Fanfiction: World on Fire
Title: World on Fire
Author: safaiagem / bloody-hellfire
Artist: draloreshimare here
Word Count: 9,265
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, esemble cast, OC's
Warnings violence
Summary: He was just John Watson now that Sherlock was gone, ordinary, boring, so why was someone trying to kill him?
Notes: Written for the sherlockrebang. I have been stalling for the last three hours to post this. I just, ugh, I feel like I should add a warning for potential OOC because I got the characters so wrong. The art is fantastic please go, like, love on it or something. Love goes to amphoterrible for jumping in and editing for me at the last minute and epistolic for her support and convincing me to do this at all. Copyright blah blah. Have a fic.
World on Fire
Every day it gets a little easier. That was not to say that things were ‘good’ or that they were ‘better’ but every day it got a little easier. John was quick to smile and nod whenever anyone asked how he was doing. Not that many did these days because Sherlock’s suicide was no longer the center of attention now that the X-Factor was back on television. Harry made an effort and even stayed with him for a few days after he watched his best friend kill himself. They both got hellaciously drunk and she rubbed his back while he puked his guts out. Thankfully, Harry did not ask why John was reacting so violently to the death of a friend and left after a week when it became obvious that they were both going to drink themselves into oblivion if she didn’t. She still called or texted frequently but John was not quick to divulge too much information.
Lestrade stopped by while Harry was still visiting but she sent him away. John overheard most of the fight and the things that Harry said were cruel but not untrue. She blamed Lestrade and the entire Yard for pushing Sherlock to a point where he felt he had to take his own life. A good friend, or even a good man, would have gone down and defended Lestrade’s actions but John was already half a bottle of whiskey in and did not feel up to lying. After Harry left Lestrade turned up a few other times over the course of the last six months. They did not speak much and John was in no hurry to forgive Greg either. Lestrade emailed once a week and John responded because it would have been rude not to.
Sally Donovan showed up after two months. John tried not to think of that night too often. It involved a lot of yelling and a door being slammed in her face. He never apologized for it but it was not exactly his proudest moment.
Mycroft followed him back to the flat after the funeral. They sat in silence for almost two hours before the elder Holmes revealed that he would continue to pay Sherlock’s rent and John was welcome to stay in 221B. John pointed out that it was the least he could do after handing over Sherlock’s entire story to a madman. If John was truly honest with himself he blamed Mycroft most of all but it seemed pointless in the end. It was not like he could beat the British government. Mycroft did not look so smug as he sat there, maybe even rattled and human, which is what kept John from punching him in the face despite how tempting it was. Mycroft did not call, email or text but John caught cameras following his movements when he walked down the street. He ignored them.
Molly was the one, besides Mrs. Hudson, that he saw the most of. She came by once or twice a week to make him dinner. They talk about Sherlock mostly and the little things he would do. Molly told him how she worked up the courage all day to ask Sherlock for coffee and he did not pick up on it. It made John smile because that was exactly something that Sherlock would do. Molly was an excellent cook and he enjoyed her company. She was one of the few that made him laugh in the last six months. She was part of the reason that things were getting easier and when he told her so after one too many glasses of wine she looked oddly sad.
It was six months to the day and Molly was supposed to come over to cook again. She had canceled rather suddenly, cited worked, and John realized he had no food in the flat at all. Angelo’s was still open and John pulled on a light jacket as he walked outside. No one paid him much attention though one or two people did a double take when they passed him. People knew his face but no one was willing to try and talk to him. They did not want to push the man that was close to Sherlock Holmes. Anyone who was with friends with Sherlock Holmes must be insane. John kept his head down and tried to ignore the people that looked at him just a tad too long. They were watching, waiting, for the sidekick of the great Sherlock Holmes to throw himself off a building as well.
John was too busy trying to blend into the brickwork that he completely missed a crack in the sidewalk and tripped. He felt like an idiot for only a second because the sound of a gunshot made him nearly jump out of his skin. The bullet was close, it had barely missed him, and had shattered the brick. People began to scream and run in all directions and John ducked into an alleyway. Another shot fired just as he ducked behind a rubbish bin. Pain exploded on his arm but John barely felt it. Sherlock had enemies, Moriarty was still out there, but John could not figure out for the life of him why someone would want to kill him now. Another shot rang out but John kept his head down. He did not have his pistol on him and he could have kicked himself for that.
Sirens were fast approaching but John did not move from his spot behind the bin. Someone nearby was crying, had someone been caught in the line of fire? He was suddenly conflicted with his soldier telling him not to be drawn out into the open and the doctor that could not let someone die. Grinding his teeth together John looked around the bin and saw a woman holding her shoulder. The wound was a through and through on the right shoulder which made his stomach sink a little. The same as his. Against his better instinct John left his hiding place and knelt in front of the woman.
“You’re going to be okay, I’m a doctor, you’re going to be okay,” he reassured and she nodded through tears. John kept pressure on the wound and ignored the burn in his arm.
“You’re bleeding,” she whispered.
“I’ll be okay too.” John flashed his best smile and the woman whimpered as the sirens approached. They were close and all he could do was wait, hoping that no one took another shot at him.
+++
The graze on his arm required five stitches which was not bad considering how close a bullet came to going through his skull. Lestrade was waiting outside the ambulance as they patched him up.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital, John?” the EMT asked for the third time. The lad knew him from when Sherlock had fallen, been the one to hold him back and tend to his own injuries, and for some reason that meant they were on a first name basis.
“For the third time, I just got grazed I’m fine,” John insisted. The EMT wrapped the wound and John climbed out of the ambulance.
“How are you feeling?” Lestrade asked.
“I’m good enough to come down to the station and answer whatever questions you want to ask me,” John replied. Sally was standing nearby looking over the blood on the sidewalk from the woman with Anderson. They both glanced at him but looked away quickly.
“Someone took a shot at you, John, getting out of the open is probably the best idea,” Lestrade said, going for reasonable.
“Someone once told me that when an assassin isn’t shooting straight it means they aren’t really trying to hit you,” John replied. “If they were still here I’d be dead by now.” That seemed to make Lestrade deeply uncomfortable for some reason but John looked gestured to the apartment building across the street. “That is the best vantage point judging by the angle of the shots, have you checked up there?”
“Let’s go somewhere else to talk?” Lestrade’s words were a suggestions but his tone bore no argument which annoyed John for some reason. They walked over to the squad car and they road in relative silence through the busy London streets. “How are you holding up these days?”
“Aside from getting shot at? I’m fine,” John replied. The rest of the ride passed in silence until they got to Lestrade’s office. Lestrade sat down and opened a notebook pen in hand.
“So what happened?”
“I was walking down the street to get dinner. The first bullet was probably meant for my head and it was dumb luck that I tripped and it missed. Probably took a few hairs off of my head. I ducked behind the bins and they fired two more shots on me one of which grazed my arm. I saw the woman who had been caught in the line of fire and I assisted her until you lot arrived. That’s it,” John explained evenly.
“Have you had any threatening calls? Emails? Has anyone out of the ordinary contacted you at all?” Lestrade asked without looking up.
“Moriarty is out there somewhere still,” John said and he watched as Lestrade froze mid sentence. “Sherlock is already dead so maybe he’s decided that I should be too. He did strap a bomb to me. Do we still agree that that really happened or did we make it up?”
“John--”
“Greg, I don’t have anything else to say because I don’t know why or who took a shot at me. That is for you to figure out. I’m just a simply ex-army doctor now.” John’s arm was beginning to ache and he hated the feeling of all the Yard staring at him. Lestrade put his pen down and folded his hands on his desk.
“We’ll be in touch,” he said. “And please be careful, John, I don’t want to bury another friend.”
“You were all too ready to condemn him, why is burial any different?” John did not wait for a response before he took his jacket and walked out of the office. Sally was watching him, she looked like she wanted to say something, but John glared at her. He did not hate Sally but he did not want to deal with her either. Right now he just wanted to get back to Baker Street and sleep with a gun under his pillow.
+++
Six days later
John had been asleep for exactly fifty-seven minutes when his mobile began to ring. For half a moment he contemplated just letting it go to voice mail but people so rarely called him that it must have been important. John reached over and blinked to see Lestrade’s name flashing at him. It had been six days since someone had taken a shot at him and he had not heard anything from the yard.
“Hello?”
“John, I need to speak with you,” Lestrade replied bypassing any sort of greeting.
“I can stop by in four hours minimum,” John replied.
“No, you need to come in now, this is important.” Lestrade hesitated. “Do I need to send over some officers?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll be there in twenty minutes if it’s so important.”
“It is. See you in twenty.” Lestrade hung up and John rolled onto his back groaning. He was suddenly reminded of staying up all night with Sherlock working on a case. It made his stomach twist into a tight knot but he ignored it. The last thing he needed right now was someone snapping a picture of him getting arrested.
Twenty minutes later John strolled into Scotland Yard and waited for someone to buzz him up. His hair was a mess and he knew he looked like he had just rolled out of bed. Lestrade had seen him after two days with no sleep so John did not let the looks from the rest of the yard bother him. Lestrade was waiting for him in his office when John walked in.
“Take a seat,” Lestrade said as John sat down. The detective inspector pushed two pictures forward. “What do you see?” John raised an eyebrow and looked down at the photos.
“Bullet striations from the same gun it looks like. Why are you showing me this? I’m not Sherlock, I can’t help you solve something,” John replied.
“The one on the left we got out of the rubbish bin the night you were shot. The one on the right we pulled out of a body early this morning,” Lestrade replied as he pulled out another set of pictures. One was of a mug shot of a young man, clean cut features, dark hair, glaring at the camera, and the other was the same man with a bullet hole between his eyes. “His name is Duncan Jones and he’s a well known gun for hire. Those bullet striations match almost twenty unsolved murders and those are just the ones that we can find.”
“You think this is the guy that tried to kill me?” John asked without looking up. “And now he’s dead by what appears to be his own gun?”
“We found him at three in the morning last night and he’d been dead only an hour. Less than a week after taking a shot at you he’s killed with his own gun by someone with a sure and steady hand. Odd, don’t you think?” There was something in Lestrade’s voice that made John look up from the photos and narrow his eyes.
“Greg, we’ve known each other for going on two years now. I would appreciate it if you would be frank with me,” John replied.
“Very well; where were you at one this morning?” Lestrade asked firmly.
“The reason I was so reluctant to come in today is because I had only been asleep for an hour. At ten thirty last night Sarah called to ask me to work at a twenty four hour clinic across town. They were desperate because one of their doctors had called in and she was was busy so she phoned me. I could use the extra money. At one in the morning I was stitching up two blokes who decided to see what would happen if they hit each other over the head with beer bottles. I was there until eight and got back to Baker Street a little after nine. I’m sure you have ways of verifying my story by calling the clinic. Does that answer your question?” It was the most John had said to anyone in a single sitting in six months and it was a little gratifying to watch Lestrade’s face as he explained how he did not murder his would be assassin.
“I’m just covering all of my bases--”
“He is an assassin. I would think an assassin would have enemies, correct? This doesn’t seem like that hard of a case. Can I go home and get some sleep now?” The two men stared at each other for a moment until Lestrade sighed.
“Keep in touch, all right? This guy tried to kill you but he was a gun for hire which means someone hired him. Remember that.”
“I will.” John stood and walked out of Lestrade’s office. He was almost out the door when he heard someone calling his name. He turned to see Sally walking toward him. “What can I do for you Sergeant Donovan?”
“Your whereabouts are accounted for last night, yeah?” she asked.
“Ask Lestrade; I’ve already given my statement. Something bothering you?”
“I just find it odd that he turns up dead after going after you. Coroner's report says that someone killed him without hesitating. Someone who has experience with killing.” Sally narrowed her eyes. “You were friends with a man who tried to kill two kids. I just have to wonder what kind of person that is.”
“I look forward to the day you have any sort of evidence against me, Sally. Until then I’m going to get some sleep. Have a lovely day.” John turned and walked out of the Yard without waiting for a response. Sally Donovan and half the Yard were still convinced that Sherlock was guilty. Until they believed otherwise, he was either an accomplice or someone who looked the other way. John could not deny the fact that Lestrade was right, someone had hired Duncan Jones to kill him, and that was not something he could ignore. “Time to call in a favor,” John said to himself as he hailed a cab.
+++
One Week Earlier...
Sherlock did not want to be in London. His hair was dyed blond and shorter, he wore casual clothes, but as Irene pointed out he did have some very distinguishing cheekbones. Sherlock did not really want to get surgery because this would be over someday but if he had to stay in London for longer than a few days he might not have a choice. There was a rumor that a few of Moriarty’s minions were in the city still and Sherlock did not want to leave again without making sure London was safe. Mycroft could only do so much against an organization like Moriarty’s so that left Sherlock to pick up the pieces. Which he was fine with, it was what he left to do, but he had also hoped that London was a place he could check off.
The streets were busy despite the early morning and Sherlock kept his head down. Out of the corner of his eye he could see cameras following his every move and it took some serious control to not flip one of them off. Mycroft irritated him more than any other human being and all he had heard in the last six months was ‘when are you going to stop this nonsense?’ like it mattered to him at all what Sherlock was doing with his life. Sherlock turned a corner and nearly took his older brother out.
“Oh, pardon me,” Mycroft said brushing off his suit.
“Why are you talking to me?” because this could ruin everything he had worked for, everything. Mycroft turned and walked back toward a car climbing in. Sherlock debated about walking away and dealing with it later but Mycroft would not come get him unless it was important. Sherlock sighed and climbed into the car closing the door behind him. “Allow me to ask again, why are you talking to me?”
“You said to contact you if something important came up. You ignored the cameras and you don’t have a phone, how would you like me to contact you?” Mycroft asked.
“London isn’t safe for me. I was going to look into a few leads and go on my way.”
“You’re right; London isn’t safe right now,” Mycroft said and he was being overly dramatic again to the point that Sherlock really just did not want to deal with it anymore.
“Could you stop the car? I don’t want to listen to you anymore.” Sherlock turned to tell the driver.
“London thinks you’re dead, you are perfectly safe in London.” That got Sherlock’s attention and he turned to look at his brother. Mycroft looked deeply irritated which never boded well for anyone. “Last night someone tried to kill John Watson.” Sherlock’s blood ran cold as his entire world suddenly narrowed. Now it made sense that there were leads in London; Moriarty wanted John dead, he had always wanted John dead, and even from beyond the grave he was going to assure that.
“You were supposed to keep him safe.” Sherlock knew he sounded angry and he was furious but not at Mycroft. His brother could not do everything, he knew that logically, but Mycroft was also the only person outside of Molly that he could be angry with.
“I can’t drop everything to watch one man, Sherlock, and you know that. I will get you what you need on this case. When is all of this going to be finished?” Mycroft asked.
“When it’s done.”
+++
Once the crime tape was gone and Lestrade was nowhere to be found Sherlock wandered around the area where someone had tried to kill John. He found the spot where the bullet had barely missed his friend and how a crack in the street was truly the only reason that John was alive. It was not like John to be distracted like that and Sherlock was thankful for whatever had him so distracted. He managed to deduce where the shooter was easily but there was not any evidence left by the yard. There was nothing of substance that was going to help Sherlock find this person. He had to depend on whatever Mycroft could find and that annoyed him. He distracted himself by following John around as much as he could from a distance. John looked a little lost and the bandage on his arm was visible through his shirts. He did not go much of anywhere and had few visitors. Sherlock longed to get closer, to really see John, because there was only so much he could deduce from a distance.
John was hurt but from something far worse than a graze on his arm.
+++
A week after someone took a shot at John Mycroft called and told Sherlock he had a name and possible location of the shooter. After the shooting Sherlock had broken down and gotten a prepaid phone but only because he needed to know what was going on with John's shooter. Sherlock started to ask where Mycroft could have gotten this information but his brother cut him off sharply. “Accept this information for what it is. This man is a professional and he will try again. If you care about John even a little you will find a way to stop him.” Sherlock looked at his phone and clenched it tightly. A picture appeared of a man, American, with sharp lines and a dead look in his eye. His name was Duncan Jones and he was a gun for hire. From his picture Sherlock could have told you how this man reacted to his first kill but that was not important. Right now he had to go confront a killer and that meant covering his bases.
Sherlock knew that the Yard, or a portion of it, did not look at John favorably. They did not trust the man that defended a suspect in the attempted murder of children. There were those that suspected John was responsible for the death of the cabbie two years prior and others that ended up dead in their wake. Even if these people were later confirmed killers people did not take kindly to someone taking the law into their own hands. They would suspect John if something happened to Duncan Jones.
There was a clinic across town that would need a doctor on call if someone should call out. It took Sherlock less than an hour to deduce which one of the doctors was having the affair and which ones would call out to keep it hidden. He called Sarah Sawyer who would call John. By midnight John would be at work until the sun came up with a solid alibi. He was safe from the Yard and Sherlock double checked his gun because now it was time to keep him safe from a mad man.
Duncan Jones was in the pub that John used to frequent, drinking a beer and watching football. He looked up as soon as Sherlock opened the door and raised an eyebrow.
“I’m going to need a shot of Jameson and my tab, thanks,” Duncan said without taking his eyes off of Sherlock. He toasted the shot, paid his tab and brushed by Sherlock with the obvious implication that Sherlock would follow. They were in a dark alley when Duncan turned and smiled broadly. “Aren’t you supposed to be dead? Could have sworn I read about that somewhere.”
“You are going to leave John Watson alone,” Sherlock said evenly and Duncan had the gaul to just laugh.
“Are you going to threaten me? There is nothing you can say that will make me turn down a job because that’s all this is to me; a job. I was hired to put a bullet in John Watson’s head and that’s what I’m going to do.” Duncan pointed a finger at Sherlock and mouthed ‘bang.’ “Don’t worry though, I won’t shoot you.”
“Why wouldn’t you? I’m supposed to be dead.” Sherlock could feel the heavy weight of the gun in his jacket and he knew he was keeping it hidden. He could also see that Duncan was armed and making no attempts to hide it.
“Because you’re not my target. I’m a simple man, Mr. Holmes. My employers tell me who to shoot, I shoot them and I get paid. I was hired to kill Doctor John Watson if he was not already dead within six months of you dying. That’s all I need to know,” Duncan explained while rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “I was going to make it quick but now that you’re here to watch the show, I don’t think I will. He got lucky and I missed. I don’t like missing.”
“If you continue to threaten John Watson I will take action.” Sherlock mentally calculated the odds of Duncan shooting him and decided that the man was not lying when he said that Sherlock was not the job so he would not kill him. However, Sherlock could also read that Duncan was not going to leave John alive because John was the job. Duncan smiled and slowly walked forward.
“I heard all about you from the boss. He liked you and you seem interesting but you aren’t my problem. The one that can deal with you is still in the shadows, helping run all of this, and now I can report to him that you are the one trying to shut his operation down.” Duncan stopped in front of Sherlock and smiled brightly. “You walked in here thinking you could talk me out of this somehow but there is nothing you can say or do to convince me to walk away.” Sherlock’s mind felt like it got hit by lightning and he knew, he knew, that Duncan was not lying. He was not going to walk away and there was nothing he could say to convince this man otherwise.
Sherlock also knew that Duncan did not think he would kill him either. While Sherlock was not overly fond of the idea of taking another life there was no doubt that he would kill for John Watson. He would burn cities to the ground if it meant that John was safe and some American kid was not going to be the one to take all of that away. Without hesitating Sherlock punched Duncan in the stomach. The assassin was surprised, and if Sherlock was honest he was also drunk, and the blow was enough to get Duncan’s gun out of his pocket. He raised the gun to Duncan’s forehead and waited for some sort of reaction but the man merely smiled.
Sherlock pulled the trigger and the feeling of Duncan’s blood on his clothes was appalling. The assassin collapsed to the ground, an ugly bullet hole between his eyes and Sherlock did not care because John was safe. Moriarty said he would burn the heart out of him but as Sherlock watched the last of the life fade from Duncan Jones’ eyes he realized that he would burn the world for John Watson. And he was okay with that.
+++
John lost count of how many times he got put on hold before he was finally put in touch with Mycroft. He knew that calling the brother of his dead flatmate who was not even his friend was going to take time but he did not think Mycroft would string him along this much. He supposed he should have known better.
“John, what a surprise to hear from you. How are you?” Mycroft asked though John knew that small talk was not going to last long.
“You know how I’ve been Mycroft and that’s why I’m calling. I need your help,” John paused. “Someone tried to kill me last week. You know where there is a gun for hire there is someone that hired them. I need to find out who that is.” There was an uneasy silence followed and for half a moment John thought that Mycroft had hung up on him.
“I will do what I can and nothing more,” Mycroft replied. “Try to keep yourself safe. My brother would find a way to haunt me if anything ever happened to you under my watch.” For some reason that statement made John’s stomach clench with dread and he was thankful that no one was nearby to see his expression.
“Thank you.” They exchanged a few more words and John hung up. He received an email within the hour that was just the police report. He looked over the pictures of the man that tried to kill him, who he was, and how much he wished Sherlock was here because he would have solved this already. John ran his fingers through his hair roughly and closed his eyes. He was a little afraid if he was honest with himself. He did not want to die and the thought that someone was willing to pay an assassin to kill him made John uncomfortable. He was just John Watson and no one special now that he was alone. John clicked on the the picture and looked at the face of the man that tried to kill him and thought why?
+++
For two days John poured himself into the case. He was briefly reminded of Sherlock and how he would obsess for days over this but his life was on the line so he cut himself some slack. He called out of work and Sarah let him because Sarah always let him these days. She seemed to know when he needed time and was willing to give it to him. In theory they should have worked out as a perfect couple but nothing ever came from it. That was fine and she accepted him as a friend. It was also useful for those weeks that he could barely get out of bed after Sherlock jumped and she did not fire him on the spot. He wished Sherlock was here because he was getting absolutely nowhere with any of this.
“What do you mean you don’t have CCTV footage of the murder? You’re the government, I thought you saw everything,” John said to Mycroft over the phone.
“These people knew where to stand so no one saw anything. That was the point; no one was supposed to see what was happening. I’m sure you can understand why the murderer would not want that to happen,” Mycroft replied without missing a beat. “I have also received word that the Yard is once again looking to you for this despite your alibi. Some of them are convinced that you did this somehow.”
“I’m not worried about the Yard; I’m more worried about when these people are going to try and kill me again. Not to mention I’d like to find out who killed my would be assassin. These seem much more important than the Yard trying to convict me of something I didn’t do.” John paused as he looked at his third cup of coffee in the last four hours. He was tired and he was not really being fair to the man that could have just told him to sod off.
“You don’t have to apologize to me John,” Mycroft said suddenly because apparently having Holmes as a last name meant that one gained telepathic abilities. “I have a file on Duncan Jones I was able to get from a contact of mine in the American government. Perhaps you should come by and pick it up.”
“I’ll be there in a little while. Thank you,” John replied and hung up without waiting for a response. Any information would be good because right now all he had was information on Duncan which did him no good. John pulled on his jacket, locked up the flat and hailed a cab. Anything that Mycroft could give him might help.
If anyone asked him later on John would admit that he was not paying attention. The sun had just gone down and the cab was going down a side street when it stopped for no real reason. He was about to complain and say that he was in a hurry when the door opened and someone nearly threw him out of the cab. John grunted when his back hit the pavement hard and he barely heard the cab peel away because someone cracked him hard across the temple. The stars of the night danced in front of his eyes but John managed to swing wildly striking someone. The person grunted in pain but punched John in the stomach. As he struggled to regain his breath when two large hands clamped around his neck.
His lungs burned as he struggled to get any sort of oxygen. He kicked, punched, struggled but one hand left just long enough to hit him again. It was dark and John could not see the face of the person attacking, killing, him and they were silent as they held him down. The world was beginning to cloud around the edges and John’s limbs were beginning to feel heavy. He had seconds left before this person strangled him to death and as he sank into oblivion all he could think was Sherlock.
+++
Sherlock could not make himself run any faster. It had taken a few days but he had finally tracked down the second assassin the city, the one that was going to kill John, but now he was not sure if he was going to get there in time. As soon as he realized that the assassin was going to make his move tonight John was halfway across London to go see Mycroft. The guards were already dead and no one was watching, no one would see, if the the light faded John Watson’s eyes. He was lie there dead like he didn’t matter when he did.
He turned the corner and only hesitated for a moment when he saw the assassin, Ryan Tate, leaning over the far too still body of John. Ryan was a young man, fresh out of the military and a wicked grin that he flashed the moment he saw Sherlock. Ryan released John and bolted down the alleyway. It would take weeks to find him, if he could ever find him, but Sherlock stopped short when he realized John was not breathing on his own.
“Never going to stop us if you don’t take some initiative!” Ryan called from down the alleyway as he vanished from sight. The logical thing was to follow, stop that man, but John’s lips were blue. Sherlock dropped to his knees and checked John’s pulse. It was absent and his lips were beginning to turn blue. Sherlock ignored the voices screaming in his head as he tilted John’s head back and began CPR. Two compressions in and he felt a rib crack under his hands and He was lucky, they were lucky, because it only took a few compression for John to gasp for breath. Sherlock turned John on his side as he struggled to regain his breath and watched for only a moment. He could not stay, he hated this so much, John was hurt and had almost died but he could not stay here.
So he left John in that dark alleyway, following after Ryan knowing he was long gone, and phoning Mycroft. He put in an anonymous tip with the Yard that someone was hurt and an ambulance was needed as he glanced over his shoulder. John’s breathing was evening out, he was going to be fine Sherlock knew that, and because of that knowledge he turned the corner and left.
+++
John took the ice pack from Mycroft and held it to his neck. The bruises were going to be dark and ugly but at least he was alive. The last thing he remembered was someone strangling him and the next thing he was knew he was lying on his side gasping for breath. Someone had given him CPR, he could feel the dull pain in his chest from the compressions, but whoever they were they had left him alone. He could not figure out what kind of person saves someone but leaves them alone in a darkened alleyway like that. It made no sense logically.
“How are you feeling, John?” Mycroft asked as he sat down across the table.
“I’ve been better,” John replied noting that it sounded like he tried to swallow glass. There was a twitch in the corner of Mycroft’s mouth which was as close to sympathy as he was going to get. “This is worse than I thought.”
“Yes, you aren’t safe. Whoever tried to kill you killed my guards first. I don’t know how I’m going to be able to explain all of that to their families,” Mycroft said. “You should stay with me. There isn’t anywhere safer than here.”
“Duncan had a partner.” John placed the ice pack down and looked over the paperwork.
“Yes, he did, and it seems that he is going to finish the job so you should stay here,” Mycroft repeated. John was about to argue when the door opened and Anthea walked in carrying a phone.
“For you, sir,” she said without looking at John. Mycroft picked up the phone and stepped off to the side. John did not really care whatever secrets Mycroft was sharing and ignored the brief conversation to look over the information on Duncan. There was no name, no face, no nothing for his partner. That still did not solve the problem of finding out who was paying these two men in the first place. He hardly noticed when Mycroft sat down next to him he was paying too much attention to the file.
“Two bodies were found by the Yard last night three blocks from where you were attacked. Their names were John Reagen and Larry Watson,” Mycroft said slowly and John felt his blood run cold. “Your new friend is trying to send you a message, Doctor.”
“Obviously,” John muttered as he put down the file. “I can’t go into hiding if he’s still killing people. I have to face this.” John stood and began to gather the files. “Get me everything you can on this man right away.” Mycroft nodded slowly and did not stand up from the table. He was not going to stop John from leaving the safety of the house because he knew it was not going to work. There was no way John could sit back and wait as people died in his name. If it meant that he needed to go out there and face his assassin then he would. “I need a gun.”
“Of course.” Mycroft stood and removed a small handgun and an ankle holster. “I’m assuming you will not mention where you received that weapon if you are caught with it.” John glared at Mycroft as he fixed the gun and did not respond. Instead he snatched the files and walked quickly out of the house. There was a car waiting for him and he took it without thinking twice. If someone managed to kidnap him off of Mycroft’s doorstep then they probably deserved to be the one that killed him.
Mrs. Hudson made a fuss when she saw his neck and made him dinner to ‘make him feel better.’ It did not really make him feel better but it did give him more time to pour into the files. A name began to appear more than others, Ryan Tate, him and Duncan were in boot camp and served together. Not much seemed to be available about Ryan Tate and his whereabouts were unknown. John opened his laptop and began to do some basic googling on Ryan Tate. He was mentioned online in quite a few places. Apparently he was a smart kid, was going places, and up and joined the marines despite looking like someone who should have been an academic. His career was barely mentioned and it seemed like he dropped off the face of the planet as of three years ago. John went to pick up his phone to call Mycroft when it rang. The number was blocked which was odd because anyone who called him did not have blocked numbers.
“Hello?” John answered.
“Hello John I see you’ve been looking into me,” an American voice said over the line and John froze. His internet was supposed to be secure.
“Ryan Tate I presume?”
“You can presume indeed. I’m assuming that you know where we stand right. We need to have a chat about important matters,” Ryan replied. “I could make some sort of threat but you’re going to come out of some misguided sense of honor. Come unarmed, don’t call the police or the senior Holmes, and meet me three blocks over third floor on the apartment building.” The line went dead and clenched his fists. He did not want to deal with this anymore, he was so sick of all this, because all the running and chasing bad guys in the world didn’t matter anymore. He looked at Mrs. Hudson, about how him being here could put her in danger, and it made him physically ill.
“I need to run out, Mrs. Hudson,” John said standing. His gun felt heavy and he knew that Ryan would notice it if he kept it. “Mycroft just called and he thinks he found something that could help me trace the gentlemen that want me dead.”
“Oh, then I’ll put a plate together for you,” she said kissing him on the cheek. “Are you going to be all right? Your neck looks dreadful.”
“Yes, I’ll be fine. Just make sure the door locks behind me, yeah?” John said flashing his best smile. Mrs. Hudson nodded and John dropped his gun in the desk on the way out of the flat. The air was cool when he walked outside and John briefly pondered how this was not how he planned to die. In Afghanistan alone in the dirt or with Sherlock but not like this. John walked slowly down the road until he came to the apartment building. The door was open and John could hear other people moving amongst the flats. There were people here, families, and they were at risk.
The door at the end of the hall had a note on it that said ‘come in!’ which John took as a hint. He desperately wished he was armed, would have given anything for it, but he was not weak and he clenched a tight fist ready to swing at a moments notice. John pushed the door in and walked carefully into the flat.
In his defense it had only been a few short hours since someone had tried to strangle him so that seemed like a decent excuse as to why he was blindsided by a two by four. The right side of his head felt like it was on fire and the world swam. A foot rolled him over and he looked into the clear blue eyes of Ryan Tate who looked furious.
"Nice to meet you face to face Doctor Watson. Sorry about the two by four but I didn't want to take any chances," Ryan said as if that was obvious but John was having trouble seeing straight.
"Who are you working for?" John asked and Ryan smiled.
"Six months ago my partner and I were hired to kill you. If you weren't dead six months after your friend took the swan dive we were supposed to kill you. Duncan thought it was going to be easy but I guess he didn't count on you." Ryan knelt down and John could see the insanity in this man's eyes and the white knuckle grip he had on the two by four. "He didn't count on you killing him."
"I didn't kill your partner," John said which was apparently the wrong thing to say because Ryan punched him in the ribs hard enough that John swore he heard them crack.
"Lie to me again and it'll be with the board next time," Ryan warned. “Now I’m not going to ask if you’ve lost anyone because I know you have. I know you know the pain I’m feeling from losing a partner, your other half, but there’s a problem. See, Duncan was the ‘you’ part of this formula. I’m the smart one, the vengeful one, the one that is going to make this hurt. You were always going to die, Doctor Watson, but the second you killed my partner you changed the game. It’s going to be slow now and there is nothing you can do to stop it.” Ryan did not give John a moment to think or let it sink in that was he was going to die slowly when he hit him in the ribs with the board. It hurt but John only barely felt it. He barely felt the punch to his face and he barely tasted the blood. John knew he was going to die and all he could do was close his eyes and accept it.
+++
Sherlock was not sure how long John had been missing but even a few minutes could not bode well. Mycroft said that he lost track of the other man a little over an hour ago but that did not mean anything. Sherlock closed his eyes and opened his mind. From what he knew about Ryan Tate he knew that this mad man would take John somewhere populated to keep John from escalating. Sherlock was not sure what it was about the building that caught his eye but the next thing he knew he was running up the stairs. There was a note on the door that said ‘come in!’ and that was all the invitation he needed. Sherlock opened the door and froze.
John was still on the ground covered in blood with Ryan holding a bloody board in hand. The assassin raised an eyebrow when Sherlock walked in but did not drop the board. He did not try to run he just stood there.
“Ah, I see, I couldn’t tell who you were at first, but I see it now. You’re supposed to be dead,” Ryan said. He dropped the board onto John’s chest and John grunted in his pain.
“You are going to walk away right now,” Sherlock said slowly as he pulled out a gun. Ryan looked amused as he raised his hands and took a step back.
“You fire that gun and you’ll just get the Yard here. I bet they’re still itching to arrest you for those kids and having an illegal firearm will just make it all the funnier,” Ryan said and John coughed up some blood. “You might want to take care of him. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other soon.” Ryan turned and casually walked out onto the fire escape because he was so confident Sherlock would not shoot him. It was irritating because the last thing he needed was for the Yard to find out he was alive. Once Ryan was out of sight the assassin was the last thing on Sherlock’s mind as he knelt next to John. His face was bloodied, his breathing labored and when he coughed there was some blood. Sherlock’s blood ran cold when John’s eyes opened and focused on him.
“Knew you wouldn’t leave me,” John slurred. “Not sure if I like the blond though--”
“John, I--”
“--makes you look a little bit like a ponce.” John smiled as he reached forward with a bloody hand. Sherlock was unable think anything to do or say because John was smiling at him with blood stained teeth. So he did not react when those fingers threaded through his hair and Sherlock did not hesitate to lean forward when John pulled him into their first kiss. John's lips were split, the angle was all wrong and he tasted of blood yet it was still perfect, absolutely perfect, because they were finally kissing. It was over far too quickly and Sherlock pressed their foreheads together. He had so much to say, millions of things running through his head but John was slipping into unconsciousness. It had to wait, it all had to wait, and that was frustrating.
+++
John was getting annoyed by the EMT that would not stop poking him. He was well aware that he was hurt, quite badly, but all he really needed was to sleep for a week. He just needed to heal despite the fact that he knew for a fact that he should be dead. For the second time in two days someone had saved his life but did not stay. Sally said that one of the tenants heard a knock on their door and found him bleeding all over their mat. John knew he took several blows on the head but several images would not leave his mind. Hallucinating Sherlock made sense but hallucinating Sherlock with blond hair made no sense. Mycroft was on his way no doubt and Lestrade was insisting he wait for a ride. He was free to go but it would make things easier to just wait and John was content to wait until he saw a flash of curly blond hair and a familiar hunch of shoulders. Something made his blood run cold as this person was walking away, something that made John forget his injuries and shove the protesting members of the Scotland Yard aside.
"Sherlock," John whispered. Sherlock, it was him it had to be, was ahead of him by a decent distance and he was moving slow because of the injuries but none of that mattered. Sherlock turned a corner and John followed but came to an empty side street. "Sherlock, I know that was you. Come out, we can finish all of this together. We are better together, don't you see that? We need each other. Please, I need you."
"John," a voice behind him said. John turned and Mycroft was walking toward him.
"He's alive, Mycroft, I saw him. I know I did," John said breathlessly but Mycroft just looked sad.
"John, Sherlock is dead. You know that," Mycroft said slowly.
"But I saw him. I saw him and we--" Johm cut himself and felt like a fool. Of course he was seeing Sherlock he probably had a concussion.
"You what?" Mycroft asked but John shook his head. It was not real so it did not matter.
"Nothing, it was nothing, and you're right." John clenched his fists and hated himself so much for believing the lie. "I'm hallucinating so I should go to the hospital. A ride would be greatly appreciated."
"Of course," Mycroft said and John forgave him a little for not offering a helping hand. While he was sure the elder Holmes noticed he did not want to show just how badly he was shaking.
+++
Sherlock stayed hidden behind the bins and waited for Mycroft to leave with John. He could not believe he had been stupid enough to be spotted but he had to make sure that John was okay.
"I'm better with you," Sherlock whispered because he missed John more than he could bare. John's blood was on his shirt and Sherlock closed his coat tightly to hide it. John was with Mycroft and that meant he was safe for now. The blood on his shirt, his hand, in his hair made a rage wash over him unlike anything Sherlock had ever experienced before. John was safe but only for now and that had to change. The weight of the gun in his jacket was suddenly the focus of his entire world. For now, only for now, and that was going to change.
It took Sherlock less than an hour to find Ryan. The man was in a dark alley on the wrong side of town looking far too smug. Whatever he was going to say Sherlock did not want to hear it. He had had enough and he shot Ryan in the leg with absolutely no hesitation. Conveniently a horn had honked drowned out the sound and Sherlock mentally thanked Mycroft because he did not believe in coincidences. He walked slowly toward the man writhing on the ground gun raised.
"Give me your phone or I'll shoot your other knee," Sherlock said holding out his hand. Ryan's hand trembled but he handed Sherlock the phone. "Thank you. Now, tell me the number of your handler."
"You won't be able to find him through that," Ryan said through his teeth.
"Obviously, but tell it to me anyway." Ryan glared and slashed at Sherlock with a knife. He made contact and the wound on his stomach burned but it did not matter. Sherlock kicked Ryan in the mess of what used to be his knee. The man howled in pain but told him the number. "That's a good man. Now, do you know what your mistake was?"
"Thinking you're dead?"
"Not just that. You assumed no one would care if you killed John Watson. You should research your targets better," Sherlock replied evenly.
"Whatever you think you're going to accomplish from beyond the grave it won't work. There are bigger forces at work here, bigger than you can imagine, and you're one man against an army. What do you think you can do?"
"An army minus one soldier." Sherlock pulled the trigger and relished in the splash of warm blood. He did not look back as he turned and walked away from the body. Sherlock typed in a few more numbers of people that he knew were part of Moriarty's organization and typed a text message.
This is the only warning you will receive; I am coming for you, all of you, and you should be afraid. Know one thing and only from here on out: John Watson is protected. Anyone who lays a hand on him will meet a swift end. There will be no forgiveness concerning this matter; he is protected. Catch you later. -SH
Author: safaiagem / bloody-hellfire
Artist: draloreshimare here
Word Count: 9,265
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, esemble cast, OC's
Warnings violence
Summary: He was just John Watson now that Sherlock was gone, ordinary, boring, so why was someone trying to kill him?
Notes: Written for the sherlockrebang. I have been stalling for the last three hours to post this. I just, ugh, I feel like I should add a warning for potential OOC because I got the characters so wrong. The art is fantastic please go, like, love on it or something. Love goes to amphoterrible for jumping in and editing for me at the last minute and epistolic for her support and convincing me to do this at all. Copyright blah blah. Have a fic.
World on Fire
Every day it gets a little easier. That was not to say that things were ‘good’ or that they were ‘better’ but every day it got a little easier. John was quick to smile and nod whenever anyone asked how he was doing. Not that many did these days because Sherlock’s suicide was no longer the center of attention now that the X-Factor was back on television. Harry made an effort and even stayed with him for a few days after he watched his best friend kill himself. They both got hellaciously drunk and she rubbed his back while he puked his guts out. Thankfully, Harry did not ask why John was reacting so violently to the death of a friend and left after a week when it became obvious that they were both going to drink themselves into oblivion if she didn’t. She still called or texted frequently but John was not quick to divulge too much information.
Lestrade stopped by while Harry was still visiting but she sent him away. John overheard most of the fight and the things that Harry said were cruel but not untrue. She blamed Lestrade and the entire Yard for pushing Sherlock to a point where he felt he had to take his own life. A good friend, or even a good man, would have gone down and defended Lestrade’s actions but John was already half a bottle of whiskey in and did not feel up to lying. After Harry left Lestrade turned up a few other times over the course of the last six months. They did not speak much and John was in no hurry to forgive Greg either. Lestrade emailed once a week and John responded because it would have been rude not to.
Sally Donovan showed up after two months. John tried not to think of that night too often. It involved a lot of yelling and a door being slammed in her face. He never apologized for it but it was not exactly his proudest moment.
Mycroft followed him back to the flat after the funeral. They sat in silence for almost two hours before the elder Holmes revealed that he would continue to pay Sherlock’s rent and John was welcome to stay in 221B. John pointed out that it was the least he could do after handing over Sherlock’s entire story to a madman. If John was truly honest with himself he blamed Mycroft most of all but it seemed pointless in the end. It was not like he could beat the British government. Mycroft did not look so smug as he sat there, maybe even rattled and human, which is what kept John from punching him in the face despite how tempting it was. Mycroft did not call, email or text but John caught cameras following his movements when he walked down the street. He ignored them.
Molly was the one, besides Mrs. Hudson, that he saw the most of. She came by once or twice a week to make him dinner. They talk about Sherlock mostly and the little things he would do. Molly told him how she worked up the courage all day to ask Sherlock for coffee and he did not pick up on it. It made John smile because that was exactly something that Sherlock would do. Molly was an excellent cook and he enjoyed her company. She was one of the few that made him laugh in the last six months. She was part of the reason that things were getting easier and when he told her so after one too many glasses of wine she looked oddly sad.
It was six months to the day and Molly was supposed to come over to cook again. She had canceled rather suddenly, cited worked, and John realized he had no food in the flat at all. Angelo’s was still open and John pulled on a light jacket as he walked outside. No one paid him much attention though one or two people did a double take when they passed him. People knew his face but no one was willing to try and talk to him. They did not want to push the man that was close to Sherlock Holmes. Anyone who was with friends with Sherlock Holmes must be insane. John kept his head down and tried to ignore the people that looked at him just a tad too long. They were watching, waiting, for the sidekick of the great Sherlock Holmes to throw himself off a building as well.
John was too busy trying to blend into the brickwork that he completely missed a crack in the sidewalk and tripped. He felt like an idiot for only a second because the sound of a gunshot made him nearly jump out of his skin. The bullet was close, it had barely missed him, and had shattered the brick. People began to scream and run in all directions and John ducked into an alleyway. Another shot fired just as he ducked behind a rubbish bin. Pain exploded on his arm but John barely felt it. Sherlock had enemies, Moriarty was still out there, but John could not figure out for the life of him why someone would want to kill him now. Another shot rang out but John kept his head down. He did not have his pistol on him and he could have kicked himself for that.
Sirens were fast approaching but John did not move from his spot behind the bin. Someone nearby was crying, had someone been caught in the line of fire? He was suddenly conflicted with his soldier telling him not to be drawn out into the open and the doctor that could not let someone die. Grinding his teeth together John looked around the bin and saw a woman holding her shoulder. The wound was a through and through on the right shoulder which made his stomach sink a little. The same as his. Against his better instinct John left his hiding place and knelt in front of the woman.
“You’re going to be okay, I’m a doctor, you’re going to be okay,” he reassured and she nodded through tears. John kept pressure on the wound and ignored the burn in his arm.
“You’re bleeding,” she whispered.
“I’ll be okay too.” John flashed his best smile and the woman whimpered as the sirens approached. They were close and all he could do was wait, hoping that no one took another shot at him.
+++
The graze on his arm required five stitches which was not bad considering how close a bullet came to going through his skull. Lestrade was waiting outside the ambulance as they patched him up.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital, John?” the EMT asked for the third time. The lad knew him from when Sherlock had fallen, been the one to hold him back and tend to his own injuries, and for some reason that meant they were on a first name basis.
“For the third time, I just got grazed I’m fine,” John insisted. The EMT wrapped the wound and John climbed out of the ambulance.
“How are you feeling?” Lestrade asked.
“I’m good enough to come down to the station and answer whatever questions you want to ask me,” John replied. Sally was standing nearby looking over the blood on the sidewalk from the woman with Anderson. They both glanced at him but looked away quickly.
“Someone took a shot at you, John, getting out of the open is probably the best idea,” Lestrade said, going for reasonable.
“Someone once told me that when an assassin isn’t shooting straight it means they aren’t really trying to hit you,” John replied. “If they were still here I’d be dead by now.” That seemed to make Lestrade deeply uncomfortable for some reason but John looked gestured to the apartment building across the street. “That is the best vantage point judging by the angle of the shots, have you checked up there?”
“Let’s go somewhere else to talk?” Lestrade’s words were a suggestions but his tone bore no argument which annoyed John for some reason. They walked over to the squad car and they road in relative silence through the busy London streets. “How are you holding up these days?”
“Aside from getting shot at? I’m fine,” John replied. The rest of the ride passed in silence until they got to Lestrade’s office. Lestrade sat down and opened a notebook pen in hand.
“So what happened?”
“I was walking down the street to get dinner. The first bullet was probably meant for my head and it was dumb luck that I tripped and it missed. Probably took a few hairs off of my head. I ducked behind the bins and they fired two more shots on me one of which grazed my arm. I saw the woman who had been caught in the line of fire and I assisted her until you lot arrived. That’s it,” John explained evenly.
“Have you had any threatening calls? Emails? Has anyone out of the ordinary contacted you at all?” Lestrade asked without looking up.
“Moriarty is out there somewhere still,” John said and he watched as Lestrade froze mid sentence. “Sherlock is already dead so maybe he’s decided that I should be too. He did strap a bomb to me. Do we still agree that that really happened or did we make it up?”
“John--”
“Greg, I don’t have anything else to say because I don’t know why or who took a shot at me. That is for you to figure out. I’m just a simply ex-army doctor now.” John’s arm was beginning to ache and he hated the feeling of all the Yard staring at him. Lestrade put his pen down and folded his hands on his desk.
“We’ll be in touch,” he said. “And please be careful, John, I don’t want to bury another friend.”
“You were all too ready to condemn him, why is burial any different?” John did not wait for a response before he took his jacket and walked out of the office. Sally was watching him, she looked like she wanted to say something, but John glared at her. He did not hate Sally but he did not want to deal with her either. Right now he just wanted to get back to Baker Street and sleep with a gun under his pillow.
+++
Six days later
John had been asleep for exactly fifty-seven minutes when his mobile began to ring. For half a moment he contemplated just letting it go to voice mail but people so rarely called him that it must have been important. John reached over and blinked to see Lestrade’s name flashing at him. It had been six days since someone had taken a shot at him and he had not heard anything from the yard.
“Hello?”
“John, I need to speak with you,” Lestrade replied bypassing any sort of greeting.
“I can stop by in four hours minimum,” John replied.
“No, you need to come in now, this is important.” Lestrade hesitated. “Do I need to send over some officers?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll be there in twenty minutes if it’s so important.”
“It is. See you in twenty.” Lestrade hung up and John rolled onto his back groaning. He was suddenly reminded of staying up all night with Sherlock working on a case. It made his stomach twist into a tight knot but he ignored it. The last thing he needed right now was someone snapping a picture of him getting arrested.
Twenty minutes later John strolled into Scotland Yard and waited for someone to buzz him up. His hair was a mess and he knew he looked like he had just rolled out of bed. Lestrade had seen him after two days with no sleep so John did not let the looks from the rest of the yard bother him. Lestrade was waiting for him in his office when John walked in.
“Take a seat,” Lestrade said as John sat down. The detective inspector pushed two pictures forward. “What do you see?” John raised an eyebrow and looked down at the photos.
“Bullet striations from the same gun it looks like. Why are you showing me this? I’m not Sherlock, I can’t help you solve something,” John replied.
“The one on the left we got out of the rubbish bin the night you were shot. The one on the right we pulled out of a body early this morning,” Lestrade replied as he pulled out another set of pictures. One was of a mug shot of a young man, clean cut features, dark hair, glaring at the camera, and the other was the same man with a bullet hole between his eyes. “His name is Duncan Jones and he’s a well known gun for hire. Those bullet striations match almost twenty unsolved murders and those are just the ones that we can find.”
“You think this is the guy that tried to kill me?” John asked without looking up. “And now he’s dead by what appears to be his own gun?”
“We found him at three in the morning last night and he’d been dead only an hour. Less than a week after taking a shot at you he’s killed with his own gun by someone with a sure and steady hand. Odd, don’t you think?” There was something in Lestrade’s voice that made John look up from the photos and narrow his eyes.
“Greg, we’ve known each other for going on two years now. I would appreciate it if you would be frank with me,” John replied.
“Very well; where were you at one this morning?” Lestrade asked firmly.
“The reason I was so reluctant to come in today is because I had only been asleep for an hour. At ten thirty last night Sarah called to ask me to work at a twenty four hour clinic across town. They were desperate because one of their doctors had called in and she was was busy so she phoned me. I could use the extra money. At one in the morning I was stitching up two blokes who decided to see what would happen if they hit each other over the head with beer bottles. I was there until eight and got back to Baker Street a little after nine. I’m sure you have ways of verifying my story by calling the clinic. Does that answer your question?” It was the most John had said to anyone in a single sitting in six months and it was a little gratifying to watch Lestrade’s face as he explained how he did not murder his would be assassin.
“I’m just covering all of my bases--”
“He is an assassin. I would think an assassin would have enemies, correct? This doesn’t seem like that hard of a case. Can I go home and get some sleep now?” The two men stared at each other for a moment until Lestrade sighed.
“Keep in touch, all right? This guy tried to kill you but he was a gun for hire which means someone hired him. Remember that.”
“I will.” John stood and walked out of Lestrade’s office. He was almost out the door when he heard someone calling his name. He turned to see Sally walking toward him. “What can I do for you Sergeant Donovan?”
“Your whereabouts are accounted for last night, yeah?” she asked.
“Ask Lestrade; I’ve already given my statement. Something bothering you?”
“I just find it odd that he turns up dead after going after you. Coroner's report says that someone killed him without hesitating. Someone who has experience with killing.” Sally narrowed her eyes. “You were friends with a man who tried to kill two kids. I just have to wonder what kind of person that is.”
“I look forward to the day you have any sort of evidence against me, Sally. Until then I’m going to get some sleep. Have a lovely day.” John turned and walked out of the Yard without waiting for a response. Sally Donovan and half the Yard were still convinced that Sherlock was guilty. Until they believed otherwise, he was either an accomplice or someone who looked the other way. John could not deny the fact that Lestrade was right, someone had hired Duncan Jones to kill him, and that was not something he could ignore. “Time to call in a favor,” John said to himself as he hailed a cab.
+++
One Week Earlier...
Sherlock did not want to be in London. His hair was dyed blond and shorter, he wore casual clothes, but as Irene pointed out he did have some very distinguishing cheekbones. Sherlock did not really want to get surgery because this would be over someday but if he had to stay in London for longer than a few days he might not have a choice. There was a rumor that a few of Moriarty’s minions were in the city still and Sherlock did not want to leave again without making sure London was safe. Mycroft could only do so much against an organization like Moriarty’s so that left Sherlock to pick up the pieces. Which he was fine with, it was what he left to do, but he had also hoped that London was a place he could check off.
The streets were busy despite the early morning and Sherlock kept his head down. Out of the corner of his eye he could see cameras following his every move and it took some serious control to not flip one of them off. Mycroft irritated him more than any other human being and all he had heard in the last six months was ‘when are you going to stop this nonsense?’ like it mattered to him at all what Sherlock was doing with his life. Sherlock turned a corner and nearly took his older brother out.
“Oh, pardon me,” Mycroft said brushing off his suit.
“Why are you talking to me?” because this could ruin everything he had worked for, everything. Mycroft turned and walked back toward a car climbing in. Sherlock debated about walking away and dealing with it later but Mycroft would not come get him unless it was important. Sherlock sighed and climbed into the car closing the door behind him. “Allow me to ask again, why are you talking to me?”
“You said to contact you if something important came up. You ignored the cameras and you don’t have a phone, how would you like me to contact you?” Mycroft asked.
“London isn’t safe for me. I was going to look into a few leads and go on my way.”
“You’re right; London isn’t safe right now,” Mycroft said and he was being overly dramatic again to the point that Sherlock really just did not want to deal with it anymore.
“Could you stop the car? I don’t want to listen to you anymore.” Sherlock turned to tell the driver.
“London thinks you’re dead, you are perfectly safe in London.” That got Sherlock’s attention and he turned to look at his brother. Mycroft looked deeply irritated which never boded well for anyone. “Last night someone tried to kill John Watson.” Sherlock’s blood ran cold as his entire world suddenly narrowed. Now it made sense that there were leads in London; Moriarty wanted John dead, he had always wanted John dead, and even from beyond the grave he was going to assure that.
“You were supposed to keep him safe.” Sherlock knew he sounded angry and he was furious but not at Mycroft. His brother could not do everything, he knew that logically, but Mycroft was also the only person outside of Molly that he could be angry with.
“I can’t drop everything to watch one man, Sherlock, and you know that. I will get you what you need on this case. When is all of this going to be finished?” Mycroft asked.
“When it’s done.”
+++
Once the crime tape was gone and Lestrade was nowhere to be found Sherlock wandered around the area where someone had tried to kill John. He found the spot where the bullet had barely missed his friend and how a crack in the street was truly the only reason that John was alive. It was not like John to be distracted like that and Sherlock was thankful for whatever had him so distracted. He managed to deduce where the shooter was easily but there was not any evidence left by the yard. There was nothing of substance that was going to help Sherlock find this person. He had to depend on whatever Mycroft could find and that annoyed him. He distracted himself by following John around as much as he could from a distance. John looked a little lost and the bandage on his arm was visible through his shirts. He did not go much of anywhere and had few visitors. Sherlock longed to get closer, to really see John, because there was only so much he could deduce from a distance.
John was hurt but from something far worse than a graze on his arm.
+++
A week after someone took a shot at John Mycroft called and told Sherlock he had a name and possible location of the shooter. After the shooting Sherlock had broken down and gotten a prepaid phone but only because he needed to know what was going on with John's shooter. Sherlock started to ask where Mycroft could have gotten this information but his brother cut him off sharply. “Accept this information for what it is. This man is a professional and he will try again. If you care about John even a little you will find a way to stop him.” Sherlock looked at his phone and clenched it tightly. A picture appeared of a man, American, with sharp lines and a dead look in his eye. His name was Duncan Jones and he was a gun for hire. From his picture Sherlock could have told you how this man reacted to his first kill but that was not important. Right now he had to go confront a killer and that meant covering his bases.
Sherlock knew that the Yard, or a portion of it, did not look at John favorably. They did not trust the man that defended a suspect in the attempted murder of children. There were those that suspected John was responsible for the death of the cabbie two years prior and others that ended up dead in their wake. Even if these people were later confirmed killers people did not take kindly to someone taking the law into their own hands. They would suspect John if something happened to Duncan Jones.
There was a clinic across town that would need a doctor on call if someone should call out. It took Sherlock less than an hour to deduce which one of the doctors was having the affair and which ones would call out to keep it hidden. He called Sarah Sawyer who would call John. By midnight John would be at work until the sun came up with a solid alibi. He was safe from the Yard and Sherlock double checked his gun because now it was time to keep him safe from a mad man.
Duncan Jones was in the pub that John used to frequent, drinking a beer and watching football. He looked up as soon as Sherlock opened the door and raised an eyebrow.
“I’m going to need a shot of Jameson and my tab, thanks,” Duncan said without taking his eyes off of Sherlock. He toasted the shot, paid his tab and brushed by Sherlock with the obvious implication that Sherlock would follow. They were in a dark alley when Duncan turned and smiled broadly. “Aren’t you supposed to be dead? Could have sworn I read about that somewhere.”
“You are going to leave John Watson alone,” Sherlock said evenly and Duncan had the gaul to just laugh.
“Are you going to threaten me? There is nothing you can say that will make me turn down a job because that’s all this is to me; a job. I was hired to put a bullet in John Watson’s head and that’s what I’m going to do.” Duncan pointed a finger at Sherlock and mouthed ‘bang.’ “Don’t worry though, I won’t shoot you.”
“Why wouldn’t you? I’m supposed to be dead.” Sherlock could feel the heavy weight of the gun in his jacket and he knew he was keeping it hidden. He could also see that Duncan was armed and making no attempts to hide it.
“Because you’re not my target. I’m a simple man, Mr. Holmes. My employers tell me who to shoot, I shoot them and I get paid. I was hired to kill Doctor John Watson if he was not already dead within six months of you dying. That’s all I need to know,” Duncan explained while rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “I was going to make it quick but now that you’re here to watch the show, I don’t think I will. He got lucky and I missed. I don’t like missing.”
“If you continue to threaten John Watson I will take action.” Sherlock mentally calculated the odds of Duncan shooting him and decided that the man was not lying when he said that Sherlock was not the job so he would not kill him. However, Sherlock could also read that Duncan was not going to leave John alive because John was the job. Duncan smiled and slowly walked forward.
“I heard all about you from the boss. He liked you and you seem interesting but you aren’t my problem. The one that can deal with you is still in the shadows, helping run all of this, and now I can report to him that you are the one trying to shut his operation down.” Duncan stopped in front of Sherlock and smiled brightly. “You walked in here thinking you could talk me out of this somehow but there is nothing you can say or do to convince me to walk away.” Sherlock’s mind felt like it got hit by lightning and he knew, he knew, that Duncan was not lying. He was not going to walk away and there was nothing he could say to convince this man otherwise.
Sherlock also knew that Duncan did not think he would kill him either. While Sherlock was not overly fond of the idea of taking another life there was no doubt that he would kill for John Watson. He would burn cities to the ground if it meant that John was safe and some American kid was not going to be the one to take all of that away. Without hesitating Sherlock punched Duncan in the stomach. The assassin was surprised, and if Sherlock was honest he was also drunk, and the blow was enough to get Duncan’s gun out of his pocket. He raised the gun to Duncan’s forehead and waited for some sort of reaction but the man merely smiled.
Sherlock pulled the trigger and the feeling of Duncan’s blood on his clothes was appalling. The assassin collapsed to the ground, an ugly bullet hole between his eyes and Sherlock did not care because John was safe. Moriarty said he would burn the heart out of him but as Sherlock watched the last of the life fade from Duncan Jones’ eyes he realized that he would burn the world for John Watson. And he was okay with that.
+++
John lost count of how many times he got put on hold before he was finally put in touch with Mycroft. He knew that calling the brother of his dead flatmate who was not even his friend was going to take time but he did not think Mycroft would string him along this much. He supposed he should have known better.
“John, what a surprise to hear from you. How are you?” Mycroft asked though John knew that small talk was not going to last long.
“You know how I’ve been Mycroft and that’s why I’m calling. I need your help,” John paused. “Someone tried to kill me last week. You know where there is a gun for hire there is someone that hired them. I need to find out who that is.” There was an uneasy silence followed and for half a moment John thought that Mycroft had hung up on him.
“I will do what I can and nothing more,” Mycroft replied. “Try to keep yourself safe. My brother would find a way to haunt me if anything ever happened to you under my watch.” For some reason that statement made John’s stomach clench with dread and he was thankful that no one was nearby to see his expression.
“Thank you.” They exchanged a few more words and John hung up. He received an email within the hour that was just the police report. He looked over the pictures of the man that tried to kill him, who he was, and how much he wished Sherlock was here because he would have solved this already. John ran his fingers through his hair roughly and closed his eyes. He was a little afraid if he was honest with himself. He did not want to die and the thought that someone was willing to pay an assassin to kill him made John uncomfortable. He was just John Watson and no one special now that he was alone. John clicked on the the picture and looked at the face of the man that tried to kill him and thought why?
+++
For two days John poured himself into the case. He was briefly reminded of Sherlock and how he would obsess for days over this but his life was on the line so he cut himself some slack. He called out of work and Sarah let him because Sarah always let him these days. She seemed to know when he needed time and was willing to give it to him. In theory they should have worked out as a perfect couple but nothing ever came from it. That was fine and she accepted him as a friend. It was also useful for those weeks that he could barely get out of bed after Sherlock jumped and she did not fire him on the spot. He wished Sherlock was here because he was getting absolutely nowhere with any of this.
“What do you mean you don’t have CCTV footage of the murder? You’re the government, I thought you saw everything,” John said to Mycroft over the phone.
“These people knew where to stand so no one saw anything. That was the point; no one was supposed to see what was happening. I’m sure you can understand why the murderer would not want that to happen,” Mycroft replied without missing a beat. “I have also received word that the Yard is once again looking to you for this despite your alibi. Some of them are convinced that you did this somehow.”
“I’m not worried about the Yard; I’m more worried about when these people are going to try and kill me again. Not to mention I’d like to find out who killed my would be assassin. These seem much more important than the Yard trying to convict me of something I didn’t do.” John paused as he looked at his third cup of coffee in the last four hours. He was tired and he was not really being fair to the man that could have just told him to sod off.
“You don’t have to apologize to me John,” Mycroft said suddenly because apparently having Holmes as a last name meant that one gained telepathic abilities. “I have a file on Duncan Jones I was able to get from a contact of mine in the American government. Perhaps you should come by and pick it up.”
“I’ll be there in a little while. Thank you,” John replied and hung up without waiting for a response. Any information would be good because right now all he had was information on Duncan which did him no good. John pulled on his jacket, locked up the flat and hailed a cab. Anything that Mycroft could give him might help.
If anyone asked him later on John would admit that he was not paying attention. The sun had just gone down and the cab was going down a side street when it stopped for no real reason. He was about to complain and say that he was in a hurry when the door opened and someone nearly threw him out of the cab. John grunted when his back hit the pavement hard and he barely heard the cab peel away because someone cracked him hard across the temple. The stars of the night danced in front of his eyes but John managed to swing wildly striking someone. The person grunted in pain but punched John in the stomach. As he struggled to regain his breath when two large hands clamped around his neck.
His lungs burned as he struggled to get any sort of oxygen. He kicked, punched, struggled but one hand left just long enough to hit him again. It was dark and John could not see the face of the person attacking, killing, him and they were silent as they held him down. The world was beginning to cloud around the edges and John’s limbs were beginning to feel heavy. He had seconds left before this person strangled him to death and as he sank into oblivion all he could think was Sherlock.
+++
Sherlock could not make himself run any faster. It had taken a few days but he had finally tracked down the second assassin the city, the one that was going to kill John, but now he was not sure if he was going to get there in time. As soon as he realized that the assassin was going to make his move tonight John was halfway across London to go see Mycroft. The guards were already dead and no one was watching, no one would see, if the the light faded John Watson’s eyes. He was lie there dead like he didn’t matter when he did.
He turned the corner and only hesitated for a moment when he saw the assassin, Ryan Tate, leaning over the far too still body of John. Ryan was a young man, fresh out of the military and a wicked grin that he flashed the moment he saw Sherlock. Ryan released John and bolted down the alleyway. It would take weeks to find him, if he could ever find him, but Sherlock stopped short when he realized John was not breathing on his own.
“Never going to stop us if you don’t take some initiative!” Ryan called from down the alleyway as he vanished from sight. The logical thing was to follow, stop that man, but John’s lips were blue. Sherlock dropped to his knees and checked John’s pulse. It was absent and his lips were beginning to turn blue. Sherlock ignored the voices screaming in his head as he tilted John’s head back and began CPR. Two compressions in and he felt a rib crack under his hands and He was lucky, they were lucky, because it only took a few compression for John to gasp for breath. Sherlock turned John on his side as he struggled to regain his breath and watched for only a moment. He could not stay, he hated this so much, John was hurt and had almost died but he could not stay here.
So he left John in that dark alleyway, following after Ryan knowing he was long gone, and phoning Mycroft. He put in an anonymous tip with the Yard that someone was hurt and an ambulance was needed as he glanced over his shoulder. John’s breathing was evening out, he was going to be fine Sherlock knew that, and because of that knowledge he turned the corner and left.
+++
John took the ice pack from Mycroft and held it to his neck. The bruises were going to be dark and ugly but at least he was alive. The last thing he remembered was someone strangling him and the next thing he was knew he was lying on his side gasping for breath. Someone had given him CPR, he could feel the dull pain in his chest from the compressions, but whoever they were they had left him alone. He could not figure out what kind of person saves someone but leaves them alone in a darkened alleyway like that. It made no sense logically.
“How are you feeling, John?” Mycroft asked as he sat down across the table.
“I’ve been better,” John replied noting that it sounded like he tried to swallow glass. There was a twitch in the corner of Mycroft’s mouth which was as close to sympathy as he was going to get. “This is worse than I thought.”
“Yes, you aren’t safe. Whoever tried to kill you killed my guards first. I don’t know how I’m going to be able to explain all of that to their families,” Mycroft said. “You should stay with me. There isn’t anywhere safer than here.”
“Duncan had a partner.” John placed the ice pack down and looked over the paperwork.
“Yes, he did, and it seems that he is going to finish the job so you should stay here,” Mycroft repeated. John was about to argue when the door opened and Anthea walked in carrying a phone.
“For you, sir,” she said without looking at John. Mycroft picked up the phone and stepped off to the side. John did not really care whatever secrets Mycroft was sharing and ignored the brief conversation to look over the information on Duncan. There was no name, no face, no nothing for his partner. That still did not solve the problem of finding out who was paying these two men in the first place. He hardly noticed when Mycroft sat down next to him he was paying too much attention to the file.
“Two bodies were found by the Yard last night three blocks from where you were attacked. Their names were John Reagen and Larry Watson,” Mycroft said slowly and John felt his blood run cold. “Your new friend is trying to send you a message, Doctor.”
“Obviously,” John muttered as he put down the file. “I can’t go into hiding if he’s still killing people. I have to face this.” John stood and began to gather the files. “Get me everything you can on this man right away.” Mycroft nodded slowly and did not stand up from the table. He was not going to stop John from leaving the safety of the house because he knew it was not going to work. There was no way John could sit back and wait as people died in his name. If it meant that he needed to go out there and face his assassin then he would. “I need a gun.”
“Of course.” Mycroft stood and removed a small handgun and an ankle holster. “I’m assuming you will not mention where you received that weapon if you are caught with it.” John glared at Mycroft as he fixed the gun and did not respond. Instead he snatched the files and walked quickly out of the house. There was a car waiting for him and he took it without thinking twice. If someone managed to kidnap him off of Mycroft’s doorstep then they probably deserved to be the one that killed him.
Mrs. Hudson made a fuss when she saw his neck and made him dinner to ‘make him feel better.’ It did not really make him feel better but it did give him more time to pour into the files. A name began to appear more than others, Ryan Tate, him and Duncan were in boot camp and served together. Not much seemed to be available about Ryan Tate and his whereabouts were unknown. John opened his laptop and began to do some basic googling on Ryan Tate. He was mentioned online in quite a few places. Apparently he was a smart kid, was going places, and up and joined the marines despite looking like someone who should have been an academic. His career was barely mentioned and it seemed like he dropped off the face of the planet as of three years ago. John went to pick up his phone to call Mycroft when it rang. The number was blocked which was odd because anyone who called him did not have blocked numbers.
“Hello?” John answered.
“Hello John I see you’ve been looking into me,” an American voice said over the line and John froze. His internet was supposed to be secure.
“Ryan Tate I presume?”
“You can presume indeed. I’m assuming that you know where we stand right. We need to have a chat about important matters,” Ryan replied. “I could make some sort of threat but you’re going to come out of some misguided sense of honor. Come unarmed, don’t call the police or the senior Holmes, and meet me three blocks over third floor on the apartment building.” The line went dead and clenched his fists. He did not want to deal with this anymore, he was so sick of all this, because all the running and chasing bad guys in the world didn’t matter anymore. He looked at Mrs. Hudson, about how him being here could put her in danger, and it made him physically ill.
“I need to run out, Mrs. Hudson,” John said standing. His gun felt heavy and he knew that Ryan would notice it if he kept it. “Mycroft just called and he thinks he found something that could help me trace the gentlemen that want me dead.”
“Oh, then I’ll put a plate together for you,” she said kissing him on the cheek. “Are you going to be all right? Your neck looks dreadful.”
“Yes, I’ll be fine. Just make sure the door locks behind me, yeah?” John said flashing his best smile. Mrs. Hudson nodded and John dropped his gun in the desk on the way out of the flat. The air was cool when he walked outside and John briefly pondered how this was not how he planned to die. In Afghanistan alone in the dirt or with Sherlock but not like this. John walked slowly down the road until he came to the apartment building. The door was open and John could hear other people moving amongst the flats. There were people here, families, and they were at risk.
The door at the end of the hall had a note on it that said ‘come in!’ which John took as a hint. He desperately wished he was armed, would have given anything for it, but he was not weak and he clenched a tight fist ready to swing at a moments notice. John pushed the door in and walked carefully into the flat.
In his defense it had only been a few short hours since someone had tried to strangle him so that seemed like a decent excuse as to why he was blindsided by a two by four. The right side of his head felt like it was on fire and the world swam. A foot rolled him over and he looked into the clear blue eyes of Ryan Tate who looked furious.
"Nice to meet you face to face Doctor Watson. Sorry about the two by four but I didn't want to take any chances," Ryan said as if that was obvious but John was having trouble seeing straight.
"Who are you working for?" John asked and Ryan smiled.
"Six months ago my partner and I were hired to kill you. If you weren't dead six months after your friend took the swan dive we were supposed to kill you. Duncan thought it was going to be easy but I guess he didn't count on you." Ryan knelt down and John could see the insanity in this man's eyes and the white knuckle grip he had on the two by four. "He didn't count on you killing him."
"I didn't kill your partner," John said which was apparently the wrong thing to say because Ryan punched him in the ribs hard enough that John swore he heard them crack.
"Lie to me again and it'll be with the board next time," Ryan warned. “Now I’m not going to ask if you’ve lost anyone because I know you have. I know you know the pain I’m feeling from losing a partner, your other half, but there’s a problem. See, Duncan was the ‘you’ part of this formula. I’m the smart one, the vengeful one, the one that is going to make this hurt. You were always going to die, Doctor Watson, but the second you killed my partner you changed the game. It’s going to be slow now and there is nothing you can do to stop it.” Ryan did not give John a moment to think or let it sink in that was he was going to die slowly when he hit him in the ribs with the board. It hurt but John only barely felt it. He barely felt the punch to his face and he barely tasted the blood. John knew he was going to die and all he could do was close his eyes and accept it.
+++
Sherlock was not sure how long John had been missing but even a few minutes could not bode well. Mycroft said that he lost track of the other man a little over an hour ago but that did not mean anything. Sherlock closed his eyes and opened his mind. From what he knew about Ryan Tate he knew that this mad man would take John somewhere populated to keep John from escalating. Sherlock was not sure what it was about the building that caught his eye but the next thing he knew he was running up the stairs. There was a note on the door that said ‘come in!’ and that was all the invitation he needed. Sherlock opened the door and froze.
John was still on the ground covered in blood with Ryan holding a bloody board in hand. The assassin raised an eyebrow when Sherlock walked in but did not drop the board. He did not try to run he just stood there.
“Ah, I see, I couldn’t tell who you were at first, but I see it now. You’re supposed to be dead,” Ryan said. He dropped the board onto John’s chest and John grunted in his pain.
“You are going to walk away right now,” Sherlock said slowly as he pulled out a gun. Ryan looked amused as he raised his hands and took a step back.
“You fire that gun and you’ll just get the Yard here. I bet they’re still itching to arrest you for those kids and having an illegal firearm will just make it all the funnier,” Ryan said and John coughed up some blood. “You might want to take care of him. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other soon.” Ryan turned and casually walked out onto the fire escape because he was so confident Sherlock would not shoot him. It was irritating because the last thing he needed was for the Yard to find out he was alive. Once Ryan was out of sight the assassin was the last thing on Sherlock’s mind as he knelt next to John. His face was bloodied, his breathing labored and when he coughed there was some blood. Sherlock’s blood ran cold when John’s eyes opened and focused on him.
“Knew you wouldn’t leave me,” John slurred. “Not sure if I like the blond though--”
“John, I--”
“--makes you look a little bit like a ponce.” John smiled as he reached forward with a bloody hand. Sherlock was unable think anything to do or say because John was smiling at him with blood stained teeth. So he did not react when those fingers threaded through his hair and Sherlock did not hesitate to lean forward when John pulled him into their first kiss. John's lips were split, the angle was all wrong and he tasted of blood yet it was still perfect, absolutely perfect, because they were finally kissing. It was over far too quickly and Sherlock pressed their foreheads together. He had so much to say, millions of things running through his head but John was slipping into unconsciousness. It had to wait, it all had to wait, and that was frustrating.
+++
John was getting annoyed by the EMT that would not stop poking him. He was well aware that he was hurt, quite badly, but all he really needed was to sleep for a week. He just needed to heal despite the fact that he knew for a fact that he should be dead. For the second time in two days someone had saved his life but did not stay. Sally said that one of the tenants heard a knock on their door and found him bleeding all over their mat. John knew he took several blows on the head but several images would not leave his mind. Hallucinating Sherlock made sense but hallucinating Sherlock with blond hair made no sense. Mycroft was on his way no doubt and Lestrade was insisting he wait for a ride. He was free to go but it would make things easier to just wait and John was content to wait until he saw a flash of curly blond hair and a familiar hunch of shoulders. Something made his blood run cold as this person was walking away, something that made John forget his injuries and shove the protesting members of the Scotland Yard aside.
"Sherlock," John whispered. Sherlock, it was him it had to be, was ahead of him by a decent distance and he was moving slow because of the injuries but none of that mattered. Sherlock turned a corner and John followed but came to an empty side street. "Sherlock, I know that was you. Come out, we can finish all of this together. We are better together, don't you see that? We need each other. Please, I need you."
"John," a voice behind him said. John turned and Mycroft was walking toward him.
"He's alive, Mycroft, I saw him. I know I did," John said breathlessly but Mycroft just looked sad.
"John, Sherlock is dead. You know that," Mycroft said slowly.
"But I saw him. I saw him and we--" Johm cut himself and felt like a fool. Of course he was seeing Sherlock he probably had a concussion.
"You what?" Mycroft asked but John shook his head. It was not real so it did not matter.
"Nothing, it was nothing, and you're right." John clenched his fists and hated himself so much for believing the lie. "I'm hallucinating so I should go to the hospital. A ride would be greatly appreciated."
"Of course," Mycroft said and John forgave him a little for not offering a helping hand. While he was sure the elder Holmes noticed he did not want to show just how badly he was shaking.
+++
Sherlock stayed hidden behind the bins and waited for Mycroft to leave with John. He could not believe he had been stupid enough to be spotted but he had to make sure that John was okay.
"I'm better with you," Sherlock whispered because he missed John more than he could bare. John's blood was on his shirt and Sherlock closed his coat tightly to hide it. John was with Mycroft and that meant he was safe for now. The blood on his shirt, his hand, in his hair made a rage wash over him unlike anything Sherlock had ever experienced before. John was safe but only for now and that had to change. The weight of the gun in his jacket was suddenly the focus of his entire world. For now, only for now, and that was going to change.
It took Sherlock less than an hour to find Ryan. The man was in a dark alley on the wrong side of town looking far too smug. Whatever he was going to say Sherlock did not want to hear it. He had had enough and he shot Ryan in the leg with absolutely no hesitation. Conveniently a horn had honked drowned out the sound and Sherlock mentally thanked Mycroft because he did not believe in coincidences. He walked slowly toward the man writhing on the ground gun raised.
"Give me your phone or I'll shoot your other knee," Sherlock said holding out his hand. Ryan's hand trembled but he handed Sherlock the phone. "Thank you. Now, tell me the number of your handler."
"You won't be able to find him through that," Ryan said through his teeth.
"Obviously, but tell it to me anyway." Ryan glared and slashed at Sherlock with a knife. He made contact and the wound on his stomach burned but it did not matter. Sherlock kicked Ryan in the mess of what used to be his knee. The man howled in pain but told him the number. "That's a good man. Now, do you know what your mistake was?"
"Thinking you're dead?"
"Not just that. You assumed no one would care if you killed John Watson. You should research your targets better," Sherlock replied evenly.
"Whatever you think you're going to accomplish from beyond the grave it won't work. There are bigger forces at work here, bigger than you can imagine, and you're one man against an army. What do you think you can do?"
"An army minus one soldier." Sherlock pulled the trigger and relished in the splash of warm blood. He did not look back as he turned and walked away from the body. Sherlock typed in a few more numbers of people that he knew were part of Moriarty's organization and typed a text message.
This is the only warning you will receive; I am coming for you, all of you, and you should be afraid. Know one thing and only from here on out: John Watson is protected. Anyone who lays a hand on him will meet a swift end. There will be no forgiveness concerning this matter; he is protected. Catch you later. -SH