Chapter Five
Title: Mobile
Author: A Study in Schadenfreude
Pairing|Characters: No strict pairing
Length: We've chopped them up for you to post earlier :p
Genre: angst, action-adventure
Warnings: Post-Reichenbach Fall.
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Moffat, Gatiss, and Conan-Doyle own the characters, we're just making them dance to our tune.
Summary: John Watson's on the verge of leaving 221B behind. Until he receives a message that will change his life forever... "Text Received from Sherlock Holmes."
A/N: Oh look, plot moves! No really, plot. Yay, plot! And feels. Plot and feels. Thank you sooo much for waiting! Also, have you checked out Static? We updated Static, and we're actually hiding plot points in there this time!
Anyway, read on and enjoy!
25th August
RIP John Watson
Sherlock fell down, and broke his crown, and Johnny shot himself after.
RIP John Watson. You will be missed. Say hello to Sherlock for me.
6 comments
You sick *comment filtered*! When I find out who you are, I'll tear you to shreds!
Harry Watson 25 Aug 12:22
John's dead?!
Bill Murray 25 August 12:45
Look, I'm not a fan of John or his friend but this is just wrong.
Sally Donovan 25 August 19:22
I believe in Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. You'll be missed, Doctor :(
Jacob Sowersby 25 August 22:22
He will be missed. But what is that message on about?
Mike Stamford 25 August 22:37
Oh my God, this is horrible. You'll be missed John.
Molly Hooper 25 August 23:12
You are all so cute.
Anonymous 26 August 00:00
Sunday, 26 August
It had been another hard night, and John was really hoping for a better morning.
He'd spent what felt like hours and hours of searching for Sherlock in the darkness, hearing his friend's voice calling out to him. John would scream back, where are you Sherlock, and hear a sickening thud. He would then turn around and find his friend too late, his dead, unseeing eyes staring up into the sky.
John would wake up, and have the same dream three more times until he'd given up on sleep completely.
His phone beeped- his mind vaguely registered that it was the 'John' one, and he hoped that it was great news for once.
John groggily groped under his pillow for the beeping phone, slipping past the Beretta concealed there. He was up following a lead, tapping away on his laptop because his dreams refused to let him sleep soundly. It was going to be hell at work tomorrow - no, make that later.
Finally locating the phone, he saw two texts on his 'John' phone. He opened Steve Tabernacle's message first and was a bit confused. Why would he need to check his old blog? Making note of it, he scrolled to Anderson's, which said the same thing but with an insistent 'ASAP'. John furrowed his brow, and navigated to his blog.
He stared dumbly at the entry that he definitely didn't put in.
Who...
He mashed the mobile keys as quickly as his fingers would allow.
"I still have a retainer on you, yeah?"
"And good morning to you too," a smooth voice answered. "Yes, doctor, I am still working for you. What do you need?"
"Trace that blog entry. Now." John paused. "Please."
"Right away," Steve said. "I'll get someone on it. We'll call you back."
The call ended, and John pinched the bridge of his nose.
Who the hell posted that?
He gripped the table tightly, and shut his eyes. John felt like he was going to be sick all over his computer, and he just needed a minute to stop the world from blurring and spinning around him.
The terror felt like someone was gripping his insides and twisting slowly. He wasn't sure what was going on, and he couldn't think properly like this. His hands were shaking from the mix of adrenaline and fear.
John pulled his hands away from the table and clenched them into fists on his lap, and reigned the fear in, forcing himself to calm down and think. He shoved the feelings aside to deal with later. Right now, he just needed to think.
He had his suspicions, of course, the moment he saw the update. There was only one person he could think of that could have (and had) hacked his account, and he'd disappeared after fleeing out of Kitty Riley's window, vanished into thin air. Wasn't that convenient.
He wondered where Jim Moriarty disappeared to. Why wasn't he wreaking havoc on society with his favourite playmate out of the picture?
He must be why Sherlock was hiding, but why pretend to be dead? Why jump off a building? Sherlock could have stayed in London and asked for Mycroft's help and for protection, even if the detective would rather chew his arm off than to ask his brother for anything, and if that wasn't what Sherlock did, there must be more to it.
But for the life of him, John couldn't figure it out.
It hit him a few minutes later, like a blow to the head. Jim Moriarty was alive. He was the one who posted the twisted version of a nursery rhyme on his blog, ruining yet another childhood memento for him. First, fairy tales, and now this.
Jim Moriarty was alive. The man who wrapped him in semtex almost lovingly, like a Christmas present, to hand over to Sherlock Holmes. The man who had murdered innocent people, almost killed three children, and blew up an elderly woman for his sick game. And the psycho might be alive, while John's best friend hid for god-knows-why and couldn't even talk to John and now….
John jolted at the sound of something shattering and realised that he'd thrown his coffee mug against the wall. John watched the dark liquid stain his walls like blood against the pavement, the mug fractured like Sherlock's skull, except his skull hadn't really been fractured, because he wasn't dead.
He curled his fingers into a fist, the nails biting into the skin of his palms, and slowly let his anger recede into the faint buzz of adrenaline. He didn't need blind emotions. He needed to channel it elsewhere.
It felt a bit reminiscent of medical school really, up at weird hours, pondering questions of how's and why's, especially when it comes to a different case and patient. It also reminded him of the war, being awake at an ungodly hour of the night, watching patients sleep peacefully as he stood guard outside, just wondering when the enemy would come and finish the job by staging an ambush and tossing a live grenade inside -
John passed a hand over his eyes, and sighed. It felt too much like being trapped in a trench without knowing who the enemy was, let alone where they were. There wasn't even anyone to fight at the moment, and he just felt so helpless.
He couldn't even be sure it was Moriarty. Was it? That was the most logical choice. Who else could have done it?
What was that Sherlock always said? I need more data. I cannot make bricks without clay.
His mobile rang, and John didn't even read the screen before he answered.
"What do you have?"
"I'm sorry Mr Dent, this man's just too good." John looked at his phone for a moment. It didn't sound like Steve - must be his associate. "I'm trying to look for our errant blogger's IP address, but he had it pinged and bounced over a lot of servers ranging from China to Zimbabwe and looped it around twice, masking his location neatly."
John blinked as he tried to process the information. "Sorry, again please?"
"You know how walking around in circles and stomping all over your footprints would confuse someone on where you've started and where you've ended? It's like that. Only more complicated," the man- Haversham, was it? - explained apologetically. "I'm sorry Mr Dent, I cannot help you at this moment."
John clicked off his phone, shutting it off completely, and took deep breaths. He hadn't really expected anything to come of that, but it was worth trying regardless. Besides, it proved what he thought, what he was afraid of. Aside from Mycroft, there was only one person associated with Sherlock who could do this and he seriously doubted Mycroft would have bothered parodying a nursery rhyme.
Jim Moriarty was still alive.
Monday, 17 September
It had been more than a month since John had enacted his plan and died, and his investigation was going nowhere. He'd started looking for leads almost immediately after he'd faked his death and donned his Arthur Dent persona. He spent most of his time theorising, plotting, and investigating - attacking his 'case' with such fervor that would rival Sherlock's enthusiasm over a grisly murder case.
After a few days without any leads, John was getting a bit antsy, but he knew it wasn't going to be easy. It was Sherlock he was tracking, and he wasn't a bloodhound, nor was he Sherlock Holmes, so John held on, hoping for some useful information to come his way. It was harder to get information than people usually thought- especially if you're supposed to be dead and have to discard all the informants that might put you at too much risk of being found out. Besides, realistically, it was going to take longer than hours or days to get the correct lead. He just had to wait.
After two weeks or so, John was ready to shoot someone just to get a scrap of information. Henry's money was put to some use especially, greasing some palms to give up some sort of lead. John owed the man so much already - there were days when he felt like he was taking too much of an advantage of Henry's aid, but Henry insisted that he was the least he could do for Sherlock and John because of their help in turning his whole life around. Henry would insist with a smile that it was nice to have friends around the house, even if some of them were supposed to be dead. "I keep seeing dead people, Doctor Watson. People will start saying I'm crazy," he had joked over supper.
John had actually ended up with about ten or twenty conspiracy theories from different informants regarding Sherlock's death. It had blown up on the internet, spreading across different blogging platforms and had actually spawned discussion boards of all kinds. Some of the people he had talked to on the streets claimed that they had seen Sherlock somewhere at some point, reminiscent of the rumoured Elvis sightings after the celebrity had passed away.
John's favourite theory was that Sherlock was an alien who had to return to his home planet, which would explain why his best friend was so bloody eccentric. The claim that he was really The Doctor who'd just regenerated was not as much fun.
Those completely thrown aside, he wasn't getting anywhere, even when Henry offered to help by talking to people. John had been utilising every avenue he could think of, and that was bound to go somewhere. Eventually.
He couldn't even unlock the apps and files on the Sherlock's phone, and with his current luck, there would be some major clue on it, a message for John even. Frankly, that thought was driving him spare more than anything else.
He sighed. He needed outside help, which John didn't look forward to asking for. He would very much prefer to do it on his own, albeit with Henry's help, but that was different. However, it seemed like he had no choice. He needed to bring someone else in.
John grabbed his 'John' mobile dialed a number that he was becoming all too familiar with. "Mr Tabernacle?"
"Mr Dent, good to hear from you. It's Lawson now. Thomas Lawson. " He paused and John could hear the faint click of a door. "What can I do for you, John?"
Thomas Lawson. The man seemed to discard names as easily as he chose his suits. But that was part of the lesson he was given, John remembered - if an identity gets compromised, you have to burn it. That was why Steve - no, no, Thomas, Thomas - created different identities for him to use. "I need your help," he said, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth. "Would you mind coming over for a sleepover?"
"A sleepover, John? Are we going to paint our nails and talk about boys?" The man answered wryly on the other end of the phone.
John chuckled a bit, then sobered straightaway. "How about a few pages of maps, news reports, and photographs instead?" He pressed his lips together, and made up his mind. John needed the help desperately. "I'm looking for someone, and I'm running out of options."
"You're looking for Sherlock, aren't you?" There was a sort of pleased certainty that he thought he heard in Thomas's voice. John shook his head and massaged his brow. He had heard too much of this sort of tone from Sherlock, though Sherlock's was a lot more arrogant.
John thought for a moment. This wasn't something that he wanted to talk about on the phone, and even if there was no reason for anyone to bug his burner, it still didn't feel secure in any way. "I would rather talk about this in person, Mr Lawson."
"All right. Where should I show up?"
"The Cross Keys Pub, Grimpon, in Dartmoor. I'll..." He thought a moment, aware that the pub owners might recognise him, especially after what happened with the 'hound'. "...have someone meet you there tomorrow."
Thomas said his affirmative, and added, "If you're looking for who I think you are, you'll need more than my help. I'm good, but I know someone who can help speed things up. Mind if I bring a friend along?"
He hesitated. John felt like he was already risking too much pulling Thomas into this, but if it would help...
"Can he be trusted?" he asked before he could even think about it.
"Oh, Connally? Of course. You've met him before," Thomas reassured.
"Good. Let's talk it over when you arrive." John ended the call, and exhaled slowly.
He could only hope he was doing the right thing.
Tuesday, 18 September
John had asked Henry if he wouldn't mind fetching Thomas and Connally from the pub today, giving the reason that he couldn't show his face there as the locals might recognise him. Henry agreed, telling John that he was heading there to pick up something anyway. "How do I recognise him?"
"If it were up to him and Sherlock, everyone would be dressed by Savile Row." John had said with a smile. "You won't miss him. In any case, I'll tell Thomas what you look like so he won't miss you."
Henry found Thomas easily. The man was wearing an expensive looking brown suit inapt for the small town of Grimpen. His friend tagged along behind them, blending into the surroundings easily enough that Henry later admitted to John that he almost didn't see the man. He took them back at the house to meet John, who had greeted the two with cups of coffee and a gesture to sit in the den. The two men sat while John stood in front of them, too edgy to sit down. He covered it by standing At Ease in familiar military parade.
"You were right," John said, after sipping from his mug.
"So the super sleuth is alive then?" Connally spoke up, an almost gleeful grin on his face. Thomas and Connally exchanged knowing looks.
"That's the working hypothesis, yeah. I haven't..." John sighed, and looked at them almost helplessly. He reigned the expression back in as quickly as he accidentally let it slip. "...have no proof yet."
"And you don't know how to get it. I'm wondering, why go through with faking your death? Doesn't this make it impossible for him to contact you?" Thomas asked. The man was straight to the point, knowing instantly which questions were the ones to ask, John realised. It made him wonder who Thomas Lawson actually was. It sounded like the he had experience in investigating similar things already.
John nodded. His hand clenched and unclenched behind him as he stood, face smoothed so as to not give any of his feelings away. Thomas's question had rolled around in his head for days, and it had taken him an entire day to reassure himself that he was doing the right thing, that his reasoning was sound. "There must be a reason why he had not contacted me. People, dangerous people, might be after him, and John Watson looking for Sherlock Holmes might have made them suspicious." He breathed, grimacing a little. Days like this made him feel like he would always be that one constant with Sherlock Holmes, especially with the realisation that anyone after Sherlock would be after John as well. He said so. "And I don't want anyone caught in the crossfire."
"So you don't know why he jumped?" Thomas asked, curiosity tinging his voice. John was beginning to feel like he was in one of those interview rooms at the Yard, but he answered anyway.
"Still at a loss." John answered, shifting his stance to a Relax. His shoulders slumped a little at the reminder. "I assume it was necessary but - I'd hoped he trusted me enough to tell me he's not dead. If he really isn't."
John had almost forgotten that Connally was even there until the man spoke up again. He seemed to be genuinely good at hiding in plain sight. "Maybe someone was forcing him to do it," Connally pointed out. "Do you have any of his things? Oh, his phone. Maybe even his computer?"
"I have his mobile. It was found on the rooftop where he tossed it aside, notice the screen's cracked right there," John said and gingerly handed it over. "I've examined it. There's this folder that simply won't open, no matter what sort of searching on Google I do, it seems to just be protected or locked."
"May I?" Connally took the phone, handling it with great care and respect. He turned it around in his hands, looking over the exterior with interest before finally tapping around on the screen. "Oh, our Mr Holmes know some friends in high places, doesn't he? He used a classified app - well, classified for the rest of the unknowing public - to encrypt our treasure trove of files right here. This is relatively easy, if you have the right tools and know exactly what to input. I wouldn't be surprised if he put in a cipher only someone who knows him would know." Connally did some sort of motion on the screen with his fingers, and nodded with satisfaction as the mobile blinked in response. "This should take me 6 hours, maybe a day, tops."
John inhaled sharply. Whatever that classified app was hiding had to be important, and it was a huge step to be able to get into the phone. Sherlock didn't do things without a reason, he was- is- too analytical. "Right, that'd be great if you could get into it. What you said before, about someone forcing him to…to jump. I don't know what or who could have forced Sherlock Holmes to do anything, Lord knows I tried to get him to do things."
Thomas appeared to think for a moment, and a slow smile spread across his face. "I remember this ca- job, this job that I had to do once. It involved blackmail, but knowing Mr Holmes, it's not easy to blackmail him, is it?" He turned to John. "If anyone was going to blackmail Sherlock, how do you think they'd go about it?"
John couldn't help it. He laughed at the thought of anyone being able to blackmail Sherlock. Bollocks. No one can blackmail Sherlock. He couldn't even coerce the man with threats of burning his favourite coat and replacing all of his suits with jumpers just to get the man to eat. "Sherlock doesn't care what people think or say about him. He cared about solving the puzzle. At least, that's what he wanted everyone to believe. That he was some unfeeling automaton."
"But what do you think, John Watson? The way I see it, you are in the best position to find Sherlock Holmes. You seem to know him better than he knows himself."
"Sherlock is my best friend, and he is amazing. Quite extraordinary. The way he sees all the little things and then connects them to bigger picture... Of course, when he did it, he made it sound like everything was so obvious. He took care of the local homeless, called them his homeless network and said that giving them money was an investment. They helped out a lot on case…s." John slowed his stream of thought, and swore softly under his breath. "Why didn't I think to check with them before? But I can't go asking around. They know who I am. Good job, Watson. Way to think things through."
"We'll take care of that. Don't worry about it," Thomas assured. He smiled, mostly to himself, as he explained. "I think he cares more than he mostly lets on. The thing of it is, John, is that in this line of work, you cannot afford having any ties, letting anyone know you, because they could be very easily used against you. Practically impossible to do, however. We're all, after all, still human." John nodded in agreement. Sherlock had told him that caring wasn't an advantage, but John knew that Sherlock did anyway. The detective wasn't as sociopathic as he sometimes wished he could be.
Thomas continued, "The way I see it, the same goes for Sherlock, and maybe this time, the stakes are higher. From what I've read in your blog, he cares more about others than himself." He leaned forward, with a slight, knowing smile on his lips. "So, doctor - who would Sherlock Holmes die for?"
John paused, and shook his head slightly. "Sherlock wouldn't do that," he said skeptically, his eyebrows knitting together. Sherlock had been prepared to die at the pool to take Moriarty with him, but that was different. They had both agreed, with a silent conversation, that it was better to take Moriarty with them rather than die and let the madman out into the world. That was different. Sherlock wouldn't do that. He went into a loose version of Attention, and slowly sank down on a couch. All of a sudden, John felt knackered. "It's getting late and there's no use talking about it until we know what's in that file. Thank you for your assistance, Mr Lawson."
Wednesday, 18 September
John stared at the iPhone sitting innocently in the middle of Henry's living room table as the clock ticked past three am. He'd been woken by Connally and Thomas as soon as the security on the folder had been cracked. He'd retreated to his room, needing a bit of a breather. Thomas's questions had made him feel years older, emotions kicked around, caught, and tackled like a rugby match. He'd been reading a few medical journals to ease his mind, and didn't even notice that he'd drifted off until Henry had knocked on his door.
Any moment now, he could press play on the audio file and maybe, just maybe, have a clue for finding Sherlock. John wasn't sure why he was hesitating. Perhaps it was because this was the only thing he had to go on, this one file…he didn't know what he'd do if it was just a pocket recording, meaningless static. He glanced from the phone to Henry sitting across from him, then to Thomas and Connally, who were standing nearby. They were waiting for him to play it. He took a deep breath and touched the screen, shoulders stiffening at the Irish brogue that poured from the speaker. Moriarty.
So he'd been right. Moriarty had hacked into his blog, was the reason that Sherlock was "dead." It was just another part of their game. And John had been taken along for the ride, hadn't he. Sherlock was asking about the robberies, but why? Sherlock should have been able to figure it out, unless….
This was a confession. Moriarty was confessing to everything, egomaniac that he is. Brilliant. Sherlock had managed to fool the psychopath into revealing his plan. John had seen Sherlock wear personalities like masks to get answers from witnesses and suspects alike, and here he was, playing ordinary. A master of disguise without the costumes, playing with even the worst of criminal masterminds. How could they all say that Sherlock Holmes was a bloody fake?
Three high-pitched protests drew John's attention back to the recording. What was that? Did Sherlock hang Moriarty over the ledge? He should have let go, if that was what those noises were about.
"Let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friends will die if you don't."
Wait - what…what did this mean?
"John."
"Not just John. Everyone."
"Mrs Hudson."
"Everyone."
"Lestrade."
"Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims. There's no stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump."
Jesus. We were leverage, little pieces in the game of chess played by two mad men, engaging in a silent war on a rooftop.
The damage it caused bled into every crack of the pavement, seeping into London's heart and rattling the city's foundations. John had been watching on the sidelines, keeping his ears open for any news of Sherlock, and he had noticed criminal organisations crumbling all around the country, even the world. Assassinations, gang wars, silent killings: it crumbled everywhere, caused by two men moving the pieces, with hidden players waiting to make their move...
Bang.
The recording ended there, but John knew what happened next. Their last conversation, Sherlock falling down. The room was silent, no one daring to breathe, not even John, especially John.
He'd been so sure that Moriarty was alive, that Sherlock was after him, but now he wasn't certain. It'd be insane to think that two people faked their deaths at the same time, wouldn't it? Anderson hadn't mentioned there being a body on the roof but Moriarty's team would have taken care of it, most likely.
God, he'd been looking for answers, not more questions. If Moriarty really was dead, who hacked into his blog and left that rhyme? Why was Sherlock still hiding after almost two months?
"Might it be possible that he's going after the gunmen?"
John whipped around to look at Connally in surprise. He hadn't realised he'd been speaking aloud.
The man in the specs continued talking. "To make sure of course, that you don't die." Connally paused. "He might have even gone after the whole web, just to make sure."
There was a moment of silence, while everyone digested the current information.
"Mrs Hudson, Greg, and me." John repeated. "One gunman for each of us."
Mrs Hudson. Did she have a sniper, waiting outside to shoot her? No, no. John had seen the flat, assessed it like he'd learned to do in the army. The trajectory wouldn't work, and even with a good spotter, it was far too intricate to do. He supposed that a good enough sniper might've done it, but there were only a few men that John knew who would be successful. It was easier, he decided, to just enter the flat and do a hit from the inside.
"Is it possible that the Inspector's would-be-assassin was someone already working in the Yard?" Henry piped up. "I mean, it's not easy to kill someone from the police right, and even if, maybe, someone could do a drive-by like on the telly..."
"It's plausible. It's one of the few ways anyone would be able to kill someone efficiently in that sort of position," Thomas answered Henry. He turned to John to continue, "I'm not sure what happened, John, and I will not ask you to rehash that day but, was there anyone suspicious, anyone you didn't know, hanging around your landlady then?"
"The repairman," John said breathlessly. He remembered that Mrs Hudson was having brackets installed underneath the landing, and it was plausible that the man was in on it. It was rather convenient, too, John realised, that the man had arrived a day after Mrs Hudson had called him in due to excuses about scheduling. What a coincidence.
Thomas gestured at the phone. "We could start with them, see what they know about Jim Moriarty's death, and the situation of the organisation he's left behind."
John thought for a moment. "It's important that we don't mention that we think Sherlock's alive. He's hiding for a reason, and calling attention to him might be dangerous." He glanced at everyone. "Well, gentlemen, it seems like we have a bit of planning to do, then."
It had only sunk in, after Connally had listed down the names and pinned the cardboard to the bedroom wall.
Sherlock had died for him. For them. For people he cared about, for people he loved. Not a machine. Had a heart. Sentiment. Caring didn't help.
He'd stumbled back onto the bed, falling onto the mattress with a slight plop. He could barely hear everyone else's voices over the rush in his ears, as he forced himself to put his head between his knees to stop the world from spinning for a minute.
John knew, John had known, that he was important to Sherlock, but he never considered that the man would actually go beyond the call of duty of friendship and jump off a ledge for him. It was almost well beyond the camaraderie that he'd seen in the army. John would gladly take a bullet for anyone, but happily pulling a trigger on himself to save a bloke wasn't in the cards.
And that was exactly what Sherlock did for him - for them, he corrected, and it floored him completely. And almost literally, if Henry hadn't wrestled him to collapse backwards on the bed.
He knew he'd known Sherlock Holmes, but he didn't think he'd get to see the man's heart, his bleeding, fragile heart, wrapped in all the pretense of sociopathy and callous machinery. Even if, technically, Sherlock didn't die... saying it meant a lot was an understatement.
With all honesty, John would definitely say that he had been angry when Sherlock died, angry when he found out that Sherlock was alive. The man had hid it from him, making him go through all that pain, that empty knowledge that his best friend was never coming back... But knowing that Sherlock did it for him? For Mrs Hudson, for Lestrade? Sherlock was more than forgiven. He knew that Sherlock would try to brush it off as John being sentimental, or insist that it was the most logical choice at the time, but he had his proof and no one would ever convince him otherwise.
John couldn't wait to find Sherlock. He needed to give the man a slap on the back of the head, and the biggest hug he could manage. He needed to thank him.
A/N 2: Errors in formatting are ff(.net)'s fault during uploading. Originally, this is supposed to be longer, as Chapter 5, but we decided to break chapter 5 into 3 parts. Er, seems like we did the right thing, or else you guys would've waited three months for a 15k-word-chapter o_o' Thanks for reading; see you in the next chapter!