Rated M for swearing, adult themes and violence with deaths.
Spoiler Alert for The Great Game.
Cliff hanger alert. Sorry about the cliffie, but I should warn you that a cliffhanger does lurk at the end of this chapter. Unfortunately this cliff is a bit steeper than the one in Chapter 50. Good news, Chapter 52 should be edited and posted in a few days (But it's got a cliffie too. Again, sorry, I'm so sorry.) (Mrs. Hudson insisted that I apologize for the cliffhanger again.)
Credit-I am indebted to the fantastic transcript of The Great Game provided by Ariane DeVere (Her detailed and accurate transcripts for each episode of SHERLOCK can be found by googling Ariane DeVere and Livejournal) (the transcripts are laced with lovely, often piquant and sometimes hilarious authors notes, which make reading them a blast).
All mistakes are my own, except the ones caused by an itinerant blogger whose initials are JHW.
Chapter 51 Meeting of the Minds
Sherlock stepped slowly through the door and out onto the dull, cracked tiles of the pool deck. The door closed softly behind him.
He stopped to study the scene. The pool was old, not refurbished in many years. The painted walls were faded, even peeling in a few spots. The warm humid air was of course redolent with chlorine, but with a hint of citrus. Clearly the janitorial staff used lemon scented cleaners just like John. The folded bleachers (painted dark blue but badly in need of a fresh coat) stood to the right and some lockers (grey with rust) stood to the left. The room was fairly well-lit, as was the pool itself. Nevertheless, the illumination was insufficient to dispel the shadows that lingered in corners and under the high arching roof. The lighting also managed to cast eerie reflections, which bounced off the water to dance uneasily on the walls. Perhaps they danced on the ceiling too, but Sherlock knew that he couldn't look up at the ceiling too often, lest he give away Christine's hiding place. He gave the faded banners and flags a cursory glance and then noted the doorways to a rear exit (leading to offices and a fire-escape) and the two sets of doors leading to changing rooms and showers.
Unfortunately Christine and her comrade, Clancy, had been silent for over an hour, ever since the arrival of Moriarty and his minions. The phones of both agents were officially 'out of service'.
Most likely, John had been correct in his prediction that the criminal genius would employ a jamming device. Either that, or the two bodyguards were already captured or dead.
Sherlock had to resist a strong compulsion to look up, because he hated not knowing whether Mycroft's minion was dead or alive (he hated not knowing anything). Curiously, he rather hoped that she was alive…no doubt because he knew that John would prefer her to be alive. Ugh, sentiment.
And once more, the deductive genius found himself distracted by John Watson.
How maudlin. The World's Only Consulting Detective required himself to ignore John (who was safely back at the bunker sulking), to disregard Christine, the MOD, (who was almost certainly safely hidden somewhere in the shadowy ceiling), and never mind Moriarty's snipers (who were surely hidden in the now dark visitors gallery, judging by the faintest of rustlings and the smell of sweat, deodorant and gun oil.)
The awareness of watchers in the dark made the skin on the back of his neck prickle.
Of course Sherlock knew that the strange feeling was just a primitive, autonomic response to an unknown yet perceived threat. Still it was an uncomfortable sensation, and the thought of his MOD hidden in the rafters and available to assist him was strangely comforting.
And, yes, of course Sherlock was well aware of the MOD acronym. He tolerated it because he had to. Besides, he suspected that John had come up with that ridiculous term, 'Minder of the Day'. And, like all other things John-related, extra forbearance was required.
Bloody hell, as John would have said. Just when Sherlock needed all his senses and intellect to work like a finely tuned machine, sentiment was once again bodging up the works. Because, ignoring John was proving to be ineffective. Deleting John was anathema, obviously. Perhaps he should accept the tawdry sentiment of caring, indeed perhaps he should allow a mental image of John to remain at the edge of his awareness. Sherlock could control the image, just as he controlled his mind palace. His mental image of JOhn would be right where Sherlock wanted him, and there should be no further stray John-thoughts interrupting tonight's proceedings.
In addition, what he required was a fully clothed John, he thought firmly, and he sent the undressed image of John packing.
A slightly smug blond appeared to his mind, a John Watson wearing overly tight black combat fatigues and mauve lipstick. Sherlock slowly closed his eyes admonishing the mental image of John to remain silent and passive. But why the mauve lipstick? Never mind, he insisted that his mind palace soldier lose the lipstick, which just too much at a time like this.
Sherlock took two more steps and blinked, hoping the mental of John would be less stubborn than the real man. Fortunately, his mental John was indeed cooperative and had removed the lipstick. Imaginary John stood silently at parade rest, with a bland smile like any other MOD. Now why would John be like an MOD.
Never mind. Sherlock Holmes needed to concentrate on the matter at hand.
Sherlock stepped further into the large chamber. Only his echoing footfalls and the rhythmic wheezing of the ventilation system broke the silence.
Sherlock's nerves thrummed with anticipation, as he schizophrenically longed to meet and yet longed to destroy his criminal counterpart.
He was back to the same conundrum, the same enigma, which had puzzled him for days; should he shake Jim's hand or try to kill him? His mental image of John immediately voted to kill the criminal mastermind.
Sherlock mentally shushed the stubborn imaginary ex-soldier, although he was somewhat tempted to follow the doppelgänger's advice.
In no time, the tall brunet had reached the edge of the pool with the memory stick, which contained the missile plans. Sherlock held the flash drive aloft, as if it were the next item up for auction.
"Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present," Sherlock called out, artfully allowing a hint of contempt to flavor his deep voice. "Oh that's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles; making me dance…all to distract me from this." He flourished the flash-drive once more, licking his lips in anticipation.
The marksman tried to ignore the World's Most Melodramatic Consulting Detective as he began showing off for James Moriarty. The single sniper needed to concentrate on the most immediate threat to Sherlock Holmes, and that threat was Sebastian Moran. The other snipers would almost certainly not fire their weapons without direct orders from either Moran or Moriarty. So far, Target Two ( female, thirty-ish and calm but oddly hesitant) seemed reluctant to make any move without a signal or glance from the wounded former colonel. And Target Three ( male, also thirty-ish, trembling slightly and sweating, a nervous newbie?), seemed downright skittish. No doubt Moran had cowed both of them with his legendary verbal abuse or with his fists, which was not unlikely, as John had reason to recall.
Then too, maybe the junior snipers had seen how Jim sometimes reacted to mistakes with hysterics and homicide. It would have made anyone skittish.
In the end, all of this meant that the marksman wanted to watch Moran, watch for his tells (tightening around the eyes and mouth, that vicious grin, the arching back as he locked on his victim-a tell peculiar to Sebastian). And if the marksman noted those tells, then Moran would be shot dead. That part was easy. Yeah, it would be satisfying even.
Until Snipers Two and Three shot back. Yeah, that part was a bit not good. The marksman wiped sweat off a furrowed brow. Should've taken Moran and his lackeys out before Sherlock even got to the pool, thought the hidden sniper, but that hadn't been part of the plan, and now it was too late.
The solitary sniper fervently hoped that the snipers would shoot at the marksman and not the detective... if it came down to a shootout. Hopefully, if there was gunfire, the detective would be smart enough to take cover and then run to safety. Hopefully, the detective would not be confronted by any others of Moriarty foot soldiers if he did make a run for it. Hopefully…
That was an awful lot of hopefullies there. Far too many hopefullies, to hopeful about this at all. Frowning, the agent could only hope…no, pray…that the confrontation would end without violence.
Then the World's Only Consulting Detective could escape safely, and the team members of Plan C-squared could finish off Moriarty and Moran, without the risk of collateral damage.
Of course they technically planned to arrest Moran and Moriarty, but that was unlikely. Very unlikely, Moran in particular would not go down without a fight.
And now everyone was waiting again. Waiting for Moriarty to make his grand entrance. And... then there was a sound, a footfall...
"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket," called James Moriarty in a fluting voice, as he slithered into the pool area from the rear exit. "or are you just pleased to see me?"
"Both," said Sherlock his deep voice reverberating in the empty arena. At the prompting of his imaginary army doctor, Sherlock raised his pistol at the trim brunet.
James Moriarty was sharply dressed in a smart, dark-grey bespoke suit (Westwood, of course). He was still attractive, even with the healing, pinkish scars on his face. Even his scarred, red, misshapen ear did not detract from his devilish beauty. His cold, dark gaze hid his real thoughts. Meaning Sherlock was uncertain what James actually wanted from him, aside from the flash-drive. The puzzle was frustrating..but not dull.
"Jim Moriarty, Hi!" he called out by way of introduction, unfazed by the pistol in Sherlock's hand. "I have to apologize, my dear. I had wanted to acquire someone special, for your fifth and final hostage. Oddly, everyone who could possibly matter to you was unavailable…or already dead," said Moriarty, his voice dropping menacingly, as his head sinuously weaved from side to side.
"Like your dear, late brother or poor, dead, little Johnny Boy. Pity about Johnny," said James feigning regret. "Did you ever wonder how he died? Allow me to fill you in. He and Sebby fought over me!" his voice skirled up in excitement then dropped low. "It was sooo romantic. But then John was such a romantic. He loved roses, and I sent him bunches of 'em. And he loved writhing underneath me as I pounded into…Oops! Little too much information, hmm?"
At the mention of John, the puzzle abruptly became much less fascinating. Even after John's supposed death, Moriarty defiled and threatened Sherlock's soldier. While it wasn't dull, it also wasn't interesting. It was...repellent.
"We came all this way to talk about a dead man?" asked Sherlock sharply, keeping a firm grip on both himself and an irate imaginary soldier whose fists clenched in warning.
"Oh come on, Johnny is one of the most important things we've shared, Sherlock," simpered Moriarty. "You do see it, don't cha Sherly? Johnny would have been the fifth hostage...the perfect fifth hostage. You would have thought he was my prisoner; you would have wanted to rescue him...until the end, when Johnny-boy kissed me and turned his back on you. Cause that's what would have happened. Cause Johnny was mine, heart and soul," snarled James, low and harsh. He glared briefly at the taller detective. "Johnny gave himself to me, without reservation, y'know. Sweet, sweet, naive, innocent John."
"But... that's all in the past now, Sherlock Holmes," said James briskly, his pitch climbing up again as he mock smiled. "I'm not here to praise John, 'cause he's already buried," Jim smiled, then added "...to loosely paraphrase the Bard."
"Very loosely, Jim. Can I call you Jim?" asked Sherlock casually, with a tilt of his head. "Frankly, you desecrate the lines of Shakespeare, the way you desecrated John Watson's life and then his grave."
Jim's smile broadened when he scored a verbal hit, "Oh don't be surly, Sherly. It's not as though you've been mourning our little lost soldier. I mean you only went to his grave once, and that was really just to try to meet me," said Moriarty with an exaggerated frown.
"But who can blame you? It was time to move on! And anyway," Jim whispered conspiratorially, "don't 'cha find me just a little bit more entertaining than Johnny? Think of the little games we've played." said Jim, with a voice as thick and sticky as treacle, "Hide and seek… and hostage tag. Of course, soldier-boys have their uses. They're good for storming a citadel, or blowing up hostages, or taking it up the duff…" Moriarty licked his lips like a sleek tabby, who'd just got into the cream. "It was delicious, how Johnny boy loved taking me up the duff. And he liked it rough...he liked my teeth and even fists, ohh yes. That last day he spent with me, Johnny couldn't get enough of it," lied James, practically singing in falsetto, "Oh, more, Jim. Please fuck me, Jim, fuck me harder! Hit me; please, Jim, I need it. I deserve it! Oh, oh, fuck my brain's out, Jim,' what little brains he had…and then, and then he'd say 'Oh Jim, let me suck you off…"
"Enough!" snapped Sherlock, who knew it was all a lie. Of course it was a damned lie. And yet, the very thought of it, made Sherlock furious, murderous, filling him with insane jealousy…which of course was Moriarty's goal.
It was a blatant attempt to throw Sherlock off of his game, and it wouldn't work. Sherlock wouldn't let it work. The consulting detective drew in a deep breath, the only sign that Moriarty had drawn blood this time.
Jim noticed the wound and smirked. "Oh all right,' he said, feigning boredom. "But I have enjoyed our other little games. Haven't you? And now, now you see it all too, don't you? I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see…" Jim put a surprised look on his face.
"…like you!" said Moriarty as if thrilled by this revelation.
It was a pity that the risk of collateral damage was so high, thought the marksman.
Breathe.
From this perch, it would be possible for the marksman to shoot Moran then Moriarty and then…No. No, the risk to Sherlock was too high. Just too high, otherwise...
Dammit! Just remember to breathe!
Sherlock seemed intrigued. Of course he was intrigued with another genius, "Dear Jim," said Sherlock, stepping closer to Moriarty. "Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister…Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America."
"Just so," agreed Moriarty contentedly.
"Consulting criminal," said Sherlock quietly. "Brilliant."
Compliments? Sherlock obviously admired that devil, Moriarty. The hidden marksman wanted to gag, shoot Jim, hit Sherlock Holmes upside the head for praising Jim and then gag again. The marksman finally remembered to breathe, but sweaty palms betrayed just how personal this was to the small sniper.
Focus. Focus on your target. Focus on the ex-colonel and breathe, thought the marksman.
Breathe in…
"It is brilliant, isn't it?" said James proudly. "No one ever gets to me, and no one ever will." The Irishman's smile faded to a contemptuous glare.
"I did," said Sherlock, cocking the pistol and ignoring the waves of disgust rolling off his imaginary John Watson…or was the disgust coming from Sherlock himself?
"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way."
"Thank you."
"Didn't mean it as a compliment.'
"Yes you did."
"Yeah, okay I did. But the flirting's over, Sherlock." Moriarty said, before he began his weird sing-song voice, "Daddy's had enough now."
Daddy's had enough now? Tensing, the marksman wondered, what the hell was that supposed to mean? Was that a threat? No? Maybe? And are they flirting with each other? Yeah, that's what this was. They were flirting.
Gah!
The two geniuses were practically mind-fucking each other now. The marksman scowled, and deep furrows formed under the hated watch cap. Fingers itched, ready tp pull the trigger and end this once and for all. The marksman nervously glanced at the clock...
No. Focus!
Christ... Breathe… Ignore the sodding geniuses and their sodding flirting. Focus on the primary target.
Moriarty walked close to the detective, his stance intimate, confiding, seductive. "I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, even thirty million quid, just to get you to come out and play…So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off." Jim smiled.
Sherlock watched the madman slowly move around him, a bizarre solo interlude in their complicated pas de deux. He watched as his mental image of John grimaced, hiding his hurt and pain behind a deep scowl.
Thankfully, it was only the imaginary army doctor who hurt by Moriarty's mind games now. At least his John was safe and sound, back at the bunker. At least the trusting doctor didn't have to listen to Jim's rambling exhortations and stupid threats, because John had already suffered enough at the hands of Moriarty. The madman had tortured John directly, but to some extent, John had suffered every time Moriarty kidnapped hurt or killed an innocent person. John was just so sentimental sometimes.
And this confrontation would have upset John greatly.
For what? So that Moriarty could posture and primp in front of an audience, and so that Sherlock could prove that he was clever. So that two so-called geniuses could stave off boredom.
The cost was too high, thought Sherlock. And with relief, he resolved his conundrum, nothing Moriarty had to offer was worth any of the pain that the madman had caused John Watson. Neither Moriarty himself, nor any potential data about his criminal enterprises, was worth the slightest threat the Irishman posed to a certain ex-army doctor.
"People have died," said Sherlock accusingly. Surprising himself, because he didn't personally care about those people? Did he?
"That's what people do!" shrieked Moriarty.
"I will stop you," said Sherlock decisively, because maybe he did care about others... a little. Well, he certainly cared about John and John cared about people... Mind palace John smiled grimly, but his dark blue eyes shone with adoration and approval.
"No you won't," sang Moriarty, smugly calm once more.
Seeing Jim quite clearly as the malicious, clowning, smirking, evil little criminal that he was, made it easy to decide that it would be best to get this over with, as quickly as possible. Sherlock began planning for his departure and for Moriarty's possible capture, despite Mycroft's plans. Imaginary John nodded vigorously in agreement.
The consulting detective abruptly offered the memory stick to James. The consulting criminal would gloat, leave and then Sherlock would contact Lestrade and perhaps that ox...
"Huh?" said Jim, playing confused. "Oh, that! The missile plans," his voice was a touch of velvet. The madman kissed the flash drive and then looked down at it.
"BOR-ING!" he sang. "I could have got them anywhere," he said, tossing the memory stick into the swimming pool. Moriarty's teasing smile faded, as his head tilted to one side like a monitor lizard.
That was unexpected. Sherlock had been sure that Moriarty wanted those plans. Why had Moriarty come to the pool, if not for the Bruce-Partington plans?
"D'you know what happens, cause you wouldn't leave me and mine alone, Sherlock… to you?" said the shorter brunet.
"Oh let me guess, I get killed," said Sherlock sounding bored. Ohhh, so that was the purpose. This was a trap to catch and kill Sherlock Holmes. The consulting detective was grateful that John wasn't here. He wondered if Mycroft's minion would survive the upcoming battle because surely, he would not. He ordered himself to not feel fear, the courageous stance of his mental soldier helped fortify his bravery. It almost made Sherlock feel that he wasn't alone in his final minutes.
"Killing you? That seems so obvious, Sherly," said Jim, tilting his head in consideration.
Sherlock raised his pistol, narrowing his eyes slightly. "What if I was to shoot you now-right now?"
"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face," Jim opened his mouth in a caricature of astonishment. "Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock, I really would." Then Moriarty wrinkled his nose in distaste. " And just a teensy bit disappointed. And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long.
Jim's head twisted sinuously, and he stared with wide, faux-shocked eyes down at the floor. Sherlock frowned as he saw multiple red laser sights, some stationary, others dancing briefly, before rising up and flitting away, one or two at a time, presumably to light up his back. Jim's eyes glinted coldly at the consulting detective.
This was a stalemate. Sherlock held the gun on James. And Moriarty's snipers aimed their weapons at Sherlock.
Fuck, thought the marksman, sweating heavily, because this was really all too damn much.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Moriarty was playing with his prey. Moriarty was playing with Sherlock, and then Moriarty was going to kill him. It was crystal clear. Sherlock was about to be shot...
The marksman gasped without getting any air. There wasn't enough oxygen…
NO STOP IT. There isn't time for a bloody panic attack. Just breathe...
How do I stop this? I can't hit all three snipers before they get to Sherlock, not while they're aiming right at him.
How do I do the impossible?
Wait...what if I could draw their fire?
Breathe in…
As long as they're targeting me, Sherlock will have time to run...
"You know what Sherly? Killing you is obvious and it's boring. But sadly, it is the only solution. You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't," said James with mock regret. 'I would try to convince you to stop interfering in my life…" taunted Jim, "but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind. And there's still the little matter of Johnny-boy. I owe you for that, Sherlock. I owe you. You stole him from me, and I plan to get him back."
Sherlock frowned. Because James Moriarty just referred to John in the present tense. The detective's grey eyes slowly opened, and his lips parted, rejecting the implications.
"Ohh, did you really think you could hide John from me? Oh no. No, no, no, no, no." said the Irishman. "Once I've disposed of you, I'll finish off Mycroft and his stupid, useless agents. Yes, I know all about you and your not-so-dead brother. Kudos though, I was fooled for just a bit! I know about the agents you have staged around us, and I can guess your purile plans. Too bad, I've out smarted you! It's all over, Sherlock Holmes. Oh, and on my way home, I will collect Johnny-boy. I know all about him too. I saw him, Sherly. How did you think that I wouldn't see him? Hmmm?"
How? How did Moriarty see John, when John had never left the bunker? He couldn't have done. He must be bluffing. But regardless, John might be at risk...no, John was at risk. No. Moriarty can not have John again. NO.
"Of course, John was followed home, so I know where he lives. I know where you hid him. And now he's all alone in that big, bad bunker under big brother's house. By my estimate, there's just one little guard standing between Johnny and me. I can't wait to see the look on John's face! He'll be sooooo happy to see me!" crowed James Moriarty. "What do you have to say about that, Sherlock Holmes?"
"Probably my answer already crossed your mind," said Sherlock, steadying the gun in his hand, He was ready himself to kill and to be killed because John must be protected at all costs.
Fuck. The marksman stole a glance at the consulting geniuses. Sherlock Holmes had the pistol pointed right at James. The detective was ready to shoot.
Oh God. No. If the detective pulled that trigger now, he'd die instantly.
The marksman looked back to Moran via the scope. Moran, whose eyes tightened while his lips parted in an evil leer. Slowly, the colonel began to arch his back peculiarly, he was locking on his target...
Draw their fire.
Breathing ceased. Fuck it all to...
"Fuck." The word cut through the tense air.
"Fuck it all to bloody hell." The breathless, disembodied voice echoed around the arena.
"What?" said James Moriarty, twisting his head around trying to locate the voice, but the reverberations threw him off. It could have come from anywhere in the huge room. The flock of lazar sights scattered uncertainly. Some landing back on the detective, others flitted nervously around, searching for the new threat.
Sherlock froze, his eyes huge. He couldn't place the source of the voice either. Surely it wasn't the stupid minion? It didn't sound like her, but...
"You heard me...I said, 'Fuck It. Fuck It All To Bloody Hell," said the hidden marksman, his voice steady. The solitary sniper peered down, so that the other three snipers could see him, and hopefully draw on him. In a lucky twist of fate, the stupid, itchy black watch cap slipped off. The hateful cap slowly drifted down, landing in the pool to drown. Good riddance. The no-longer-hidden, and now thankfully hatless, sniper smiled grimly, mauve lips twisting to the left.
The marksman had their attention, but the snipers were still aiming at Sherlock. He had to keep talking. John licked his lips and retreated into the shadows, saying, "And, to like Kirk said to that Klingon, 'I have had…enough… of you'!"
Sherlock saw Christine peeking over the I-beam. He glanced briefly at the falling black cap. He could see Christine's tight grin, under her mauve lipstick. The mauve lipstick. Sherlock's brain stuttered as the pieces of a puzzle shifted…
"What's he saying?" demanded the colonel. "What the hell does that even mean?" yelled Moran harshly in-between wheezes. "Who the fuck is Kirk? Wait, where'd he go now, the fucker? Where'd he go? I can't see him….Can anyone see him?"
"She! She. She. She. God, Sebby, she's a she! And she's right up there!" snarled Jim pointing to the ceiling. Then he poked an accusing finger into the detective's chest. "You cheated, Sherlock Holmes. You didn't come alone. Cheater! Cheater! Cheater!" James repeatedly jabbed his finger into the taller man's chest.
Considering the amount of back-up that Moriarty had provided for himself, Sherlock felt Jim's accusation was grossly unfair. But truly, that was not important, because the puzzle that was falling into place was John.
Then Moran growled deeply and shifted his rifle, and the first red laser-sight soared up into the rafters.
Sherlock ignored Moriarty's ridiculous finger jabs. The puzzle pieces were locking in place. Mauve lipstick. Christine, blond, five-foot six, a soldier. John, blond, five-foot six, a soldier…endless training sessions that would hone the skills not only of the many minions but also those of an army doctor, who was stupidly stubborn and who had stupidly planned all along to follow Sherlock into this death trap. John seen outside the bunker...disguised? Disguised as Christine?
"Christ, you're gettin' rusty, Sebastian," taunted the hidden marksman, hoping he sounded confident when he actually felt desperate. "I mean, you Seb? You, needin' a laser? At this close range?".
'John.' mouthed Sherlock silently, trying to see his lover in the shadows overhead.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, of course it's John. It all fit, even the lemon scent. Sherlock's imaginary John now wore mauve lipstick again, smelled of lemon cleanser and smirked behind his sniper rifle, ready to shoot, ready to die, happy to die because...because he was an idiot. Sherlock's idiot, stupidly sacrificing himself for Sherlock Holmes.
"Wait" said Jim, his mouth opened as he wore his surprised face for real. "Everyone just wait. Was that…"
The marksman was forced to continue his stupid childish taunts, because that's all that his tiny, non-genius brain could come up with, and because two of the three stupid snipers were still aiming at Sherlock. So, "What's the matter, Colonel, got a belly ache? Din't cha like my little present last time, Colonel. Hey! Maybe you need a doctor!"
Please, please , please let them target me, prayed the marksman.
Please, God, let Sherlock live.
"Wait…" repeated James, "Johnny? Johnny Boy? I thought…" James Moriarty gasped in appalled astonishment, "You tricked me! You tricked me. You betrayed me!' Another gasp. "But, but why? You love me, Johnny!"
Sherlock glared at the delusional madman.
Moriarty glared back. "It was you! You stole my Johnny," he accused Sherlock. The two consultants circled one another warily.
"WAT-SON? HERE?" roared the enraged colonel, drawing everyone's eyes. The tall blond leaned forward with his rifle. "You bastard, cunt, scum of ….Come out here…where I can see you! You, coward!" growled Moran, as his bright, red laser glanced off the beams and danced on the flags.
"Make me," challenged John H. Watson softly.
In frustrated fury, Moran fired a round, the dullish crack of the suppressed round reverberated, hitting a steel beam which rang loudly. Sebastian did succeed in destroying a flag. John caught a glimpse blue plastic fluttering towards the distant water, joining the stupid hat in a watery grave.
His gaze left Moran long enough to note that the other snipers still stubbornly maintained their targeting on Sherlock.
He needed to draw the fire from all the snipers. But at the same time, he needed to hold the colonel's attention. Keep talking. He said the first thing that came to mind, "Hey, Sebby!" yelled John, "Did ya miss me? I think y'did."
The feverish colonel fired again, snapping a rope, sending two strings of multicolored flags fluttering down towards the still water. Captain Watson felt a bit more exposed now, even though the flags had offered minimal cover. He felt the sweat trickle down his back. Did the colonel just shoot that rope on purpose? Was the colonel really still that good? John had to stay alive long enough to save Sherlock.
Fuck. It was too bad John wasn't so good at this taunting shite. What the hell should he say now? Ummmm... "Gottle o gear?...Gottle o gear. Gottle o gear."
The lady sniper snickered and was nearly knocked over by Sebastian's backhand.
"Oh dear," taunted John, keeping the colonel in his cross hairs. "I think…I think this is the end of a beautiful friendship."
"Kill him," grunted Moran, stumbling forward. The colonel fumbled with his rifle, aiming at the marksman and ignoring shouts coming from the rival consultants.
The flock of red dots shrank as some went out and two more flew towards John. Idiots, thought John, smugly. They actually fell for my stupid taunts.
The red laser eyes hunted for John in the shadows. A few dummy red dots were left behind, decorating the floor tiles since Sherlock had moved.
And time slowed down, just as if a hole had been ripped through space and time. Oh God, I never should have looked at that bloody clock.
Everything moved sluggishly...Weirdly, Sherlock seemed to be dancing with Jim in slow motion. Oddly, Moran, perhaps the world's best gunman was faltering with his weapon. And John was now targeted by all...three...snipers...
John listened only to his own breath and the pounding of his heart… which slowed… as consummation approached.
Breathe in…
Lock on Target.
Moran's mouth slowly opened in surprise, as he realized his error in letting Sherlock out of his sight..
Breathe out…Wearing a rabid grin,the colonel's rifle began to slowly sink... back down towards Sherlock.
"SHERLOCK, RUN!" yelled the former army doctor.
In between the eternity… of two... terrified heartbeats… John caressed the trigger.
The muzzle let go in a blinding release of yellow and white and thunder. Thunder because John did not use a suppressor. Thunder because the shot was also a signal to bring in support, to call in Clancy and Oscar.
And time was flowing normally again, a river sweeping the ex-army colonel away. Moran toppled backwards with a hole in his forehead.
Target eliminated.
Moriarty screamed, "Sebastian!" His voice was swallowed by a storm of rifle fire, as snipers Two and Three opened a barrage on the hidden marksman.
John only got off one more wild shot, before cowering in the dark, trying to shield himself behind a very narrow I-beam. Rifle rounds sped past John, shrieking with the cries of the damned. The snipers shot blindly. Foolishly, they wasted their ammunition, firing on full auto, emptying their 30 round magazines in seconds.
Halfway through the squall, John nearly fell when a round slammed into his body armor.
Bit like getting hit by lorry, John imagined, hissing. Not that he'd ever been hit by a lorry… Bloody hell. The marksman gasped and brought his hand to his side. His rifle plummeted into the pool of death.
Oh, bloody, sodding hell.
He thought at first that the round had punched right through his protective vest. But no, he wasn't bleeding; he was almost positive he wasn't bleeding.
And that didn't matter. What mattered was taking out target Two.
John realized that the ringing silence was punctuated by the cracks from a handgun.
The Captain John Watson pulled painfully back onto the narrow I-beam. Sniper Two had out her handgun, and she was firing methodically into his concealing shadows; she was closing in on John's position. He gasped as another punch almost knocked him off his roost. It didn't hurt as much as a lorry, he decided, probably because it was only a side arm and…
Idiot, thought John. Stop thinking, you're not any good at it anyway.
Take her out.
He squirmed, reaching his sidearm.
John held the Sig out, sighting down the barrel. Breathe in…
Fuck! Fuck it hurts to breathe. It hurt so much his supposedly steady hand shook, and his left hand scrabbled for a hold on the slippery steel beam which inexplicably was getting narrower. Must be that hole in space and time again.
Lock on Target Two.
Fire on target.
He missed.
Fuck! Fuck it!
The snipers backed away, rattled by his single shot. Idiots! Amateurs!
Breathe out…and gasp because it…it bloody hurt. He caught echoes, sounding like mere whispers, from the consultants fighting below. He must've been deafened from the gunfire.
Sniper Two gathered her courage, while Sniper Three was reloading and hiding. She returned with her sidearm, searching for John.
Breathe in, but breathe gently, thought the marksman…
Number two held out her pistol, in a two-handed grip. She looked right at him. Maybe the hidden marksman wasn't hidden so well after all.
Breathe out...gently….Take evasive action and...He slid further down the beam. Her round missed him by a hair. His right hand steadied, as he listened to his heartbeats slow...down...
Targeting Two… as she fired again.
He ignored the clamor as her round struck metal; he ignored the simultaneous glancing blow to his head...a ricochet or maybe shrapnel, he deduced.
Breathe gently...out…
Target Two acquired.
And listen in between each beat…of his…heart;
now stroke…the trigger…and fire.
Target Two eliminated.
Fire bloomed in his chest as bruised flesh absorbed the recoil. John shook his head keep the sweat from pouring into his eye.
Sniper Three panicked. The newbie let off a random stream of bullets that severely damaged some paintwork. Then without dropping down to hide, he turned his back on the marksman to make a run for it. Rookie mistake.
Last mistake.
Target Three...acquired...and…
John's Sig erupted, and agony from the recoil exploded across the bruised right side of John's chest. He nearly dropped his handgun. He lost his grip on the painted metal roof support and slipped a few inches lower.
John had lost sight of the sniper as the fiery recoil burned through him. He was fairly sure the man had dropped.
Let's say target eliminated, and call it a day.
John felt vaguely sick at shooting down a man from behind.
But it was for Sherlock, so fuck it all.
Shite! What was Sherlock doing? And Moriarty?
The ex-army sniper couldn't see. He cursed and wiped away the sweat dripping into his eyes and his hand came away full of blood.
Oh.
Ohhh. A head wound. Maybe that's why he felt sick; it certainly explained why he had trouble seeing, blood in his eye and all that.
Never mind the stupid little cut. Moriarty is still down there…with Sherlock.
Sherlock is in danger, and that was a no-go.
His left hand was slippery with blood and sweat, it was hard to keep a hold of the slanting roof support, but John refused to let go of his Sig. Breathing past the pain, the blond marksman looked down.
The lights, reflecting off the pool, lanced into him, blinding him momentarily and springing tears from his eyes. He blinked and blinked again. He shook his head to clear his eyes of sweat, blood and now tears. Damn lights. Fucking blood. He squinted, and began trying to focus on James Moriarty.
Target acquired.
No…abort. Abort!
Sherlock was in the way.
A/N Thank you to everyone who has kept up with this very long fic. And yes there is a cliffhanger but Chapter 52 should be up shortly :D
Thank you for reading, following or favoriting this fic. I wish I could thank each and everyone of you personally. Instead, I send you virtual oatmeal cookies made with orange rind, raisins, cranberries and walnuts.
Thank you so much to those who have sent me reviews. I owe you so much for your support and inspiration. Thank you for the recent reviews from: JC Black (now you know what happens next :D), Spillway Blue (yes, of course that sounds like a lovely AU), 107602, dana-san and Quiet Time. Thank you all so much.
Disclaimer-I must confess that I do not own the rights to Sherlock, John or any characters from ACD's Sherlock or BBC's Sherlock, at least not in this reality.
However, I certainly own the rights to Sherlock in some alternate universe. I thought I might be able to find that universe by ripping a hole through the space-time continuum. Obviously, I just have to look at a clock, which will initiate a worm hole. If I never post Chapter 52, it will be because I successfully managed to master inter-dimensional travel…without a TARDIS..OOH-RAH! Bit scary isn't it. (The inter-dimensional travel is a bit scary, not the not posting chapter 52. Which would be mean and I apologize in advance if that happens.) (Or maybe the whole idea of a supposedly sane adult trying to escape into an alternate reality just to own the rights to Sherlock is scary.)
Nah, that last bit makes perfect sense. (:p)