HI guys! It's been a pretty rough semester for me and since it's the last month of it (oh thank god) and I have a grand total of 37 pages worth of papers to write and four major presentations- yeah so the long and short of it is I'm going to have to put school first and that sucks I know. BUT! I am willing to give you guys a SOLID DATE FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER: APRIL 29TH. Which is such a long ways away, and I'm really sorry that I'll be doing this do you guys, but school is, well, important.
Thanks so much for reading and I'll see you all in a month!
It was early when the sun woke John up— it crept in through the blinds and settled on the bridge of his nose, over-warm and bright.
He turned away from the window, pressing his eyelids together— it was far too early for him to get up, what with the amount of sleep he'd not had. The bed was warm, but empty— he and Mary had kept each other in company most of the night, awake and silent. But he hadn't been up to see her leave.
But she had stayed. She'd stayed in his bed all night, then— but she wasn't in the shower. She'd gone back to her room sometime in the past few minutes, to get ready for Angela's newest speech.
John sat up, pulling the blankets from in an attempt to make it easier to get out of them— he was getting indolent, all these days of uselessness with jarring days of activity in between. He stretched his arms over his head, one then the other, feeling the tenseness at his bad shoulder.
On the nightside table sat a thin pile of papers that served to jog his memory about last night.
John.
Well, it was nice to know that he could be himself again.
He showered and got dressed, taking as little time as he could. He got a text from Angela while he was brushing his teeth— whenever you're ready, please meet in my room.
He was the last of the four to make it. Craig had bought everyone bagels and coffee— the women were sipping at theirs distastefully, and Craig was the only one eating.
He was in the middle of speaking, his mouth half-full:
"— And we don't even know what this— this M is doing to them, we shouldn't be sitting here, after a full night's rest, eating breakfast when we should be—"
Angela cut him off.
"We're going to do exactly what they tell us to do. Go when they tell us to go, play the part, let M play his games, and if— oh god, hopefully when— the reinforcements are in place, there should be no one left in the premises that will follow M's orders. We take him downstairs, hand him over to the others, and our job is done, we all go home. Now, anything goes wrong and it's on us to clean up. Do you feel like going against a multi-national crime organisation, Craig? Because I know I'd like to go home sometime in the next eighteen years."
She looked tired, but none more so than usual— she leaned against the dresser with her coffee in both hands, blinking the exhaustion out of her eyes. She looked at John as he fully entered the room—
"Oh, John. Finally. We've been waiting ages."
"You texted me two minutes ago, Angela. Not exactly ages."
Mary was giving John a peculiar look— he had her papers in his hands. He wasn't speaking in his American accent.
"Will. Are you sure?"
He bit his lip— technically, he wasn't. He didn't know how much Mycroft depended on his keeping his alias up, how it would affect plans if he'd changed them. He'd come to accept that sometimes when a Holmes tells you to do something, there are a thousand reasons behind it— but he didn't have to believe them.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm pretty certain. I— Mary knows, and I figured— If we're going to finally go against Moriarty, if we're going through with this, I guess we should be honest with each other."
He stretched his arm out, pressing the article to Angela. She took it, flipping through the papers.
"If we're going to trust each other with our lives— And that is what we're doing, no matter what it looks like in there— the least I can do is trust you with a bit of my history. None of you really believed the Will Sigerson story, anyways."
Angela, satisfied, passed the papers to Mary, who handed them to Craig. Who read the article quickly, skipping the parts that didn't include the name—
"Dr. John Watson."
John nodded.
"It's not M we're going up against, not...Rasputin, or... Whatever it is they've had you call him for the sake of you all not being a liability. His name is James Moriarty, and I know exactly what Tony and Jennifer are in right now. Because I've been in their place."
He could smell the chlorine.
"They'll be okay as long as we do what he says— if we leave a moment too early for him, like you want, Craig, he'd have taken it out on them. He runs a very tight schedule. He doesn't like to be surprised. We'll have to at least appear to fall in his trap."
He looked to Angela— she wasn't surprised, which was fairly understandable. The attention was making him uncomfortable, however— this wasn't about him.
"So. Er. Have you heard any news? Battle plans? Reinforcements?"
She nodded. They slipped back into a familiar existence.
"I've been in contact with them all night. They're already in place— they just need us. We'll leave when they tell us to."
"And what about the watch? Are we still responsible for that?"
It was Craig who asked; Angela shook her head.
"It was full of information from... Moriarty, to Milverton. Now that Milverton's dead, the watch is apparently useless. We're just to get Moriarty, and secure Jenn and Tony."
Craig made his displeasure at the plan obvious with a small grunt— Angela glared at him, daring him to say anything else. He decided it was best to stay silent.
Satisfied, she continued.
"Good. We leave at eight. Everything should be in the van well before then."
Mycroft Holmes gets a call shortly after he leaves Watson and Morstan. He answers cordially, listens to the information, and gives a terse thank you.
He holds his head in his hands, and pours himself three fingers of scotch.
Milverton's death means only one thing— inside job. Moriarty.
He tries to get them all out of harm's way before it is too late, but it is always too late.
It is not long after he sits down to start thinking when he receives another phone call.
He listens intently to the lilting voice on the other side of the line, politely denies all negotiations, and bids the man on the other line a good night, as it is still night in New York.
He drinks what's left of the scotch, and gives his chin something to lean on by steepling his fingers.
A murder, a kidnapping. Moriarty is leading them straight to him— and Mycroft thinks he knows why.
Watson wasn't careful, then. Mycroft didn't know why he expected anything different.
"Angela is requesting orders, sir."
Anthea is seated on the other side of the long, fourteen-foot table; she has her shoes and jacket off in a rare moment of vulnerability. Mycroft knows better— she has a gun and taser on her at all times.
"Tell her to wait for instructions. We may or may not provide reinforcements."
She nods, and begins to tap away at her blackberry. He stops her— an amendment.
"Tell her that she is not to, under any circumstances, leave for this hotel before the listed time. To wait for more instructions."
Anthea nods once more— she has faith in her sister, but more than that she has faith in him, and his ability to bring to safety the only thing she cares about.
The only thing his brother cares about.
Of course there will be reinforcements.
Of course there will be a happy ending.
He is making calls to an American acquaintance when he receives an email from a predictably disposable address: a url to seven online news articles.
All of them use the same photograph.
All of them spell disaster.
He calls them in alphabetical order—
"You will remove your article on Sherlock Holmes."
"Your television programme will be thanked greatly if you do so."
"You will find that in some cases, the solvency of your multinational cooperation is of greater significance than— what did you call it? Ah, yes. Journalistic Integrity? You will not air this segment. Yes, thank you. My apologies for waking you up at such an hour, I know how hard it is to catch sleep in times like these."
It is not tonight that he learns the current state of his brother. He's known for quite some time— he's had no time for a visit, however. He makes a note for the cleaners: air out Sherlock's old room, fit it with clean sheets and remove the dust he insisted they let accumulate. Retain any evidence Dr. Watson has undoubtedly planted. The man is nothing if not loyal.
He pours himself another two fingers of scotch. It helps him think more loosely, keeps him from circling trains of thought— it does not make him sleepy. Not anymore.
No one has brought this information to him— new information on Richard Brook, solidifying Moriarty's identity and guilt, and freeing Sherlock's name. Someone had found the information, deemed it significant, and sent it to all western news corporations without his knowledge?
Unlikely.
No— suspect.
Moriarty was planning something bigger than murder and kidnapping.
Mycroft played with the ring on his finger, ignoring the sun that crept ever slowly into his study as he thought, and drank, and worried.
Dusk.
The van rumbled down the highway, merging and swerving around smaller cars and pot holes. This van was silver, and quite a bit older than the one they had used in Atlanta— it was about to fall apart, and everyone felt it in the way it jolted, the way it breaked, the way it turned.
No one had spoke as they loaded up the van. No one spoke as they drove in it.
Earpieces and microphones had been re-applied, but they were not planning on being separated for any time longer than it took to secure the area— that was not Moriarty's plan. Nor was it Mycroft's.
Mary was cleaning her gun. Angela's knuckles were white, gripping onto the steering wheel like she was trying to suffocate it. Craig's face was just as bleached.
John could have said a thousand things to comfort him, but he knew that Craig had heard them all.
He stayed silent.
The city passed by them in blocks— bridges and buildings and overpasses zoomed around them. For all of the hype, New York City was not an attractive place. It had little history— its skyscrapers were blocky and concrete and grey, like the sky, like the pavement, like the mood.
Grey and unattractive and overpriced.
They parked in a parking garage not too far from the hotel, and Angela gave them all two guns: one to hide and one to be found.
No one spoke as they walked to the hotel.
He'd decided to dress up for this.
Not dress up, how he'd been dressing up lately— as a ruthless but ultimately low-ladder businessman, with a strong southern accent and a birthmark like a thumbprint on his forehead— but in a crisp suit and his favourite tie.
The bathroom was just as lavish, with gold and red accents keeping the eye from wandering to the indisputable fact that the walls has been painted with nothing but a base coat of beige. He supposed he could forgive, if only because of the marble counter and the bathtub with the little feet.
He liked this place. It was comfortable— the bed certainly was. He slept so soundly, even with his two damsels tied to chairs trying to mumble to themselves off to the side.
They were polite, at least— after he'd told them to stop talking, they'd stopped. He was such a light sleeper.
He heard a rap on the door; then a large head interrupted his time alone.
"Sir?"
Jim Moriarty scowled.
"What did I tell you about interrupting me when I'm getting ready?"
He fixed his tie, adjusted his cuff links- tiny skulls, to match his tie, to match his socks.
"Sorry Sir. You told us to let you know when they were ready."
"And I also told you not to interrupt me when I'm getting ready. Didn't I?"
He smiled at the hulkish man behind him through the mirror. Ran a wet comb through his wet hair, slicking back any loose strands.
It was not a friendly smile. The man got the hint, and excused himself— Jim continued his routine. There was nothing that wouldn't stop him.
One of Mycroft's runners had given them the keys of a family who had been staying in the hotel for access— they had entered the hotel without a problem. Angela had wanted to take the stairs, but her sister's email had made it explicit that the lift was the only option— She was the one who ultimately pressed the up button, waiting in front of the other three for the lift to arrive.
Craig is fidgeting with the back of his shirt, afraid that the gun is showing.
Mary swats at his hand, silently telling him to stop.
The door gives them a single ding in warning of the doors opening. The lift is empty.
If Mycroft was successful, the entire hotel should be empty, save for the sixteenth floor.
The lift itself is small, and the mirrors installed on the walls give the four no impression of space. They are shoulder to shoulder, silent and stressed. They each have a gun to be disarmed and a gun to be used.
They all know the plan, and they each have their own ideas about it.
Angela knows what she's supposed to do, but she's on her second night without sleep, and while it doesn't show she's hoping it won't affect her reaction time.
Craig knows what he's supposed to do— cause a distraction, stay out of the way— but knows what he's going to do instead.
Mary knows what she's supposed to do, but she also knows what Craig is planning on doing and is trying to fit both situations together.
John knows what he's supposed to do, but he also knows what he must do.
The moment the elevator doors open to the sixteenth floor, the power goes out. No one knows whether that's Moriarty's or Mycroft's doing, but they realise that this doesn't matter.
There is no one in sight. They split up— Angela and Craig together take the left, Mary takes the right.
John knows better.
He takes the stairs to the rooftop.
It's a short walk to the stairwell, and starting at the foot of it is a trail of rose petals— John crushes them beneath his feet, hearing nothing but feeling the slight slickness under his shoes.
He gives himself a moment at the door to the rooftop— to rush out of the door would be foolish, headstrong— but he cut this time short, allowing himself an inhale of slightly tobacco-tinged air, and half of a slow, silent exhale before he presses the door open. The gun is in the room before he is— he checks the corners.
He hears him before he sees him.
"Well, hey there, Johnny boy..."
The fairy lights strung from the fences and tables and gazebos are off— all the light comes from the moonlight and the city, dim and yellow. There is an aristocratic garden up here- tall grass and leather sofas and entire trees. There are mirrors on every surface that will hold them, and in them there are dozens of wary John Watsons.
There is the voice of James Moriarty.
"Looks like you've wandered from the pack, John... Are you looking for Princess and the Brute? You're not gonna find them up here."
He's speaking with a strong southern accent. He could be anywhere. He could be nowhere. He could be behind the tree or under the sofa or speaking through a microphone in England...
John held his breath, checking all the corners, keeping away from the centre of the rooftop. He trusted Mycroft's men to have secured the premises, but he knew how this game was played.
"My, you're feeling social today, aren't you? You were never the one to do the talking, though, were you. Where's your mouth? Didn't you invite him?"
Sudden, hot breath on his neck. The scent of sugary bubblegum filled the air.
"I would have loved to see you and him together again..."
John whipped around, aiming the butt of his pistol where Moriarty's head would be— should have been.
The other man had, predictably, predicted the blow. Ducked and ran.
James Moriarty stood in front of him, in the flesh, giggling. Not an arms-length away.
"No, no, that's not how this story goes, John. You don't get to take me to big, mean Mycroft. Not tonight. No, I'll tell you how it's going to go."
He straightened his jacket.
"How it's going to go, of course, is—"
He stopped talking. Or maybe he hadn't— John wasn't sure how many words he had actually gotten in.
He couldn't hear him over the bang of the gunshot.
John's hands were hot under the metal, his arms still buzzed with the motion they'd endured— he could have sworn he felt James Moriarty's blood spattered on his face. He didn't give himself much time to feel anything other than that— he ducked, putting himself between the sofa and the tall grass and out of the way of the snipers undoubtedly hiding in some taller neighbouring building.
And, as another shot lodged itself in the leather of the sofa above his head, John thinks to call for help.
He thinks, he's going to be in a lot of trouble for this.
He doesn't care.