"Thank you," Sherlock said as Lestrade clambered gracelessly into the driver's seat of the car.
Lestrade grunted in response as he turned the key to start the engine. "Well I can't have John dying, and I trust you not to become some sort of violent psychopath."
"You trust me now," Sherlock said reflectively. "But when I was trying to prove myself to be a genuine genius, you took Moriarty's word over mine."
"You ran away from the police and held a gun to John's head!" Lestrade explained. "I didn't believe it when Donovan and Anderson said it. It was when you ran away that made it real for me."
"Mm. John said as much in his letters."
"He put me in his letters?"
"Of course."
There was a beat before Lestrade spoke again. "What did you find out about Sebastian Moran?"
"Nothing at all. She wouldn't tell me anything more than I'd already deduced."
"So what was the point in torturing her?" Lestrade demanded to know.
"She might have told me something," Sherlock said.
The car rolled to a halt in the Scotland Yard car park. Sherlock and Lestrade entered the building together, Sherlock a few paces in front, eager to get to the Wi-Fi records, and eager to get to John. They finally arrived at Lestrade's office, where the records had been set down upon the desk. John was stood over them, trying to make sense of the numbers and words that he saw, but failing miserably. Sherlock picked them up from under John's nose.
After five seconds, Sherlock pointed to a section of the paper. "Here. 40 Courtnell Street. That's where she's been linking the videos to."
Lestrade looked over. "Do you think Moran's there?"
Sherlock frowned deeply, and the other two watched as he mentally flailed. He looked up at John suddenly. "John," he said urgently. "If you were Sebastian Moran, what would you do?"
"What do you mean, if I was Sebastian Moran?" John said, confused.
Sherlock went over to him, closing the gap between them in a single stride. He then took John's face between both hands, forcing him to concentrate. "If you were Sebastian Moran, knowing that I'd gotten his address and that I was going to go there to find him or his contacts to find a trail back to him, what would you do?"
"Why are you asking me this? You'd be better at –" John started to say.
"No, John." Sherlock's shoulders slumped. "I wouldn't be better at this. I don't know anything about him except that he doesn't want to get caught like Moriarty did. He doesn't leave clues for me to follow. And I can't seem to discover anything that he doesn't want me to know. So what would you do?"
"Are you saying that I'm like Moran?" John said, offended.
"No, John. I'm saying that you can put yourself in his shoes much better than I can. Now tell me what you would do," Sherlock commanded, waiting patiently as his companion thought, lines appearing upon his forehead as it crumpled in deliberation.
"You said that you only know what he lets you find out," John began hesitantly. "So he wanted you to have the address, so he obviously wants you to go. Potentially so that he can pass on a message to you. He would probably be there in person, but he'd have a reliable escape route for when he wants to leave."
Lestrade said "Brilliant." And his smile widened with admiration.
Sherlock removed his hands from John's face. "Yes, John. You're right."
"I am?"
Sherlock nodded. "John, I need to be able to rely upon you to predict Moran's actions in the future. I am not able to do so and your theories fit perfectly to the type of character that I believe Moran to be. Can I be sure of you to do this?"
John stumbled over his words as he absorbed what Sherlock was saying to him. "Yeah… Yes, of course… I'll try… I mean…"
"Good," Sherlock said with a smile at his partner. "Now I need you to go back to Baker Street and wait there until I get back. I'm going to Courtnell Street."
John caught his arm. "What do you mean, go back to Baker Street?" he enquired angrily. "I'm coming with you, Sherlock."
"No you're not." Sherlock's eyes flashed with authority. "He wants you dead, so I'm keeping you away from him. You don't have to like this, John, but I am keeping you alive. Go back home, get something to eat and I'll be back as soon as I can. Don't wait up for me."
John reluctantly complied, and Lestrade ordered Donovan to take him to 221B. Once they had gone, Lestrade turned to Sherlock. "How many men do you need?"
"Any at your disposal," Sherlock replied, his voice cold. "Sebastian Moran cannot be allowed to escape. He's a murderer and a major criminal. I suggest you bring whatever you can. A full-scale operation is advisable. But I need to go in on my own first. I need to know what Sebastian Moran wants to tell me."
"Fine," said Lestrade definitely. "I'll give the order."
Helicopter blades whirred overhead as armed officers surrounded 40 Courtnell Street, blocking off every exit and covering every road leading off from the terraced house. Sherlock Holmes stood in his long coat, collar turned up, at the front door, his gun in his hand and Lestrade by his left shoulder. "Ready?" The DI asked, looking up at the consulting detective.
"Remember, if you hear a gunshot, come straight in," Sherlock said in reply before pushing the door open and stepping through.
Despite the great number of officers outside, the house was eerily silent, as though all of the noise had been sucked out of it by some strange vortex. It was dimly lit by the filtered light of the streetlamps through the lacy curtains, and elegant chairs with intricately woven cushions were visible through the doorway that led to the sitting room. A traditional fireplace adorned the back wall, but it was unlit and there was ash all over the plush carpet before it. The wooden floor that Sherlock was treading on was solid oak, and it made no sound as his feet moved over it. Without bothering to check the rest of the ground floor, Sherlock climbed the stairs.
Pictures on the walls greeted Sherlock with their pretty landscapes, blue skies and verdant green grasses, taunting him with their peace as if they knew he had none. The glass glinted with malicious threads of amber light, throwing his own silhouette back at him as he passed between the rays. It was eerie, and Sherlock felt a stab in his back as his own emotions betrayed him. He felt fear. And that fear only increased as he saw the figure that was sat at the desk in the room at the top of the stairs, with his long feet upon the writing table. Sebastian Moran.
"Give me one reason," Sherlock said in a low voice as he pointed his gun at the back of the man's head, his hands steady. "Why I shouldn't shoot you now."
A dark chuckle threaded itself through the air. "I know you, Mr Holmes. You won't kill me because then you'd never understand why I am doing what I am. You're weak. Too weak to settle for a result without an explanation."
"You underestimate me," Sherlock answered, the clicks of his gun echoing off the walls. "There is nothing I won't do if it means that John is safe."
"I suppose not." The man swung his feet down from the desk as his chair turned. Finally, Sherlock saw his face. A cruel face, that was contorted into a wolfish smile, hungry and pitiless.
"Were you wondering, Sherlock," he said. "Why I want to kill John, and not you?"
Sherlock mentally stumbled. "You don't want to kill me?" he spat in puzzlement.
"No, Sherlock," Moran responded. "I want to destroy you. And I can do that by murdering your lovely John. I know that's how you break someone, because you did exactly the same to me."
"I don't –"
Moran threw his arms out and his voice raised, cutting through the room like a thousand spiteful knives. "Jim Moriarty," he said. "You killed him, Sherlock Holmes, and that was the biggest mistake of your life."
Sherlock froze. "Of course," he breathed.
"Yes, Sherlock," Moran snarled. "I loved him. And you ripped him away from me. It's only fair, then, isn't it, that I take John away from you?"
"You could have done it at any point in the last three years," Sherlock said, snubbing Moran's question. "Why –"
"Because I knew you were alive." Moran cut him off. "I was in position, ready to shoot Dr Watson at a moment's notice. You were stood on the ledge, and Jim was still alive. You could have jumped, but you didn't. You had to make sure that he died too, didn't you? So you forced him to shoot himself. The cogs in my head began turning, Sherlock."
"You let me discover that you knew of my survival, knowing that I would go back to John to protect him," Sherlock realised. "You wanted us back together before you killed him."
Moran grinned. "It's more painful that way," he rasped, clenching his fists as he stood. "And I want you to burn in agony.
"It only got better when you became a couple. I decided to wait for a bit longer whilst you really fell in love."
Sherlock's jaw clenched as his finger became tighter on the trigger. "Of course there are other reasons why I want Dr Watson dead," Moran mused. "It's strange how he doesn't remember me. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, maybe?"
"Afghanistan." Sherlock's mind flashed back through the knowledge he had of John's time in the war. "You knew him in Afghanistan."
Moran gazed at the wall. "Yes," he ruminated. "I knew Dr John Watson. Hated him, too. Was always so caring, never thought about his own safety when it came to rescuing other wounded soldiers. Everyone looked up to him, respected him. They saw a man who was courageous and compassionate. I saw what he really was. An idiot who knew nothing of the ways of war. And yet the others followed him like lost lambs. I could have led them so much better."
Sherlock's rage grew. "You want to kill John because he's kind?" he growled with vehemence.
Moran raised a hand. "No, no, Sherlock. I want to kill him so that you hurt as much as I do. Our history just makes it easier and more satisfying for me."
"You're sick," Sherlock said with complete loathing, spitting the words out like they were vile to hold in his mouth.
"You're just getting that now?"
Sherlock took a terrorising step forward. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't shoot you," he grimaced, fixing his aim exactly between Moran's black eyes.
"It's not shouldn't, Sherlock," he sneered. "It's couldn't."
With the brightest flash of light and a deafening explosion of glass and fire, the windows at the back of the room burst and shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. They flew in every direction, littering the floor with their diamonds. Sherlock put his arm above his eyes to protect them as he crouched low to the ground, watching through the scorching flames that had caught in the carpet and curtains as helicopter blades sliced the air, and Sebastian Moran was lifted out through the gap by a black-clad man attached to a and carried up into the copter, disappearing before Sherlock could take even one more breath.
He ran to the window, catching himself on the frame as he stared out, watching the helicopter as it flew away through the night. He then bounded back downstairs and ran into the officers who'd rushed in as they heard the explosion. "Move!" he roared as he pushed his way through.
He lurched out onto the street where Lestrade was frantically shouting orders into the chaos, but there was no organisation in the force at all as everyone rushed about in different directions, panicking and frittering away from the house, unsure of what they were supposed to do. Lestrade was despairing until he spotted Sherlock, who was approaching him at speed.
"How much fuel was on that helicopter?" Sherlock shouted over the racket that the police were making.
"About an hour's worth!" Lestrade barked back, barely able to hear himself over the wailing sirens.
"Can you track it?"
"I'll put someone onto it!" Lestrade yelled in reply before attempting to call Donovan over.
"No!" Sherlock finally managed to fight his way through to Lestrade, and arrived to stand in front of him. "We can't trust your people anymore. That was your helicopter, so obviously Moran has close contacts in Scotland Yard."
Lestrade floundered helplessly. "So I can't trust anyone?"
"No one except yourself," Sherlock replied. "Don't tell anyone anything, don't write anything down."
Lestrade looked around as though searching for an escape, though his eyes scanned over each individual officer wondering who exactly was on Moran's side. "What can I do now?"
"Take me back to Baker Street. I need to get back to John," Sherlock commanded, and he walked over to Lestrade's car, climbing into the passenger seat as Lestrade took his place in the driver's. They pulled away quickly, Lestrade leaving no explanation for his people, who were watching his departure with bewilderment.
The streets rushed past as he drove, tension clear in the way that his spine was rigid in his seat and in that his hands gripped the wheel as tightly as his stomach was clenched. Sherlock broke the stressed silence. "Can I borrow your phone?"
"Yeah, sure," Lestrade replied absently, not really listening.
Sherlock dialled a number, and held the phone to his ear as it rang. "Who're you calling?" Lestrade asked.
"Mycroft."
Lestrade's face filled with horror. "No –" he said as he tried to pull the phone away from the consulting detective.
"Hello, darling," Mycroft's voice crackled through the speaker into Sherlock's ear, with a tone of doting adoration. "I'm assuming this is about my brother –"
"It most certainly is about your brother, Mycroft," Sherlock smirked as Mycroft fell mute. "Interesting word choice, darling."
Lestrade turned the deepest shade of red as he took a deep breath through his teeth. Sherlock took a sideways glance at him and his amusement increased.
"Another word, Sherlock, and I will not help you," Mycroft threatened seriously.
Sherlock chuckled. "Alright, Mycroft. No need to be like that."
"What do you want, Sherlock?" Mycroft snapped.
"I need you to put some bodyguards on John," Sherlock said. "He needs protecting and I can't always be there. They need to be absolutely trustworthy, Mycroft. Moran has contacts everywhere and I can't rely on the police force now."
Mycroft did not reply for a moment. "I can do that."
"Absolutely trustworthy, Mycroft," Sherlock stressed.
"I'll put my own people on him," Mycroft assured him. "No one will get to him as long as I can help it."
Sherlock sighed with relief. "Thank you, Mycroft." Then he ended the call and passed Lestrade's phone back. The DI wouldn't look at him, given that his flush was even hotter than it had originally been.
Sherlock decided not to prod him. He needed Mycroft too much now, and he couldn't risk a feud of any sort. So he turned his thoughts back to the more important issue of Sebastian Moran.
As soon as the car stopped outside 221B Baker Street, Sherlock flew out, and within an instant was up on the doorstep, turning the handle and rushing into the building. He did not pause to greet Mrs Hudson, but flung himself instead into his and John's flat, where his companion sat half-asleep in his chair.
"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, shaking him from his drowsiness as he threw his arms around him, pulling him to his feet in a strong embrace. "You're alright."
John blinked the sleep from his eyes as he hugged Sherlock back, holding him tightly. "I was so worried about you," he confessed. "I didn't know if you would come back…"
"You don't need to worry about me, John," Sherlock said grimly. "Moran doesn't want me dead. In fact he wants me to live. It's you he wants to kill."
John released his partner. "Tell me what happened."
Sherlock fell back into his chair, and John sat slowly down in his with his ears open to Sherlock as he spoke. "Moran was Moriarty's lover," he began. "They had a romantic relationship. When I was up on the rooftop before you arrived, Moriarty tried to get me to jump by myself, but he hinted at a recall code that he could use to stop his men killing you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. I caught onto this, and Moriarty was forced to kill himself in order to get me to jump. Moran, therefore, sees the death of Jim Moriarty as my fault, because if I'd have jumped the first time, Moriarty would still be alive.
"Moran knew that I hadn't died from the very beginning, and he wanted a way to punish me for causing his lover to kill himself. He wants me to feel the way he does, and he can do that by murdering you, John. Are you keeping up so far?"
"Erm… Yes," John said hastily. "He wants to kill me because you killed Moriarty."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't repeat things, John. But yes, that's the general point. Anyhow, Moran didn't kill you in the three years that I pretended to be dead. If you're wondering why that was, the answer is that he wanted us to reunite before he killed you. It would hurt more, then. So he let me ascertain that he wanted you dead so that I'd rush back to you in order to protect you. It turns out that you'd have been safer if I'd never returned."
"You know I wouldn't rather that," John murmured softly.
"You were right, you know," Sherlock distracted. "About what Moran would do."
"I was?"
"Exactly right," he confirmed. "So now that he's escaped in a police helicopter with one hour's worth of fuel, where would he go?"
John frowned. "You're actually asking me for advice?"
"Yes, John," Sherlock huffed. "Where would he go?"
"He could've gone anywhere," John said hopelessly. "He could be living in the sewers for all we know."
"You're right," Sherlock sighed. "We'll never find him. Especially not when half the police force is on his side, as well as God knows how much of the army."
"The army?"
"Yes. He served with you in Afghanistan. He thinks your PTSD has prevented you from remembering him."
"We'll just have to wait. As long as he's there he can't do anything either." John got to his feet. "We'll get this sorted out in the morning. For now, we both need some sleep."
"We're sitting ducks," Sherlock hissed in frustration.
"I know. But there's nothing we can do for now."
They made their way up to bed, climbing in together. John was dreaming within seconds, but Sherlock's brain refused to still, so he lay awake, staring at the ceiling as he pondered. John was his life, and that was unquestionable. It would break him utterly if he was to die, and that was what Moran was counting on. Sherlock knew that he wanted to spend every second of the rest of his life with the man who lay at that moment by his side. There was so much conviction in that one statement that Sherlock repeated those same words over and over again in his head until he at last slumbered peacefully.