In four seconds, he will open his eyes. For now, though, he's just fine on the floor of his flat, head propped up comfortably by the sofa behind him. His steepled fingers are pressed into the soft flesh under his jaw, pinching some of the skin in between his middle fingers. He's thinking. He's comfortable.
In three seconds, he will open his eyes. He wonders if, maybe, he might not actually be in the kitchen? There's something wet underneath him, seeping into his shirt. He'd just lost track of the thought he'd been forming, and while it irritates him, he knows better than to try and chase it. He tries to forget the physical surroundings, and soon it will come back to him.
In two seconds, he will get up. Stretch a bit. Shake off the feeling of being watched. He's not in his living room, or his kitchen; the light's all wrong, it's hitting his left eye at a strange angle. He's distracted, and he can't seem to get his concentration back. He needs better conditions. He needs a better solution.
Sherlock suddenly remembers where he is.
His eyes burst open, pupils dilating at the sudden light: a dim streetlamp at the end of the alley. He'd fallen asleep. No, no, he'd passed out. Where?
Brixton.
Why was he in Brixton?
(Because they're the only ones stupid enough to sell to you, Sherlock.)
He's still got his phone, his coat, and his wallet: He wasn't robbed. It's 4:42am.
He walks back. It's a clear night, much clearer than his head. He can't hold on to a thought for more than four less than five seconds and that's exactly what he needed three hours ago, but now he's constantly on the verge of being on to something and it's giving him a headache.
It's warm, for the night time: he's not wearing a coat, just a slightly wet suit jacket. Wet with what, he doesn't want to think about.
Somewhere along the way, he passes the museum.
He remembers how easy it was to break in— have they fixed their security? Hired new guards? At least, he thought, they must have hired a new expert on Chinese antiques.
John had been so upset when she was killed. He blamed himself, obviously— because he had decided to go after Sherlock when he heard the gunshot instead of stay with her. But that was the most logical thing her could have done in that situation, tell her to lock the door behind him, and run towards where shots were being fired to protect the person the shots were being fired at. He had no way to know that she would have left the door open, an attempt to see her brother one more time, to fix things one last time, or to at least end it all.
John had been very upset about the entire ordeal, for so long. He'd started emailing his therapist again.
(How do you know about that?)
(You were typing for a very long time, with that strained expression on your face. Nothing was posted to your blog. Email. You weren't dating at the time— this was just after Sarah had decided that 'just friends' would suit you better, so you were looking, but, again, strained expression. And then there's the—)
(No, no, you've made yourself clear. Can't keep anything from you.)
(Yes, you can. You keep a lot of things from me.)
Silence. Sherlock would never have said that. He didn't know how John would have replied.
There's natural light on his face, and he knows he's got it right this time.
He's in bed; he's actually in bed, tangled in a sheet. It's nice to wake up to something understandable: to enjoy, if only for a fleeting moment, the human pleasure of familiarity and comfort. He can't always be the machine. Sometimes he has to let his bones rest. Let his veins rest.
His phone is lying on the bed beside him. It says it's around nine in the morning.
He has eighteen messages.
Quite a few missed calls, too. They're congratulating him. He's been formally cleared of all charges. They want to issue him an apology.
Oh.
Sherlock got himself up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and wrapping the sheet around him as he trundled over to the front windows. He walked slowly, laboriously; he was feeling dizzy and a little sick.
He used the wall to brace himself: He held it with both arms, and then eased himself against it, face pressed against the windowsill. He wrapped his fingers (white, bony, disoriented) around the seam of the curtain and pulled it away by an inch to look out the window.
A flurry of activity: a hundred journalists and photographers and cameraman and spectators are on the street, looking up at him, waiting for him to speak or wave or make eye contact.
Sherlock stepped away from the window, curling against himself to sit on the floor. He pulled his laptop into his lap, opening a web browser:
SHERLOCK HOLMES OFFICIALLY INNOCENT
DETECTIVE REINSTATED AS GENIUS
HOLMES FOUND INNOCENT
He clicked on the last; skimmed through the article. It was written from an American news source; published late in the night by their standards. Why the rush?
There was little information. Information that had been lost for almost a year had been, of course, found, in abundance, with all signs pointing to Moriarty and not Brook. It was convenient. It was suspicious.
It would make everything more difficult.
Well, that's great. That's great news. That should put business right back up then, right, Sherlock? Said...
Said no one.
It'll get you out of this miserable mood you've been in for the past few months, at any rate.
Moments like this, and Sherlock could feel the high easing out of his bloodstream like a ringing in his ears. He could feel his presence, just behind him and to the right. If only he could turn around to see—
No.
He turned his attention to something more physical. He itched at the back of his neck, checking the messages on his phone.
All of the phone calls were from his brother— predictable. Most of the texts were from Lestrade, congratulating him and urging him out for a celebratory drink— half-hearted attempts at keeping tabs on him.
There was one from Molly:
Don't go near the windows. If you haven't seen already, there's tons of cameras waiting for you down there. Take care 3
Sent two hours ago.
When was the last time he'd seen Molly? Spoken to her?
He remembered throwing a plate at her.
(Why the hell would you throw a plate at Molly? She was only trying to keep you company. Genius needs an audience, doesn't it?)
I don't know. I don't remember.
(You don't know? You don't know? Didn't catalogue it?)
No, no. He's being too malicious. This isn't how John would talk.
Yes it is. He would be cruel, when he was in the mood to be. When he was angry, tired, or short of cash. It had enraged Sherlock until it had humbled him.
Another text message from Lestrade. Are you still in your flat? I think I may have something interesting. Let me know.
He contemplated ignoring him, as he normally would have, but the promise of interesting would keep him from the morocco case taped behind the silverware drawer. Probably. Hopefully.
Well, maybe a bit. And then he'd text Lestrade, let him know that he's welcome for anything.
Maybe he'd—
hm.
He didn't remember what he was thinking about, but he supposed it didn't matter much— it was dark now, hours had passed. It was July 8th, 2013. It still sounded like the future to Sherlock.
He was lying in his kitchen. Fully dressed: he was wearing his old coat. It smelt of dust and not nearly enough like cigarettes.
His phone was in his hand; he was using it. Sent a few texts, answered a call from Mycroft. Shit. If he couldn't remember them, he couldn't be stupid enough to believe that Mycroft had been ignorant about his... state of mind. He'll have to expect a visit soon.
What's this?
Under quite a few texts from Lestrade (where are you, I still have something for you if you're interested, Not interested?, Are you okay?, Never mind; don't bother.) was a text from an unfamiliar number.
51.54316,-0.067983
It was easy to plug that number into his phone and receive a real, usable address: Near the edge of London, about twenty minute's drive.
He risked taking a peek out the window through drawn curtains. There were still about twenty people looking chilly in professional attire, cameras forever at the ready. Sherlock wasted no energy feeling bad for Mrs. Hudson, who, with her hip, needed nothing else to make it difficult to get out the door to the shops. He closed his eyes and planned his escape.
Looks like we'll be taking the fire exit.
It was a simple thing to do; he slid noiselessly down the metal rungs at the back of the buildings, ignoring the dizziness he felt when he hit the ground, scaled the brick wall into the secondary alley and ran into the darkness. He came out onto a parallel street and hailed a cab: he breathed the address to the man, feeling invincible in his Belfast coat, albeit a little dwarfed by it. His shoulders did not fit where they had once.
There were plenty of lights on in the street: as they passed by each one, they blurred into and out of his vision. They drove until the buildings shallowed out, and trees and vines and gardens started growing from in front of them. It had started raining: a soft mist that made no sound as it hit the top of the cab.
"Here we are," the cabbie said. Sherlock paid him and was soon left in the wet street.
A long row of buildings circled him; nice, moderate cars were parks at their fronts. A few lights were on in the windows, but for the most part the neighbourhood was fast asleep at this hour, waiting for the next day to start.
Normal people in their normal flats, with their normal jobs and normal families. Boring.
But wait— this place was familiar.
He had come from a different angle, though— yes, this street, right here. Feeling his muscles struggle as he had ran, hid, ran, climbed, ran, then walked an hour with his left hand attached to another's right for over an hour before picking the lock to that flat, right there, and sitting down for forty minutes in the dark until his heart slowed down and Kitty Riley opened the door to her flat.
No, no, it was that flat right there.
Sherlock backed into the shadow of the car in front of him, crouching as he consulted his phone. Someone had asked him here, and if it wasn't to meet with him in plain air and talk with him, than it was to kill him, and Sherlock couldn't take any chances.
He moved from car to car, avoiding the gaze of any onlookers, in their houses or otherwise.
He texted Lestrade:
Richmond and Queensbridge. – SH
Dalston. Bring Gun. Know you have one. – SH
Alone. Dangerous. Moran. – SH
Three short, quickly-typed texts, so when they were received Lestrade would wake up, thinking that it was a call. He'd be here within the hour at most. Sherlock needed him here sooner than that, but the least he could do was call for reinforcements.
He been formally cleared of all charges yesterday morning, after all of the evidence that had suspiciously disappeared last year had suspiciously reappeared, and no one in the media was pointing out anything amiss, whether in support or question of Sherlock's guilt. Odds were that he was led here to be murdered, but he knew that he could overtake the sniper if given the chance. He just needed to know where he was first.
That was why he finally straightened up from the shadows, sticking his hands in his pockets as he waited. He was in sight: he strolled over, slowly, easily, into a streetlight's circumference and stood there. He lit a cigarette. He tried the air of someone who wasn't paying attention.
He must have done it well; his haughtiness had caught his attention.
From a distance of maybe twenty metres, a single shot was fired. It hit the cigarette in his hand, millimetres from his fingers.
Sherlock placed the gunman; in the house across the street and one to the left, probably first storey. Easy to hide from, as long as he stayed put. Sherlock slumped behind the car, ready to run in case there were more than one gunman— he had a feeling there was only one, however.
Sebastian Moran.
He'd be wanting a chase— two shots like that with no injuries, he wanted to let Sherlock know exactly what he was dealing with before going after him.
It was actually the sniper.
The sniper.
Something suspicious indeed must have happened.
Another shot was fired, breaking the glass of two of the windows of the car Sherlock had hid behind. He was being played with— much in the same way that Moriarty had played with him. He felt more comfortable with Moriarty's games, though; they were long-lasting, complicated, chess-like. This was primal. It was making everything run in slow motion.
He wasn't trying to prove something to himself, or to Sherlock. He was trying to kill him. He was trying to play with him, to scare him, and he was trying to kill him.
Sherlock may have misjudged the situation.
He called Lestrade: four rings, five. Finally, an answer.
"Sherlock?"
He was still groggy. He'd just woken up.
"I've got him, Lestrade. The Sniper. I need you to come to—"
Another shot. This one was different: it was from the streets.
"Sherlock, was that a gun? Where are you?"
"I've put an application on your phone, password's BASKERVILLE. It'll track my location."
"Sherlock—"
"Hurry."
And he ended the call, for full use of his hands.
No more shots: unless the entire neighbourhood had been bought, someone had to have called the police by now. Sherlock doubted he would have the time for that: He needed to run. Quickly.
There was a short brick wall behind him, closing in the garden: He scaled that quickly, crouching as he ran to the right, the longest distance to the other wall. He had no idea which one Moran would go for— he would just hope that the least efficient option would also be the least probable in his mind.
He jumped the wall— no shots, no man waiting for him on the other side. He ran down the intersecting street, making sure to make just enough noise for Moran to follow him.
He hadn't heard a shot yet. Sirens in the distance, too. Was this going to be that easy?
He turned once more, his leather shoes slick against the wet pavement. Maybe he'd double back around, just to stay in the same area.
Lestrade was calling him again, a persistent vibration in the pocket of his coat, pressed against his chest. He couldn't answer, not now.
And then, from the warm night, under the streetlight and the scent of wet leaves:
"Why are you running, Sherlock Holmes? If you've got nothing to be guilty of?"
He had a Northerner's accent— deep, gravelly. He smoked constantly; thick, unfiltered cigarettes. He had a normal build, though— no broad shoulders, no thick arms. He held a gun in his hand the way one might hold an umbrella in the rain.
He shot again. He was using the same make as the one Sherlock had brought to the pool. John's.
Sebastian Moran smirked.
"You like that, don't you? Nice little touch. Boss said that it'd catch your attention."
He spoke as he reloaded; walked slowly towards him. Sherlock stood where he was.
When confronted by a tiger, stay as still and quiet as you can. Continue to face the animal: the tiger wishes to catch its prey unawares.
He'd misjudged the situation. Moran was going to play with him, he was going to smell out the fear in him and kill him. His orders to keep him alive had undoubtedly expired.
Interesting. No- crucial.
Moran barred his teeth. It was the closest to a grin Sherlock could imagine on that face. In return, he gave the other man a small, closed-mouth smile.
"He does like his details, doesn't he? Ji—"
"Shut up."
"I can't even say his name? I can't believe that you and he had a connection of any sort. Why are you offended?"
"Why did John Watson commit suicide for you?"
"Oh, let's not bother with that. Low hanging fruit, is what that is. I know you're not Jim, but you can do better. You've been in charge of the English syndicate for a while now, haven't you?"
Moran snickered.
"The European quarter, actually. Boss' on business abroad. As if you didn't know."
"Yes, I suppose you're right, I did know. Maybe we should stop feigning ignorance, then— get right down to it. You're here to kill me. Did you want to play with me, first? Destroy my ego, my livelihood?"
The other man shook his head. Where his hair wasn't grey, it was brown in the light. Possibly red. It reminded him of his brother.
He smiled. He took more steps towards him: casual, unmeasured. He'd get there when he'd get there.
"I'm not him— James. He never did want you to die, you know. Just a game. See who was better. He wanted you to prove him wrong. We took bets, you know; you against him. He'd bet his life on you outsmarting him in the end. You think he was right?"
He shot again— near miss. Moran was walking towards him with his eyes closed.
A fine game for someone who just wants to get on with it, Sherlock would have said, if Moran's next shot hadn't connected with bone.
The ground reached him before the pain: he couldn't help but cry out when it did. Right leg: just under the knee.
"He always tests people. He wants to see who'll kill him first. Wonder if he's got some reward system all worked out for it. You didn't get that, did you? You never liked his game much, I don't think."
Where are you, Lestrade? Sherlock willed more strongly than ever that he could just get here on time for once. The siren was closing in on them— it wasn't Lestrade, it wouldn't be helpful. It'd chase Moran off, and he'd have to try and catch him again.
There were stars in his vision: was he loosing blood? Had his bones been broken? He would investigate later— he needed to keep all of his concentration on the man walking blindly in front of him, aiming to shoot once more. Ten metres away, in the middle of the street.
Flashing light bounded off the houses on the corner; time had run out.
Sebastian Moran opened his eyes and flashed him a grin. He tossed the weapon to Sherlock's feet, grabbing his shoulder in a violently friendly half-hug.
"I'll catch you later, eh?"
And he scaled the wall behind him.
Lost.
Sherlock, alone for the next fifteen seconds, allowed the pain to seep into his thoughts— bleeding, of course; bones, fractured. Would have hit square on the knee if Moran's eyes were open. Would have hit in between his eyes if that's where he was aiming.
It was Donovan in the police car: three more were behind her, and an ambulance followed. Gunmen billowed out of the cars and dispersed. Donovan's heels clicked against the pavement as she ran over to Sherlock.
"What were you thinking?"
"— Over the ledge, most likely down Parkholme. Hurry—"
"They're going, they're going. Over here! He's been shot!"
She waved the paramedics to the scene, holding Sherlock from trying to stand up.
"Holmes, you irreconcilable idiot, stay down! You're not going after him!"
"— Staying in Southern London, away from the centre, but he's got countless other flats he's rented throughout the city—"
"Sherlock, stay down!"
Sherlock grabbed onto her arm, directing her attention back to him as the paramedics tried to wrestle him onto a trolley.
"I'd be surprised if he killed any more John Watsons, Donovan. Something's changed. Something big's happened. He's—"
He stopped, grimacing.
"Try not to move your leg, Sherlock. Just— settle down."
He waved her off, continuing.
"He's not taking orders anymore. He's not going to be playing by the same rules. He's— Oh."
He sat up, meeting her eyes.
"He's dead. It's just Moran now."
Donovan furrowed her brows.
"What?"
"Moriarty. He's dead."