A/N: Thanks for your patience with this long plotline. -csf
11.
'I'm no Jim Moriarty', the newcomer says, with humour weighing his words. 'But I'm glad to have caught your attention at last.'
Ah, the magnanimous bad guy, Sherlock recognises. John would have something clever to say about that.
'Clearly not Jim', Sherlock replies fluidly. 'Regrettably', he adds after a moment.
'Don't flatter yourself, detective. You are a pawn here. I'm after the good doctor Watson.'
'Let me guess. You swore eternal vengeance over all Watsons, hunt them down and wipe them from the face of the Earth. You look the megalomaniac type.'
The newcomer can't, or won't, give a quick retort to that. Sherlock counts it as a win, assuming the man he's duelling wits with is too affronted to carry on; he's been called out on his own stereotype.
Eventually the criminal gestures the scruffy looking man to his side, before he proceeds.
Sherlock assumes the sidekick is summoned as much needed moral support.
'Yes, the Watsons, that scum', the man restarts, resentment lining his voice as a lead weight. 'The Watsons got my father out of business, ruined the town, lots of families had to move out once the factory closed.'
'Pesticides?' Sherlock guesses; lightly, unconcerned, making a mockery of the enemy's validation speech.
'Soil nutrient enhancement, actually. I'll spare you the details. Turns out it's unhealthy for those with weak genes.'
The detective's lips curl in a snarl, he almost growls; feral, animalistic, possessive, protective.
'Not weak, different. That's exactly the point of human evolution, a varied gene pool.'
Not-Moriarty reacts briskly to that. 'His grandfather took away my family's fortune from me!'
'Couldn't find anything else to produce in these big factories?' Sherlock returns to disinterested posturing with a swift body language change.
'His grandfather went from here onto every factory we had and exposed us to those communities too. He shut us down, one by one. Him, a grave robber, a man that collected human organs in jars like a freak collection, and they believed him! And I watched our empire crumble bit by bit, until there was nothing left for me to inherit but rubble.'
Scruffy man looks decidedly uncomfortable to the inspector. So much for double double-cross. Greg wonders if there's some way he can appeal to this conflicted man's remaining morality.
Sherlock clearly has a different approach. He shrugs, coldly, and starts collecting their stuff, rousing John again. 'Don't mind us, we'll be on our way soon. I'd go there and beat the crap out of you, but John Watson is my priority. By the way, he's a very good doctor in his own right. We'll see you in court, once we reconstruct Hamish's research and demand restoration from your family. Inspector Lestrade will testify to your claims, and, if you deny them, I don't think it matters. My older brother is very meddlesome, he's probably already infiltrated and cloned your makeshift cctv. Mycroft's got a thing for cctv. He's got more cctv in his estate than you've got in your town, and that's saying something.'
'Stop!' The man demands, grandiose.
'Nah', Sherlock declines.
John shudders, his eyes flicking open, dazed and unfocused. Sherlock smiles, straight at his friend, ignoring all audience like secondhand nuisance.
'Jeez...' the doctor groans, cradling his head in his hands.
A new threat comes to the mastermind's voice. 'You aren't going anywhere, Holmes!'
Double negative? Sherlock rolls his eyes. John squints at him.
Clever John, immediately grasping the scene, even as his blue eyes are still a couple of shades off and marred by deep dark circles. He knows not why, nor does he care. Deep down, he'll always trust Sherlock to make sense of things for him later, and to be in the right at the moment.
'Wait!' the scruffy man appeals, looking conflicted.
'No, I made up my mind. I get to kill the great Sherlock Holmes!' Not-Moriarty announces, levelling a gun on Sherlock. Lestrade hisses under his breath. Sherlock doesn't react. He doesn't need to. He keeps holding John up, supporting his weight, completely dedicated to his army doctor. Two bullets hiss through the air in a spectacular unanimous detonation. One zooms past them, it misses Sherlock, and John, by inches. John lowers his right arm.
Turns out John Watson carries his gun everywhere, particularly in a hostile town.
It takes a second more for a body to collapse against the ground on the other side of the derelict factory. Sherlock glances over his shoulder.
'Knee cap?'
John nods briskly. 'Don't know which knee cap, though, I'm still seeing double', he adds reasonably.
'That's fair enough.' Sherlock shrugs; John who is still being held up, goes along for the ride. 'John, you couldn't have shot a moment before you were sure he was really going to pull that trigger on us.'
'It didn't truly matter, I could tell his aim was way off.'
'But you still fired your gun.'
'He would have adjusted his aim, wouldn't he? I thought it was kinder to call it all quits, before he embarrassed himself again.'
'Right you were. Shall we get out of here, John? Lestrade, you can handle this, right?'
Before Greg can react, John is protesting:
'What, no! I'm a doctor, let me have a look at him.'
Sherlock rolls his eyes in exasperation, but helps him get up on his feet and supports his walk over the distance.
Scruffy man holds out the boss's gun to them, a cease fire and a gesture of atonement, a quiet repositioning of loyalties. John nods curtly, military, facing the man honestly, before squatting with Sherlock's support to check the patient's stats.
'I think there's quite a bit of stuff going on that I missed out, Sherlock. I'll need you to fill it in for me.'
'Nonsense, John. No need to be lazy. You're quite capable on your own, given enough time.'
John looks up to his best friend with a pondering, knowledgeable look, that makes Sherlock feel like a magician who's had all his tricks exposed.
Behind them, DI Lestrade is calling for backup on his phone.
.
John is looking a bit pale still, in the aftermath of a chemical attack that knocked him out flat, having awoken under Sherlock's insistence just as his marksmanship was needed.
He's already told Sherlock to nick his gun and use it himself the next time.
He's sitting on a bench outside, on what used to be the factory's parking lot, waiting on that ambulance to arrive.
Sherlock has yet to leave his side.
Lestrade finally comes out of the derelict building to meet up with them. He looks worn out too, having been taking in statements from the grandiose criminal and his partially reformed sidekick.
'It's going to be a nation-wide scandal, this one. Your grandfather sat on a biggie, mate. The big guy has confessed to shoving you at the train station, while his secretary – that's what he calls the guy who got us here – got cold feet. They are definitely strange, those two, there's something there I can't quite put my finger on...'
'Co-dependence', Sherlock mutters, looking away.
'Hmm?' The inspector frowns. What does Sherlock mean by that?
Before he can press, before he gets any answers, a cocoon of hot air and pressure blasts from the derelict building, roaring in flames as it reaches outside and billowing as dark smoke as it lifts up. The three friends instinctively shying away.
John curses with expletives that outweigh anything any of the others could say.
'Co-dependence', Sherlock reminds Lestrade. He tries to appear cold and collected, but his voice shakes somewhat in shock.
The inspector turns on him. 'That place has just blown up! Please tell me you didn't see that coming, mate!'
Sherlock shrugs. 'Not that in particular, no. How could I?'
'But you suspected something?'
'A secretary who will do all his boss's biding, even against his in conscience, and a boss who wouldn't survive two minutes in prison. Perhaps I can see something now. A kinder end to a narrative. Perhaps it was just unstable nitrates remaining on the abandoned factory site. Everyone knows that any little thing can start a chain reaction to set those off. I know where John's bullet ended, but what did the other bullet hit?'
Greg thanks his good fortune that he left the derelict factory when he did.
John looks on, conspicuously silent, as the flames overpower the old walls.
He wonders if his grandfather is at peace.
.
The imposing detective deals with the B&B's owner, regarding the broken window and the mess a smoke bomb can leave behind on the dated wallpaper and furniture. Redecoration is in order.
Scotland Yard's finest is engaging in remedial diplomacy with the local police, regarding one impressive ball of fire explosion that toppled the abandoned factory complex. Mycroft Holmes has been invited to help smooth things over before it all hits the press. Knowing Mycroft, it might all be hushed under the State Secrecy act.
The army doctor has sumarily excused himself, hardly trusting his reeling mind or his still pasty tongue. Not for the first time with Sherlock Holmes, he wonders if he shouldn't be a bit more troubled that he shot a man when he was still blinking sleep dregs as blankets over his eyes. Others would be a bit more troubled, he surmises, to shoot a gun as the first thing done upon waking up, not even a yawn or a stretch of the back muscles. But to John it's just a quintessential part of his life; he goes to sleep with a retired army gun under his pillow. He finds it particularly hard to fall asleep without that familiar lump under his pillow. He could joke about never being alone in bed, but he's not very proud of needing a gun to sleep soundly, just as small children clutch to teddy bears. The things he's experienced in the battlefield, he can only negotiate them into mute with that gun at arm's length. Sometimes it troubles him, makes him wonder what sort of a person that makes him; it's a weakness, a clutch, he knows it is. Maybe that's why his girlfriends don't last, because he can't bring the gun next to him to sleep at night, they wouldn't abide by that, in fits of fear or jealousy, and he can't sleep soundly like that. A trade off, that leaves him feeling too exposed, too vulnerable, on top of the whirlwind of a new relationship. Things go south quickly after that, and John Watson is the eternal bachelor.
The bed groans as John ignores the soot film covering every surface of this tiny room, and just planks straight onto the bed covers. They can't make his clothes filthier than they are already. He does turn the pillow around, in the last second, before he smothers his face on the fabric and closes his eyes. His body automatically melts into the mattress, he's a trained soldier, he falls asleep quickly if given the chance. A hand sneaks under the pillow, his mind already under the spell, he barely registers what is a very old habit, a routine before shutting down entirely, even if he knows his gun is still strapped on his trousers belt, at the small of his back. It'll be an uncomfortable presence in his sleep, but he's much too tired to remove it now. His hand inches forward. His fingers brush over a hard lump. He strains and recoils at once, sitting up and blinking fast, his heart jumping to his throat and beating too fast.
He moves the pillow slowly. It reveals a lumpy heart with an enlarged ventricle. John picks the unbalanced item up slowly, looks down on it with a certain sadness. He vows to collect all his granddad's creepy anatomical models and take them home. There's enough space under his bed for one more shoe box, alongside his medals, the letters from his army mates that didn't make it that he will never throw away, and the souvenirs of old trips he did as a young man.
John shirks away the bedspread and snuggles back onto the cleaner sheets. That he falls asleep still clutching a damaged heart is something he is no longer aware.
Hours pass for John Watson, in fitful, repairing sleep. It's his body needs that slowly surface him; a quick visit to the loo, maybe a bite or two to eat, a nice cup of tea to rehydrate himself. He blinks himself awake to register the bedside table. His gun is there, comforting in the way the polished metal gleams confidently in the afternoon daylight, right next to the lumpy heart.
John jolts awake, as he registers his gun is safe, at arm's length, but no longer on him, or under his pillow. He swerves around to find he's not alone either. Sherlock is sat on the other side of the mattress, propped against the remaining pillows, in what seems to be quiet reading of local newspapers.
The soldier rubs his face, feeling a bit disjointed still. He slept deeply despite the absence of his gun, Sherlock providing the assurance his childlike mind needed for safety. He doesn't know what to feel about that.
'You know we got two rooms here, right?'
'Lestrade's in the other one. Unless you would have preferred him to join you here?'
John shudders, missing the warmth seeping out of the mattress now he's sitting up in attention. He forces himself to relax a notch or two.
'No, it's fine, it's all fine. Hm, how did you manage to take my gun without waking me up?'
Sherlock just smiles, and it should be absolutely infuriating, but somehow it's the mischievous promise of companionship and adventure.
'Wanna go for a walk?' the detective asks, looking serious.
.
John Watson and Sherlock Holmes walk the quiet dirt paths winding around the old graveyard, allowing the quiet to sink in. A few crows croak from afar, playfully fighting over some acorns they don't intend to keep, it's just posturing and a lot of noise. Sherlock chooses a sharp turn in order to allow the birds their antics uninterrupted. John follows along with the same blind allegiance as always.
Sherlock can tell something's on his friend's mind, but decides it's best to allow him time to come to terms with it first, rather than demand confused reports on what's troubling John. He's not worried. He's seen that dark cloud lift off of the blond army doctor, cast out by enduring friendship and a flash of danger; two things that always bring out the best in John.
The doctor finally raises his golden glow head to look straight at Sherlock, with those deep blue eyes that are frighteningly expressive. Sherlock used to feel a twinge of uncertainty whenever those cobalt blue eyes probed him, now he only waits and allows that honest gaze to explore his depths and attempt to read his secrets. He really wished John could read everything Sherlock can't quite say.
John finds inside Sherlock the confirmation of whatever he was looking for, breaks eye contact and nods quietly to himself. When he talks, it's about the case.
'Thanks for taking my case, mate. This one was a bit wacky.'
Sherlock unites his hands behind his back, assuming his posh professional attitude, the one he cloaks himself in for the biggest case challenges.
'Thank you for bringing it to my attention, John. I hope your grandfather would have approved of my work.'
John smiles; an amused, sunshine smile that Sherlock had missed so much.
'I think I can safely say my whole family would approve of you, Sherlock. Except for Harry, of course, she still won't forgive you for deducing whatever her secret was from one glance at her shoes.'
'Oh, that! It was incredibly easy, John—'
'—I really rather live in ignorance there, mate!'
Sherlock smirks smugly. 'Of course, John. After all, for the sake of balance, I'd then have to tell your sister your secrets.'
'You don't know my secrets', John states firmly, a bit too fast, like a man convincing himself.
'Don't I?' Sherlock singsongs, nearly purring.
John could just stop all this nonsense, by punching Sherlock's nose.
The detective looks up and away with his best innocent expression and John thinks he notices some freckles at the corners of those colour shifting eyes, so much like the vast ocean depths and the sandy shores where pirates hide their loots and write rum inspired songs to brag about them. It's odd, how both of them carry the sandy scapes within them, John notices. One born out of improbable and defiant dreams, and the other marred by danger and death, they ended up together, in this strange but enduring friendship.
'Tell me, John', Sherlock's voice rumbles across the silent graveyard, 'before we return to London. Did anything change?'
John focuses on that darker fleck on one of Sherlock's irises, that the other eye doesn't carry. How unusual, and yet fitting for an unusual man. He's one of a kind, the type John could never again find if he searched the entire world.
John thinks back on his childhood, his granddad, his life choices, Sherlock's unwavering support.
'The past didn't change', he finally says. Sherlock looks away towards the more distant headstones. 'The future has', John adds, with that quiet, stable - constant - certainty that is all John.
Sherlock returns his gaze to John, and smiles his most rare and honest - if slightly goofy - smile.
.
