*whips off false glasses dramatically*
Oh, you thought I was gone for good?
*wipes off penciled-on moustache*
Foolish plebeians.
*floofs hair*
I'm back, my sweeties.
*straightens jacket*
The game is on.
"Help!" John screamed at the top of his lungs.
He knew it was useless, his shouting; all it was doing was wasting oxygen.
"Help!"
He wanted to shut the hell up; *needed* to. He needed to shut his mouth and calm himself down; stop his arms and legs from frantically banging and kicking the walls of the suffocating and claustrophobic prison he had only moments ago woken up inside.
But the threat of death and his quickly depleting supply of oxygen was impeding his ability to not only think but to act rationally.
"Somebody, help! Please!"
His desperate cries were merely swallowed by the walls of his confinement and the earth pressing down upon its roof, force-feeding his ears with the distant hopes his screams might have carried with them.
If only, if only he wasn't six feet underground.
"Sherlock!"
Twelve hours earlier...
Ah, heroin. He had never tried it himself (being particularly fond of cocaine), but he had heard fantastic stories of euphoria and relief from the characters he once used to meet at the drug dens.
Sherlock held the used syringe between the forefinger and thumb of his gloved hand, closely examining the bit of liquid still remaining in the barrel. There were at least 150 milligrams still left of what had clearly been a prepared dose of 400 milligrams.
"Hey," John knocked on the door frame, shopping bag in hand. "I've got more tea." The doctor then noticed the needle in his friend's hand, his eyes widening and palms beginning to sweat. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"
The detective kept his eyes fixed on the syringe. "If the evident concern in your voice has anything to do with the fact that I'm holding a half cubic centimetre syringe containing a significant amount of heroin, which it obviously does, I must assert that this study is for a case."
John narrowed his eyes.
"A case? You mean with that poor bloke in Hackney who OD'd on heroin? I didn't know Scotland Yard was suddenly so keen on investigating this sort of thing."
"This man was a known customer of an elusive drug kingpin whose ring has only recently begun expanding into the wealthier parts of London. A growing web means growing criminal status for this lord, and a growing criminal status means a growing interest among the chief officers of Scotland Yard."
While listening to Sherlock relay the details to him, John had moved into the kitchen to unload the few groceries he'd picked up at the Tesco.
"They've got a name, have they?"
Sherlock scoffed at the mere notion.
"Of course they haven't. That's why they've called upon me." He set down the needle on the coffee table and stood up from the couch to stretch his legs. "And also, of lesser importance, in part due to the death of young Josiah Lowery. Apparently-"
"Of lesser importance?" John poked his head out of the kitchen to glare at Sherlock. "Do you even listen to yourself when you talk?"
"Apparently he was a friend of some sort of one of the officers at The Yard." Sherlock placed his hands on his hips and thought out loud for a moment. "A half cubic centimetre syringe originally containing what likely seemed a perfectly adequate dose of 400 milligrams of heroin to Lowery. He was likely informed, as a relatively new addict, that what he was sold was of a lower purity. I imagine that this is what initiated an overdose; not irresponsible intravenous administration on his part; he was a former nurse, so any carelessness in the injection process is highly unlikely to have occurred. Whoever sold him the heroin was either lying or simply an unwitting component in a murder."
John interjected.
"Or it was an accident."
"This man died after injecting a mere 250 milligrams of the heroin he purchased. I doubt even the purest heroin could be so lethal after such a small dose; and this selection is extremely pure. Something was clearly added to the drugs Josiah was sold, fentanyl being the likely culprit."
"So Josiah was purposely given a deadly mixture of heroin and fentanyl?"
"Precisely."
John bit the inside of his cheek.
"Shite." He scratched the back of his neck. "So what are you doing now?"
"Waiting until eight thirty."
"Why?"
"Because that is precisely the time at which I plan to meet a few drug dealers at their preferred dive bar. A member of my network, Pilar, gave me the tip; she so happens to be a former customer." Sherlock got an excited look on his face. "I'll be doing a bit of undercover research."
John felt his hands tighten into fists.
"No. Absolutely not."
Sherlock took off his glove.
"Hm?"
"You are not going to a bloody dive bar to share drinks with some junkies."
"I'll be in disguise."
"No!" John asserted. "You won't be. I will not have you go risking everything you've worked so hard for."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh please," John rolled his eyes. "You think I don't know about your checkered past? I'm not that stupid."
Sherlock looked down at the floor.
"Mycroft told you."
"So? I deserved to know. And you weren't going to tell me."
"What is your point, exactly?"
"My point, Sherlock, is that you are extremely prone to engaging in self-destructive behaviour, as is made evident by your past experience with drugs, so spending an evening with guys who *sell drugs* is just tempting fate."
"Fate is a fictional concept that is only valued today by the feeble-minded and frightened who wish to find meaning in their pathetic lives."
"Not relevant," John shook his head, a bit thrown off by this abrupt interjection. "Look, it's just... you've come so far from that dark period of your life; done so much to make things better for yourself. I just don't want you to throw it all away if you let yourself get pulled back in. You understand where I'm coming from?"
Sherlock shrugged.
"I suppose. But I don't agree with your objection." He crossed his arms. "I haven't made use of recreational drugs in quite some time now. And I can promise you that I won't have the slightest urge to change that fact."
John sighed.
"And how do I know that you will be able to hold yourself to that?"
"Because I don't need drugs anymore," Sherlock said, letting a soft, almost sentimental look linger on his face as he stared at John.
John recognised the meaning behind the words and found himself lost for any sort of response other than:
"Oh."
"Yes," Sherlock cleared his throat, returning to his original train of thought. "Well, I was prepared to ask you if you might wish to accompany me, but you are clearly in no mood to-"
"Yes," John said. "I'll go."
"Are you quite sure?"
"I'll feel better if I can keep an eye on you."
Sherlock furrowed his brow.
"I don't need supervised."
"Sherlock Holmes, getting drunk alone with a group of drug-addicted thugs. What could go wrong?" the doctor said.
"Not all drug cartel members are thugs, John," Sherlock told his flat mate. "You must be careful not to generalise."
"Coming from the person who calls everyone an idiot."
"Everyone is an idiot."
John picked up the box of tea on the counter and went over to the kitchen cupboard to put it away.
"If that were true, I wouldn't be living here, would I?" He turned around and smirked at the detective.
"Fine," Sherlock conceded. "Everyone, with the exception of a few choice individuals, is an idiot."
John rolled his eyes and shook his head with a chuckle.
"Good enough."
One could certainly tell that this place was a dive bar by simply taking a sniff at the air leaking through the cracks of the entrance. The smell of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne was enough to make John's eyes water. Opening the door only worsened the sensation.
"Jesus," John coughed; they were practically walking into a cloud of smoke.
The music playing in the bar was of a grungier genre; an unsurprising choice for a low-brow place such as this. Men and women were seated at and standing around tables covered in peanut shells; flirting, fighting, talking, kissing. It was as if John and Sherlock had stepped onto the set of a movie, the place was so typical.
"Well you blend in nicely," John told Sherlock as he looked around at the attire most people were sporting; it seemed to be an even blend of leather and shaggy hoodies. Sherlock himself had put on a pair of worn-out and slightly torn jeans, along with a leather jacket and casual t-shirt; he wore black combat boots as well. "But I seriously can't tell if you were going for biker or junkie."
Sherlock scratched at the fake stubble on his face.
"What I was "going for", John, was-"
"Jackass?"
The detective glared at him.
"Nondescript."
"Yeah," John snorted. "You really look nondescript."
"And you don't appear at all to be the type of customer they wish to see here."
"What do you mean?" John suddenly found himself getting defensive. "I don't look tough enough?'
"You're polished in appearance." Sherlock sniffed and straightened his jacket a bit. "Many people are offended by it."
"Look at you picking up on signals," John said. "But I ruffled my hair and wore my tattered jacket. I look pretty haggard."
"Polished."
John frowned at his companion before the two of them approached the bar.
"Oi mate: two pints over here, alright?" Sherlock called to the bartender in an accent that John was disturbed to hear him speaking in.
"Ace," the barkeeper smiled.
John had to admit: the man looked like someone who could beat the hell out of any poor bugger who dared to cross him, his many tattoos and rather large muscles being extremely intimidating. Yet he seemed so... kind. And Lord, if he wasn't the chattiest sod the doctor had ever met.
"There you go," the bartender said as he set the two drinks down in front of John and Sherlock.
"Ta," Sherlock nodded approvingly. God, that accent was making John more and more uncomfortable.
"Name's Leonard," the barman continued. "Feel free to call me Leo, yeah? Or Lenny. Really, I'm pretty flexible."
Again: chatty.
John took a sip of his beer and glanced sideways at his flat mate who clearly wasn't interested in striking up a conversation with Leo; he was busy nonchalantly scanning the bar. So, John took the reigns.
"Pleasure to meet you, Leo." He reached out to shake the man's hand. "I'm John."
Sherlock made a disapproving sound in his throat. Undercover meant no actual first names, John knew. But this guy seemed friendly enough, and it wasn't as if John was giving away his surname and date of birth.
"You know, you're the first guy who's done that tonight," Leonard laughed (and boy, was it a gruff laugh). "Not many blokes like a chummy bastard."
"I could do with chummy," John smiled.
Christ, it was so loud in there he was shouting.
"Listen, Leo," John said, "My mate and I are looking for a group of guys. We were set up to meet 'em here."
"I see lots of groups of guys come in here," Lenny chuckled. "You're gonna have to be a bit more specific."
Sherlock shot John a disapproving look.
"You know what? S'alright," John shrugged, reconsidering everything he'd just let slip. "We'll find 'em on our own. Thanks though." He sipped at his beer again.
"Shout if ya need anything else, yeah? I won't be moving for a while," Leo told him with a wink as he tended to some leering men at the other end of the bar.
John felt the daggers from Sherlock's stare boring into him, and he couldn't resist the nervous urge to squirm.
"What?" he finally asked the detective.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"You really aren't a natural at this, are you?"
John blushed.
"Shut up."
Sherlock held up a hand to shut him up and narrowed his eyes at a group of three who had just walked into the bar.
"They're late," he said.
"For what?"
"Me." Sherlock stood up from his stool. "Come along, John."
As they walked over to the three dealers, Sherlock whispered to the doctor:
"Leonard is a customer of theirs."
"What?" John asked in alarm.
"Cocaine."
"But how-"
"His philtrum indicated long-term use. It would explain the territorial claim this particular unit of drug dealers seems to have made on this bar."
John came to the realisation:
"You think Leo's their bitch because he can't pay for the drugs? He's putting off payment?"
Sherlock stopped and pondered his friend's odd choice of words.
"...yes. Precisely." He then ruffled his hair and proceeded to confront the junkies. "Lovely day for it, then? he said in a gravelly tone of voice. "Care much if we join you for a few pints?"
There were two men and one woman, all of whom looked extremely unamused and quite dangerous. But then again, they were selling drugs under the authority of an even more dangerous and extremely influential boss.
"Private party," one of the men, one with a lazy eye, sneered.
Sherlock laughed.
"Relax. I'm a friend, alright?" He leaned forward. "I know about your... business."
The other man, of at least six and a half feet in height, narrowed his eyes.
"Yeah?"
"I want to work for it; do what you do."
The three dealers looked sceptically at one another.
"Yeah?" the other man asked. "Do you now?"
Sherlock looked both ways and lowered his voice.
"Pilar told me I could meet you here."
Now the group seemed interested.
"She did?" the woman asked. "Pilar?"
"Yeah," Sherlock nodded adamantly, clearly losing patience with these people. "Pilar."
"Right," lazy-eye nodded. "Okay. Have a seat, then."
The giant looked to John and frowned.
"And who's this?"
"My mule," Sherlock said without a second thought.
John stiffened at being called such a thing. He'd show the bastard who was a bloody mule.
"Right," Lazy-Eye nodded in understanding. "No guarantees for him though, if we do let you in with the boss."
"Gotcha," Sherlock said.
"I'll take care of him," the woman interjected. "We'll have a nice chat, yeah?"
John looked at Sherlock who pushed him to step away with her with his stare.
"Yes," John agreed. "Bully."
And with one last look at one another, the two flatmates were separated.
Lazy-Eye motioned to The Giant to go over to the bar.
"So," he said as the man did as he was non-verbally instructed, "Your name, then?"
Sherlock remained stone-faced and calm.
"Clifford."
"Not a name you hear a lot," Lazy-Eye raised an eyebrow.
"Mum was a fan of the unconventional," Sherlock shrugged.
"Right." Lazy-Eye looked over to The Giant who nodded at him.
"Closin' up here!" Leonard the bartender yelled after shutting off the music still blaring from the speakers. "Don't have to go home, but you can't stay here!"
Disgruntled customers quickly vacated the area, Leo staying behind to lock the door and pull down the window shades.
"Oi, Lenny," Lazy-Eye snapped at him. "Make a few pints, alright? And turn on some music; volume down. I hate silence."
Lenny quickly ran around to his side of the bar and turned the music back on at a bearable volume before getting to work preparing drinks for the menacing group.
"So," Lazy-Eye folded his hands together on the table. "Clifford."
"Five years of experience in Cardiff," Sherlock said with absolute confidence. "Quite a decorated bloke, I was."
The Giant sat beside his partner.
"Decorated?" he asked.
"Got lots of credit down there. Customers like me."
Lazy-Eye narrowed his eyes.
"I'm sure they do." He crossed his arms. "How d'ya know Pilar, then?"
Sherlock maintained his composure.
"Knew a friend of hers. She and I; we're mutuals."
Lazy-Eye nodded in understanding.
"Right. 'Course." He sniffed. "What friend?"
Sherlock smirked.
"Some things are still sacred, mate."
The Giant injected himself full-frontally into the conversation.
"So what's your deal then? You a user yourself or just a peddler?"
Sherlock tightened his hand into a fist under the table.
"Been clean for a while now."
"Is that so?" The Giant leaned in. "And what convinced you to kick drugs?"
Sherlock waited a moment before responding.
"I met someone."
"A girl?" The Giant started laughing as Lenny set their drinks on the table. "Women sure are a pain aren't they?"
"Oi! Watch it!" the woman seated with John shouted at him.
"Tosser," she muttered. "What'd you say, John?"
John smiled.
"Just that I think you could use a beer."
The woman leaned forward in her chair with a sultry smirk.
"I'm more of a scotch woman myself."
"Then scotch it is," John winked. "Leo?"
Leonard looked up from the bar.
"Scotch?" the man asked.
"Two please," John nodded at him. "On the rocks." The doctor glanced at his female companion. "Hope that's alright with you."
"Sounds like the dog's bullocks." She drummed her fingers on the table while scrutinising John for a minute. "I'm Louisa, by the way."
John smiled at her.
"Nice name."
Louisa went silent again before suddenly asking:
"You a gamblin' man, John?"
The doctor was a bit thrown off by the question.
"Gambling?" He cleared his throat. "I mean, sure; it depends, I mean."
"On?"
"The game." John licked his lips. "And the stakes."
"How about some cards? You play well?"
John chuckled.
"I don't mean to brag, but I am a bit of a master when it comes to card games."
Louisa slowly nodded.
"I'm sure, John. I'm sure." She got out a deck of cards from her pocket and began dealing them out between herself and John. "Crazy Eights okay?"
John raised an eyebrow.
"Don't want to play poker?"
Louisa shrugged.
"No chips."
Leo came around with two glasses of scotch and set them on the table.
"Here you go, Ouise," he smiled nervously. "Just the way you like it."
"Good," she said. "S'what I expect." She bit her lip as she set the rest of the un-dealt deck in the centre of table. "Let's play, Johnny-boy."
Both of them took a simultaneous sip of their scotch and looked at the cards in their hands.
"Lots of interviewin' happening over there, then," The Giant scoffed, looking in the direction of Louisa and John. "She's lookin' to get a quick shag in the back room tonight."
Lazy-Eye rolled his eyes.
"It'll get done, you cock-weasel. Focus on this."
Sherlock's eyes darted back and forth between the two men. All of this bickering would have made anyone think this was some sort of women's sewing circle, he thought; much like the one his own mother had decided to become a part of. 'Fitting in', she called it.
Nonsense.
"Whatever," Lazy-Eye stopped the fight from escalating. "Just whatever. What'd you say, Cliff?"
He'd graduated to nicknames now. Fantastic.
"Just was wondering 'bout your products, y'know?"
"Dunno if we trust you enough to disclose that important info."
Sherlock growled internally. These men weren't as stupid as he'd first assumed. He held up his hands innocently to drop the subject.
"Fair enough," he said. "Won't step over the line."
"Good man," Lazy-Eye grinned. "Very good." He turned to his freakishly tall friend. "I like 'im, I'll tell you that; he's got good character; a good persona about him."
Sherlock tried not to cringe at the abhorrently casual handling of the English language.
"Flattered," he smiled. "S'that a good sign?"
Lazy-Eye took a moment to look at him; he was assessing him.
"I'd say so." He held out his hand. "I'm Sam."
Sherlock shook the greasy appendage.
"Right."
"And this arse-bag next to me is Peter." He smirked. "Call 'im Petey, though; he hates that."
"'Course." Sherlock glanced at the giant man known as 'Peter'. "Petey."
Peter snarled.
"Haven't touched your beer, Cliffy."
Sherlock eyed his glass and took note of a thin powder lining the rim.
"Don't wanna be rude," he excused himself, "But I ain't much of a drinker. Never cared much for alcohol, y'know?"
Sam's smile faded.
"O'course." He looked over at Leo who was desperately trying not to look at any of the dealers, for fear of involvement. "Get this guy some chips, Lenny."
The bartender looked a bit distressed.
"But Sam-"
"Wha'? S'there a problem?"
Leonard paused for a second before he answered.
"Thing is, I'm out of 'em. And the fryer's off. Sorry."
Sam looked as if he were about to explode with rage and frustration, but he settled down.
"Sorry, Clifford," he said. "Guess Twat-face over there is too busy to do his job. Might have to handle him later."
Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek.
"Out," John calmly said as he showed off his empty hands to Louisa. "Count your cards."
Louisa sneered.
"Dick," she snorted. "I've got twenty marks against me."
John smirked.
"What did I say before?"
"You haven't told me yet what your background is."
John licked his teeth a bit.
"You didn't ask me."
"I'm unconventional."
The doctor took a nervous few sips of his scotch and noticed the sceptical look Louisa was giving him.
"Well," he swallowed his drink. "He and I," he pointed at Sherlock, "Have been working together for about three years now. In..." Fuck, where had Sherlock said? "...Cardiff."
Louisa cracked her neck.
"Ooh," she moaned. "Sounds rough."
"Wasn't so bad," John shrugged. He wasn't doing too horribly, he thought. "We get on quite... ahhh," he suddenly yawned, "erm... nicely, was what I was going to say."
Louisa slowly nodded her head.
"Mhm. And he said you're his mule?"
"Yeah." Why had his eyelids suddenly become so heavy? "Um... I carry the drugs."
"S'what a mule does." Louisa stirred her drink with her index finger. "And what drugs do you carry, John?"
The doctor yawned again.
"Well... heroin and... and..." Why couldn't he think of that powdered stuff's name?
"Cocaine?"
"Yes," John snapped his fingers at the suggested. "S'it."
His head felt fuzzy.
"So tell me, Johnny: have you used yourself? Or is it just your friend over there who's done it? What's his name again?"
"Sher... Cliff! Clifford. Christ..." It was all a slurred mess that tumbled out of poor John's mouth.
Louisa seemed amused.
"Interesting name, that," she teased. "But that's a bit different from what I've heard."
John could barely keep his eyes open. His head fell onto the table involuntarily, and his vision started turning black.
"What I think," Louisa leaned in to him and lowered her voice, "Is that his name is Sherlock Holmes. And yours is John Watson." She chuckled. "Boy, did you two underestimate us, huh?"
"Hell," John muttered before losing consciousness.
"Don't worry about it," Sam hissed menacingly.
"John's a bit of a lightweight," Sherlock laughed.
Oh God, John; the man had been drugged. They were in trouble.
"Let's just save this interview for tomorrow, 'kay? If you'll just tell Pilar-"
"You tell her," Peter snarled, "That she's one lucky bitch."
Sherlock's heart started to beat ever-so rapidly.
"I see. I'll make sure to give her the message."
"I'm sure," Sam sniffed. "Leo?"
Sherlock felt a needle pierce the tender flesh on his neck as the voice of the bartender so sympathetically said to him:
"I'm so sorry, mate."
Peter reached across the table, took hold of the detective's raven locks, and rammed his forehead on the table.
Sherlock's ears felt suddenly as if they had muffs over them, yet he could barely make out the chaos going on around him:
"Stop!" he heard Louisa shout. "...'lone... said... to... Doc... s'go..."
Sherlock felt himself being slung over a man's shoulder, soon followed by cold air on his skin.
Car doors slammed; he could then hear the combined sounds of leather squeaking, a car's engine running, and angry voices shouting at one another.
But John? Where was he? Where was his doctor? Where...?
"J...n..."
The outside world was then lost to his senses.
Xx
John panted.
Oh God. He was going to die here. He knew it.
And in a damn coffin of all places.
Fucking ironic.
Silence surrounded him, save his panicked breaths and muttered reassurances.
No cell; and even if he had one, there was likely to be no reception.
Damnit.
God fucking damnit!
Sherlock had to be looking for him.
He had to be.
He had to be.
"Cock!" John banged his fist against the side of the coffin.
Why could he never leave the flat without getting into trouble?
Buried alive.
Fuck you, Universe, he thought. Just eat a massive-
Wait.
How long had he been down here? How much oxygen had he wasted? Had he left?
Stop complaining. You're in this now; now think of a way out.
There wasn't any way out; he had already checked. The coffin had been firmly sealed shut with duct tape and rope, and the druggies had stripped him of any sort of sharp object. No knife, no ring, no... anything.
"Just breathe," he said out loud to himself. "Just relax."
Conserving his air supply was what mattered right now. He was sure Sherlock was looking for him at that moment.
Unless the detective had been buried too.
Jesus Christ.
Sherlock had woken up an hour ago in his flat, Pilar, the young Indian girl and member of his homeless network, hovering over him. He was informed by her that she had found him in a dumpster not too far from where she had decided to camp for the night; she hadn't been able to sleep much and, while on a walk, found him.
Now the detective paced back and forth across the sitting room, defying his young associate's request that he "take it easy".
Pilar had her grimy hands neatly folded on her lap as she sat upon a wooden kitchen chair.
"Mister Holmes-"
"Shut up."
"But-"
"Shut up."
Pilar stood up and cleared her throat.
"Excuse me, but did it occur to you that I might know where Doctor Watson is?"
Sherlock turned to her and narrowed his eyes.
"Do you?"
The girl scratched the back of her neck.
"I mean... not *exactly*..."
"Then shut up."
"But," Pilar continued, "I could find out."
Sherlock gritted his teeth.
"How?"
"I am a certified member of your network," she said. "And remember; I know these people. I don't peddle for them anymore, but I did for a long time. I know what they're like."
Sherlock stopped his pacing.
"Well?"
Pilar took a deep breath.
"Based on what I've seen a lot from them in the past, anyone who they think might be following them or something; you know, like an undercover agent; they... eliminate." She shook her head. "But not, like, shoot them. They prefer to bury people like that alive, after they've checked for wires and tracking devices, you know?"
Sherlock paled.
"Bury them alive?"
Pilar looked ashamed.
"They like it because it isn't messy; blood-wise, of course."
Sherlock went silent for a moment.
"You knew this and you sent me to them."
"Mr. Holmes-"
Sherlock spun around on his heel.
"You *knew*, and John Watson is paying the price for your treason!"
"It isn't treason!" Pilar shouted back at the detective. "Why do you think I told you to tell them I sent you?"
Sherlock had to admit the likelihood of the girl's loyalty.
"Mr. Holmes," Pilar calmed herself down, "I swear, I'd no idea they would know about you. You're not exactly a celebrity or anything."
"Right," Sherlock conceded. "Of course." Once again, he went silent. "You were confident they'd trust your judgment? Being an ex-drug dealer?"
Pilar swallowed a lump in her throat.
"I mean, I have a good reputation."
Sherlock slowly stepped towards her, closely examining every inch of her thin frame.
"You do," he said, "But not as a dealer yourself." He stopped only a few inches from her toes. "You led an entire subdivision of the ring."
Pilar had no response.
"And not only that," Sherlock continued, "But you've a firm relationship with upper-management." He cocked his head and stared down at her. "A friend? A family member?" The corners of his mouth twitched. "The latter, certainly. Not your father; he's dead, as made evident by the men's ring suspended by a chain round your neck. A sibling isn't possible either; you have none. Perhaps an aunt or an uncle, but more probable is-"
"My mother," Pilar finally admitted. "Yes."
Sherlock nodded as he absorbed the fact.
"I see." He found himself once more filling to the brim with rage. "And I assume you withheld this information for the purpose of protecting her?"
The girl sniffed.
"I... look. I didn't want to be the one to give her away. I thought if maybe you found her on your own without me telling you where she was, it would-"
"-lessen your burden of guilt?"
Pilar nodded again.
"I love her, Mr. Holmes. She might be in a filthy business that doesn't allow us a home, but she is still my mother." She wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her coat.
Sherlock tightened his lips, thinking that time was running out; they needed to move past this.
"Where do you believe John might be located?"
Pilar shook her head tearfully.
"I really don't know for sure. All I do know is that these guys prefer more... I don't know what you'd call them... empty areas?"
"Rural? Isolated?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Honestly; I sincerely believe a thesaurus might be a more suitable method of paying my debt to you, if such a debt truly exists."
The girl put her head in her hands as she thought; her entire body trembled from the tears she was holding back.
"They try to never hit a place more than twice," she said. "Not that they've really had to do this kind of thing much. So it doesn't really narrow it down."
"Well try narrowing it down."
Pilar took a deep breath.
"Leo is our best bet."
"Ours," Sherlock corrected. "You'll be coming with me."
"Me? Why?"
"A stupid question for it has a simplistic answer, Pilar. If John dies, your cohorts won't be the only ones who pay the price."
She nodded in understanding.
"Right. Okay. But they aren't my "cohorts"; I left them a while ago."
Sherlock's nostrils flared.
"It doesn't matter; I'll still hold you accountable."
The wrath of the detective could be foreseen by the young girl; and it terrified her.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
As long as he kept breathing, it would be okay; things would be okay.
If there was a God, John hoped the bastard would let him live.
Please God.
He'd lived once before after whispering the prayer in Afghanistan. Was that his only freebie?
He figured if he was going to die, God had better spend his precious-arse time saving some poor child's life in a third-world country rather than on a kid too lazy to have studied for his exams.
Please God, don't be a dick.
Imagine if the Lord (if he existed at all) had heard that. Holy shite.
The thought made John chuckle.
Pilar hesitantly stepped ahead of Sherlock into the dive bar, unpleasant memories flooding back to her in a tsunami-like wave.
Leonard looked up from the spot on the counter that he had furiously been trying to clean when he spotted the two familiar faces. His own face immediately turned a ghostly white colour. Frantically, he scrambled around the side of the counter and approached them.
"What are you two doin' here? You shouldn't be seen round me." His whispers came out harsh and fast. He acted as if the place had been bugged, despite the fact that the bar had long been closed, it being one in the morning.
"Leo, listen; John Watson was kidnapped by Sam and the group last night when they figured him out. The thing is, Watson is really important to Mister Holmes here," Pilar told him. "We really need your help, Leo; please."
Leo tightened his lips and gave the girl a sympathetic look.
"Alright, follow me."
Sherlock and Pilar trailed behind Leonard outside, waiting quite impatiently as he locked the bar door and unlocked the gate blocking off the set of stairs leading up to his flat, a flat which they soon discovered (without much surprise) was the very quintessence poverty. The floral wallpaper was torn and yellowing; a tiny, boxy, duct-taped television sat on the floor in front of a patched bean bag right beside a pitiful mini-refrigerator; a fold-out table sat sadly in the middle of the room, looking less than stable; a mattress lay in a corner with two dirty-looking sheets and a pillow to its name. The two visitors hardly wished to know what the bathroom looked like.
Leonard pulled some fold-out chairs (matching his "dining table") out from the closet by the door and set them out around the table.
"Sit," he told Pilar and Sherlock. "Please."
All three sat down and stared silently at one another for a moment before Leo felt confident enough to speak.
"Why are you here?" he sighed.
Sherlock folded his arms and narrowed his eyes.
"Pilar has already explained to you why we're here."
"So," Leo sniffed. "Mister Holmes..."
"You knew who I was the very moment I walked into your bar, didn't you?" the detective frowned.
Lenny nodded solemnly.
"Yes."
"How?" Sherlock leaned forward in his chair. "Were they expecting us? Myself and John?"
The bartender nodded.
"Yeah. Someone must've warned them." He closed his eyes. "I tried to help you guys out. I really did."
"Yes. And it was ineffective. Moving on." The detective propped his elbows on his knees and tented his hands beneath his chin. "I assume you have some inkling of where my companion, Doctor Watson, is located."
Leo shook his head furiously.
"I dunno much."
Sherlock's patience was about tapped out; his nose wrinkled.
"But you know *something*."
Leo looked on the verge of tears.
"Mister Holmes, they'll kill me if I say anything."
"And I will kill you if you say nothing." Sherlock shrugged. "So it seems as if you're condemned no matter what you do or do not say."
As the bartender sat in thought, Sherlock grew gradually more and more restless. Precious time was being lost, and John was (if he was truly underground) losing oxygen.
"Okay," Lenny said, much to the detective's relief. "I... I remember them talking to each other last night about a lot. Something about Hertfordshire, I think."
"We'll start there," Pilar nodded at Sherlock.
"They were only talkin' about burying the Doc, though. Louisa got freaked out about you for some reason, Mister Holmes: said that you weren't to be harmed."
Sherlock stared at him blankly as he processed the information.
"That isn't highest on my list of priorities." He hid his mouth and nose behind his fingertips. "You said Hertfordshire. I am assuming you do not know where?"
"Um..." Leo swallowed and tugged at the collar of his shirt. "I don't..."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
"I recognise your low if nonexistent supply of cocaine is impairing cognitive function, but I haven't the patience for that; nor does John Watson have the time. What else do you know?"
Pilar jumped in.
"Leo, please; you've got to tell us what you know." She leaned forward and placed her hand on his knee. "Please."
Lenny swallowed hard.
"I-"
A sudden loud banging started on the door to the flat, accompanied by shouting.
"I know you're hidin' in there you fucking coward!"
Sherlock and Pilar whipped their heads around, more alarmed, in fact, than the man being shouted at.
"Christ," Leonard sighed. "He's early."
"That's Peter's voice, is it not?" Sherlock pointed out in a low whisper.
"He's here for the five thousand pounds," Leo frantically explained, shooing his visitors off their chairs while he folded them up.
"Open this fucking door or I'm breaking it down!" Peter shouted again.
"Leo," Pilar grabbed the bartender's arm, "What happened to the two thousand I got for you? I thought that's all you owed!"
Leo looked down at the floor and closed his eyes.
"Pilar..."
"Damnit, Leo!" the girl nearly shouted. "You only bought more?"
More fierce rapping on the door.
"Pilar, Mister Holmes; get in the closet. I'll handle this," Leo said.
Sherlock had to be forced into the closet by the door (much to his chagrin), and Pilar was shoved in after him. But right before Leo shut the door, the girl put a hand on his chest:
"Wait," she said, following it with a kiss.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. There were more important matters at hand; did these two honestly think an offensive display of affection was appropriate at this time?
Then Pilar backed up against the detective, and the two were shrouded in darkness.
Sherlock, extremely curious and high on adrenaline, attempted to peer through the slats in the closet door to catch a glimpse of the action.
So Pilar and Leo were in a relationship. Why on earth was he not surprised? A better question: how in the hell had he not picked up on that? He supposed his inexperience with the hormones of the opposite sex was to blame. And Pilar was so young...
Two thousand. How had the girl gotten her hands on two thousand pounds? She was homeless.
Oh.
Of course.
The blemishes round her lips; Sherlock had noticed them before, and the thought came to mind... only now did one puzzle piece fit another.
Why did he suddenly feel a pain in his heart; an almost sorry feeling? Why did he ever, for that matter?
"I'll get it. Just hang on, yeah?" Leo begged the livid gunman looming over him.
"We've been "hangin' on" for two months! Your time's run out."
Pilar was tempted to intervene, but Sherlock placed his hand in front of her to keep her from bursting out of the closet.
"Here," they heard Leonard say. "Here's all I have."
Peter snarled.
"Is this a joke?"
"It's all I can get you right now."
"Five-hundred pounds is all you can scrounge up after two fucking months?"
"Give me a week," Leo audibly stumbled backward over the one chair he'd left out in the room and landed on the floor. "I'm sorry; please. One week, Peter. I'll have the rest of it and more by then."
Peter cocked his gun.
"Time's run out, Lenny."
There were five shots, and then silence.
Sherlock placed both hands firmly on his female companion's shoulders, holding her in place as she silently whimpered. When the detective was sure the coast was clear, he slowly opened the closet door and let Pilar out.
Both their eyes locked onto the blood-stained corpse of the bartender.
A choked sound came from young Pilar's throat. Slowly, she stepped towards her lover and placed a hand over her mouth.
"Oh God, Leo," she sobbed.
Sherlock allowed the girl a moment to grieve; a moment; before hastily grabbing her arm.
"We must leave. Now. I have no doubt the police are on their way."
Pilar remained still.
"Pilar; he's dead. We need to leave now."
Pilar dropped to her knees.
"I can't," she whispered. "I can't leave him."
"Pilar-"
"I won't. Leave me here."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Oh for God's sake." He sighed. "You'll be convicted if you're found here; first judgments have a tendency to be the Yard's favourite source of evidence."
Pilar simply stared at Leonard.
"Normally, I would gladly leave someone like you behind. But I need you; so either you come voluntarily or I'll take you by force."
She sat for a moment, contemplating. Then finally:
"Give me a moment. Please."
Sherlock watched as Pilar slowly stood up and walked across the room to Leo's mattress. Drawing out a pocket knife, she sliced into its side, cutting with ease through a re-stitched line of fabric. Her hands steady, she threw the knife back in her pocket and reached into the hole of the mattress, drawing out a handgun.
"I'll bet this is what he was trying to get to," she said to herself before placing it in her inside jacket pocket.
She reached back into the mattress and pulled out a rolled-up stack of paper money. After counting it out, she dryly laughed.
"He had ten thousand already. He could have had it done."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the money.
"Why wouldn't he pay off his debt?"
"Who the hell knows?" Pilar sighed. "Men are always so stubborn."
Leo's phone began to ring inside his pocket, and both Pilar and Sherlock turned their heads to it.
When it was clear that Pilar was far from comfortable fetching the mobile from her dead lover's pocket, Sherlock grabbed it himself, though irritatedly.
When he accepted the call, he barely had the time to demand the identity of the caller before a woman's voice assaulted his ear.
*"Having fun so far, Mister Holmes?"* she said. *"He said you would be."*
Louisa. Bloody hell.
"A man is dead, you shrew," Sherlock hissed at her.
*"He owed us money."*
"You only had him killed in an attempt to scare me. Peter had no intention of sparing him, had he paid the money he owed."
*"I just want you to know what I'm capable of,"* Louisa said. *"I might not be the ringleader, but I'm certainly a principle player in it."*
"Where's John?"
Louisa sighed.
*"Lord, was he right about you; a hopeless dog-lover."*
Sherlock practically growled.
"What the hell are you talking about? Who?"
*"Who do you think?"*
Sherlock's chest ceased motion as his breath hitched, and he suddenly felt as if he were going to lose the bile in his stomach.
*"Whatever,"* Louisa continued, despite the detective's silence. *"I've waited long enough, so I'm calling the shots now. Meet me by the entrance to Ware Cemetery in Hertfordshire in forty-five minutes. If you're late, I'll make sure your pet is dead."*
"I'll be there."
As Sherlock hung up, a small wave of relief washed over him.
John was still alive.
Or so he'd been told.
Sirens wailed outside.
"Come, Pilar," Sherlock said, dashing across the room. "Out the window; let's go."
Pilar cupped Leo's cold cheek with her hand and kissed his forehead before standing up straight and nodding.
"Where?"
Sherlock forced the window open.
"Hertfordshire."
How long had it been now?
John had asked himself that question at least a billion times ever since he'd regained consciousness; something it seemed he'd be losing quite soon. He found himself becoming quite lightheaded and nauseated, breathing to have become laborious. The smell of vomit was certainly no help either; he'd worked himself into a panic and upset his stomach. And now he was paying for it.
He hadn't the strength to try calling or someone anymore. Hell; it had been pointless from the start.
"Sherl..." he muttered.
God, he hoped that idiot wasn't in this same mess. That's all he could hope for now.
That's all he wanted to hope for.
Please God; let him be alive.
Please God...
Please...
John couldn't see his vision becoming hazy, but he could certainly feel his heart and lungs slowing down.
When one is aware of dying, it makes the experience quite terrifying. To know your body and mind are ceasing to function; to know that quite soon, you shan't know feeling anymore; to feel it all happening? That is something no human should have to experience. Confronting your own mortality in the worst way possible...
John heard muffled voices above him. Or he thought he did.
Maybe God had sent him angels?
No. No, that didn't make sense. If they were angels, why were they digging? He was sure those voices were digging; dirt crunched beneath the metal of shovels.
Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch...
Christ, they were close. They must have been digging for a while.
His casket's lid was abruptly ripped off, and a shower of dirt and fresh air hit him all at once, yet his brain still was in no mood to keep him conscious.
The darkened face that swam into view was foreign to him. Blonde hair and... blue eyes?
"Boss," he could barely hear the man say through the cotton balls in his ears.
"Sherlock..." John rasped without meaning to.
"Close, my dear; but no cigar," a different, lilted voice responded.
A terrifyingly familiar voice.
It made John's stomach turn.
Sherlock pulled up to the dirt road leading to the entrance of Ware Cemetery and brought the cab to a gentle stop. He and Pilar stepped out onto the road and immediately saw Louisa's shadow.
"A cab," she chuckled once the two had gotten close enough. "You hijacked a cab?"
"I don't have a car," Sherlock snapped at her. "Where's John?"
"Hang on a minute," Louisa stopped him. "You know I'm not just going to hand him over. S'not how this works."
"Alas," Sherlock groaned. "What is it you want?"
Louisa took out a small torch and shined it onto Pilar's face.
"Her," she said. "I want her."
Sherlock didn't budge; his eyes merely stole a glance at his equally stone-faced companion.
"I assume she is of monetary value?"
Louisa grinned.
"Oh, you've no idea. Her mother is ridiculously wealthy."
Sherlock scoffed at her.
"I evidently have some idea."
The peddler snapped her fingers, and out of the shadows came Sam and Peter.
"I've got some helpers with me," she said. "You know; to make sure this transaction goes through."
"Ouise, I dunno about this…" Sam warned.
"Shut it; no one asked you anything," snapped Louisa.
Sherlock saw Pilar's hand fidget; she was itching to grab the handgun inside her coat.
"You wish to trade valuables," Sherlock said, as if trying to work through some trying details. "An eye for an eye." He nodded. "A strong adoration for Hammurabi's Code, I see."
"Oh, stop stalling," Louisa rolled her eyes. "I know you want your friend back, almost as much as I want her."
"Josiah," Sherlock continued. "That was you?"
Louisa raised an eyebrow in amusement.
"Technically. But I had no motive."
"Of course," Sherlock said. "Then who-"
"The girl, Mister Holmes. I want her. Now."
"To exploit her for ransom."
"Well, yes. But last I checked, she was a backstabbing little cunt, right? She got you into this mess. Not to mention, of course, the multiple diseases she might have exposed you to." She looked at Pilar. "What all have you got? Herpes? Chlamydia?"
"Leave her alone," Sherlock told Louisa.
"What I've got, I'll gladly give to you," Pilar said to her. "Full package."
Louisa nodded.
"Sassy; I like you."
Sherlock looked around.
"Where is he?"
"Who?"
"Don't play games with me. Either we exchange the both of them at the same time, or the trade is off."
Louisa licked her lips and closed her eyes.
"Oh, Sherlock." She raised a gun and pointed it at his head, her hand steady. "You don't really have a choice."
The detective stood his ground.
"I suppose I do in the matter of my death. I could always allow you to simply pull the trigger and be finished with this nonsense."
"Ah, but you're no good to John dead, are you? And in turn..." A smile appeared on Louisa's face. "...he's no good to you."
Sherlock glanced at Pilar; she nodded ever-so slightly.
"Very well," Sherlock looked back at his opponent. He nudged his companion forward, and Peter quickly came forward to grab her. "So I suppose your intent is to exploit Doctor Watson for ransom money from me?"
Louisa winked at him.
"Bingo."
"And how are you so sure I'll be willing to pay it?"
"Because you haven't let me pull this trigger."
Sherlock looked down at the ground.
"And I warn you, Mister Holmes; I am a vampire. I will suck, and suck, and suck until I bleed both and your little dog dr-"
A gunshot startled the both of them, and Peter howled.
"Fucking Christ!"
The handgun from the flat smoked in Pilar's hand, the barrel pointed down at the man's left foot.
Louisa stoically moved her gun to point at Pilar, and Sam did the same with his. Then abruptly, both of them went down in two sharp whizzing sounds. Pilar and Sherlock exchanged a completely nonplussed look. What the hell just happened? Peter voiced this exact expression.
"Hello, Sherlock!" a familiar voice sung.
Cue the Irishman.
"Jim," Sherlock sighed. "What a pleasure it is to see you again."
"That had better not be sarcasm," the criminal clucked his tongue, coming into view on the other side of the cemetery gate. "I just did something very nice for you."
A man grunted from the trees behind Sherlock.
"Well, Sebby did," Moriarty clarified. "Thanks, Dear!"
"What the fuck?" Peter exclaimed. "Who the hell are you?" He sounded extremely panicked for a praised stoic.
"You must be Peter," Moriarty smiled. "Louisa's told me so much about you."
The man earlier identified as 'Sebby', a blonde, muscular man, revealed himself and a Windurger, preparing to shoot Peter in the head.
"Hold on a moment," Jim stopped him. "Let's save him for a moment."
Sebby rolled his eyes.
"Should I bring him out?" he asked his boss.
Moriarty looked at the shock on Sherlock's face and shrugged.
"Sure. Why not?"
The blonde man went back into the trees and bushes he had concealed himself in and dragged out a half-conscious John Watson who was looking positively ghastly.
"John!" Sherlock reached out for his friend, and Sebby gladly tossed; yes, tossed; the doctor at him. The detective, without fail, caught his companion and tilted back his head, checking for any signs of lucidity; John groaned, and he considered that a blessing.
"You're simply giving him to me?" Sherlock asked.
"Can't a friend do nice things for another friend?"
Sherlock wrapped John's arm around his shoulders and lifted him onto his feet.
"I only have three veritable friends in the world, and you are certainly not one of them."
Jim frowned.
"I believe a 'thank you' is appropriate."
"Why?"
"Common decency."
"Are you letting us go?"
"I know that's what you were asking. I gave you a straight answer."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
"Honestly."
"Well," Moriarty sighed, "My plan was to have a bit of with you; hold your pet somewhere, drop you some clues, lead you on quite the chase." He sighed. "But I, as you know, am not fond of getting my hands dirty. Now, you were far too familiar with my ring, so I decided to utilise some members of someone else's. As it turns out, Louisa there had quite the chip on her shoulder; and that was precisely what I needed."
"So you went into business together?"
The consulting criminal nodded.
"I promised her young Pilar, and she promised me indentured servitude."
"I take it she didn't please you."
Moriarty shrugged.
"She handled Josiah's death well, I think. The murder was certainly praiseworthy." He shook his head. "But some people are under the impression that they can defect. They are quickly proven mistaken." He furrowed his brow. "For one thing, she left no extraneous source of oxygen for Johnny-boy, shortening his lifespan and the duration of the game. She left no clues pertaining to John's whereabouts; she simply told you after she got impatient. Not to mention, of course, her complete reluctance to proceed with a fair trade. And I strongly believe she went completely rogue when she aimed that gun at your pretty little head, Sherlock." He sighed. "I suppose they can't all be winners. I got lucky with Sebastian."
Sebastian, meanwhile, took out a cigarette and lit it with a lighter he kept in his back pocket.
"You're lucky you got as much as you did from me."
"Masochism is quite the aphrodisiac," Moriarty grinned. "Anyways. Where was I?"
Sherlock tightened his grip around John's waist.
"Louisa's many shortcomings."
"Right." Jim laughed. "I liked the bit when she sent Peter to collect the five thousand from Leo. Wasn't that fun?"
Peter swore.
Pilar suddenly interjected.
"Is he actually alive? Was he faking it?"
Moriarty looked at her with mock pity and frowned.
"So sorry to say that the answer is no. Sometimes timing is truly golden." He cocked his head. "And really think it through, my dear; would Peter be so alarmed as he is, had the both of them simply pulled a stunt?" He sniffed. "Well, Seb and I had better be popping off."
Sherlock still looked positively confused.
"That's all? The game didn't go your way so you just decide to call it off?"
"I'm very particular."
"Jimmy," Sebastian said, blowing out a cloud of cigarette smoke. "We have a 6:20 appointment."
"Oh!" Jim said in alarm. "I almost forgot!" He pushed his way through the gate and casually stepped over Peter's squirming body. As he passed Sherlock and John, he slowed to give them both a disturbingly cordial nod before snapping his fingers at Sebastian.
"Want me to take care of the last of 'em before I text Maxwell?" the blonde man asked, throwing his cigarette onto the dirt road and snuffing it out with his combat boot.
Moriarty looked at Pilar.
"Would you like to do the honours?"
Pilar took a deep breath.
"No matter how badly I'm scorned, I will never stoop to your level."
Sebastian snorted.
"Fine." And before Peter could begin to plead, his life was snuffed out as quickly as the cigarette by Sebastian's silent pistol.
Neither Pilar nor Sherlock seemed remotely affected by it; they simply closed their eyes to avoid direct eye contact.
"Heartless, you two are," Moriarty chuckled. "I love it."
A car drove up to the dirt path and honked its horn.
"Shut the fuck up, Max," Sebastian hissed at the driver through the open window.
"Be nice, Seb," Jim scolded him. "A fond goodbye to you all," he waved to Sherlock and his companions. "Pilar, dear, tell your mummy Jim says hello, won't you?"
"Wait!" Sherlock stopped him. "Why did you kill Josiah?"
"Sorry, Sherly. Some secrets ought to stay secret. But feel free to tell Inspector Lestrade I was responsible. I take pride in my work." He winked. "We must part, now. But I'll be seeing you very soon."
And with that, he climbed inside the car with Sebastian and was whisked away.
Sherlock released a breath he had involuntarily been holding in, and finally he let his nerves take over.
"Pilar," he snapped at the girl, "You're uninjured, I take it?"
She was trembling, but she nodded.
"Good. Then I want you in the driver's seat. I must tend to John in the back of the car."
By the time things had settled down, it was ten in the morning. Pilar had passed out on the couch at Baker Street, and Sherlock, being a slave to his own body, napped in his chair, his tall body impossibly contorted in such a way that he would fit between the arms of the chair in a ball. What woke the detective was his ringing cell phone. In an unusually human display of muddled thinking and speech; he ungracefully tumbled out of his chair and crawled to the kitchen table, reaching up to fetch his phone that peered over the edge.
"Hmm?" he answered once he'd managed to bring it to his ear.
*"Sherlock, Jesus Christ. Would you pick up the damn phone after less than ten attempts at calling you?"* Lestrade roared.
"Oh." Sherlock sniffed. "I assume you're calling about, um... the bodies. Hertfordshire and the um-"
*"Bar, Sherlock; yes. What the hell happened? Why am I all of a sudden handling four dead bodies on top of the one I already had on my hands?"*
"Moriarty," Sherlock yawned. "And if you're wondering how I know, I ran into him early this morning. That resulted in a massacre, and-"
*"Jesus, okay. What about this kingpin we've been looking for? Have you got any leads?"*
Sherlock looked at Pilar on the couch and sighed.
"The only persons who had any sort of information were the ones you found this morning. They were dead before I had a chance to investigate."
*"Damnit!"* Lestrade shouted. *"What the hell am I supposed to do now?"*
"You're the Inspector, Lestrade. Think of something." Sherlock stood up. "And by the way, Josiah *was* murdered. And again, Moriarty was the one responsible."
*"Wait what?"* Lestrade groaned. *"Okay. Where is he? Do you know?"*
"I'm not his sitter, Lestrade. I'm hanging up now."
*"Sherlock, no! Wai-"*
Sherlock ended the call and tossed his phone back on the table. He stretched and let out a great yawn.
"Sherlock?" a hoarse voice called from the living room.
The detective smiled and stepped out to make himself visible.
"John," he said, "Good morning. How are you feeling?"
The doctor looked at the couch in confusion at Pilar, then he looked back at his flatmate.
"What the hell happened?"
Sherlock licked his lips.
"I believe that question is better left unanswered for now. Would you like some breakfast?"
John squinted his eyes at the clock on the mantel.
"It's one in the afternoon."
"Fine then. Lunch?"
John looked at Pilar again.
"Who is this?"
"An asset to my homeless network," Sherlock said. "This is Pilar."
The girl turned in her sleep.
"I was in a coffin," John said.
Sherlock cocked his head.
"You've a very erratic pattern of thought."
"I could have sworn I saw Moriarty," John said. "That I was... saved by him." He scratched his head. "God, my head hurts."
"Don't exert yourself. You've had a trying morning."
"It's all a blur."
"Perhaps that is for the best." Sherlock looked at the girl still asleep on their couch. "She'll be fine on her own. Let's go down to Speedy's."
"Sherlock, I'm still really tired," John sighed. "And I'm not really that hungry."
Sherlock grabbed his coat from the floor and shrugged it on before ruffling his hair.
"Then you can order a cup of coffee." He snapped his fingers. "If you're able to walk, follow me downstairs."
John sighed in frustration.
"Will you tell me what happened if I grab lunch with you?"
Sherlock smirked.
"There's only one way to find out."
The two returned later with food in their stomachs and quite a lot to think about, John especially.
"Moriarty saved me," he had stated for about the twelfth time.
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"No matter how often you say it, it still remains true."
John took a deep breath.
"Leo's dead."
"A tragedy, to be sure."
John ran a hand over his face and shook his head in disbelief.
"Right. I'm going to grab a shower."
Sherlock nodded at him.
"Good. You are looking rather haggard." Then before John went upstairs: "John?"
"Hm?"
Sherlock stared intently at him.
"I never did say so, but I'm sorry. And I'm quite relieved you're alive."
John lightly chuckled.
"Good to hear that." He smiled. "I'm .. I'm glad you're okay, too."
They stood in silence for a minute before John cleared his throat.
"So... shower."
"Yes. I'll put the kettle on."
Sherlock waved him off and stepped into the flat. He expected to speak to Pilar, but found her presence was... well, nonexistent.
"Pilar?" he called out.
His eye caught a folded up piece of paper with grease spots on it, and he swiftly grabbed it with his index finger and thumb.
'Dear Mr. Holmes,' it read. 'Words cannot express how truly sorry I am for the trouble I caused you. And it is because of this that - though I do so with a heavy heart - I am formally resigning from your elite network of homeless individuals. It will do you some service to know that I will on this same day work to convince my mother to uplift her business and move elsewhere. She has always dreamed of a life in Copenhagen, and I have no doubt in my mind she'll be willing to move her sales there. And in case you're wondering, I had managed to pocket the ten thousand Peter owed my mother - God rest the soul of his I will forever mourn the loss of - in favour of a life away from London. I'm hoping she'll be willing to not only migrate but to take me with her as well, as I am hoping to begin another life and to start fresh. Here's hoping that my mother still cares for me as she did when I was a young girl.
Please, do not attempt to find us. You will only get yourself and Doctor Watson into more trouble, and I am sure you've had quite enough of both mine and my mother's antics.
I wish both you and Doctor Watson the best health and, in turn, the longest and happiest lives.
Thank you for everything.
Ever-loyal to you,
Pilar'
Sherlock took a second to process the note and then smirked a bit. Despite everything, he had a feeling Pilar would grow to be an extremely successful young woman whom he could be proud of; her moral compass seemed pointed in the right direction.
"I wish you the best of luck," Sherlock whispered, "Young Pilar."
And though he said nothing out loud about it, he truly did forgive her.
So sorry for the long hiatus, everyone. Hope this return chapter was satisfying. ;)