had been a welcome sight, the clean white walls and clinical friendliness greeting John for the first time in months and it felt almost good to back. Almost. John had to admit, they were much more fun when acting as a doctor, rather than a patient.
"It's not so bad, got a few days off work. Something about missing a Superintendent or something," Lestrade grinned from beside him. The little hospital café was busy around the pair and Lestrade had pulled his chair up to sit beside John in order to face the flickering TV affixed precariously to the wall. There was still an uncomfortable ebb and flow of pain in his chest but he thanks his stars that, unlike John, he hadn't needed to be bandage-wrapped by an undergraduate medical student on her first day of work experience. Lestrade had to stifle a laugh at John's grumbling as he adjusted his shirt over it, making some muffled comment on the education of doctors nowadays.
"It's on," John said, suddenly alert, leaning forwards in his chair. Lestrade's attention focused quickly on the TV, watching with interest as the anchorwoman, a less than picture perfect lady in a hideous green dress, looked sternly out over the little café.
"A scene erupted this afternoon when an arrest was made by Scotland Yard detectives at a Barclay's bank in Piccadilly. The man, shockingly identified as the Superintendent Robert Sherrinford, has made no official comments while the police have so far withheld the details of the charge," the anchor-woman said. Lestrade felt a grin sweep his face as the scene changed and a shaky, amateur video was played, the pixelated details of Robert Holmes' scowl as he was lowered into a police car outside the bank.
"If that was Anderson holding the camera, he deserves a raise," John laughed next to him. Lestrade chuckled in agreement.
"I don't know, but I'm glad to see that Donovan was enjoying herself," he grinned. As proud as he was of his two detectives, glad that the arrest was theirs, he couldn't but help wishing that he had been there himself to see it.
"Sherlock managed it after all then. Any ideas how?" John said. Lestrade shrugged.
"He's Sherlock; do any of us really know how he does anything?" Lestrade said. John thought of the months spent alone, thinking his best friend had died and he shuddered, silently assenting.
"All I got told was that someone called a tip the station earlier and told 'em where he'd would be, just like that," Lestrade said.
"Well, not just like that, Inspector, I had to keep some of the mystery alive."
Both men jumped in their chairs, spinning round to see Sherlock, his hands in his coats pockets, eyes fixed on the TV.
"Jesus Sherlock, you almost gave me a heart attack!" Lestrade spluttered.
"Mmm," Sherlock hummed blandly. John grinned at Lestrade's pout, knowing full well that Sherlock would never apologise.
"You did it then, you caught him," John said. Sherlock didn't say anything, his gaze still tracking the scene on the television with a vague, detached interest.
"How?" Lestrade cut in, "He was gone, he took the list, or whatever he was after, before escaping, John told me."
Sherlock's eyes finally left the TV, coming to rest on John. The gaze was uncomfortable, a focused curiosity of a puzzle to be solved that made John shift in his seat, feeling scrutinised. A small smile quirked at Sherlock's lips; the very same smile that led John out of the door of 221B, every time into danger, into the fringes of war. The game is on.
"What I gave my father was not names, Inspector," Sherlock corrected, "Rather a series of codes which, to anyone with any ability of recognition, would be immediately recognised as PIN codes."
"PIN codes? For what account?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock's gaze travelled between each man and for a second John looked down at the table, half expected a young boy's shoe to be perched there, ready for analysis.
"Oh, come on!" Sherlock cried, rushing forwards in his excitements, hands resting on the table where John's mind had supplied the imaginary trainer, "It's so simple that it's practically art, use your heads, think"
For a moment, both men were silent. Finally, John spoke.
"The PIN codes – he was looking for people's money, not people. He just thought he had to go through them to get it," John said slowly. Sherlock nodded encouragingly.
"Go on," he prompted.
"I don't know, you gave him PINs for their accounts? Then you called the tip in? I don't get it, how did you know which bank-"
"A man who perceives himself like my father always wants to believe the elegant solution John," Sherlock supplied, "He thought he knew me, he was impressed by me even. Which made him all the easier to fool."
John smiled, finally catching up to what Sherlock was saying.
"You gave him false codes."
"Exactly. Made him believe that for all that time I was missing I had collected these numbers, filing them away with the hope to eliminate Moran, to destroy Moriarty completely once and for all. And it was exactly that belief that led him to believe that I had been truthful, that what he held in his hands was everything he believed I could give him," Sherlock said, "Once he inputted the false codes, I had an alarm triggered for the occasion to simply track the signal to his location. The simplicity of it is-"
"Incredible," John finished, realising too late that he mouth had dropped open at some point during Sherlock's story. The three men sat in appreciative silence for a moment, each lost in his own thoughts. It was Lestrade that stood first, straightening his clothes and taking one last look at the news report.
"It's – it's good to have you back Sherlock," Lestrade said simply. Sherlock looked at him, the same look he had given John just moments ago, as if he was trying to decipher when and how the trust had developed, just when it was that Sherlock Holmes had gained a friend.
"Agreed, Lestrade," Sherlock said. Lestrade nodded at him.
"Get better soon John," Lestrade smiled before he turned to leave.
"You too Greg."
The sound of the coffee shop enveloped them once again and Sherlock's attention wandered, surveying the scene with practiced ease. The man on the table to the left, recently divorced, ex-wife trapped his arm in the garage door resulting in a break. Boy and mother, corner table, boy has laryngitis but his mother believed him to be faking it to get off school. Couple by the TV, man preparing to pop the question any day-
"You need to talk to your brother."
Sherlock let his gaze travel back, sauntering through the people whose lives were so apparently obvious even when they believed it to be complex through all of their feeling, all of their worries. It was enough to make his head ache just thinking about their bumbled, confused lives, like clumsy spiders making webs. No organisation, no predators, simply living.
"You need to tell him about your father's arrest," John persisted.
"How do you feel?" Sherlock countered. It wasn't changing the subject if it was a genuine question.
"I'm fine, my ribs are bandaged. Mycroft needs to know, Sherlock," he continued. Sherlock gave a tight sigh, narrowing his eyes as he strained to see the TV. A photograph of a man appeared on the screen, details so utterly glaring. Most likely my next case, Sherlock thought.
"Sherlock, are you listening to me, he needs to-"
"Mrs Hudson is worried, she's made chicken soup. I'll be home before long, get some rest if I'm not back before you," Sherlock said bluntly.
"Sherlock-"
He ignored John as he started to leave, Mrs Hudson would take care of him if he got home early.
Sherlock had another hospital to visit.
A/N: The final chapter approaches! I'd love to know how you felt about this chapter, it's certainly been an interesting one. With lots of things happening it's been logistically interesting to write so I'd love to know how it reads!