A knock sounded, along with Mrs. Hudson's friendly 'yoohoo'. John glared up at the ceiling. He'd been hoping to get out of here before he went and got her hopes up. He heard Mrs. Hudson open the living room door and walk around to the kitchen to find them. She stopped short in surprise, seeing him, and she smiled, looking oddly nervous. She ran her hands down her skirts and tried to smile again.
"Oh, that was the doorbell. Couldn't you hear it?" she said. Sherlock blinked.
"It's in the fridge. It kept ringing," Sherlock protested. John bit his lip, amused despite his foul mood and Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips at them both.
"Oh, that's not a fault, Sherlock," she said, starting to sound scared. Sherlock frowned.
"Who is it?" John asked, though Sherlock clearly already knew.
"Magnussen, I'd suspect. Let him in," Sherlock ordered. Mrs. Hudson turned around and headed back down the stairs, still looking nervous.
"Wait, how does she know him?" John asked, befuddled, while Sherlock straightened his coat.
"Please, she used to run a drug cartel," Sherlock scoffed. They heard footsteps on the stairs and Sherlock led the way back into the living room. John held himself at attention, unsure what to expect. Two men walked into the room, both wearing suits. The first, a curly-haired rather acne'd man came up to John, clearly expecting to touch him. To frisk him, probably, John thought, trying to figure out why that was setting his heartbeat going wild. He just needed to keep breathing steadily and it would be fine. The man reached forward and John braced himself.
"Can I have a moment?" he asked, his teeth clenched and the man ignored him and knelt to start patting down his legs. "Look I.. Right. I should probably tell you-" John started as the man worked his way up. If the idiot touched his back, John was going to fight him, he knew that with a certainty that granted him no control over it. The man paused, pulling Billy's folding knife out of his pocket and held it up before pulling John's jacket open to reveal the pipe still held in his belt. The bodyguard pulled that out, still silent, frowning at him like a disappointed school principle. "Doesn't mean I'm not pleased to see you," John whispered, but to his surprise, Sherlock didn't smirk at his part in their antics like he used to do.
"I can vouch for this man, he is a doctor. If you know who I am then you know who he is. Don't you, Mr. Magnussen?" Sherlock said as another man walked into the room. John didn't think the stranger looked like a shark at all. More similar to a hawk, in his opinion, all straight lines and sharp features. A pinched air of disapproval. The bodyguard stepped out of the way, after his spectacularly insufficient pat down. "I understood we were meeting at your office," Sherlock said, sounding genuinely surprised.
"This is my office," Magnussen replied lightly and John bit his tongue to keep from snorting aloud. He could take down all three men even with his damaged shoulder. But apparently this man owned him and Sherlock all the same. Surely a power play was overkill. "Well, it is now," the man added needlessly, flicking his hand about as he sauntered into the room. The man picked up a newspaper and settled onto the couch. A second power play.
"Mr. Magnussen, I have been asked to intercede with you by Lady Elizabeth Smallwood on the matter of her husband's letters. She says you have them and you are planning to pressure her with the contents of those letters. She would like those letters back."
The suited man looked up from the newspaper but did not speak. Sherlock inhaled loudly, sounding nervous. Trying to put on a weak front, John thought, but he couldn't guess why. He doubted a man wanting so badly to show off his power would ever do anything but underestimate them. But then, psychological games were Sherlock's sphere.
"Obviously, if you are not planning to pressure her, those letters have no practical use to you."
The suited man kept staring at them but his gaze grew vague, unfocused. Then he huffed out a laugh and Sherlock looked even more unsettled.
"Something I said?" Sherlock asked. Magnussen shook his head.
"No, no. I was reading," he said smugly, tapping at his thick glasses. "There's rather a lot. Hmm. Redbeard."
With that word, Sherlock froze. John watched him, wishing he knew which emotions were real, if any. A wish that felt like an old wound peeling open. Sherlock blinked and opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing.
"Sorry, sorry, you were probably talking?" Magnussen asked, acting flummoxed himself. Just as much of an act, John guessed. Sherlock cleared his throat.
"I was trying to explain that I have been asked to act on behalf-"
Magnussen turned his attention away, looking to his bodyguards.
"Bathroom?" he asked lightly, like Sherlock wasn't there. Yet another power play, John thought, shifting uncomfortably. He'd known commanders like this.
"Along from the kitchen sir," a guard answered, clearly accustomed to the question. Magnussen probably didn't even need to pee that urgently, John guessed. Likely did this every time he had such conversations.
"Okay," Magnussen replied lightly.
"I've been asked to negotiate the return of those letters. I'm aware you do not make copies of sensitive documents-" Sherlock started.
"Is it like the rest of the flat?" Magnussen asked, his attention still absent.
"Sir?" the guard asked. So that was probably off-script, John figured. It was like being in a bad play.
"Yes, sir," the man answered, though they'd never checked. Been in the flat before, then. A well-executed threat. Subtle. John glanced at Sherlock. It would have been intimidating if they hadn't dealt with Moriarty before, he thought.
Dealt with and won, he realized suddenly, wanting to grin. They were alive and facing down Magnussen. Moriarty had lost the whole back of his skull.
"Maybe not, then," Magnussen sneered, inspecting the room again.
"Am I acceptable to you as an intermediary?" Sherlock demanded, sounding annoyed. Magnussen looked back at him finally.
"Lady Elizabeth Smallwood. I like her," he said and insanely started to make a small popping sound with his lips. John frowned, rapidly getting tired of the act.
"Mr. Magnussen, am I acceptable to you as an intermediary?" Sherlock repeated slower, like the man was stupider than he'd originally thought.
"She's English with a spine," Magnussen rambled, kicking the coffeetable out of the way. Power grab number four, John counted. "Best thing about the English, you're so domesticated. Always standing around apologizing, keeping your little heads down," Magnussen continued, walking up to them. The guard slipped behind John and moved the fireplace grate without being asked. Whatever next was part of the routine, John thought, turning to the side so he didn't have anyone at his back. If Sherlock was right, there was no point hiding his P.T.S.D. From the man and they were trying to look weak regardless. Magnussen walked up to the fireplace and unzipped his trousers.
Oh my lord, John thought, guessing where this was going. Power play number five. They could have played bingo with this nonsense. He unzipped his coat. They were going to take that pompous ass out of the political system. Sherlock smirked, apparently understanding the gesture.
"You can do what you like here, no one's ever going to stop you," Magnussen gloated, urinating. "A nation of herbivores. I've interests all over the world but everything starts in England. If it works here, I'd try it in a real country." He zipped up his pants. John held back a smirk. He'd been right; the man hadn't really needed to pee. Like a dog marking a fence. One of his bodyguards held out a sanitary wipe, apparently that accustomed to the routine. "The United Kingdom, eh? Petri dish to the Western World, he said, wiping his hands off with the wet towel. "Tell Lady Elizabeth I might need these for later so, I'm keeping them. Anyway, they're funny." Magnussen dropped the wet towel to the ground and walked out, his men behind him.
John shook his head, trying to process the audacity of the man. There wasn't much there to discuss, really.
"Jesus," he breathed finally, hearing the front door close. Sherlock turned his head to look at him, his blue eyes searching, appearing rather unsure what John was cursing about: Magnussen or Janine.
John rubbed his hands down his legs, wanting to collapse into his chair but the chair wasn't there. He settled for Sherlock's chair by the desk. Sherlock started pacing in front of the mirror, his hands pitched in front of his mouth.
"So, Janine?" John started finally. Sherlock whirled around, his eyes sparkling.
"Janine. She's the key to everything. If she lets us into Magnussen's office for me to propose, we have a chance of finding a real lead toward the warehouse of Charles Augustus Magnussen.
"No," John answered, pushing his chair back away from the desk. Sherlock scowled at him.
"You're a soldier, John. Surely you understand sacrifice," he scoffed. John sucked at his teeth, doing his best to keep his memories at bay. They were irrelevant here.
"I understand voluntary sacrifice. Not this," he answered finally. Sherlock tossed a hand, dismissing the idea.
"Her feelings will heal. And in the meantime we will have protected the freedom of the entire Western leadership. Without that, democracy can mean nothing," he explained.
Her feelings would heal. John turned away, not wanting Sherlock to read him like he always did.
"People don't heal the way you think they do, Sherlock," he said finally, rezipping his coat.
"Wait-" Sherlock pleaded. John turned, shocked to hear such a tone in the man's voice. Sherlock had a hand held out as if to grab him but pulled it back like a snake missing its strike. Sherlock pushed his hands through his hair, his desperate expression twisting into something angry. "The worse blackmailer in the world and you won't help, you'll leave, because one woman, who means nothing to me, loves me? I cannot do my job if I am concerned with the feelings of every human I meet in passing."
John snorted.
"You've done a bit more with her than meet in passing," John growled, jerking his head toward the bedroom door. Sherlock scoffed, walking over the coffee table.
"What difference does that make?" he asked, throwing himself onto the couch. John pushed himself up from the chair.
"It means you don't fuck her and leave her," he demanded, leaning over Sherlock's desk. Sherlock pulled his head up from the couch pillows, sneering.
"And that's why you're angry," he drawled, disbelieving. John dug his fingers into the desktop, trying to control his anger.
"I cannot list all the reasons I'm angry," he replied. Sherlock let his head fall back down to stare at the ceiling.
"Try it. Because of the two of us, I know precisely what I want. I have not changed," he gloated. John barked out a false laugh.
"Not changed?" he asked incredulously and Sherlock lifted himself up on an elbow to face him again.
"I made a mistake and learned from it. Is that bad?" he sneered.
"Learned from it? Tell that to Janine in about twenty four hours," John replied.
"I told you!" Sherlock roared, pushing himself up to sit on the couch, looking ready to leap up and kill him. John straightened, ready to fight, even if it did mean a return to surgery for his arms. "I gave you blueprints, plans, Janine and Magnussen in person. Every detail I had to give!" Sherlock growled, throwing his arms out to gesture at the room around them.
John hesitated, confused.
"You meant for Magnussen to come?" he asked and Sherlock stared at him.
"Of course I meant for him to come," he scoffed and John realized that for him, it was that obvious; he wasn't hiding it. The full plan; nothing mysterious but the extent of Sherlock's brilliance. "So why are you angry?" Sherlock asked, sounding frustrated.
"Janine-" John started and Sherlock tossed his head, throwing out the excuse before John could make it.
"Was unknown to you twenty four minutes ago," Sherlock protested. John settled back into his chair, unsure what more to say.