The Light That Shines Behind Your Eyes - Chapter Ten: The Friend
A/N - Oops, I thought I already posted this chapter. Please enjoy! Note - not beta read at the moment.
Please see previous chapters for warnings.
Chapter Ten: The Friend
Like every man who took pride in his trade, Jim Moriarty maintained his tools himself. An architect of connections and opportunities, he knew how to calibrate a situation, polish a connection, and when to root out a rusty source, least it corrupt the whole system. In short, Jim knew how people ticked, and even better, he knew how to make them tick in his beat.
Over the years, Jim had acquired a wealth of associates, all chosen with great care. They were a jumpy bunch, Jim’s merry band of thieves, murderers, terrorists, and businessmen of questionable integrity. The ones with the experience and the brains to understand the costs of belonging to Moriarty’s illusive inner circle had developed a sort of a coping mechanism. For them “paranoia” was just a synonym for “self - preservation”. Moriarty was someone to be feared and respected. They knew better than to deny a direct order, even one as basic as “come out, come out, wherever you are.”
It was mad, of course, but madness was becoming of James Moriarty. If only Sherlock could see it all come down. Yet even he couldn’t be in two places at once. At least he had a live feed of the event, courtesy of Mycroft’s assistant. His phone vibrated every other minute, telling him what he already knew: it worked.
Sitting on the back seat beside Sherlock, John was tense.“When you said you’d pick me up,” John muttered,“I didn’t think you meant a taxi.”
"Would you have preferred the hearse?" Sherlock didn’t bother to lower his voice, much to John’s dismay. “I still have it, if it’ll make you feel better.” The driver, in the true form of taxi drivers everywhere, didn’t seem at all phased by their exchange.
"Bit public, don’t you think? Aren’t you worried that someone might recognise you?” John asked.
Of course that got the driver’s attention. He looked up to peer at Sherlock through the rearview mirror. “You famous,mate? I get celebrities all the time. Last week I met Bono. Bono! ‘Course he looks a lot different in real life, but I could tell-”
“No one cares,” Sherlock said flatly.
The cabbie harrumphed. He then thumbed his radio volume knob to a maximum, probably in violation of some sort of regulation or another.
John sighed loudly, then asked, "Could you turn this down, please?"
“No, keep it,” Sherlock injected.
"I am standing now near Hyde Park Corner; it is literally the closest we could get to the scene, Sean." A woman's voice anchored through the radio. "The gunfire seems to have stopped." She paused, and over the bad radio line they could hear sirens. "We still haven't received any word as to what exactly is happening inside the Berkeley Hotel. An ambulance has been seen making its way out of the area earlier - "
As if on cue, an ambulance's siren blared behind them, and the cabbie pulled to the side to allow it to pass. Two black cars followed closely behind.
"Blimey," the cabbie commented.
"- but we can't confirm if there are any casualties…"
"Two, in fact," Sherlock said with a grim smile. "Americans." He arched his eyebrow. "They tried to barricade themselves inside the penthouse. Not that it did them any good.” He rolled his eyes, then added, “I'll need to sell it, I suppose."
"Sorry?"
"The hotel, I'll need to sell it."
"You… own the Berkeley Hotel?" John blinked.
"Technically." Sherlock said, and then, “Stop the cab!” he demanded sharply. The cabbie hit the break paddle hard in surprise, throwing them forward with the momentum. Sherlock didn’t wait until the cab came to a full stop before exiting. He stood by the pavement, scanning the area in his usual fashion. Then, as if remembering, started patting his pockets.
"So, you're a millionaire now, are you?" John wondered.
"Billionaire, John, this isn't the 1990's.” He winced, and turned to his friend. "Have you any cash?"
A few moments later found them making their way around the area. The street was fairly packed with tired - looking hospital employees, just off the afternoon shift. At Sherlock’s side, John was doing his best impression of a human shield, glaring at anyone who walked too close.
“We go around the back,” Sherlock said, taking a sharp turn into an alleyway.
Sherlock led them to a side door of one of the flocking buildings. Curiously, the heavy door was propped open with a rock, the lock showing signs of recent tampering. An alley cat sped past John as he peered inside. He was greeted by a cloud of sickening sweet smell of rotting waste. Sherlock pushed past John into the garbage room, squeezing past an overflowing bin. Grimacing, John followed.
The building was all but abandoned at that hour, and no one stopped them from making their way to the lobby. Sherlock paused beside a supply closet. He pulled it open, and a man in a security uniform slumped forward, unconscious.
“Hmm.” Sherlock nudged the man with his shoe.
"Sherlock," John warned, kneeling beside the fallen guard.
"Relax, John, it’s nothing he hasn’t signed up for. Make sure he stays put." He walked toward the lift, summoning it. “Company’s coming, I need you to stay here and distract them for a bit.”
"Where are you going?" John demanded, making as if to follow.
"Stay here," Sherlock stressed. "I'll be-" the word bait nearly passed his lips before he recanted, "-back." He finished as the lift doors closed. Slumping against the back of the lift, Sherlock steeled himself for a confrontation.
If there was something Jim enjoyed, it was the sound of his own voice. He particularly enjoyed reminding Sherlock exactly how thin a thread his friends' lives balanced on. On his bad days, Jim would be quiet, dangerously so. One never knew what sort of mood would take him afterwards. On his good days, however, Jim could natter on for days on end.
John Watson was a favourite subject of his. Perhaps because mentioning John was the surest way to provoke a reaction out of Sherlock. Regardless, at some point Jim had regaled him with the tale of how John had almost died.
Sherlock was supposed to have had a front row seat. It was not a hard leap to deduce Moran as the would-be assassin - Jim always gave Sebastian the jobs dearest to him. The fact of the matter was, that if Sherlock hadn’t jumped from the rooftop that day, he would have seen John’s brain splatter all over the pavement. “Best seats in the house,” was what Jim had said. From there it was nothing but a matter of geometry a bit of architecture. Child’s play.
Sebastian would be using the stairway for his vantage point. He'd be sitting somewhere between the sixth and seventh floor, where he would have the best visibility and the fastest exit route. There he would wait, with a single direct line to his operator, for days on end if need be. Waiting for either a go or abort. Sebastian was good at what he did.
Sherlock exited the lift on the seventh floor. He headed towards the stairway, pausing a moment to listen for movements before making his way inside. A now familiar sight greeted him, and brought a lazy smile to his lips.
“Delighted, as always, Sebastian,” he drawled.
Sebastian’s eyes widened a fraction. The pressure of the barrel against Sherlock’s neck eased when Sebastian lowered the weapon. “I could have shot you!” Moran said, exasperated.
“Fortunately for you, you did not.” Sherlock nodded toward the rifle still laid perched by the open window. “You’re really not supposed to leave your weapon unattended,” he said, clucking his tongue. “Didn’t the army teach you this?”
“Eh, it’s paperweight without this,” Sebastian said, balancing a small metallic component between his pinkie and ring fingers. “And I never go without a spare.” He gestured with the .22 in his hand. “What’re you doing here, James?”
Sherlock stepped towards the ledge, the cool breeze ruffling his fringe. He had excellent view of the premises. Here he had died, and here John almost did as well. Sherlock resisted the urge to nudge Sebastian’s rifle out the window, but only barely. The last time Sebastian had his rifle’s sights set on John, he had been waiting for Jim to give him the final order. This time, he had been waiting for Sherlock’s. He was never going to get it, of course, but he would have waited for a very long time. Sebastian was a trained and hardened sniper - he could sit and wait for days if he needed to.
“There’s been a change of plans,” Sherlock offered as a way of explanation. “I decided I wanted to take Watson out myself… bet I can do it with your gun.”
Sebastian snorted good-naturally. “I’d like to see you try.” He made for the rifle, but was stopped by a single word.
“No,” Sherlock said, “the other one.”
Sebastian blinked in surprise. He looked at his handgun, a .22 mm piece, as if to confirm. “From this distance?” he said. “Impossible.”
“Trust me, Sebastian. I won’t miss.” Sherlock held out an expectant hand.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Sebastian shrugged, and handed Sherlock the gun. “I hope you have an escape plan ready,” he said, unperturbed by the possibility that Sherlock didn’t. Good old Sebastian. Such a good, loyal soldier. Sherlock was going to miss him.
“I always liked you, Sebastian.” The gun felt heavy and solid in Sherlock’s hand. He turned it here and there, examining it casually. "I liked you from the start. Odd, isn't it?"
"I'm flattered," Sebastian said, drawing his words carefully, taking in Sherlock’s flippancy as only one used to James Moriarty could. The others, they stayed in line out of a mixture of fear and respect. Sebastian stayed in line because he trusted Jim to show him the way.
"You've been a good friend to me over the past few weeks," Sherlock said. "So, for that, I’m going to help you. Well, you’ll help me in return. A partnership, if you will.”
Sebastian’s eyebrows furrowed. "What do you need?"
"You're a wanted man," Sherlock said, holding the other’s fast attention. "In fact, you're a war criminal. My brother wants to extradite you in return for some political favours." Sherlock shrugged, uninterested in the details. "I disagree, though, I think you're more useful to us on British soil. Alive," he stressed.
"Your brother is dead. Brook blew his brains out." Sebastian said with raised eyebrows, but he was pale. His hands, always so steady, were trembling. Catching on, then. Good.
"No, Sebastian," Sherlock's smile was kind. The gun he raised wasn’t.
A long silence followed, and then,"Fuck," Sebastian breathed. "No. No, how? You couldn’t have possibly known all of those things, there’s no way-” Eyes burning in loathing, he advanced on Sherlock, nostrils flaring.
“Knowing things I couldn’t possibly know is the point of me, Sebastian. Now, that’s far enough.” Sherlock cocked the weapon, and the sound echoed. "There's no chance I'm going to miss from here.”
"So shoot," Sebastian said through gritted teeth, ready to pounce. "I'll make sure to take you down with me."
"You’ll try." Sherlock nodded. “And then, I’ll have to go and tell Jim how very uncooperative you’ve been. Such a bother.”
Sebastian narrowed his eyes, but he was listening.
"I knew you'd come around," Sherlock said dryly. He didn't lower the handgun. "As you know, Jim is still alive. He's currently being detained in a secure compound. Tonight, most of our friends will be joining him as well, but you know as well as I do that others remain about.”
Sebastian sneered. “Is that it? You’re worried about payback?” He bared his teeth, reminisce of Jim. “I’ll save you the trouble right now.”
"I’m not worried on my account, you moron," Sherlock snapped. He didn’t have to say the name they were both thinking, the only person who, in one way or another, mattered to them both.
Sebastian actually laughed. "You're joking, right?"
“Hardly.” Sherlock said, and lowered the gun. Sebastian’s eyes followed it, but made no move.
"You know he’s never going to forgive you, Sebastian. Not ever.” Sherlock smiled, relishing in the pained expression that flickred across Sebastian's face. "But you can still help him. You owe him that much, don’t you?”
“How?” Sebastian asked, hoarsely.
Sherlock had been wondering about Sebastian for the longest time. Only lately, when he spent time in Jim's shoes, did he come to an understanding. Sebastian's loyalty to Jim was intense, if misguided. For all his redeeming qualities, Sebastian enjoyed his profession. All too much, in fact, but that wasn't just bloodlust that kept Sebastian heeled by Jim's side. No, Sebastian honestly loved Jim, for reasons Sherlock couldn't quite grasp.
"Plead guilty." Sherlock said, voice low. "Admit you sold out The Network, that you struck a deal with the government for it. If they find Jim lost because he was stupid…” he let that sink in. The people they worked with, the ones still out there, they were dangerous. Fear and respect were a dangerous commodity to lose in that world.
“As of tonight, Jim's going to be back in the spotlight. He won't be untouchable anymore, Sebastian," Sherlock warned. "Not even in a prison cell. Especially not in a prison cell. I can arrange for the two of you to be together." Sherlock paused. "Barring that, in close proximity." He stared hard into Sebastian's eyes. "You'll be able to protect him. We both know he's not stable enough to do that himself. Not all the time."
Sebastian was breathing hard, and took several moments to respond. "And what about you?"
"Me?" Sherlock's mouth stretched wide, grinning madly. "I'm going back undercover - as Sherlock Holmes."
Sebastian stared at him hard. “Fine,” he said finally. Then he threw his whole weight behind his fist, hitting Sherlock hard enough to make him stumble. “I’ll do it, you sick fuck.”
Sherlock touched his bleeding lip. “There's a good man.”
They made their way downstairs without further incident. The sight that greeted them at the lobby was wholly different than the one Sherlock had left. Coppers in uniform, coppers in street clothes, and a fair share of cat-suited “supervisors”, courtesy of Big Brother, who immediately swooped in to apperhand Moran. And with them, grinning like a boy, Greg Lestrade.
"You little shit," Lestrade said, practically bouncing.
"Detective - Inspector," Sherlock said in greeting, and there was no mistaking the warmth in his voice.
Lestrade, beaming, rushed Sherlock into a hug. Sherlock bore it patiently, already learnt from that minor faux pas with John. It wasn't every day that someone came back from the dead. People were going to insist on hugging him. Sherlock might as well put up with that, although he drew the line at Anderson.
Sherlock caught John's eyes over Lestrade's shoulder. "See John? I told you you'd be able to convince him."
"He already told me you called him, Sherlock," John said dryly. He gestured at Sherlock’s still bleeding lip. “You okay?”
"He’ll live. Heh," Lestrade said, pulling back while keeping a hold of Sherlock's shoulders. "You rotten bastard. I almost keeled over from shock."
"John fainted," Sherlock said sweetly.
"I did not," John protested, though rather feebly at that.
"Can't say that I blame you," Lestrade chuckled. "Only you could ever pull this off, Sherlock. I swear to God."
“I didn’t act alone,” Sherlock said. His eyes followed Sebastian, who was already cuffed and about to be manhandled out of the building. “Sebastian,” Sherlock called, taking the steps to face the other man and look him in the eyes. “Thank you. I honestly couldn’t have done it without you.”
Sebastian spat at Sherlock's feet.