A/N: I seriously love your reviews guys, thanks for that :)
There is a mature scene in this chapter, which has been bracketed like last time for those of you who wish to skip it.
Sherlock was restless once he had managed to get rid of his brother. Those two should have seen a couple therapist years ago, but as it was, it seemed their relationship was unsalvageable. John ignored that in favour of trying to calm his boyfriend who was fidgeting like mad and tearing his hair out while he muttered half formed sentences.
"You don't understand, John!" Sherlock bit out. "Everyone is playing us like the witless fools we are, dangling us like puppets on strings. Moriarty knew he could get in and out of jail with the information he so craved, and Mycroft let him have it and let him escape. I don't know what my dear brother's plan is, but I don't trust him. Mycroft's using you as bait… He's been using you, John, and that's inacceptable! But why? Why?" Sherlock's gaze got lost in the cracks of the ceiling for a few seconds before he snapped out of it and exclaimed: "Oh! Of course! That's it. He probably wants to sound out how far reaching Moriarty's web is. I've wondered about that too… Mycroft will already be pursuing the leads he obtained from their escape from his so-called secure facility and now he probably wants to flush out a few of his henchmen. Some who will be more… receptive to his interrogative techniques."
Sherlock let himself fall backwards in his armchair as if he had just gotten the news that doomsday was upon them.
"Oh my God… Mycroft is not protecting us… We're working for him."
John didn't want to believe that Mycroft would go to such lengths to take down Moriarty, not if it meant he put his own brother in danger, but he didn't know the man all that much and what might have appeared to be genuine concern and worry could just as well have been an act. Sherlock was a bloody good actor when he wanted too, so Mycroft probably could be too. Damnit, he couldn't trust anyone. Well, except for Sherlock, obviously. He trusted Sherlock with his life, just as Sherlock had trusted him with his.
They didn't have to wait long for Moriarty to make his move. The very next day, a harassed-looking delivery boy presented John with a bouquet of ten, long-stemmed, pure white roses. Apparently, Mycroft had pushed security measures to include the whole street and the poor boy and his bouquet had been screened by over a dozen burly security agents before reaching him, Oz being the last of them and probably the more intimidating if the young man's frightened sidelong glances were any indication.
There wasn't a message but a simple elegant M calligraphed on a thick cream card with elaborate gilded edges. It had to be Moriarty. No one would think of sending flowers to John. It was as ludicrous as sending a trampoline to your elderly grandma. John held the fragrant bouquet at arm's length while Sherlock glared at them as if he hoped he could set them on fire. Great, Moriarty had ruined the smell of roses for him forever: he'd never be able to smell them again without his manic face popping into the picture.
"At least they're not red," John said, feeling somewhat relieved after the horror of the Fugees song. Still, being offered flowers by Sherlock's arch-enemy felt wrong on so many levels he didn't know where to begin, so he decided he might as well just throw the roses away right that instant and hope he soon forgot all about it.
"Is that all you know about flowers, John?" Sherlock asked, now amused.
"Are you telling me you've deleted the solar system, but know about the language of flowers?"
"Floriography. Of course I do. It's quite useful for cases. It comes up more often than you'd think."
"O~kay… I'm probably going to regret this, but what do white roses mean?"
"Spiritual love, but I'm assuming it's because of your guardian angel status."
John winced that wasn't much better than red roses.
"Thorns for danger," Sherlock continued, examining one of the roses before counting them. "Ten roses...he considers you're perfect for him, and the long stems meaning he's thinking of you and that his sentiments are deep and long-lasting."
"Creep," John muttered and went directly to the bin, dropping them in without a second thought.
The day after that, John was starting to feel stir-crazy so he busied himself by going through the growing stack of mail, the latest of which had just been heaped on top. But, upon opening the utilities bill, John found a love note instead, or what probably passed for one from his deranged fan.
Soon.
He hated that that one simple word was enough to send a shudder down his spine. Sherlock had been right: Moriarty was toying with them. And now, he couldn't even pay the electricity bill because of him. Annoyed, John ripped the note apart into tiny pieces and reached for the water bill.
Do you miss me?
John huffed, tore the note apart and reached for the next envelope which had his bank's logo on it.
I can take better care of you, Johnny boy.
"I don't believe this!" John finally gave up, crumpled the note and made for the door, needing to blow off some steam, remembered he wasn't supposed to leave the flat, kicked the door and turned around sharply to go into the kitchen instead. He would clean the fridge out, that always burned some steam off.
On the third day of this atrocious courting, John braced himself for some utterly creepy message or delivery to appear. He was so tense that he almost jumped out of his skin when Sherlock embraced him from behind, nuzzling his neck.
"You're letting him get to you," Sherlock murmured, his hands slipping under his shirt. "I don't like the idea of you thinking of another man more than me."
"You know- ah," John breathed out when Sherlock nipped the lobe of his ear. "You know it's not like that. You're just looking for an excuse to take me to bed."
"Do I need an excuse?" Sherlock mused, kissing along his jawline.
"Mhm...no, probably not," John said, twisting around suddenly and pushing Sherlock back towards their bedroom, doing his best not to think about the fact that their bodyguards were standing vigil not far off in the other room and probably knew exactly what was going on.
"We'll have to be quiet," John panted once they were safely out of sight, tugging Sherlock's shirt out of his pants and working on his buttons while his own fly and trousers were being tugged down.
"You can try, I don't care either way," Sherlock growled slamming him against the bedroom wall and pulling his jumper and shirt off together.
John looked at his lover's heated stare and wicked grin, and pushed him back in the direction of the bed where he landed with a chuckle before scooting back. John closed the door as an afterthought, and got rid of what little clothing he had left before crawling over Sherlock's sprawled body.
"You're overdressed," John stated looking at Sherlock's exposed torso.
"Not my fault if you're a slow undresser. You can't expect me to do all the work."
M Rating
John nipped at his collarbone in retaliation, satisfied at the small yelp he got out of him and coaxed Sherlock out of the rest of his clothing. He let out a little sigh at the sight of his naked lover, spread unashamedly on their now rumpled bed and beckoning him closer. His lips did look much too under-kissed so John started working on that, until they were nice and swollen. Then, he got distracted by Sherlock's erection which looked just as under-kissed as his lips had moments ago so he started working on that too, gently licking the whole side of his cock before swiping his tongue around the head and taking him into his mouth.
"Oh... God... John..." Sherlock panted haltingly, his fingers tugging carefully at John's short hair, always mindful not to hurt him.
John flicked his eyes up, the sight of Sherlock becoming undone because of him making him more aroused than anything else could, his hips thrusting forward against Sherlock's thigh of their own accord and he bit back a moan, disturbed by the audience on high alert they had next door. John wished he'd had the forethought of ordering them to just stick their fingers in their ears for a while or to just bugger off already. John fumbled for the bottle of lube with his free hand and managed to get it open and a dollop of it spread on his fingers without breaking the rhythm of his bobbing head, a feat he was quite proud of. He started preparing Sherlock, his slicked fingers stretching him slowly and drawing out a veritable symphony of moans out of him. Sherlock obviously didn't care if they were being overheard… maybe he had a little kink going on there. He'd have to ask later, because right now, Sherlock was incapable of stringing two words together and it was beautiful. He was so beautiful and all his and he couldn't get enough of him.
"Shhh," John hushed him, smirking. "They'll hear you."
It had the expected effect: Sherlock shuddered and let out a delicious moan that might have been his name while he moved more frantically against him.
"John… more! Now!" Sherlock ordered and John readily complied, lubing himself up and lining himself up to slowly invade his lover, momentarily blinded by the sheer pleasure of it, he was cut off from the rest of the world, in his own little bubble of sensations and pleasure. So much so that he was certain he must have imagined the knock on the door.
He thrust into Sherlock again and again. He was so close already, and then... there was definitely a knock on the door and Clara shouting from right outside it:
"Sir, I think you need to see this!"
"Not now!" he barked angrily.
And Sherlock was coming with a deep groan rumbling through his body, his muscles clenching around John. John was both confused and satisfied, then frustrated and angry, because his own erection was definitely flagging, not because he was spent like Sherlock, but thanks to Clara's untimely call, which could only mean Moriarty had sent another message. All and any lust he'd had just fled out of the window at the thought of Moriarty, replaced with anger and fear.
"I don't believe this," John growled, scooting back and off the bed.
Sherlock tried to make a grab for him but he was still completely out of it, a blissful expression on his face. John smiled at him and proceeded to wipe himself clean of the incriminating evidence of their late morning rump and get his clothes back on. Sherlock merely shrugged on his bathrobe and followed suit when he went into the living room.
/M Rating
Clara wouldn't meet his eyes but pointed towards the telly which was already turned on the news channel, the volume low. John turned it up as he sat on the couch next to Sherlock and blanched when he saw the headline at the bottom:
BOMBING AT WATSON TOWER
"That's… It's a coincidence, right?"
"A coincidence, John? Really?" Sherlock drawled lazily with hooded eyes, still basking in post-coital bliss.
Both their mobiles chimed at the same time, making John flinch. His own mobile was in his pocket, but Sherlock grumbled and went in search of his.
It was a text from Mycroft, with a picture attached. John's mouth went dry, already imagining the worse, but he pressed to open the image:
OLLY OLLY OXEN FREE!
It had been spray painted with the same red paint as the message across their flat, but the meaning was clear enough. John hadn't heard those words since he was a little boy playing hide and seek in the school playground. He had been pretty good at hiding and more than once those words had been shouted just for him to come out of hiding so they could start a new game. That's what Moriarty wanted. They were at a stalemate right now, but John couldn't very well hide in 221B Baker Street forever…
Olly Olly Oxen Free: come out and play, Watson, or I'll keep blowing stuff up until you do.
John looked at the picture one last time and sent a reply:
Casualties? -JW
None. It's a warning. There will be next time. -MH
There won't be a next time. -JW
John turned his phone off and pocketed it, then casually tucked his firearm in the back of his jeans. It wouldn't be the first time he walked around the flat with his gun about him so it didn't even earn him a raised eyebrow from either bodyguard and Sherlock was still cursing from the bedroom in search for his elusive phone. John glanced at the front door. That exit was out of the question: Clara and Oz would tackle him before he even stepped over the threshold, so he hurried up the stairs to his old room instead and locked the door shut. He unlatched the window which opened with a disused squeal worthy of a haunted house, peeked his head out and grinned when he spotted the ancient fire escape. His former room being more isolated and opening on the back alley above Mrs Hudson's bins, it was connected to the rather old and dingy metal staircase which was missing half it's railing near his window. John clambered onto it just as he heard urgent footsteps coming up from the living room. He couldn't believe he was escaping his own flat like a common criminal, but it was the only way. As well intentioned as everyone was, they would never let him do what he had to do, and innocents would die because of him.
John looked down in the shadowed alley, only to see a couple of Mycroft's men in black looking up at him.
Up it is then.
John made it up to the roof and thanked the Gods the buildings around here were built so close together. It turned out to be laughingly easy to jump over to the next roof, thankfully a flat one, then onto the next, before making it down to another back alley by climbing down another fire escape, and out through a restaurant where Baker Street met Park Road. He didn't see any of Mycroft's men, but he doubted they had been given orders to arrest him, not right now anyway, so he strolled off across the street which was shaded by a crop of trees, and then another, before he disappeared into Regent's Park. He doubted Mycroft had CCTVs in the trees, but didn't relax until he made it far into the less travelled paths.
John knew what he wanted to do: end Moriarty, and he would do it without feeling any kind of remorse. He might even get some satisfaction out of it. However, he had no idea how to do it. He would never find the consulting criminal on his own if even Mycroft with all his cleverness and people at his disposal couldn't do it, so the best alternative was to let Moriarty find him. John faltered. As far as crazy plans went, this was his worst idea yet, but he was running out of options and out of time. He could not let Moriarty bomb a place full of civilians, it went against everything that he stood for, as a doctor and as a soldier.
"Looking for someone, honey?" a sultry voice said from behind him.
John whirled around, hand already at his back. If it was one of Mycroft's, he wasn't above threatening to shoot them. It was a bluff, of course, but with any luck, they wouldn't know that. However the woman standing there didn't look like anything that worked for the British Government: no stern face, drab clothing, obvious military training, weapons or blackberries. He considered briefly she might be a prostitute propositioning him, but her wardrobe told him otherwise: too expensive and too high-class.
"Who are you?" he asked.
The woman smiled and he took an instant dislike to her. She was beautiful at first glance and he might have chatted her up once upon a time, but she also looked haughty, especially because she was looking down her nose at him, perched as she was on her towering heels, and seemed to be laughing at his expense ever since he met her gaze. She probably was too.
"You can call me Irene... if you let me call you John," she offered.
Irene? Now, why was that name familiar? Something to do with-
"Irene Adler?" he asked.
"Oh," she cooed, pleased. "Did Sherlock mention me, then? He was such a naughty boy. He almost hoodwinked me before he decided to abandon our little game."
John imagined she was talking about Sherlock trying to steal her phone at Moriarty's command.
"Sherlock never mentioned you, no." She blinked. "I wouldn't be surprised if he deleted your very existence. He does that, you know. No, it was Moriarty who told me about you."
John watched her reaction very attentively. It was slight but her muscles stiffened ever so slightly, the corners of her mouth curving downwards before she caught herself and resumed her toothy smile. She knew Moriarty, enough that she feared him or the idea that he talked about her. Interesting.
"Shame. I was hoping Sherlock would finally accept to have dinner with me, but I can see you don't share."
John rolled his eyes.
"What do you want?"
"As I said, you seem to be looking for someone, and I have a fair idea of who that is, and I happen to deliver goods. We can help each other out."
"You don't look like the kind of person to bother with deliveries," John replied looking pointedly at her very expensive, shiny, high-heeled shoes.
"We all have our speciality," she said giving him a sly look that John wasn't sure he wanted to interpret. She couldn't know about his little supernatural ability, could she? Impossible. He frowned at her, and she laughed.
"Oh, I can see why he likes you," she said, but John wasn't sure if she was talking about Sherlock or Moriarty and he wasn't about to ask. She'd probably laugh again, which wasn't the sort of answer he cared for.
"Did he send you?" John asked, trying to get back on tracks once more. "Did Moriarty send you?"
"No," she said pointedly.
"Do you work for him?"
"No."
"Are you… friends, then?"
"No."
John huffed and crossed his arms.
"You've got to help me out here. I'm not just going to trust you blindly."
"And I don't think you have a choice. Moriarty wants to find you, and after what happened at Watson Towers, I imagine you wouldn't mind finding him. But if that is not the case, I'll just leave you be. Good day, John."
She turned on her heels and took a few steps down the path before John called her back. He'd wanted a way to Find Moriarty and here was one, offered to him on a silver platter…
"Wait," he muttered and she looked over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow. "Alright, take me to him. But no funny business, and don't warn him you're coming."
"It wasn't my intention. He's more generous when I bring him a surprise anyway."
John followed the strange woman out of the park and into a luxurious black car which was very reminiscent of Mycroft's. It even came with a phone-addicted PA that barely acknowledged his existence, so he felt quite at home as they drove around London.
They stopped at a restaurant of all places and John looked dubiously at the busy place because he had some difficulties imagining the criminal mastermind having brunch. He peered up at his guide, but she looked quite confident and led him inside. John had mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, it was a public space so Moriarty couldn't go all trigger-happy on him, but on the other hand, that's exactly what John had hoped of doing himself: pull the trigger as soon as he saw his face.
Status-quo, then. For now.
Moriarty looked to be having a business meeting of some sort with a bunch of...bankers. That's what they looked like to him anyway, but they might be lawyers or whatever people with big salaries and briefcases did in offices. But Moriarty was still very aware of his surroundings and spotted the tall Irene almost immediately, looking nonplussed at seeing her there, before his face morphed into that creepy smile that made all the hair on his body stand on end.
"Irene, darling. And Johnny boy!" he called after he waved dismissively at the bankers to leave and they approached his table. "Please, sit down."
John elected the chair as far away from Moriarty as possible while Irene diplomatically elected a chair between the two men to serve as a buffer, or just to hold onto her delivery until she was paid.
"You always bring me the loveliest of gifts, my dear," Moriarty said, eyeing John closely enough that he felt uncomfortable and fidgeted in his chair.
"I wouldn't call it a gift," Irene replied smoothly.
Moriarty chuckled and typed rapidly on his phone for a while before he twirled it between his fingers and pocketed it.
"There. I trust you'll be satisfied?" he asked and Irene checked her own phone and nodded, getting up from her chair to leave. "Goodbye, John. It was a pleasure meeting you."
John muttered a goodbye that sounded very much like a 'fuck you' to his own ears, and concentrated his attention on Moriarty instead. No one in their right mind bothers with a stray cat when they're faced with a wild panther.
"I'm glad you could come, John. Did you like my gifts?"
"No. And you didn't leave me much of a choice. All of London saw your invitation and I don't want a repeat of that. So what now? Are you going to kidnap me again? Put me in a cage? Beat me up? Threaten Sherlock?"
"Aww, you make it sound so boring," Moriarty said with a droopy pout of his lips. "Besides, we already did all of that. Do you really think I'm that predictable, Johnny boy? Think again!" he bellowed, loudly enough to make him jump in his seat.
Surprisingly, the rest of the occupants of the restaurant completely ignored him, only the staff looked slightly alarmed, but even they eventually resumed their work when nobody reacted. John took a better look at the people around him. Not the typical people you'd expect to see in a place like this.
"These are all your people?" John asked.
"Of course they are. And Sherlock thinks you're an idiot."
"No, he doesn't," John snapped.
"Liar, liar, pants on fire!" Moriarty sing-songed, leaning over the table to get closer to him.
John leaned back in his chair as far as he could, the gun digging against the small of his back. It was painful, yet reassuring, to feel the hard piece of metal there.
"He doesn't mean it like that. Compared to him, I actually am an idiot. Almost everyone is," John muttered reluctantly, wondering just how Moriarty even knew about it.
"But not me. We're two side of a same coin, Sherlock and I. You must see that now. I was fascinated when I did, and then I got bored again… and then I met you."
John wrinkled his nose in distaste. Maybe he could just shoot him now and damn the consequences.
"So I just have to wait for you to get bored of me too? Is that it?"
"Oh, I don't think that will happen anytime soon, Johnny boy. We'll have fun together."
John shuddered.
"You're deluded if you think I'm going anywhere with you," John said, freeing his hand from the iron grip he had on the edge of the table to sneak it towards his gun.
Moriarty kept his dark eyes on him and snapped his fingers. Immediately two of the fake brunchers literally held up one of the waitresses between them, her feet not even touching the ground. Her green eyes were huge and full of fear as she looked between Moriarty and John, settling on him with a silent plea for help. John looked for the other staff members but they were now being held at gunpoint by other brunchers.
"This is Grace. She's nineteen but lied to get hired. She abandoned her studies last year and works two jobs to pay for her mother's hospital bills. Aww… isn't that sweet? Say hello to Dr Watson, Grace."
Grace looked stunned. She had obviously not shared any of her personal history with Moriarty so he must have deduced her just like Sherlock usually did, laying her life bare for anyone to hear. He and Sherlock really were alike in that aspect.
"H-Hello, Dr Watson?" she asked more than said, her voice quavering and her eyes darting between the two of them again.
"What are you playing at?" John hissed.
Moriarty just had to involve innocent civilians, didn't he? He liked scaring the shit out of people. No he relished in the fear he was causing, he was almost bouncing in his chair as he waited for John's reaction.
"Well, you see, Johnny boy, what's so admirable about you is that I don't even need to threaten you or your precious Sherlock to get you under my thumb. If you refuse me, I can just pluck any random stranger off the road, like our dear sweet Gracie here, and snuff the life out of them, carving your name in their lifeless bodies and dumping them on your doorstep so you know they died by your fault. I'll even sign the packages myself. You've seen my penmanship, it's impeccable."
The waitress let out a strangled sob and tried to struggle out of the grasp of the two thugs, but it was useless. Given her built, John doubted she could fight her way out of a wet paper bag, let alone against the two mountains of muscle currently bruising her arms.
John sighed. He was an idiot. Would anyone else but him cave to such blackmail? Sacrificing their freedom to save strangers they'd never so much as set eyes on before? Because he had already taken his decision. John couldn't let him go ahead with his threat, and Moriarty was right: if Grace died today, it would be John's own fault. He might as well take his gun and shoot her himself, she'd probably suffer less too. John hung his head, staring at his trembling hands, not wanting Moriarty to see the defeat in his eyes.
"Alright, let her go," John muttered and heard a thud as the young girl landed on the tiled floor, her stifled sobs growing dimmer and dimmer as she scrambled back from their table.
"Very good, John. See, you can learn," John kept his head down but he would bet a tenner the madman was gloating. "And remember, there are plenty more where she came from."