Six people sat on the floor of a crowded bedroom, faces grave. In four sets of hands, there were warm mugs to hold to faces; in one, a cell phone waiting to ring. The last manoeuvred a thin laptop, typing quickly.
"Sherlock's chapter haven't corresponded with Laurence yet— at least, by email. And that's what they usually do."
Jennifer had long ago found her way into Laurence's email addresses. This wasn't a new trick. It wasn't even comforting.
"We'll just have to wait until they call her, then."
Angela shook her head.
"No good. After Sherlock split like that, she got a new phone. She was worried that he had been tracing it. She's worried about you, too, John. We'll have to think of something to make that whole thing look a little less suspicious."
John raised an eyebrow.
"What, you mean she didn't fall for the 'family tragedy' ruse?"
"She didn't say anything about it, but she seemed cautious. She's just far too cautious to convince her that something isn't happening— too much happening at once, obviously."
It was Craig that spoke up.
"Well, it doesn't matter much anymore if they find out what's going on, now, does it? Moriarty's going to come back from the dead in a couple of days and we'll have to fight our way out of this, just like always. It doesn't matter if it's tonight or the end of the week."
Mary shook her head.
"It does matter. We're following complex, detailed orders that have to be carried out to the utmost for anything to happen the way we want it to. When our employer finds out—"
From the depths of John's pants pockets, a cell phone rang.
"Oh, speak of the devil."
He took a long second to prepare himself before answering.
"Hel—"
"You knew that he was here. You saw him. You didn't call me."
There was something in Mycroft's voice— layered, deep beneath the cavernous politesse and veils of formalism. A curtness to his syllables. A dangerous gap between each sentence. John didn't quite know what it was that had changed, but he knew what it meant— Anger.
"What?"
"I am in not in the mood to play games, Dr. Watson. Sherlock called me not one hour ago; he said that he had seen you, and he wanted me to explain to him. Are you going to tell me that Sherlock Holmes has been in the same city as you for God knows how long and it was a coincidence?"
"I didn't know he was here until we saw him a couple of weeks ago. Decided not to tell you because, hell, if Sherlock Holmes is here, you probably sent him."
"I sent him to France to bide some time. He was supposed to be back in England by April- sometime in March we lost contact with him, not too long before you were sent to Lille. I don't believe in coincidence, Dr. Watson. Not when it involves my brother."
John heard a long, drawn out breath from the other side of the receiver. Inhale, exhale. Then, Mycroft continued.
"You've put me in quite the predicament with this. I hope you know that by not coming to me with this information right away, you've increased the chances tenfold that this mission will never reach its objective—"
"And what is its objective, then? We're not taking down Moriarty's regime. We're replacing all the people in charge with people that you control. I want to know what you're using us to accomplish."
"Dr. Watson, I have neither the time nor the desire to explain my every motive to you, as I doubt that any answer I give to you will be satisfactory."
John clenched his jaw, tightened his fists, but otherwise stayed silent. Words were not his weapons.
When he did not reply, Mycroft filled the silence with his turn.
"I'm sure you're aware of the arrival of Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's second in command. He will be in Lille within the week, probably much sooner now that Laurence has alerted him of the suspicious activity from the other group. He won't be as ignorant as she; he'll know. And he'll know you, John. And I don't know what he will decide to do when he sees you."
Mycroft sighed through the phone as if he was about to continue, but instead, wordlessly hung up.
John stayed silent for a long moment, avoiding the pointed, impatient stares the others in the room were giving him.
Mary was the first to break.
"So?"
John took a breath.
"It's not Moriarty."
"Well, that's good to hear. Wasn't quite ready for zombies anyways."
Craig smiled at his own joke. Tony was less amused.
"This is something too important to get into without proper intelligence. We've been at this for three years now- some of us, longer. Did they tell you anything?"
"They should be in within the week. Probably sooner. Sebastian Moran's the name. It's familiar."
Mary scowled.
"Well, it should be. Colonel Moran should have been a regular name for you in the Army, John."
Colonel Moran. The pieces fit in place.
"The Trick Shot. Never served with him. He's- He's Army, though."
"Well, not anymore, by the looks of it. Can you see if you can get anything on him, Jenn?"
Jennifer had already started tapping away at her laptop. She didn't look up from her screen, but sent Mary an affirmative thumbs-up.
"Already on it."
The frantic tapping from her keyboard did little to calm everyone else's nerves.
"So, Moriarty's dead, but instead we have an ex-military convict coming to check up on us in a couple of days." Angela scowled into her left hand. "Did our employer give us any instruction?"
John resisted the urge to laugh. Instead, he just shrugged.
"We're on our own for now. We should talk to Laurence, though, before she talks to us."
Angela got up, propping herself up with her knees to help herself stand.
"I'll take care of that. Just get more information on what we're up against."
No one made much motion to respond- it was implicit that that was exactly what they were planning on doing.
"And for the love of God, John, don't go outside unless you absolutely have to. The last thing we need right now is a fucking family reunion."
Laurence swore best in French.
Swearing, to her, was the easiest way to feel anything at all- things just fit so well in between words, their hard consonants being to effective at explaining the violence in the rest of the words in the sentence that more often than not served as the bread for the obscenities, sopping up the leftover, unusable feelings from the plate. English had some interesting ways of expression, but nothing could beat the turns of phrase in the language that she knew best.
And right now, she was exploring quite a few of these turns.
She pointed to the dark-skinned man that had entered the room, who stopped, a can of soda pressed to his lips. He paused, an eyebrow raised.
"You went to their chapter not long ago. "
Her words were sharp, upset. Accusatory.
Saul stood up to his full height, used to and unafraid of her anger.
"I saw nothing suspicious. That's what I was looking for, you know that."
"You are sure you saw nothing?"
"Laurence. Whatever it is that this man is doing, it has nothing to do with Roeselare. It seems more likely that he is working on his own, if anything-"
"- Which is exactly what we need, right? Some rogue with all of our secrets running around the city, with M so close?"
She threw up her hands. Her face was becoming an alarming shade of red.
"Maybe he's a plant."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Heh?"
"You know. It does seem rather strange, that all things happen at once. Six new recruits from all over who obviously know each other, and then M, and then this... It's all too convenient, I say. He must have been planted here to test us."
"Did he do anything to test you? From what you told me, he just got up and ran away. And the information that he would have taken, we were giving it to him anyway- but he didn't even take that. It's al just... Weird."
"Weird. Too weird. And Roselare hasn't seen anything of him since."
"Nor have we."
"If he's hiding that well, he's hiding something."
She twirled the cheap flip phone in her hands, missing the weight of her old smartphone. She began to dial.
"You're not-"
She nodded, but the simple motion didn't seem to capture the exact graveness of the situation. She tried words:
"I am. I'm calling M."
"This is- There's no reason to- It's not going to solve anything-"
"It's the only option. I have to make sure. I have to let him know that I know."
"And if it's not his doing? What if you're just letting him know of a problem that he doesn't need to know about?"
"He'd know about it either way, when he gets here. Now, shht. It's ringing."
He rushed to close the door behind them, to keep the noise out. He could hear the sound from the speakers, only slightly.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
In the middle of the fifth-
"I thought you would never call."
A deep voice, in a sophisticated French: M had always spoke English with her, but now that the voice on the other end of the line was speaking her own language, it seemed familiar...
She swore.
"It was you."
"Hm? Oh. No, no. You say you, like Moriarty. M. You've never been in contact with Moriarty in your life."
He switched to English- his first words were lost to Laurence in the change.
"...Nor there, as he'll be here shortly- I've contacted the one in charge, and he'll be sending his best man to come and set everything straight, finally. When he comes, tell him I'll meet him in the abandoned factory in Marquette-liz-Lille. He'll know the one."
Laurence gaped. Saul had lost the dialogue completely- his English was not quite good enough, but he could tell that nothing that was being said was good.
"If you are not M, and I've been talking to you, then who is coming?"
"No one good, for you or for me. He'll be here shortly, though- I just got off the phone with his handler. Shouldn't be too long."
He huffed into the phone- he sounded winded, as if he had been running.
"Well, I'll be off. I expect we'll be seeing each other again very soon."
And he hung up.
He tucked the phone back into his coat pocket. A size-too-small leather jacket that he'd got second hand, that held his essentials, that smelt of smoke. His own smoke.
He stood, standing in the sunlight. He could see the city underneath him- He stepped a bit closer to the edge.
A bit closer.
Closer still.
Sherlock looked down to the road underneath him, remembering a much different road.
"John, stay where you are, whatever you do, just don't-"
"-Don't do what they tell you do to, just- just wait there, I'll think of something-"
"-I've got about four plans right now that could possibly work depending on the make of the gun behind your back and the history of the man holding it, I'm too far away, I can't see much more than the obvious military training-"
He couldn't remember the sound of his voice. It had run through his head so many times by now, it was all approximation.
But he could remember the shape of his face. The length of his walk, his reaction to surprise. He'd been reminded just hours ago in the face, walk, reaction of a perfect stranger.
As Mycroft would lead him to believe.
As he was making himself believe. He couldn't be distracted by something as fleeting as a chance. He never should have called Mycroft, that sadistic coward. Moran was surely working for him- There was no other reason why he hadn't killed him when they'd met, no other reason why Sherlock hadn't been hunted down in Europe.
He never should have called. He never should have hoped. He'd seen him fall, remember? He'd seen him land.
Sherlock hadn't noticed the cigarette in his mouth until it was time to crush it under the sole of his shoe. He had been thinking. He had been thinking about the wrong thing.
Things were wrapping up rather neatly, so it seemed.
He needed to be ready when it ended .
By the time the second pot of coffee had finished brewing, Jenn had dredged up precious scraps of information on Moran.
"He opened up a few credit cards in Italy... Rented an apartment in Milan... But if he's in cahoots with Moriarty, none of that matters... Everything I'm getting is vague and probably meaningless. Cameras pick him up here and there going about his business- shopping trips, eating out, that sort of thing."
Mary had the patience to prod.
"Well, do you know where he is now?"
"No, but he was last seen in London. Getting on the subway at... Charing Cross."
Angela rolled her eyes, angry with stress.
"What's near Charing Cross that Moran could want? The Eye? Where did he go?"
"I don't know, none of the other cameras caught him. He was coming from the West... Southwestish. Whoever Moran is working with now is covering his tracks pretty well. This is getting us nowhere. John, do you have any idea?"
John shook his head.
" 's not much to go off of. Everyone gets on at Charing Cross. He probably walked a couple stops to throw us off, anyways. He's got fake flats set up all over just to throw us off, a walk in the summer air isn't going to be much of a setback for him."
Angela frowned. This wasn't the comforting news that she'd been hoping for- so far, they had learned that there was nothing to learn on the enemy.
"When was the last time he was spotted?"
"That video was from two mornings ago. That's not to say that was the Last time anyone's spotted him, but from what I see, that's the last time he was in front of a camera. I can't even find where he gets off, which means it was probably a stop that's under less surveillance. It's only the places that you can't get away with being recorded that he's caught."
Angela shook her head.
"No. Someone's tampering. It's impossible to go anywhere in that city without being recorded."
She frowned, deepening the lines on the sides of her lips. Then, she straightened up, walking to the door.
"I need to make a phone call. Come get me the second you find something."
Silence filled the room following the click of the door behind her exit. Jennifer quickly began filling it with the tittering of her keyboard, interluded with scowls of exasperation.
"I just don't get it. Usually, I find things so easy- even stuff on Moriarty. His stuff was challenging, but he had a sort of rhythm to it- whoever it was that he was hiring to hide his stuff online, he knew what he was doing, but he was only person. After a while, I knew where to look. I don't know who's covering up Moran, but they're... They're good. I just don't know what I'm doing wrong."
She looked wearily to the door. Angela had been pushing her today, blaming her for whatever went wrong through the computer screen. John could tell it was wearing on her.
"You're not doing anything wrong. You just... don't have the time for the stuff you need to do. You're doing the best you can."
He smiled at her- he didn't know how that would make anyone feel better, but she gave him a tiny, closed-mouth smile before tying her hair back, looking back down at her computer screen.
John chose this moment to walk to the kitchen, where Mary and Tony were standing, silent after a hushed argument. The details were unheard, but the sound of angry whispers carried into the living room minutes ago.
John had wanted to speak to Mary alone, but the presence of Tony would have made that awkward- nothing John said was left alone when he was in the room. He'd hoped that Tony would leave, but instead, the other man stood fast, staring at him from his place near the small table.
"So. It seems we're almost done here."
"One last stand, yeah. Then-"
"Don't. Don't tell me what's after."
Tony had the air of a man that was holding his rage in- balled fists, terse sentences. Whatever he and Mary were fighting about, John had a thought that it was most likely about himself. Whatever it was, Mary had swayed Tony's opinion on the matter, but only slightly.
He'd tread lightly, then.
"Course. Of course not."
It took another moments of collecting himself before Tony continued.
"Moran. Whoever he is, he's Military. He knows what he's doing. It'll be us against all them. The six of us against the people we've been working with for months, and God knows how many other people he'll bring in."
"Wherever you're going with this, Tony, I'd-"
"What I'm saying- What I'm saying is that we have to be confident in each other. I'm giving you my word. Whatever happened before... Whatever's going to happen, whatever happened before doesn't go in there."
It wasn't an apology- it was explicitly lacking anything like one- but it was something much more valuable.
"I don't doubt that. I never did."
Tony outstretched his hand, after what seemed like a considerable amount of thought. John accepted it without word.
Tony huffed, adjusted his shirt, and walked out of the kitchen, leaving John and Mary alone.
She was cross, but she was also tired- under all the energy she was exerting being angry at Tony, at John, at whatever, she was a little shallower than she had been those couple of years ago when they'd met.
She must have been thinking the same thing about him, because she sighed, a soft release of whatever had been in her lungs before tilting her lips in the faintest impression of a smile.
She opened her mouth to speak, and so did he. They both stopped at the same time, flustered. She waved her hand to him; go on. Go first.
The front door slammed open, then shut. There was a sense of urgency in the swinging of those hinges that brought an end to whatever it was that was about to be said.
"Living room!"
Angela shouted from the hallway, kicking off her shoes and coat in at the door to stand at the point where the tile of the small foyer met the carpet of the living room.
Those who were not already there took little time to find themselves standing on that carpet. Angela wasted no time in starting.
"He's here. Moran. He took the train from London two hours ago."
"What do you know? Does he have anyone with him? Is he-"
"I'm not done. I'm nowhere near done."
She snapped at Tony. When he had fallen silent, she scowled, pulling at the hair that grew just behind her ears. before rounding on John.
"Your damned flatmate is the one to blame for this one. He called Laurence. He called-"
Whatever she was about to say, she decided against it. Revised.
"Something he did set Moran to his location. Laurence probably contacted him. Something. I don't know. Sherlock wants to meet at the abandoned factory not too far from town. Tonight. Moran is willing to oblige."
the other five waited a long moment to ensure that she was done. When it appeared that she was, it was Mary that spoke up.
"What does our employer want us to do? Protect Holmes? At the cost of the entire operation?"
Angela took the few steps necessary to cross the carpet to the spot where the couch stood. She slumped onto it, pulling those spots of her hair again.
"I don't know. I don't fucking know."
Angela thought, with no words but plenty of sounds of discontent- scowls, gruffs. John had set his jaw tight, unwilling to voice his stance when it was already apparent.
The voice near the hallway spoke it for him:
"There's no choice here. If we don't protect Holmes, we'll have to kill him."
Tony was there, leaning against the wall. He avoided John's gaze.
"Whatever plan he has, it must hinge on John. He saw you, right? He'll know that you'll be with him, and that you won't be alone."
Angela shook her head.
"I don't think he knows what he saw. He's been dead for three years- even Sherlock Holmes wouldn't just assume."
"When you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true."
John was met with raised eyebrows.
"It's- It's what he used to say. Or, rather, what he says. Ruling out that there's some French bloke that looks exactly like me, the only other possibility is that I'm not dead. I know Sherlock. I'm sure that when he saw me, he knew. He's planning for us to be there. And I'm going to go wherever that is."
Angela sighed, but nodded.
"It may be the only option. Let's get ready, then, shall we? Craig, you still remember where we put our guns?"
Craig leapt to his feet, pulling his keys out of his pocket.
"Hell yes I do. I'll be right back."
"No, no. Meet us on the corner of Paris and Kennedy in twenty. Go for coffee, take Jenn with you. Careful- we're most likely being watched."
She watched them leave- as the door shut behind them, she let out a mad laugh.
"God, we're going to die tonight."
The sun was tucking itself behind the inner-city buildings, far to the west. Sherlock watched it cast shadows across the pavement outside- cracked with disuse, hearty weeds pushing themselves through.
He smoked his last cigarette. He went inside.
The traps were set- everything was ready for anything that may come.
Whether or not he may come. Sherlock had gotten used to doing things alone again. It was a valuable skill to have.
Whether or not he may come.
Sherlock caught the thought in mid-air: he shoved it back where it came from. He didn't think of it again.
He was double-checking wires when he heard the stick of tires to the asphalt. He straightened himself up, reaching for coat collars that were not there to be turned up. With a bit of a huff, he settled to push back his shoulders, tilting his head up as he strode to the centre of the empty warehouse, waiting with his hands behind his back for whoever might enter through the open garage door.
He listened intently, tilting his head to the left to catch speech. He heard the dripping of water- a hole in the roof, somewhere. Foundation of second floor possibly unsound. Pooled water. Water fungus. West Nile Hospital Death Irrelevant.
He heard the open and close of car doors- five cars. Van. 5-8 passengers. The Peugeot Partner means business with its dynamic styling and footsteps of over eleven people. Fourteen? Fifteen? Moran was taking no chances.
He heard murmurs of voices outside. English, then French. Translating. Translating What? He should have put speakers outside. Why had he not put speakers outside? It seemed a grave miscalculation.
Silence. The dripping of water. The gravity of earth is roughly 9.8 metres per second squared. A fall from a distance of, say, twenty two metres, would take less than five seconds to be pulled to the ground IRRELEVANT-
The sound of shoes walking slowly, purposefully, towards the open garage door. Male, approximately six feet. Fit. Ex-Military, since... five years? Was high-ranking. Concealed weapon on his left side. Ambidextrous. Played football in school. Will need knee surgery in the next five years.
The footsteps stopped, just under the doors. Hardly a second's worth of silence:
"Evening, Sherlock."
"Sebastian. You're much tamer than the last time I saw you. Paid off, I see?"
"Don't press me, Holmes. Unlike him, I don't find it cute."
"No you won't. You've been given explicit orders not to harm me. I need to be taken in alive and well. Don't pretend that you don't know that I know the rules by now. You are working for my brother, now."
He smiled.
"Must come with a bigger paycheck. But a much shorter leash, I presume- Oh, I know how that is. But you're still doing the same work, more or less- intimidating those who can be swayed. And if a stray bullet accidently finds itself lodged in those who can't, well, it's nothing that can't be wiped out of memory. My only question is, did this come about before, or after we met last?"
"I'm not here to talk, Holmes. I'm here to drag you back to London by your hair. Shame, you seemed to have cut it all off."
"After, of course- it had to have been after you were finished Moriarty's last wish- the Watson murders. I bet he thought that was clever of him."
A tensing of the jaw- minute, almost impossible to perceive.
"Sorry, did I catch a nerve? You were quite loyal to James, weren't you? Fond of him, maybe? Must have been hard to lose him- oh, I mean when he'd turn his full attention to playing with me, not when he died. Though I suppose to a man as dedicated as you it must have been hard for him to be killed... Who did it, anyways? An inside man? Someone he trusted, no doubt. Not you. Someone you trusted? I doubt it. You wouldn't trust anyone."
Moran grinned. Sherlock could see his teeth from where he was standing, a distance of about twenty metres- yellow bones jutting out from his greying beard.
"Are we done, Holmes? Are you gonna come easy, or should I call my men in? See, the rules were that I couldn't shoot at you. It's a legally binding contract, even if it's verbal, I've been told. Not that contracts really mean anything with your brother, eh? He could draft up a new one in no time."
"Yes, I'm sure he could."
Sherlock's smile had not moved from his mouth, taking up every corner of his face with the wrinkles that spread from it. Moran laughed.
"So, about that coming easy bit. I'm sensing a no from your part, then?"
"You sensed right. I think I'll stay right where I am."
"And why's that? Landmines planted all over, is it? Trip wires?"
"I know how much you like risks. Take your chance!"
Instead, Moran waved behind him. Two men came from outside, carrying guns.
Sherlock kept on smiling, as they approached. He did not move- he kept his feet planted firmly next to each other, hands behind his back. He felt the too-tightness of his leather jacket in his shoulders.
For a moment, half a moment, his eyes flicked upward, to ensure his own place on the stage. Then, when the two men were at the halfway mark, drawing their weapons, he pressed the small button in the palm of his left hand and stepped back against the iron support beam behind him.
A deafening roar came from the floor above them, and in seconds, all Sherlock could see was dust.
When they got the call, they were already in the van, duffel bags of guns under the seats. John had missed, truly missed, the pressure of a handgun against the small of his back. The van tilted far to the left as Angela sped onto the autoroute, pressing John into the window.
Everyone was in thought. Even the radio had been turned off. They passed train stations, parks and tiny houses inlaid into the land- John watched them blindly, his thoughts blank. There was too much to process.
Who told Moran to come to Lille early? That Sherlock was there?
What was Sherlock's plan? Did he really know that John was alive? This, even, seemed too improbable.
What were they supposed to do when they finally got to the factory? Open fire?
He hoped that Sherlock had a plan. Mycroft was probably sending backup. He must be.
The sun was setting by the time they had reached the abandoned factory- there seemed to be nothing special about this place, a couple of warehouses and smokestacks littered across a field paved with crackled asphalt. The warehouse in front of them seemed particularly worse for wear, with its upper windows broken in and a hearty green ivy bursting into the holes that they left.
The van parked next to the other cars.
"You better stay here, John, until we know which one is Moran," Angela recommended. "If he knows who you are, it'll ruin any advantage we have."
She laughed- a soft, unfunny chuckle.
"Not that we have much advantage at all. Look, they've brought the whole damn chapter."
There were four cars sitting in front of the first warehouse- each one was filled. Laurence was there, and Saul, and four others whose faces had names attached to them.
Angela looked out the window, back to the other five in the van.
"Listen. I don't know what's going to go on in there, and that is the last comforting thing I've probably ever said to you. I'm sorry. I don't know what Holmes is planning in there, and I don't know what Moran is planning, either. But here is our objective, as it stands- Don't die. Make sure Sherlock doesn't die. Hurt as few people as possible. These aren't thugs- they're money launderers with guns. I don't know what they think they're playing at."
She looked to the back row.
"Craig, Jenn, You don't have to go in if you don't want. It's been a while since either of you have had to run wildly behind us all trying not to get shot at. It's no fault of your own if you sit this one out-"
Jennifer interrupted her.
"No. We don't know what's going to go on in there. Some of those people are money launderers with guns, sure. But the other half? We've never seen them."
Craig nodded.
"Yeah. We've been along for the ride this far. I'm not staying in the car until it's all over. Hell no."
Angela nodded, somber but pleased.
Mary was the one to point out the movement outside.
"Look- someone's going in. That must be Moran."
A man was walking towards one of the garage doors at the warehouse- this one was open. He stopped short of entering and began to shout at whoever was in there.
"Quick, roll down the windows-"
Angela cut John off.
"No. No one else's windows are open. Don't draw attention to ourselves by eavesdropping on things that you shouldn't listen to. Be at the ready."
More shouting. They seemed to be having a rather pleasant conversation- Moran was laughing, smiling. It turned tense with no warning: soon, he waved to the car closest to him.
Two men got out, carrying guns. They walked past Moran, and into the warehouse.
"John."
Angela called out to him, warning him to stay put. He had his gun out, and his hand on the door.
"I can't just wait for them to-"
His voice was drowned out by the sound of explosives blasting throughout the upper floor of the building. Red and orange flames erupted from the open windows, catching the ivy around them on fire- dust and debris billowed out of the open garage door, obscuring Moran from sight.
All car doors opened at once, and out poured the rest of them. John had no idea who was in front of him, or behind, or if there was anyone else running into the warehouse at all- gun in his hand, he sprinted into the dust before anyone knew what to do.
He stood, dumbfounded, for a long moment, blinking powdered concrete out of his teary eyes. He pulled his tee shirt over his mouth and nose as an afterthought, and plunged farther into the debris as he heard more footsteps behind him. When he found a pocket of clarity in the dust, he ran towards whatever sunlight he could.
He listened for whatever he could hear. Through the ringing of his ears and the pounding of his heart, there was not much other than people shouting orders, both to get out of and push farther into the destruction. When he heard nearby footsteps, he had no way to tell if they were friend, or foe, or Sherlock Holmes. He found a staircase near the east side of the building that had not been destroyed and kept himself under there, waiting for the dust to settle or for more to hear.
The gunshots started before that could happen.
So close to him, too- a shot fired to his left, away from him. No target, but the very act opened up six more shots, and an unfamiliar voice cried out in pain.
The shots came from all directions, firing through the dust that threatened to settle before Sherlock could properly establish himself. Whoever had started firing was an idiot- there was no way to know who it was that you were shooting at. They might as well be shooting themselves point blank.
As long as he didn't get shot in the meantime, that was fine.
As long as he witnessed the end or timely capture of Moran, he didn't rather mind what happened to anyone else in this warehouse.
Unless-
Unless nothing. Focus.
Sherlock moved to the left, listening for all of the human noises around him- stumbling to his right, a woman, highly experienced in combat but refraining from shooting at this moment. Not Moran. Behind him, a man much larger than Moran was trying to find his fallen comrades. Not Moran.
He listened. He clambered around a large piece of concrete that had fallen, glad to find himself alone behind it. He stopped for less than a second to adjust the scarf tied around his nose and mouth before setting off again for the west staircase.
Another shot fired. More after that. Another cry- a man's cry- louder this time. Dead. Not Moran.
It didn't matter.
He reached the top of the stairs with little difficulty, pulling his gun out. Dust had settled in the hole he had made in the front centre of the building: the whole floor of the upper level sagged into it. The scene below looked even worse, now that the dust was beginning to settle- only about half of the people down there looked like they had any real experience with guns.
They were still shooting at each other. One group split into two.
A schism?
Traitors. Mycroft's men. SIgerson.
Not one of them short, with dishwater hair. Not one of them ex-military assholes with an eclectic taste in jumpers.
He wouldn't be wearing the jumpers.
He had already trained the disappointment out of the forefront of his thoughts. He would not think about it.
John peered out from his cover to assess the situation as the dust settled. The group had already split- they continued shooting. Tony and Jennifer were not far away, but running to them would blow their cover. John shot at the man who was approaching them: once in the shoulder, a familiar wound.
Before he ducked back under, he scanned the building quickly for a tall man with an oddly-shaped head, a long jacket.
He wouldn't be wearing the jacket.
In time, he would have to move. He couldn't stay under the stairs forever- someone would find him. Now that he was here and with a clear view of the entire building, this was a terrible place to set himself up; there was barely any cover from most angles, and nowhere to run without being seen.
Well, he supposed it wasn't that important not to be seen anymore. Moran already knew they were being attacked. There, over near the back, was a piece of concrete just large enough for him to crouch behind and cover Tony and Jenn. If he waited for a the right time, he could get there without a problem.
John waited for a distraction, and sprinted out into the open.
Sherlock looked to the sky- the sun was lower still, casting shadows into the building. He kept himself in one of them, surveying the scene from above. No sign of Moran- he kept his hearing trained on the stairwell, on the upstairs around him while he watched the lower floor.
He heard another cry- a man's this time. Lethal? Possibly. Probably.
Wait-
Behind that block of concrete.
Sherlock held his breath, unsure if the greying red hair that just ducked for cover was Moran. He couldn't see him here- he needed to find a different angle, as long as he was staying where he was. Would he be down there? Given his nature as a sniper, probably not.
Keep running. Keep going. Sherlock would have to draw attention to himself at some point, draw them up one by one.
Maybe they would all just kill each other off, and he would only have to shoot Moran down. See how Mycroft liked that. Then he'd be on his way, fixing the things that Mycroft's men had only repurposed.
The good life. Many more battles just like this one to look forward to. A loud, pained groan- a woman's. non-lethal. It didn't matter. It wasn't Moran.
John felt the pressure before the pain, knocking him to the ground. He wound up at the spot he needed to be, on the right-side-up side of a five-by-three piece of floor that had fallen on its side in the rubble.
Shot, in the side of the leg. Thigh. The blood was a trail that led them straight to where he was.
Oh, the blood.
There was nothing from stopping it- it oozed out of his pant leg and stuck to the floor. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, his neck, the back of his leg. He'd forgotten pain, real pain. He'd complained this morning about a stubbed toe.
He couldn't focus on it. He dragged his leg out from under him, looking over his shoulder to shoot at a woman who had her gun pointed at him.
Tony and Jennifer were not ten feet away from him.
"All right?" Tony shouted, and John took a moment to reload his gun before answering.
"Hanging in there. You?"
He heard a scoff.
"You keep yourself from bleedin' to death, ok? Seems like we're pretty evenly matched."
The rumble of car engines.
Sherlock saw the headlights as they came up the way- three pairs of them, nearing the warehouse. Reinforcements.
Time to get rid of those that he needed to before more came his way.
He shot at the ones who were helping Moran- Mycroft's men were helping him out at the moment, and so he'd let them be. Laurence was there, in plain view, obviously unhelpful with her gun. The rest of her Chapter had already been shot- dead, some, injured, others. What had Moran been playing at, bringing them in something like this?
Sherlock edged around the outer perimeter of the upper floor, worried about potential collapse now that the entire front part of this level was effectively now the ground floor. It was darker up here, and quieter- echoes of gunshots and yelling found their way up to the empty hallway he strode through, but at such a distance that Sherlock could keep them from interfering with his thoughts.
Moran, down there, letting people injure and kill each other until Sherlock surrendered himself to Mycroft.
Guilt.
It was a surprisingly effective method.
The Exit sign leading to the eastern stairwell still lit up, pointing him into the direction he needed to go. He listened for footsteps.
Where he thought he would hear nothing- the soft padding of men's shoes. Sherlock stepped backwards into one of the offices that lined the hallway.
"Sherlock..."
Moran called out from the west end of the hall, moving slowly. he was getting closer.
"No trip wires up here, I hope? That'd be very unsportsmanlike of you, Sherlock. Come out and fight like a man. Stop hiding. Your friends are dying out there. Who knew you still had friends, eh?"
Closer still. Sherlock kept himself crouched in the dark, hiding under the glass pane inlaid in the wall of the office he'd chosen to hide in. It smelt terrible- like mould and dust and...
Women's deodorant.
Moran was whistling, now- not twenty feet away.
It was a terrible idea to hide. He was being hunted. Waiting was playing by Moran's rules.
He stood up, slowly. Moran stopped walking- he'd heard. Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, finally walking back out into the dark hallway. Two windows on each end gave them light- the exit sign for the eastern stairwell still shone behind Sherlock.
"What are you doing here, Sebastian? Surely you're not planning on following my brother's orders? You'll kill me, just like Jim asked you to."
"Moriarty hired me, just like Mr. Holmes did. He's dead- I don't have to worry about him being angry. I'll shoot down some of your comrades, then I'll take you back to London. In the boot of a car, if I have to. You just have to get there in one piece."
The shadows darkened behind him, just out of reach of the light coming from the window. Movement. Sherlock kept his eyes on Moran.
"And that's how you earn your living, is it, Colonel? Whoever will buy you for the most money? I can't imagine there's much freedom in that. Can't quite enjoy the hunt when you're being paid to play fetch, now, can you-"
It happened quickly. Moran pulled out his gun, his face a twisted, mad grimace.
A shot came from the darkness- it hit Moran in the upper arm, setting him off balance.
Sherlock didn't think- he shot. It hit Moran directly in the chest. He slumped to the ground, still holding on to his gun.
The gunman from the shadows shot once more, for good measure. Then, she stepped into the light.
"Mr. Holmes."
A dark-skinned woman with her hair pulled into a pony tail. She was instantly familiar.
"The train from Zagreb. You hid my trail."
"Good to see you too. You're welcome, by the way."
She nodded down to Moran's body.
"Well, I would have rathered that we incarcerated him, for-"
"For what? Working for the British government?"
Sherlock kept his eyes on the body. Done, for now. Someone new would just rise up to replace him- there was always a position open for arch nemesis.
The woman walked past him, nudging him on the shoulder with her own as she did so.
"Come on. Keep your gun out."
John groaned, the pain increasing in sharpness every time he turned around to look, to shoot. He was running out of bullets. His head was light from loss of blood.
Tony kept checking in on him from time to time. Where was Angela? Craig? Mary?
Sherlock?
He hadn't seen Sherlock at all in this warehouse. Was he here? He had to have been. Who else would Moran have been talking to?
Had he been hurt in the explosion? Was Sherlock buried somewhere under the rubble with those unfortunate two of Moran's men? Killed by his own stupid scheme, not quite clever enough. That would be exactly the way that Sherlock would die.
Three years after John had faked his own death, while they were not fifty metres away from the other.
He didn't want to think about it.
He pressed his hand to his wound- his hand came back red and shiny wet, and the sight of it made his vision blur.
Sherlock crept down the stairs after her. The debris from the explosion had obscured the first few steps- they had to scramble over them to get onto the ground, swinging back to hide behind the staircase. There were more people in black, carrying guns, standing at the open door. There were pools of blood all over the ground.
"Oh, Shit. shit, shit."
The woman swore at the ground behind her- he followed her gaze to a pool of blood. Her first reaction was to run to aid, but something caused her to hesitate.
"Awh. Shit. C'mon."
She made some motion to a large bald man taking cover near them- he mimicked the motion, and covered them as they ran across the open floor. It seemed insane- so much at stake for a change of location. Sherlock processed the situation.
Main objective completed (Moran is no longer an issue).
New objective: survive.
Chances: slim, More men waiting in vans outside. Even with the aid of these three (at least), far outnumbered.
Chances were very, very slim.
Please God, Let me live.
John heard the reinforcements come in, but couldn't turn to see them- he fought for consciousness, listening to the world around him for any sign of those that he trusted. He heard more gunshots, more bullets hitting their targets.
Sherlock felt the bullets whizz by as they passed him, knocking the air out of his lungs and thought out of his brain.
Please, God. Let me live.
Let me live to go home again. Hug Mrs. Hudson. Evade Anthea. Piss off Mycroft. Solve cases. Play one more Etude.
Let me live to see the inside of my childhood home again, too-small, with sun-stained wallpaper and an overgrown garden. Let me live to see if the smell has changed. To suffer through my mother's cooking. Harry's taunting. Harry's drinking. Visit my father's grave, forgive him. Let me live to go back to work, to see Sarah, to prescribe antibiotics to the elderly. To see home, to see Baker Street, to see Sherlock.
"John?"
John looked up, squinting his eyes in the dark.
Icy blue eyes stared back at him.
Sherlock's head looked strange, so strange, without the shape his long curls gave it— just a lot of dark-coloured, pointy hairs sticking at all ends. His clothes had been well-tailored but torn, and his left arm was bleeding. He was in the middle of reloading his gun, his hands frozen in air and shaking only slightly. He was so, so close. For a moment, he was all there was.
"Sherlock—"
"Duck," John said, and Sherlock's ears rang from the shot that fired just above his head.
"I'm running out of ammo." John said, slumping farther to the ground. There was Mary, too- she was reloading her gun, focusing not at all at the two people in front of her.
"Shut up," Sherlock said. "I'll take care of that."
"Sherlock-"
"Stop talking."
And then, softer.
"Just conserve your energy. John."
Sherlock could feel his heart pounding. He knew, as he should know, that somewhere there had been a fight, with guns and bad men and women. Somewhere, there was danger.
But there was also a ghost, bleeding red, human blood in front of him.
Sherlock took his jacket off, bundling it into a ball before pressing it against John's wound. John cried out- loudly enough to hear over the gunshots. Bad news. Sherlock had put his gun down somewhere- where? There. He picked it up. It was in his hands.
John worried about the gun.
"Hispanic man, bald, with black-haired younger girl in front of us... Tony... and Jennifer... Red-haired woman... Angela... Indian woman in the ponytail, Mary-"
"Sh. I know who not to shoot."
He laughed, coughed.
"Course- Course you do. Bloody Sherlock Holmes knows everything."
"Hm, well, I'm not exactly the bloody one at the moment, but thank you for the compliment."
Sherlock shot once more- John had no knowledge as to whether or not it hit.
"Don't lose consciousness, John. We may have to move and I don't know if I can carry you entirely. Moran is dead but there are at least seven people left to-"
"Moran is dead?"
Sherlock dismissed the question. He was thinking.
"How many of you are there?"
Mary answered, from over her shoulder.
"Six. But don't go blowin' up the building yet, Holmes- these are still innocent fucking people in here."
"I can't blow up the building if we're in here. Where are your other two?"
"Craig and Angela? They're fine, they're- John? John!"
John's eyelids fought to stay open, but his head was heavy, getting heavier.
"Sherl-"
Sherlock looked wildly from Mary, to John.
John's vision went dark, and for a moment the only thing he could sense was the nearing gunfire, the pain in his leg, and Sherlock Holmes, screaming his name.