Chapter Six
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: Firstly, we would like to apologise for the very long wait. We are both suffering from bits of life-problems. We know we've made promises, and seriously, we're doing the best we've can. Thank you for your patience guys!
Tuesday, 9 October
It had taken two weeks of fruitless searching before John decided to just call Mrs Hudson and ask if she knew how to contact the handyman. He spent an additional week trying to think of a decent reason to bring the man up in a conversation. He didn't believe "that man who installed the brackets under the landing was a hired gun there to shoot you if Sherlock didn't jump" would put his former landlady at ease.
John was relieved when the familiar voice of Mrs Hudson answered the phone. God, what if something had happened to her? What if it she wasn't at Baker Street anymore? He really should check on the people he loved more. He wanted to be as updated as possible, to see how he could help, even from beyond the grave.
"Hello?"
"Mrs Hudson? It's me. Promised I'd call, yeah?"
There was a bit of shuffling on the other side of the phone. It sounded like Mrs Hudson had pulled up a chair. "John! Dear, it's very nice to hear from you! It's been months since I last saw you dear. I hope you weren't too disturbed by the commotion your death had brought on."
John cleared his throat, remembering what his death had done to his sister and Greg. All the things they said. Connally had recorded everything, mentioning the futility of death and the beauty of other people's suffering for loved ones. John had listened out of curiosity...and he regretted every moment of it.
"I'm fine, just fine, Mrs H. You're doing okay, I hope?"
"The hip's been playing up a bit. The old flat's getting a bit too drafty without you boys around. And you, John?"
"Sorry to hear about your hip. Make sure you rest it, doctor's orders. I'd actually called to ask if you knew how to contact that man who installed the brackets under the first landing? Harry's been looking for a good contractor and I promised I'd help find one."
"Oh, he did a fine job, very nice work. The brackets look lovely." John listened to a bit of a shuffling on the other side, and the turning of pages. Sherlock had pointed out Mrs Hudson's notebook once, filled with bits of important information that she didn't want to forget. It was old and worn, with the cover almost falling away. John wanted to replace it, but Sherlock insisted that Mrs Hudson would prefer her current notepad until it ran out. John had never seen it run out, but he hoped he could buy Mrs Hudson the next one if he comes back, for putting her through so much.
"I'll send you the number in a bit. One of Mrs Turner's taught me how to text properly. So kind of him, really. I'm happy you're still in contact with your sister! How is she? She seemed very heartbroken during the funeral."
"Oh, Harry's fine. She always did love to be dramatic," he said with frown, regretful about needing to lie to his former landlady. It was better this way though. The less she knew, the safer she was. "That'd be great, ta. Do you happen to remember his name?"
Thursday, 11 October
He'd read up on his medical jargon, watched some episodes of ER, House and Grey's Anatomy, rolled his sleeves up, and hoped to god that no one would ask for his help anywhere. It had been a while since Thomas pretended he was a doctor in a hospital, and even then, it never came easy for him. He knew he'd be unable to help people if he was asked to assist, and he would rather not accidentally kill anybody. For all of his many skills, surgery has never been and never will be among them.
When they had decided to send him in to talk to one Dr. Molly Hooper, Thomas thought it would be one of his more difficult cons. Surely a doctor wouldn't be easily reeled in by just his charm, and he was prepared to pull out all the stops.
Then he saw Molly. After watching her discreetly, he could tell that she seemed more likely to go for someone who would simply see her. Keeping that in mind and seeing her walking toward him, he began moving as well and bumped into the pretty doctor.
"Oh! Sorry, I didn't mean to - " he began and stooped down, collecting all the paperwork Molly had dropped. "Let me help you, I'm sorry, doctor...?"
"Oh! Hooper - er, Molly," she said, sounding surprised. Thomas gave her a reassuring smile. "Thank you, Doctor. I'm so sorry, but I don't seem to remember your name. I try to know who everyone is since I do the post-mortems. Oh God, sorry. That was weird, wasn't it?"
"Well, I'm new - just flew in from across the pond, so I understand. Dr Carter, Ross Carter. It's very nice to meet you, Dr. Hooper." Thomas handed over the files, fingers ghosting over Molly's hand. "I'm sorry for bumping into you like this, I'm so clumsy sometimes."
He laughed, and rocked back on his heels a little, and studied her for a bit. "Look, let me make it up to you, doctor. How about I take you out for some coffee?"
Molly blushed. "Oh, no. I couldn't. Thank you though."
Thomas blinked at her in genuine confusion, and mixed in a little bit of pretend hurt. "Really? Was I really that bad?" He smiled apologetically. "I can live with that."
"Oh, no! You're not bad at all. I just didn't think someone like you would be interested in someone like me," she rambled. Her eyes darted everywhere except Thomas's, and Thomas brushed her shoulder in a reassuring gesture.
"You're beautiful, you seem nice, and you're a doctor. Any one would be crazy not to want to go out with you," Thomas said, flashing her another charming smile. "But hey, if you're off the market, that's fine. Thanks for letting me down easy. Here, let me help." He took the pile of documents from Molly before she could protest, and followed her down back to her office, making small talk about the hospital.
He made sure to walk halfway out the door before turning around to ask again. "Are you sure that I really can't take you out for coffee?"
"I... yes, I'd like to have coffee. With you. That... that would be lovely, actually."
"I'll pick you up when your shift ends?"
Molly glanced down at her watch, cheeks flushing a light pink. "Yeah. Yeah, sure, it... in five hours, it ends in five hours."
Thomas grinned. "Then I'll see you in five hours."
Thomas paused by the door and knocked. It was a good hour before Molly said she would be ready, and he thought that there was a good chance that he would be able to search for Molly's phone then.
"Come in!" came a voice from inside the mortuary. Thomas entered, his eyes roaming everywhere, looking at the different instruments and the row of cabinets. "Doctor Hooper?" he called out.
His eyes rested on the body on the table, only a small sheet covering the man's privates. Everything else was displayed inside out. Thomas spun toward the opposite direction, feeling sick. He swallowed to get his stomach back under control before he accidentally threw up his lunch. "You, are definitely busy right now."
Not feeling like he was going to puke anymore, he turned back to see Molly standing at a smaller table, watching him with a bemused look.
"Oh! Doctor Carter. Am I late?" Molly asked. Her hands were covered in gloves, which were tinted red from dissecting the man's heart on the table.
Thomas took a steady breath, remembering that he was supposed to be a doctor and this was not supposed to be the first time he's seen a cadaver. It wasn't, but he never enjoyed seeing dead people. Especially not with their internal organs everywhere. There was a reason he shied away from guns. "No...no, I'm just early. What happened to him?"
"Died on the table. The family asked for an autopsy and I don't blame them. He was just having his gallbladder out. Shame, really," Molly answered, glancing back at the body resting on the table. "Do you mind waiting a bit? I'm just finishing up." She frowned. "Are you alright? You're looking a bit green."
"No, I'm fine," he murmured, taking care to not look at the body again. He swallowed a second time, clenching his fists to keep his gag reflex under control. "Mind if I stay in your office?"
"That's fine. I'm almost done, really."
"Thanks," Thomas said. He quietly let himself into the office, scanning the small room. She had added a personal touch with flowers and small plushies peppering the stark white of the hospital walls in pinks and yellows. He shook his head, smiling at how the office felt so much like that pretty doctor currently sewing a man back together. Peeking through the door, he could see that Molly was facing away from him and began his search. He quickly spotted her purse under the desk and fished her phone out. Thomas scrolled through the messages, taking note of the names as quickly as he could. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary but any of random people here might be Sherlock Holmes. Molly didn't exactly strike Thomas as a master of deception though. It was more likely that the detective used various burner phones to contact her, so the number would be unknown.
Of course, Molly wasn't an idiot, and she had obviously deleted all of the messages. He was almost proud of her for that.
But, Molly was still Molly, and from what he knew of her crush on the detective, it was very possible that Sherlock had sent something she thought was worth keeping. With that, Thomas opened her saved messages, immediately spotting an unknown number. He clicked open.
The message was obvious. It was definitely from Sherlock Holmes. Thomas had him. He grinned smugly for a moment before he heard the sink in the lab turn on. He was out of time.
He'd put the phone away before Molly was even done washing her hands.
Molly appeared in the doorway, sans bloody gloves and white lab coat. "Alright, I'm all done," she said, smiling shyly.
Thomas had arranged himself comfortably in her chair, looking like he'd been that way for a while. He smiled and stood, gesturing to the door with his hands. "Great. Shall we go?"
Molly nodded and retrieved her purse from under the desk. He watched nervously as she pulled out her cellphone to check for messages. "There's a coffee shop nearby, on Fleet Place. We could um, walk?" Thomas released the breath he'd been holding as Molly slipped the phone back into her purse and grabbed a sweater from a coat hanger in the corner.
"Sure. I'd love to see more of London, anyway." Thomas replied and pushed open the office door, letting Molly lead the way.
They walked in almost awkward silence to the cafe until Thomas started up a conversation about the weather, with the sun shining through spatters of clouds, mentioning how different it was from home. Thomas started gesturing at random people, making up stories about how they move and talk and why, purposefully reminding Molly about Sherlock Holmes. It was a dirty trick, yes, but it was important. She had to think about Sherlock and not be on her guard about it. Thomas was quite good at guessing how and why people did what they did - he was an artist, after all, and artists have a way of seeing into people's souls - and Molly had smiled at his stories.
They were sad smiles, with the corners of her mouth tucked up rather shyly, and none of them reached her eyes. Molly, in that split second, seemed like the sort of person you want to protect from the world.
Dammit Thomas, focus.
"So, how long have you been working at St. Bart's?" he asked almost out of the blue, to move the topic to something less Sherlock like and more Molly. Best not make her suspicious.
"Five years last May," she replied to him. There was a sort of startled look in her eyes, as if she was surprised at the sudden topic change. Like her mind had been elsewhere entirely.
Good, that was good. It made Thomas feel guilty to exploit her this way.
"So you like it there, then?"
"Yes, I do. The people are lovely. When I see them, I mean." Molly twirled a finger around the end of her hair, and it made her look less like the pathologist who does autopsies every day and more like a bashful, charming young woman out for a walk.
Thomas gave her a slightly puzzled look. "They don't like visiting you down there? I thought that your little cubbyhole with all the dead bodies was quite endearing. I love what you did to your office, honestly. It was cozy. It felt more like you, I suppose."
Molly stumbled mid-step when she turned to look at Thomas, her eyes widened in shock. Thomas caught her by the arm, and gently pulled her upright before she could fall. Apparently it wasn't an opinion that she heard every day because she was still staring at him like he was an alien. "You don't think it's odd that I work in the morgue?"
"The dead need someone to solve their puzzles, don't you think? Not everyone can do what you do."
Molly brightened. Finally, someone who understood her. Thomas wasn't faking all of it. "That's why I decided to be a pathologist."
"There's nothing odd about that. We all have our places in the world," Thomas said with another smile. He lost himself in his own memories, ones concerning tall buildings and heists. One way or another, his world revolved around them, and he knew he didn't belong here. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Things were still too fresh, what he had left behind.
Sometimes, during jobs, one ran into things that needed to be resolved even if there was no time to do so. Thomas had perfected the ability of tucking them away until he had to deal with them.
"You looked sad, just now."
Of course she noticed. Perceptive. It was a bit unnerving.
"Hm?" Thomas hummed questioningly. "What do you mean?"
Molly met his gaze. There wasn't any pity in her brown eyes, only a sad brush of understanding. "When you said that bit about having our places in the world, you looked sad."
Thomas shrugged. "I still have to find my own niche. It's a process. Know anyone like that?"
Molly looked away. "I do...did. They died recently. Sorry, that's not something one talks about while getting coffee, is it?"
"No, it's fine. We could try for small talk, but that's…" Thomas laughed a little. "That's boring, isn't it?"
"Do you think so? My er, my friend, he thought a lot of things were boring." She laughed softly. It crept into her eyes a bit this time. Thomas decided it looked good on her.
"Your friend's smart." They finally reached the café, and Thomas pulled out a chair for Molly before sitting down himself. "We could try it. 'Hello, Molly, nice weather we're having.'" He changed his voice a little into a faux, smaller one. It was cheesy, he knew, but it made Molly's eyes light up even more. "'Why yes, Ross, it is, quite.' 'Do you like your coffee?' 'Yes, yes I do. How about you?' 'I am enjoying it, thank you.'"
He laughed a little more. "It's just not interesting." He gave a quick grin before transitioning to a more somber expression. "I'm sorry about your friend. Would you like to talk about it?
Molly's smile dimmed a little. "Oh, not really. Sorry. It's just...he meant a lot to me, still does. I knew him for most of the time I worked at Bart's."
"I know what you mean. It's not easy being left behind, I know." Thomas breathed in. As he had told John, an ounce of truth always goes a long way. "You know why I'm here, in London?" He looked around the café and dropped his façade a bit. "I was trying to get away from something that I did back in America, but now…. Now I don't think leaving was worth it. Maybe, just maybe, if I'd stuck it out… I wouldn't have hurt the people I cared about."
"Can't you go back? It's not too late to apologize. I'm sure they'd forgive you." Her voice was soft and caring. It struck a chord in him, and he clenched his fist slightly to pull it back together. Molly thought she was invisible and she became so. She thought she was unimportant and so Moriarty saw her as unnecessary in his plans. Maybe that was why Sherlock Holmes chose her to help in his disappearing act. This invisibility placed her in the best position to perceive things as they were.
"I can't. It's complicated," Thomas said, shaking his head. "I wish I could." He avoided eye contact, giving the impression that he didn't want to talk about it anymore. "Let me get the drinks, then we could talk more." He stood up smoothly, smiling when Molly told him her order.
He came back a few minutes later with steaming mugs and a couple of pastries. Taking a bite of a cherry danish, he tried to resume the conversation. "Anyway, we were talking about your friend."
Molly gave a short nod, although she seemed like she didn't hear him. She looked thoughtful. "You're still alive, it can't be that complicated," she said almost to herself, but loud enough that Thomas could still hear. Molly looked up. "Couldn't you at least phone them?" She blushed when she realized that Thomas had asked to change the subject. "Er, sorry, I shouldn't pry."
Thomas barely kept from snickering. She was still thinking about his predicament. It was endearing and refreshing to have people around him care again. "No, no it's fine." He was running from a whole lot of things, from the things he did, in both the distant and the recent past. He knew he shouldn't have left, but going back now would be suicide. "Sometimes, I think it's better if they think I'm dead. Then I wouldn't have to drag them into my mess." He looked at Molly, sincere appreciation on his face ."But thank you, though. If it really is that easy, I will."
Molly placed a hand on Thomas's, almost thoughtlessly. "I hope, for your sake, that you will be able to tell them someday. I have a friend who doesn't have the chance to do that anymore. They refuse to talk about it. It's sad," she said, staring at the table. When she realized where her hand was, Molly pulled it back like she'd burned it.
"Yes, I hope so too." Thomas said faintly. He reached out and placed a hand on her's, to reassure her that it was alright to talk. "What happened? If I can ask, that is."
Molly hesitated. "He committed suicide. It was rather sudden," she admitted, sipping her coffee.
"That's really awful. I'm sorry." Thomas said. He squeezed her hand softly, encouraging her to continue, and hoped that his open demeanor would encourage her to share more. If he pried too much, it would become too obvious and Molly would clam up.
He wasn't completely heartless. Thomas knew Molly needed this. Even though it wasn't part of the plan, why not help her with this? It's the least he can do, aside from the coffee, for conning information out of her.
Molly nodded. "He uh, he must have felt like he was alone. There was this case, he was a doctor too, and he was being called a fraud. His name was ruined and he…he shot himself. I wish he had talked to me."
"I'm sorry, I really am." Thomas sighed. "Maybe - you know, maybe I should have told them back home..." home, he thought wryly, he still thought of what he'd left as home, "...and maybe I could have prevented a lot of things from happening. I've lost their trust, and I don't think I could go back." He looked away for effect, squeezed Molly's hand again, and let go. He took a sip from his mug, frowning at the cooling temperature.
"My friend, the one who is alive, he hasn't even been to the cemetery. At least, I don't think he has. He's started travelling a lot."
There you go. That was what he wanted to hear. He encouraged the topic with a nod. "I've done a bit of travelling as well. It's - when you want to forget…." Thomas shook his head. "You want to keep moving. Away. Further." Thomas laughed at the similarities between his situation and Sherlock Holmes. "It's unhealthy."
Molly nodded. She looked more relaxed, as if she was happy that she finally found someone to talk to. Someone who understood. "I'm worried about him. What he's been through...it's not easy. They were, best friends I think."
Thomas appeared to think for a moment. This was good, this was really good.
Too good.
It shouldn't make him feel this guilty.
"I left behind a - guess he was my best friend, too. Definitely was the one who pulled me out of some bad habits." He sipped again from his cup. "Feels nice to talk about this." He met Molly's gaze over the table. "It isn't easy. It's… I say I don't get attached, I can't, with my type of work - I loved to go around and travel on missions, you see - but… it's still hard. Some days, I just want to go home."
Thank god Molly knew absolutely nothing about Thomas, or else this would be a pretty embarrassing spill, and he wouldn't hear the end of it from anyone in his circle.
This time Molly grabbed his hand and gave it a slight squeeze. "I'm sorry," she said.
"Thank you. I hope your friend can come home, too. Just to get him some closure."
"Feelings have never been Sher-ringford's strong suit." Molly abruptly lost all color to her face, and Thomas thought she was going to faint.
"Are you alright?" he asked, eyebrows knitted in concern. He held a hand to her to steady her, but she flinched away.
Molly glanced at her watch quickly. Suddenly, she looked very eager to leave, and Thomas wasn't going to prolong her agony. It must have been painful to feel like she almost betrayed Sherlock Holmes to a relative stranger. He hoped she doesn't dwell on it too much. "I'm fine, I'm fine, but I have to go - late for something, I just realised.. Thanks for the coffee. It was lovely." She stood up a bit shakily.
"Will I see you at work tomorrow?" Thomas stood up as well. He felt like he needed to make it up to Molly. The woman looked pale, too pale, but Thomas had what he needed. He was sure that he had the confirmation John had wanted. The army doctor was going to be elated. Or pissed off.
Molly nodded faintly.
Thomas held out a hand. "Are you okay? Sorry if this whole thing upset you, it's not really the sort of topic you talk about during a first date." Thomas laughed a bit to ease Molly. "Let's do a proper one, tomorrow, maybe...?" He grinned and continued. "Although I'd need your number for that."
"Oh! Right, of course." She grabbed a napkin and took a pen from her purse, writing down the number. "Thank you. I think talking about it helped a bit. I've got to run though. It was nice to meet you," she rattled off before dashing out the door.
Thomas gave a slight wave, and stuffed the napkin into his pocket. When he was sure Molly wasn't going to turn back, he took out his phone, and dialed John. "Hey, Mr. Dent, great news. We've got your friend."
John was just about to take his lunch break when his "John" phone buzzed in his pocket. He answered as he clocked out, and Thomas' smooth voice gave him the news.
We've got your friend.
They had him, they actually had him, and he was right. His hand shook, but his voice was steady. "Great timing. I'm just leaving for my lunch break. I'll meet you where we've talked about."
"Will be there in ASAP."
John half-ran to Prezzo's a restaurant halfway between the Starbuck's he worked at Saint Bart's. He spotted Thomas immediately. "Thomas," John greeted, taking a seat. "You said we found him?"
"Mr 'Sherringford'. But that was Ms Hooper's slip of the tongue, so we aren't sure what alias he is using now. But, John..." Thomas broke into a huge grin. "He is definitely alive. I saw a text message from him, and Ms Hooper confirmed it."
"Don't use that name in public," he hissed, looking around to make sure no one was listening. No one appeared to be. John knew his name was fairly common, but he didn't want to attract any more unwanted attention like what happened on the bus. "What did the text say?"
"No one can hear us, John. You're getting as bad as Connally," Thomas said, leaning back in his chair. "It just assures us he's alive."
That wasn't what John asked. Thomas was dodging the question, and it was beginning to piss John off. He didn't have time for Thomas's games; the text might be relevant. Sherlock liked sending texts that had multiple meanings, and this might be one of them - but John wouldn't know until he knew what the message was. "Tell me what the text said. It might have a clue or a lead…something that will let me know where he is."
"I'm not entirely sure that is a great idea," Thomas said quietly.
"I need to know what it said. Please."
The other man sighed in defeat. He took out his phone, and John watched him as he typed. Within a few seconds, John's phone beeped, and he read the message.
Five words. Just five words and it felt like he'd been punched in the gut.
I should have told him.
He closed his eyes, clenching the phone tightly. He couldn't think about how much he'd hurt Sherlock, not now. He couldn't afford the distraction at the moment.
Thomas was silent. "I wish he had, too," he murmured. "I am sorry you had to find out this way. But he's alive. I don't think Ms Hooper knows where he is, but he is alive, and he hasn't been by your grave yet."
John nodded, wondering if Sherlock would even bother to stop by his "grave". He'd probably find it boring, or the idea of it full of ridiculous sentiment. He glanced at his watch, noticing his hour was almost up. "Time for me to head back. Could you install some cameras to watch the gravesite tomorrow?"
"I'll get Connally to do it. I can't."
"Can't?"
"I have a date tomorrow." Thomas grinned, looking entirely too pleased with himself, like a cat who'd just caught a mouse. "Would you like me to set you up with one? I'd make it a double date, Arthur, but you can't tag along tomorrow, sorry."
"Ha, very funny. When did you manage to get a date between talking to Molly and…." It dawned on John, and he almost spat out his drink. John wasn't sure whether to stare in awe or something else. The audacity of this man. "No. You're not serious. You asked her out after conning information out of her?"
"I didn't con anything out of her. We had a coffee date, we talked. I shared some things about me, and she shared some things about her. One of those things just happened to be about Mr Sherringford."
John shook his head, giving up. "All right, fine. Fine. Molly's had bad luck in the dating department, don't lead her on." He knew he sounded like he was scolding, but really, even if he didn't know Molly very well she did not deserve a terrible date. "She dated Moriarty for chrissakes."
Thomas grimaced. "Wow. I assume that didn't work out well." He looked at John, completely serious. "I am not leading Molly on. I happen to genuinely think she's nice, and why shouldn't I get to know her? Besides, it would be a great way to keep tabs on your friends, don't you think?"
"It's fine. It's all fine," John said, standing. He smiled. Sherlock was alive, definitely alive, and that...that was good. That was definitely good. "I'll contact you later. Ta."
Tuesday, 16 October
He'd been cleaning his gun when the prepaid phone that shouldn't even be on rang.
The phone had been from an old job, to kill this old lady if he receive a phone call while working at her home. He didn't, so he just fixed the old woman's place and left. The lady reminded him a bit of his Mаці- she gave him coffee and scones while he worked. She even sent him home with more pastries, along with the cash she owned. Job's a job though - he would've shot her cleanly through the head if asked.
Jack waited for the ringing to stop, and checked the number. Only three people were supposed to know this number: Mr Moriarty, his new boss, and the woman he was supposed to kill.
The number flashing on his phone was unfamiliar.
Mr Moriarty always used different numbers but it couldn't be him. The boss-man had vanished a few months ago. No one had heard or seen him since death of Mr Holmes. He was almost worried about money, but cash was still fed into his account every other week.
With Moriarty missing, the rest of his gang fought for power. His right hand took over officially, but others resisted. It was great job opportunity anyway, with the boss gone there was no-one pulling strings no more, and everyone was free to climb as they please. Jack didn't give a shit about holding a good leadership position though - he just wanted to get in fine with whoever the new boss is going to be. They need new people in the ranks anyway; people had been dying left and right and no one had any fucking clue what was up. Didn't matter. Everything was up for grabs now and Jack wanted a piece of the action. He had a chance. Moriarty would have moved him up after this special assignment. He was told it was important job, very secret, even if the murder of an old woman didn't seem so special.
The phone rang again, and this time, Jack answered it. It wasn't even supposed to be on, but Jack was hoping he could swap sim cards. He thought he'd give it a bit of juice to see if it still was working.
Obviously, it was.
"Hello?" some bloke on the other end asked. "Is this the number to that handyman, Mr Isaenko? Sorry, my friend happened to recommend you and I was hoping to get some brackets installed..."
"Not accepting jobs this week, sorry." Maybe he was overthinking it, but it was odd that the man on the phone started talking about brackets and that was what he installed in that old woman's house. The number wasn't listed, so it couldn't have been a coincidence. He must know the old lady. Maybe he should start fishing. "Your friend liked the job I did then?"
"Yes, well." There was a slight cough on the other end, and the voice was suddenly crisp and commanding. "You were recommended by a friend. Fancy a meet? I'm interested in what other things you're able to do, beside shoot nails into the wall."
"She still alive and kicking then?" Jack returned with a slight snigger. Fucking blighter on the other end thought he was so clever, playing with words like that. "Fine, fine, could be arranged I suppose. Could use a little more money - who wants it done?'
Might just be his imagination, but the man's voice on the other end sounded colder than winter itself. "A friend of mine named Hector Dixon. Dixon, as he told me, needs a handyman for some very delicate repair work."
Jack didn't expect lady luck to give him a chance, but this was fucking perfect.Everyone wanted to bring Hector Dixon in - with the huge price on the man's head, dead or alive, it was no wonder. The bloody ghost murdered different people in the network like some Анёл смерці, an angel of death, drawing attention from Jack's 'friends'. If he could pull this off, not only would he be stinking rich, the new boss would definitely pay attention to him now.
And here he actually expected a miscall. He wasn't sure what the man wanted, but it didn't matter if Jack could just get him to tell where Dixon was. "What is it that you want, then?"
There was a pause on the other end. "Let's meet somewhere public. How about a hardware store?"
"No. We do this, we do it my way, how I want it. I'm busy."
"Done."
He was pretty sure the man couldn't match whatever Jack would get from his new boss, but the man didn't know that. This might be the one job that'll get him to the top. If he turned in this man, he might get a really good reward for it.
"Will keep in touch, text you the address and time - not gonna wait for you, so don't be late."
The text John received from the gunman brought him to the abandoned EMD Cinemas in Walthamstow. The apparently industry standard "come alone and unarmed" was tacked on after the coordinates, making the message seem just a tiny bit cliche and annoying. John ignored it anyway and brought the Baretta along. He wasn't mad- he wasn't about to charge into a situation without being ready.
The assassin mentioned obliquely in one of his texts that he might sell his information. John had thought it sounded too good to be true. The man must be loyal enough for Moriarty to trust him with Mrs Hudson that a bit of cash would not convince him to change sides quickly. Still, John had made sure his borrowed cashcard had sufficient money, so he could just dash to a cashpoint machine if it was ever needed.
He wasn't about to carry a massive amount of cash anywhere; he wasn't daft.
John had been doing as much research as he could on Jack Aranski, and with Thomas's and Connally's help, they'd found a small paragraph on him: a hired gun from Belarus, dependable and loyal, with probable connections to Moriarty. He tried to remember what the man looked like, but he simply wasn't paying enough attention then. He'd only managed a glance of the bulky European, preoccupied with worries about Mrs Hudson, and then Sherlock. After seeing that their beloved landlady was all right, he'd bolted without a backward glance when he realised that Sherlock was in danger.
He clenched his fists. He had been too late, anyway. If he had arrived just five minutes earlier, it could have gone remarkably different. John might have been able to help Sherlock figure something out and he wouldn't have to hide behind various aliases. Neither would John.
He sighed inaudibly. This wasn't the time to beat himself up; he needed to focus. Focus. John slowly pushed the door to the balcony seating, wincing at it creaked loudly. The cinema was darker than he'd expected, with all of the lights turned off. A small lamp illuminated a spot on the balcony, playing shadows against the dark crimson colour of the seats. Aranski stood with his back to the railing, hands crossed in front of him, and he leaned back slightly, almost arrogantly. His stocky physique was silhouetted by the bit of light from his lamp. John swallowed, and strode forward. He turned his torch on and splayed it across the grand cinema, showing glimpses of its massive, elegant interior with all the fancy angles and designs that you'd never see in one of the newer places in the city. He centered it on Aranski, and saw that the man had what seemed to be a Colt .45 at ready.
John's brain worked overtime, trying to figure out a way to get out of this alive. Aranski probably knew the place better than he did, considering he picked the meeting place, and the way he casually leaned back against the railing might be an indication that he was comfortable with his surroundings. The darkness would be an advantage for John if he needed to run away fast - but he wouldn't be able to use his own torch. The small ray of light would be all that Aranski would need to find his target, but John didn't like the idea of fumbling around in the dark.
He didn't like how this looked, at all. He simply took comfort in his own gun's reassuring weight in his back.
"I thought I'd kill you once you showed, but I need information. Sit. Please," Aranski said and gestured to a seat in the front row with the pistol. John paused somewhere in the middle section of the balcony, certain that he could duck behind the partition if the shooting started. He held the other man's gaze. Sitting anywhere would be a bloody awful idea.
"I'll stand by here, thanks."
Aranski shrugged, splaying his hands a bit, looking unconcerned. "Hector Dixon is into a lot of trouble. Know him well, then?"
"It's really none of your business," John answered. He gritted his teeth. He was here for information on whatever's left of Moriarty's syndicate, since that might just tell John where Sherlock is. Aranski was being bloody obstinate, of course - John wasn't even sure what to say at this point, and he was certain that he couldn't just blurt out what he needed. This would need a little more finesse.
"You made it my business when you phoned me. Talk, or I shoot," he gestured with the Colt, pointing at in John's general direction now.
"He's my contact." John raised his left hand in a placating gesture. His right twitched at the his side, ready to pull out the gun. "I don't want trouble, I just need information."
"Information? What sort would you need from me, eh?"
John clenched his right fist slightly. "I need work, and I heard you had connections. Somewhere my skills would be useful."
"Do you think I'm idiot? First you say information, then say work. Your 'contact'," Aranski gestured with his gun towards John, "has been busy killing my connections and you think I'm just going to hand out names to some no-one for free? What's in it for me?"
John twitched slightly. The way Aranski toyed with that gun was a bit too reckless for John's taste, and he didn't want to be accidentally shot. He breathed deeply. "I will pay you. All I need to know is..." He paused, considering what he just heard. Killing his what? "Hang on, what do you mean killing all your contacts?"
"Ah, cash before answers." Aranski seemed to pause, and John could just about make out a flash of teeth from afar. "Or…a trade. I answer you one question and you…you tell me where I find Mr Dixon. Fair, yes?"
John bit his lip in thought. He wasn't sure if the man was dealing in good faith, but it was the best lead he might get when it comes to the state of Moriarty's organisation. He simply wasn't sure, though, what everyone wanted with Hector Dixon. What did he do? John hadn't been killing anyone- did that man just say he killed some of his contacts? "Fine. Answer my question first."
There was a sharp glint in the man's eyes -trick of the light or otherwise, John wasn't sure, and the man moved forward a step. "You first. You might lie if already you have answer." The gun was steadily aimed at John's shoulder and John knew that with just a tiny flinch of Aranski's arm and trigger finger, the bullet would go through his heart.
"What do you want with Hector Dixon?" John breathed, almost inaudible if not for the almost complete silence in the old cinema. Their voices have been echoing throughout the large halls, and John's whisper probably would have been heard up at the stage. He rapidly worked out the puzzle in his head, unsure what was going on - what did John do that one of his aliases were sought after by Moriarty's syndicate?
"I told you. He's been causing trouble, but I have a…use for him."
John blinked. "What sort of trouble?"
"I tire of this circle we talk in," said the man with a flourish, like he was reciting from a script. "Tell me who is Hector Dixon or I kill you as well as Dixon."
"If I tell you who he is, will you tell me what he did to piss you off, then?"
Aranski relaxed minutely, and leaned forward. "Nothing personal, just business. He stuck his nose where it doesn't belong, causing trouble with all his kills." He straightened. "My Boss would be happy if I bring him back. Probably won't even matter if he was dead or alive."
John sighed to himself. He wasn't sure if it was a good idea to reveal himself to the man, but it was a gamble that might pay off, if John could force Aranski to say something relevant. "You have me mistaken for someone else then, because I haven't killed anyone." He moved behind the barrier, just above some of the seats, ready to duck just to be safe.
Aranski gaped for a bit, and his mouth stretched into a wide grin. "You? You're Dixon?" he laughed. "бог smiles on me today. You won't be getting that answer after all."
He pulled the trigger.
John swore, his arm stinging as he ducked. The man cackled, and John swore again and again, trying to figure out when his life turned into an action movie with cliched russian villains, to boot. He ran as he did, shots pinging against the chairs and the concrete divider, some zinging past his hair. Aranski stopped, and whistled. "Come on, Dixon. I promise I would make it painless."
"For crissakes, I just wanted to talk!" John screamed back, thankful that the echoes in the hall masked where he was. "Can't we just talk? I was even going to pay you!"
"We talked, you told me you were Dixon. Now…you die." He shot in what he thought John's general direction was, but John had already moved a few paces to the left. He popped up from his hiding place and aimed for the only source of light and Aranski's silhouette, and fired.
His aim was spot on, and Aranski staggered back towards the railing, and leaned back. He raised his arm, seemingly to fire again, but instead he lost his balance, fell off the balcony, and crashed to the ground below.
John ran towards the railing, and leaned over to look at the man, hoping his only lead was still breathing. He shone his torch down on the man, and Aranski was sprawled on his back, facing up, eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling. Blood pooled beneath his corpse.
Fuck.
John ran out of the cinema and into the night.
A/N: Okay, no promises this time, but you guys ought to know that the next chapter really is half written. So let's all cross our fingers and hope real life doesn't interfere too much again! Thank you for reading - tell us what you think!