Above, Below (Through the Cracks) || Part Two ||
//
“You lied,” Sherlock stated when he came back to awareness. It was daylight in the small flat and judging by the dip in the bed he'd been stirring for some time as Doctor Watson was sat beside him once more.
It only took a moment for Sherlock to remember swallowing the two white tablets Doctor Watson had assured him were paracetamol and the world becoming rapidly hazy. His last thought before medicated sleep had dragged him under was that Sherlock never would have predicted Doctor Watson would be such an accomplished liar.
The man in question leaned over, appearing in Sherlock's line of vision and looking entirely without remorse. “You needed more rest, not to be going off running around in the pouring rain with a hole in your shoulder.”
Sherlock was rapidly adjusting his initial assessment of Doctor Watson.
“You lied.”
Doctor Watson was not as mild mannered and weak as Sherlock had initially believed. He was a skilled liar when suitably motivated, and in this case for what he believed to be Sherlock’s best interests. Doctor Watson was most likely in possession of a very strong moral code, but would lie when he deemed it was required. And lie well.
Doctor Watson simply smirked in amusement, helping Sherlock to sit up. “Interesting how you’re focusing on that rather than the fact that I drugged you, but alright. Yes, I lied.”
Sherlock watched the man who rescued him, the man who drugged him, intensely. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. Despite the danger Sherlock was in, the further danger that Doctor Watson's actions had put them both in, he felt a thrill. Sherlock had misjudged the man and that was not an occurrence that happened often. It was far more interesting than being given sleeping pills.
“You lied and I didn’t know it," Sherlock finally declared as Doctor Watson started to squirm under his unwavering attention. "I always know.”
“Apparently not," he replied with a shrug, as though what he had achieved was nothing. Sherlock was temporarily speechless. "Look, your clothes are dry, though I can’t imagine they’ll keep you very warm. Do you want a jumper? I have one that’s shrunk a bit so it shouldn’t be too big.”
“You’re throwing me out?” Sherlock asked, halfway between offended and incredulous, even if leaving sooner rather than later was the most sensible, and safest, option. Doctor Watson didn’t know that, he had drugged Sherlock and now he was just going to kick him out?
Doctor Watson laid Sherlock’s clothes, and a heavy grey wool jumper over the duvet where it covered his legs, then patted the lump of his knee. “Thought you might want to make a quick escape, all things considered, but if you want to stay then you’re welcome. I’ve not got much but I think I can manage to rustle up some scrambled eggs on toast and tea, if you’d like.”
Sherlock’s stomach grumbled loudly before he could refuse. It was suddenly a choice between the lesser of two evils. Risk staying in one location even longer or leaving on a still empty stomach and taking the risks associated with blood loss, shock and lack of adequate nutrition.
“That settles that then, you get dressed and I’ll put the kettle on,” Doctor Watson said, taking the noises from Sherlock’s stomach as his answer. “Be careful of your stitches and let me know if you need any help.”
Sherlock watched Doctor Watson in his peripheral vision as he moved around the small kitchen area as the flat was suddenly filled with the sounds of kettle, toaster, gas flame and eggs being broken into a bowl. Sherlock turned his attention to the clothes in his lap and struggled into them.
It was shameful, how long it took him to dress, his shoulder sore and movement limited so as not to pull the stitches. As much as Sherlock desired to ignore Doctor Watson’s advice and do as he pleased, he could not afford to slow his healing time by reopening the stab wound.
The food and tea were waiting for Sherlock on the small two-person table in the corner of the kitchen area when he finally finished dressing himself, ignoring the offered grey jumper as an offence against clothing. As Sherlock took a seat and added two sugars to the cup of tea Doctor Watson pushed in front of him he felt the scrutiny his clothes were receiving under Doctor Watson’s stare.
“Last night you said you were a consulting detective. Is that like a private detective?” Doctor Watson asked, finally ending his intense study of Sherlock to add a substantial dollop of HP sauce to his plate.
Even though Doctor Watson was no longer watching Sherlock he couldn’t help but feel self-conscious of his appearance. It wasn’t something he had felt in a great deal of time, but he couldn’t ignore the question that had been in Doctor Watson’s eyes as he’d looked away.
Below, the rules were different as to what constituted fashion and Above, well, Doctor Watson was the first person to take any note of him Above since before he slipped through. Sat next to the doctor, who was wearing well-worn jeans and a cream cable knit jumper, Sherlock suddenly felt that his acceptable clothes from below were giving the wrong impression.
The impression that he wasn’t quite all there. When in fact he was more there, at least mentally, than anyone Doctor Watson would ever meet.
“You might say that, yes. I used to work for the police.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Sherlock suspected proving himself was the reason he was attempting to show off in ways Doctor Watson would appreciate.
“I thought the police didn’t work with amateurs?” Doctor Watson questioned, not maliciously, only curiously with a slight wrinkle creasing his brow.
“I’m not an amateur,” Sherlock returned coolly. He ignored the part of him that said the less Doctor Watson knew the better, that he was being reckless and foolish and taking this route would only end badly. It only ever ended badly Above.
Then Doctor Watson smirked over the edge of his teacup and said, “Oh really?”
No matter how much Sherlock reminded himself that he did not find this in any way appealing and it did not matter if Doctor Watson believed him it was of little use. He sat back and did it anyway.
“That you’re a doctor would have been easy, even if you hadn’t told me last night, as was confirming your profession,” Sherlock said and continued, ignoring the affronted look on the doctor’s face at the notion he’d lie about such a thing.
“The way you took care of me indicates a high level of medical training, not just first aid. The skill and confidence you demonstrated in the stitches says doctor, not nurse. However, you’re not your run of the mill NHS doctor, your posture screams army. You’d been in the service for at least ten years before you were invalided out. You received a shot to the shoulder and your limp is psychosomatic. You still have nightmares, most likely PTSD related. I don’t know where you served or where you were injured as my knowledge of current affairs is severely limited, but you’ve been back for six to nine months.
“Your parents are dead and you and your brother Harry aren’t close, some sort of falling out. You feel guilty regardless of whether you’re actually to blame and have refused his assistance. I generally don’t like to be so vague, however I’m working with limited resources.”
Doctor Watson was silent for what Sherlock knew must only have been a minute at most, but felt like a lifetime.
When he did such things Above, this was usually the part where he was either told to piss off or an attempt at physical violence was made. It only happened occasionally Below, most often after he had named a thief or a cheating husband. Otherwise his skills were met with vague interest towards their possible use, but generally, just plain indifference.
Once again Doctor Watson did not live up to Sherlock’s expectations. He broke out into a wide grin that lit up his eyes. “That was. Wow. That was brilliant.”
“Excuse me?” Even though the words matched up with the look on Doctor Watson’s face, it was still such a foreign reaction to Sherlock that he didn’t entirely trust it.
“That was brilliant,” Doctor Watson repeated a little breathlessly, ignoring his half eaten breakfast. “How did you do it?”
“I observe,” Sherlock answered simply, unsure how far the doctor’s interest would go. Only he sat there expectantly, sipping his tea as Sherlock finished the first hot meal he’d seen in weeks, until he really explained.
“Your haircut and bearing tell me you were in the army, coupled with an estimate of your age tells me approximately ten years. You roll your left shoulder but not your right when you’re in pain, which tells me the ache you’re feeling is only in that area. Therefore it is the likely location of your wound, which is being aggravated by the damp weather - a common complaint. You limp when you walk but you don’t rest your weight on your cane when you stand still and you abandoned it while you were preparing breakfast, times when you’re not thinking about limping, which indicated there’s no real physical pain. There are scratches and dents in the paint beside the bed, some no less than two weeks old, which indicates a consistently troubled sleep.
“There is an old picture of you, your parents and your brother on holiday on the wall. It’s the only family picture you have but it tells me you have a brother, as it says Michael, Karen, Harry and John, Skegness at the bottom. You have no other items associated with family, the rest of your personal items are in relation to your time in the army and your regiment, meaning you are either estranged or they’re not alive. Given your age the odds are that your brother is still alive, therefore you’re estranged. Your flat is small and run down in one of the cheaper areas of London, most of the furniture is old or second hand except for the television. You’re a wounded man who has failed to replace a mattress with poor back support, yet you have an extravagant television that is too large for the flat, let alone the living area. It was a gift and you’ve kept it, though you could sell it for profit and make do with less because of your feelings of guilt over the estrangement. It was possibly a peace offering on your return, but that is simply conjecture.”
Doctor Watson’s face was awash with emotions, though he kept returning to a mixture of surprise and awe.
“Did he disapprove of you going to war?” Sherlock wondered aloud.
“Yes. I don’t think Harry will ever forgive me for joining the army,” John answered quickly, with only a flash of something Sherlock suspected to be sadness in his eyes before returning to awe. Sherlock’s heartbeat quickened against his will. “And you’re right, about all of it. Well, almost all of it.”
“Almost?”
“Harry. It’s short for Harriet,” Doctor Watson said, nodding at the photograph with a wry grin. “She was already a tomboy at seven, still, one mistake’s not bad at all.”
“I always make one,” Sherlock admitted, though he was certain staying for breakfast and witnessing Doctor Watson’s amazement was the biggest one he’d made in some time.
//
A knock at the door interrupted John before he could say anything in response. Even out of the corner of his eye, as he looked at the door, it was impossible to miss the way the consulting detective suddenly went so tense it seemed like he might snap right in half.
He wasn’t expecting any visitors, and he wasn’t the sort of bloke who had people dropping by unexpected first thing in the morning. He wasn’t stupid enough not to be able to put two and two together. While John had very pointedly not asked him about it, the consulting detective had been stabbed and was obviously quite keen on avoiding who ever had been the original owner of the knife John had removed. He wasn’t going to ignore the very high possibility that there were some really unpleasant people on the other side of his front door looking for the brilliant, but strange, man sat opposite him.
The knock came again, louder and more insistent.
Whoever was on the other side clearly had no intention of going away. The consulting detective’s face had gone white as a sheet and his hands were clenched tightly around the edge of the table.
“I didn’t think they would find me here, not this soon at least,” the consulting detective said, voice barely more than a whisper as his eyes darted around the room. He was looking for an escape.
The decision was easy to make. John had helped him this far. He wasn’t going to abandon the consulting detective to the people who’d stabbed in him the first place, he couldn’t.
“Go wait in the bathroom, don’t make any noise,” John ordered. He left no room for question or disobedience in his voice.
The consulting detective’s eyes snapped back to John and he blinked. Then he obeyed, something John imagined to be like gratitude flashing across his features.
John waited until he heard the bathroom door click shut before he collected his gun from where it was taped to the back of his bottom desk drawer. He loaded the clip, took the safety off and tucked it into the back of his jeans beneath his jumper.
He left the chain on and opened the door a few inches. Though he plastered a smile full of polite enquiry and cheer on his face, one glimpse at the two men on his doorstep had his blood running cold.
No wonder the consulting detective had looked like he wanted to bolt out the window at just the thought of them. John had good instincts for people and they’d served him well as doctor and as a Captain. The two men giving him oily smiles through the crack in his door were dangerous.
They were both dressed in identical, perfectly tailored and slim-fitting navy blue suits, white shirts with thin, straight ties and shiny black shoes. The first was small, shorter than John and slightly built. He had dark hair and dark eyes and smiled at John like a snake, sharp and cunning. The second was light where his partner was dark, sandy blonde hair and deceptively soft blue eyes. Around six foot tall, he was well built and John wouldn’t have liked his chances in a fight with him before he was shot. The edges of his lips curled, hungry and angry like a wolf and John liked his chances less by the minute. The gun at his back was a cool, but reassuring pressure against his skin.
They both seemed to ooze malignancy. John’s blood thundered through his veins, pushing an adrenaline spike through him hard, like he hadn’t felt since the war.
John wasn’t looking for a fight, but that didn’t mean he was afraid of them.
He smiled disarmingly, heart pounding in chest as anticipation took over. As his body remembered all the ways he’d been trained to deceive, to run into danger not away from it, to protect others.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, you can,” the taller blonde one said, his voice dark and heavy and as close to a predator’s as a human could possibly get. His lip curled further, revealing sharp canines to add to the effect. John didn’t even flinch.
“You see, we’ve lost our dear brother,” said the shorter, darker one, picking up the sentence. His voice was soft and lilting, with just a hint of Irish and hysteria lurking underneath. John wasn’t fooled for a second, by the tone or his words.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” John offered with a consoling smile. Behind the door he pushed the bottom of his jumper up and let the fingers of his left hand curl around the butt of his Browning.
“We were wondering,” the wolf started. The snake pulled a folded piece of paper out of his jacket’s inner pocket and opening it, finished. “If you’d perhaps seen him?”
John took the poorly photocopied sheet through the gap in the door and made a show of giving it due consideration. There was a picture of the consulting detective in the centre, it was black and white and a little grainy but it was clearly him. His hair was shorter and his face was cleaner in the picture but there was no mistaking those piercing eyes or razor sharp cheekbones.
Above the picture it said:
Missing!
Please help us find our dear brother Siegerson.
He is mentally disturbed and needs to be returned to his family, so we can help him in this difficult time. He suffers from delusions and paranoia.
Reward offered.
John handed the sheet back and shook his head mournfully. “I’m really sorry but I can’t say I’ve seen him about.”
“Are you sure?” The snake hissed.
The wolf leaned into the gap in the door, pressing in close. “Are you certain?”
John stood his ground, maintaining his obnoxiously cheerful demeanour as he nodded. “Sorry, I’m sure. Do you have a phone number or something I can ring if I do come across him?”
“No,” the wolf snapped, his demeanour starting to slip.
The snake took over and did nothing to hide the threat in his eyes. “But don’t you worry, we’ll be in the area. Should you stumble across him, we’ll find you again.”
John continued to smile. “Good luck with that,” he said before shutting the door and securing the dead bolt. Not that he thought it would actually do any good if they decided to do something about the consulting detective.
They knew he was inside. John could tell the minute he opened they door that they knew. Now they also knew that he couldn’t be easily cowed and that might just give the consulting detective time to get away.
They were still outside the door.
John stamped his feet, carefully lowering the volume and stepping out of the line of the doorway as if he were retreating back to the kitchen. He could just about hear their heavy, agitated breathing from where he stood, straining to listen through the door.
They must have fallen for it as they waited a moment, then started to speak in lowered, but not inaudible tones.
“He’s lying.”
“Of course he’s lying, I could smell the him in there.”
“He’s hiding. We could take him.”
“No.”
“Why not? You think he could stop us? He’d tear apart so nice and pretty, I’d give you his beating heart.”
“Blood stains on cream cable-knit, mmmm, it is attractive, but no.”
“Why not? He lied to us Moriarty, I don’t like it when people lie to you.”
John was certain the sound he heard next was kissing and was glad he didn’t have to witness it. He imagined it would be something like the animals you see in David Attenborough documentaries that dislocated their jaw to feed.
“You’ll get your chance love, to pull him to pieces, watch him squirm and bleed and beg, when we’ve got the detective. If we go in now, he’ll have time to escape. There are three ways out, and we are good but even we can’t be in two other places while standing here. No, we’ll wait.”
Being underestimated wasn’t anything new to John. It had happened all the time in the army, right up until he lifted his gun and pulled the trigger, until he refused to stand down.
He’d learnt to use it to his advantage once and it was all coming back in hot, giddy rushes. His beating heart was being offered on a plate and John Watson hadn’t felt so alive since bullets were rushing past him in the heat and the sand.
//
Sherlock waited for the soft knock on the bathroom door and Doctor Watson’s voice creeping under the gap at the bottom, announcing, “They’re gone.”
He climbed down off the closed toilet seat where he’d been positioned then shut and locked the bathroom window before flicking the catch and opening the door. “What did they say to you?”
Sherlock hadn’t been able to hear anything other than the low hum of voices from where he’d been waiting, at the quickest and easiest escape route accessible to him in case he needed to run. It was not that he didn’t trust Doctor Watson, who despite drugging him had done far more for Sherlock than he deserved as a stranger, and much more than he deserved considering the price he was most likely going to end up paying.
It was that he didn’t trust anyone.
Least of all when they were put up against Moriarty and Moran, who were the stuff nightmares were made of. Even Below, where tolerance for the terrible and horrifying was significantly higher than Above, they were the most feared.
In the three years Sherlock had been selling his skills as a consulting detective Below, at least eighty percent of all violent crimes, deaths and beatings were at the hands of Moriary and Moran. Not once had Sherlock encountered a client who, on being told of Moriarty and Moran’s involvement had taken any action against them. Not even the most powerful tribe leaders of Below had lifted a finger to stop them, not even before the murders began and everyone became suspicious and afraid.
“That you’re their brother,” Doctor Watson said, flicking the kettle on in the kitchen and showing no signs he believed them for even a moment. He was smarter than Sherlock had given him credit for.
A small, amused smile curved at the edge of the doctor’s lips.
“What?” Sherlock demanded, unsure how anything could be even mildly entertaining when Moriarty and Moran were involved.
“And your name is Siegerson,” he chuckled, and finished making two fresh cups of tea.
Relief flooded Sherlock. They still did not know his real name, and they were not stupid enough to try and use Toby, the ridiculous salutation Molly had given him. “Anything else?”
Doctor Watson pressed one of the cups into Sherlock’s hands, demanding that Sherlock drink without words. Sherlock obeyed as he spoke. “That you’re mentally disturbed and prone to paranoia and delusions.” Doctor Watson snorted. “Not that I’d call it paranoia with those two after you, I’d call it sensible.”
“And what did you tell them?” It was impossible to believe that Doctor Watson had not given anything away, that he could have stood face to face with Moriarty and Moran and said nothing. Yet, they would most likely not be standing around drinking tea in the doctor’s kitchen so calmly if he had let anything at all slip.
Curiosity as well as fear burned hot in Sherlock’s stomach in the long seconds he waited for an answer.
“What do you think?” Doctor Watson asked, sounding mildly affronted. As though not giving in to Moriarty and Moran was something done often, when it was in fact quite the opposite. “That I hadn’t seen you, terribly sorry, and have you got a number I can call if I bump into him?”
“They believed you?” He questioned, genuinely curious. Moriarty and Moran would not have knocked on Doctor Watson’s door if they did not believe Sherlock was inside. Yet, he’d seen the man lie. He had been fooled by Doctor Watson’s gentle face and soft voice and he wondered if this was the only man Above or Below who could trick Moriarty and Moran into believing a mistruth.
Doctor Watson made a noise that sounded a lot like pfffft. “No, don’t be daft. They just didn’t fancy their chances of taking you by force with more than one escape route.”
Of course. It had been foolish to hope that perhaps the good doctor might have been able to save him. Again.
“I don’t think you’re going to be able to walk out the front door anymore though, sorry,” Doctor Watson pointed out, appearing genuinely bothered by this fact.
“Of course-,” Sherlock began but the Doctor wasn’t finished surprising Sherlock.
“So I’m thinking out the window there,” he said, cutting in and nodding at the large window beside the sofa. The old wooden frame was sealed shut with a layer of paint. “It’ll be easier on your shoulder than going out the bathroom. You can hop over the garden fence into the access road at the back, then keep on around the house to the main road. Should be able to hide in the crowd of commuters for a bit, this time of the morning.”
Sherlock blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Finish your tea, you’re still looking a bit peaky and it’ll do you good. I’ll get the window open,” Doctor Watson continued, as though they were discussing the weather. As though helping a stranger climb out his flat’s window was just a normal occurrence.
“Probably best you don’t wait much longer,” he continued, seemingly oblivious to Sherlock’s shock. “I’d wager they’re going to watch the front door and the alley the bathroom window opens on to. You don’t want to hang around until they get tired of waiting and come up here again.”
That brought Sherlock back to reality, from where he had mentally been ticking over the notion that he might just be able to get away. “But what about you? They will come back if they don’t catch me.” With Doctor Watson’s assistance he might be able to escape Moriarty and Moran’s clutches, but he would be leaving the doctor at their mercy.
The only problem with that course of action was, Moriarty and Moran did not have any mercy.
Doctor Watson shrugged, not looking especially troubled by the concept. Perhaps Sherlock had misjudged him entirely and he was little more than an idiot that didn’t comprehend the danger he was in. He didn’t want to believe it, but it would have explained the situation.
“I’ll pop out in a bit. Give you time to get away and then make sure I’m seen leaving on my own, then I’ll go sit in the pub for a bit.”
“They will destroy the flat,” Sherlock pointed out as the doctor retrieved a knife from the kitchen and started breaking the seal that the dried paint formed around the window.
“They’re just things, and not exactly great ones at that,” Doctor Watson said over his shoulder as though Sherlock was being especially dense.
“They’re still yours,” he argued. This was all Doctor Watson had and there was no doubt that he would lose it all, at the very least, for helping Sherlock. Even if his interactions with Sherlock hadn’t pulled him through the cracks, then he would still be left with nothing. It was a situation Sherlock was familiar with and not one he would wish on the man who had saved him, who was still trying to save him.
Sherlock couldn’t imagine paying such a price for a person he didn’t know and would never see again.
“Are you trying to talk me out of helping you?” Doctor Watson asked, pushing the window open with a low creak.
No, Sherlock realised. Doctor Watson wasn’t stupid, not even close. He knew the danger Sherlock was in and the danger he was putting himself in. He was continuing regardless.
“I simply don’t understand why you would go to such lengths for me. A stranger.”
Doctor Watson turned to look at Sherlock and he was struck by such an overwhelming sense of loss in the doctor’s expression. Sherlock didn’t know how he hadn’t noticed it before. “I used to help people every day. You’re the first person I’ve helped in half a year.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock said, sincerely and with the most regret he had felt in ten years.
“It’s nothing,” Doctor Watson assured him, though they both knew it was a lie.
“I’m aware you’re being modest, but I do hope you understand what you have done for me is not nothing. It could not be further from it. I’m sorry for what is going to happen as a result. I would like to take you with me, but it is impossible and too dangerous.”
Even as he said the words, he realised they were true. He would like to take the doctor with him. Protect him from Moriarty and Moran. Keep him close with his warm jumpers, penchant for making tea and strong, careful hands.
It was impossible.
Sherlock could barely protect himself, let alone Doctor Watson as well.
He climbed out the window, felt his shoulder scream in pain as he clambered down the guttering and dropped to the ground. He could just about make out the outline of the doctor watching him from the window, out the corner of his eye.
He resolutely did not look up to see his face, what he was leaving behind.
Once more, he ran.
//
Fingers, long and impossibly strong, tightened around Sherlock’s neck. As much as he fought, he couldn’t get free. The world started to get hazy and dark around the edges.
He struggled against the urge to let the blackness pull him under, to slip into the relief of unconsciousness. It wouldn’t last. This wasn’t the end.
He could see it in Moriarty and Moran’s eyes, in the frustration on the Golem’s face. There was so much more pain left to come.
He had to get away.
The fingers tightened again.
Everything went black.
// Part Three //