One day we'll be standing round a body....
A short story which was meant to be shorter but then I'd never be able to get the picture out of my head and laid before your eyes.
Beta'ed (and vastly improved) by order_of_angels. Thanks for more than meets the eye.
It’s nice to have a Government with a human face, John thought as he answered the door, but why must it be the face of Mycroft Holmes?
“Well. It’s been a while.” Since when did you have time - or fancy - to venture near 221B just to visit my little self? John, always the gentleman, didn’t say this aloud. Mycroft, being one too, didn’t comment that he’d read it in his face all the same.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to your wedding, but with the situation in Syria...” John was for once glad for the existence of Syria; he’s had enough of down-the-nose looks from his brand new mother-in-law that day.
“So, given the situation in North Korea these days, what brought this on?”
“Moriarty’s dead.” The fact was dropped seemingly carelessly, like the third lump of sugar in his cup of tea.
“That’s... good news, I think. Your late brother would be pleased to hear it.” There are certain times when John deliberately forgets that he’s, in fact, a gentleman.
“You should have known that Moriarty’s organization was a hard nut to crack.”
Witnessing the signs of discomfort in Mycroft’s attitude was better than biscuits, so John decided for a second helping. “Took you over three years, I see.”
“I had my... best man working on it,” Mycroft cleared his throat carefully, “but last month... we lost any contact with him.”
Admiral Nelson in the middle of Trafalgar Square was able to look more in distress than the elder Holmes ever did, but yet John couldn’t help the feeling that Mycroft was actually distressed. Even, perhaps, worried.
“Have anyone contacted you? Any suspicious calls?”
“You’re the one with fondness of Bond style meetings,” John retorted light-heartedly. Any thrill over the dangerous or suspicious has been removed from his life so long ago that it felt like another life by now.
“Keep your eyes open, John.” The umbrella tapped the floor pointedly. “The danger might not be over yet.”
Which is why John wasn’t surprised at all when he saw a blocked number on his phone screen, an hour later.
But nothing could prepare him for the shock when a too familiar voice on the other end of the line said: “Tell me, John, what nonsense were you told by my dearest brother?”
***
This is a trap, every cell in John’s body was screaming, but he went on nonetheless, all the way through the side alley ‘til he was stopped by the iron bars of a gate. He couldn’t see much in the dark, but he remembered the place and he remembered the tall coated figure behind the bars.
“Why, Sherlock?” Million questions, but this was the most important.
“For you.” Thin line of cigarette smoke drifted through the cold night air, not disturbed by the low, detached voice. “To protect you. Moriarty gave me a choice: I jump or you get killed.”
“You anticipated it,” John was surprised to have deduced that. “You should have told me.”
“Moriarty’s men soon figured out that I hadn’t jumped to my death. They kept watch ever since in case I came back to you. I had to go underground and not contact you, ever, till the threat was over.”
“Now it’s over,” John observed, suppressing his feelings, outraged by such amount of distrust for the moment. “Why didn’t you come home?”
“To what?” Thin fingers suddenly clenched round the bars. “Three years, John. Hiding, scheming, hunting - killing - and all the time hoping that one day it’ll be safe to get back to you, to what we had, to what we almost had.”
John was alarmed and moved at once at that sudden outburst; he wanted to grasp on those fingers to be able to feel they were real; he wanted to clutch onto the lapels of the coat and draw the man close to him just like he did once before; but some inner warning made him almost grateful for the bars between them and then Sherlock was backing away already, out of John’s reach.
“What we almost had?” John echoed, not sure what to make of it. Surely Sherlock couldn’t mean...
“You never knew, did you? You wouldn’t even guess.” Something in that foreboding, withdrawn posture and voice was giving John chills.
“One couldn’t deny Moriarty the credit of being a mastermind of manipulation,” Sherlock mused, as he took a drag from his cigarette.
“He and I; we were kin. I could easily have become him, weren’t it for you. You anchored me to good, kept me on the side of the angels. He had made it my weakness. Funny how he outsmarted me in the end.”
“What?” John had never felt so confused. If this all had been about beating Moriarty, then Sherlock had succeeded, hadn’t he?
“Yes,” Sherlock continued, “you’re safe. But Moriarty knew something I didn’t. He knew how much time I’d need to save you, and he knew you’d move on meanwhile, that you’d bury your dead, marry someone eventually and have a nice family.”
The sneer in those last words was unmistakable.
“Back then, I thought we had something. Moriarty knew that for sure. Why else would he have threatened me to burn my heart while it’s been you who was wrapped in explosives? I thought his trap was simple - either I jump to a disgraceful death or I lose you. He was smarter than that. He knew I’d lose you either way.”
“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” John would have laughed at the absurdity of it - that should have been Sherlock’s line! “But you can’t blame anyone you choose to love for not loving you back.”
“Of course. How could anyone love me? Silly idea indeed.”
John regretted his words for an instant, but he knew this wasn’t right. This was manipulation.
“Just the fact I wasn’t strong enough to love you doesn’t mean there won’t be anyone else!”
“That’s what worked with your girlfriends?” Sherlock spat the word. “If one ship doesn’t sail let’s move on to someone else? It doesn’t work for me.”
John felt Sherlock’s eyes focused on him despite the dark.
“You were the best man, the most human... human being,” Sherlock recited, “... that I’ve ever known. My only friend. No one has got so close, no one ever will.”
The figure behind the bars took two steps back in the shadows.
“You know, disentangling Moriarty’s organization was very interesting. He thought the way I think, two sides of the same coin. Our game, more than once he was asking me to join him. Solving the crimes or committing them - where’s the difference, if the thrill’s the same? But I’ve beaten him in the end, beaten him in his own game. Then I was able to observe where he failed, and I saw how he could succeed. His organization... I saw how it could be perfected.”
No, no, no - this can’t be happening, John thought desperately. But the cold, insane logic in that voice was speaking clearly enough. Sherlock actually sounded a bit like Moriarty and John remembered Mycroft’s warning from earlier on that day. He’s lost him.
“You may keep on visiting my grave, John. Someone’s actually buried there - the man whose hopes died on the roof of Bart’s.”
.
.
.
.
Beta'ed (and vastly improved) by order_of_angels. Thanks for more than meets the eye.
It’s nice to have a Government with a human face, John thought as he answered the door, but why must it be the face of Mycroft Holmes?
“Well. It’s been a while.” Since when did you have time - or fancy - to venture near 221B just to visit my little self? John, always the gentleman, didn’t say this aloud. Mycroft, being one too, didn’t comment that he’d read it in his face all the same.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to your wedding, but with the situation in Syria...” John was for once glad for the existence of Syria; he’s had enough of down-the-nose looks from his brand new mother-in-law that day.
“So, given the situation in North Korea these days, what brought this on?”
“Moriarty’s dead.” The fact was dropped seemingly carelessly, like the third lump of sugar in his cup of tea.
“That’s... good news, I think. Your late brother would be pleased to hear it.” There are certain times when John deliberately forgets that he’s, in fact, a gentleman.
“You should have known that Moriarty’s organization was a hard nut to crack.”
Witnessing the signs of discomfort in Mycroft’s attitude was better than biscuits, so John decided for a second helping. “Took you over three years, I see.”
“I had my... best man working on it,” Mycroft cleared his throat carefully, “but last month... we lost any contact with him.”
Admiral Nelson in the middle of Trafalgar Square was able to look more in distress than the elder Holmes ever did, but yet John couldn’t help the feeling that Mycroft was actually distressed. Even, perhaps, worried.
“Have anyone contacted you? Any suspicious calls?”
“You’re the one with fondness of Bond style meetings,” John retorted light-heartedly. Any thrill over the dangerous or suspicious has been removed from his life so long ago that it felt like another life by now.
“Keep your eyes open, John.” The umbrella tapped the floor pointedly. “The danger might not be over yet.”
Which is why John wasn’t surprised at all when he saw a blocked number on his phone screen, an hour later.
But nothing could prepare him for the shock when a too familiar voice on the other end of the line said: “Tell me, John, what nonsense were you told by my dearest brother?”
***
This is a trap, every cell in John’s body was screaming, but he went on nonetheless, all the way through the side alley ‘til he was stopped by the iron bars of a gate. He couldn’t see much in the dark, but he remembered the place and he remembered the tall coated figure behind the bars.
“Why, Sherlock?” Million questions, but this was the most important.
“For you.” Thin line of cigarette smoke drifted through the cold night air, not disturbed by the low, detached voice. “To protect you. Moriarty gave me a choice: I jump or you get killed.”
“You anticipated it,” John was surprised to have deduced that. “You should have told me.”
“Moriarty’s men soon figured out that I hadn’t jumped to my death. They kept watch ever since in case I came back to you. I had to go underground and not contact you, ever, till the threat was over.”
“Now it’s over,” John observed, suppressing his feelings, outraged by such amount of distrust for the moment. “Why didn’t you come home?”
“To what?” Thin fingers suddenly clenched round the bars. “Three years, John. Hiding, scheming, hunting - killing - and all the time hoping that one day it’ll be safe to get back to you, to what we had, to what we almost had.”
John was alarmed and moved at once at that sudden outburst; he wanted to grasp on those fingers to be able to feel they were real; he wanted to clutch onto the lapels of the coat and draw the man close to him just like he did once before; but some inner warning made him almost grateful for the bars between them and then Sherlock was backing away already, out of John’s reach.
“What we almost had?” John echoed, not sure what to make of it. Surely Sherlock couldn’t mean...
“You never knew, did you? You wouldn’t even guess.” Something in that foreboding, withdrawn posture and voice was giving John chills.
“One couldn’t deny Moriarty the credit of being a mastermind of manipulation,” Sherlock mused, as he took a drag from his cigarette.
“He and I; we were kin. I could easily have become him, weren’t it for you. You anchored me to good, kept me on the side of the angels. He had made it my weakness. Funny how he outsmarted me in the end.”
“What?” John had never felt so confused. If this all had been about beating Moriarty, then Sherlock had succeeded, hadn’t he?
“Yes,” Sherlock continued, “you’re safe. But Moriarty knew something I didn’t. He knew how much time I’d need to save you, and he knew you’d move on meanwhile, that you’d bury your dead, marry someone eventually and have a nice family.”
The sneer in those last words was unmistakable.
“Back then, I thought we had something. Moriarty knew that for sure. Why else would he have threatened me to burn my heart while it’s been you who was wrapped in explosives? I thought his trap was simple - either I jump to a disgraceful death or I lose you. He was smarter than that. He knew I’d lose you either way.”
“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” John would have laughed at the absurdity of it - that should have been Sherlock’s line! “But you can’t blame anyone you choose to love for not loving you back.”
“Of course. How could anyone love me? Silly idea indeed.”
John regretted his words for an instant, but he knew this wasn’t right. This was manipulation.
“Just the fact I wasn’t strong enough to love you doesn’t mean there won’t be anyone else!”
“That’s what worked with your girlfriends?” Sherlock spat the word. “If one ship doesn’t sail let’s move on to someone else? It doesn’t work for me.”
John felt Sherlock’s eyes focused on him despite the dark.
“You were the best man, the most human... human being,” Sherlock recited, “... that I’ve ever known. My only friend. No one has got so close, no one ever will.”
The figure behind the bars took two steps back in the shadows.
“You know, disentangling Moriarty’s organization was very interesting. He thought the way I think, two sides of the same coin. Our game, more than once he was asking me to join him. Solving the crimes or committing them - where’s the difference, if the thrill’s the same? But I’ve beaten him in the end, beaten him in his own game. Then I was able to observe where he failed, and I saw how he could succeed. His organization... I saw how it could be perfected.”
No, no, no - this can’t be happening, John thought desperately. But the cold, insane logic in that voice was speaking clearly enough. Sherlock actually sounded a bit like Moriarty and John remembered Mycroft’s warning from earlier on that day. He’s lost him.
“You may keep on visiting my grave, John. Someone’s actually buried there - the man whose hopes died on the roof of Bart’s.”
.
.
.
.