Above, Below (Through the Cracks) || Part Five ||
//
John’s eyes went so wide it seemed almost anatomically impossible. Sherlock imagined he had looked somewhat similar the first time Molly had brought him to the Floating Market.
It had been on the Golden Hind. Sherlock was still not entirely lucid after the withdrawal and had hit his head four times on the ship’s beams before Molly had taken pity on him and guided him back to the hole where they had been living.
John would always remember his first Floating Market and even Sherlock would admit that Below had for once, outdone itself.
The market was set up inside the main entrance to the Tate, and what had been the turbine hall. The current installation was a sunrise and the whole room was lit with hues of yellow and orange and red. It appeared as though the walls and the floor were on fire and it had been such a very long time since Sherlock had seen the run rise or set, he could not even tell if it was accurate or romanticised.
Either way, it made the market more visually appealing to eyes less curious than Sherlock’s, who never failed to entertain himself with all the peoples of Below. With being able to look and deduce and work without retribution, with only stares of idle interest and requests for trades, for consultations, in return.
“I’ve not seen anything like this since Afghanistan,” John finally said, as Sherlock steered him around the edge of the crowd. There was excitement, and awe in his voice, and Sherlock knew he would do anything to hear John sound like that again.
//
It was as though the world had come to life.
Everything was bright and warm and for a long moment John’s senses were completely overwhelmed. Trapped in the tunnels under London the world John had been sucked into had felt so empty and dark and cold when the consulting detective wasn’t pressed against him, distracting all his senses. Now it was alive.
The Tate Modern was bursting with people, movements, sounds and smells. Even as the consulting detective led John around the edge of the crowd there was almost too much to take in.
There were stalls everywhere. Nearly the entire turbine hall was filled with them, tables, tents, shacks and even stacks of boxes crammed into the cavernous space. John could see people selling clothes and jewellery, what looked like used plastic shopping bags, bits of old tv’s and radios, hand-made - and just a little botched - lanterns, old shoes and more.
People like John had never seen before were crowded around them, shouting, waving, browsing, haggling and bargaining with the sellers. Just like Above they were all shapes and sizes and colours, but that was where the similarities ended. There were some dressed like the consulting detective. Others were so dirty the brown of the mud and filth seemed ground-in and they were dressed in old sacks, newspapers and bin-bags fashioned into clothes. There were woman in rich velvets with white skin and violet eyes that John instantly distrusted and others in old, ragged furs.
An extremely large man passed them by wearing nothing but a nappy. John blinked twice then tried very hard to forget about the sight.
Through the rush of people and the almost deafening cacophony he could smell the coal and the wood fires, the meat grilling over the top of them and the deep, rich heady smells of stews and curries. John’s stomach made itself known.
The consulting detective pressed his hand to the small of John’s back, between his jacket and army bag, leading John away from the smell of food he was trying to follow.
“The market operates under a truce which has been in place since the market’s very beginning. There is no violence on market grounds, while it is in session. There are no exceptions and the punishment for breaking the truce is death. Moriarty and Moran may be here looking for us, and though they will not be able to harm us in any way, it is in our best interest to avoid them and ensure they do not see us leaving.”
“Yeah, that’s a bit obvious,” John said, with a snort. “Look, while this whole market business is all very interesting, we’re safe, my stomach is rumbling and I’d really like those bloody answers you keep promising me. Food, and then we talk.”
The consulting detective looked at John for a moment, then a smile flashed across his features. “Of course.”
John suspected he’d just won some sort of respect. Or something close to it.
He smiled back.
//
Sherlock procured two steaming portions of vegetable stew, each served in it’s own chunk of hollowed out bread, with another piece for a spoon. They had found a quiet, secluded spot where they were as well hidden as they could be from the crowd, but could still observe, keep watch for Moriarty and Moran.
John dove straight in with his makeshift cutlery as soon as he had sat down on top of his rucksack. He succeeded in burning his tongue on the hot stew and then he sat back and waited for it to cool as Sherlock was doing.
He studied John, the way his eyes passed over what they could see of the market, taking it all in with the occasional excited hitch in his breath. Sherlock allowed himself a moment to watch, trusted that John would see Moriarty and Moran if they were out there, attempting the same.
“I know that so far you have not had a particularly favourable view of Below,” Sherlock said softly. He caught John’s gaze shifting to him for a moment, before continuing to watch as the market went about its business. “But I do not want you to think that it is all tunnels and darkness. There is life for those from Below, both above and under the ground.”
John turned to Sherlock and the corner of his lip curled as he said, “Even though the name ‘Below’ strongly implies that it’s, y’know, under?”
A thrill ran through Sherlock.
John was taking this a great deal better than he had, before he fully understood the freedom Below would grant him.
“Below is our world,” Sherlock explained, as John began to eat, more cautiously this time. “Above is theirs. We can move in it, have daylight and fresh air when we please, but we cannot interact with them. Below, all the people are our own and this,” he said nodding at the market, “is just the beginning of all there is to explore.”
Something that Sherlock strongly suspected was excitement lit up John’s face before he pulled it back in, turned his attention to his meal.
Yes, John would find his place Below, and just as Sherlock had, he would find it preferable to Above.
“Are you happier here?” John asked, after several mouthfuls of stew had been put away and Sherlock had begun on his own. “In general, I mean, I’d be a bit worried if you were happy while running for your life.”
Sherlock considered the question carefully, and answered truthfully. “I am not unhappy.”
“And that’s better?” John questioned, brow furrowed slightly and Sherlock acknowledge his answer had perhaps not been the most encouraging without further details. “Than when you were Above, before the, y’know?”
“Infinitely,” he said honestly, amused at John’s dancing around the matter of his drug abuse. “From the age of twelve I wanted to work with the police. I solved a murder from a newspaper report and from that moment I was set. Of course, no one would take a twelve year-old boy from London seriously in a possible murder investigation in Wales. It was when the murder was incorrectly ruled as an accidental drowning that I decided I was going work with the police, not for them.”
John laughed softly and something inside Sherlock’s chest buzzed at the sound of it. “As a consulting detective?”
“Yes,” he smirked in return at John’s quick understanding. “I invented my own career at twelve. By the time I was twenty-four one of the officers in the Met was beginning to take me seriously, but I was denied access to crime scenes, to suspects, to evidence. To anything other than reports. Rules, regulations, they said. Yet none of them could see, not like I could. I became frustrated, listless, and it was soon impossible for me to engage with anything satisfactorily.”
It was not a startling leap of logic to make and John made it easily. “And then you started the drugs?”
Sherlock nodded, feeling a flush of shame though John said the words without a trace of judgement. He does not mention Victor, his part in it all. Does not want John to know how easily led Sherlock had been, before he had learnt his lesson.
“Cocaine was a rush, of course. By the time I was twenty five I was using frequently and entirely certain I was unstoppable while under the influence, that my mind was truly superb.”
“And it wasn’t.” John said it for the simple fact it was. One Sherlock had taken a long time to learn, and one John had surely witnessed first hand more than once during his career as a doctor.
“No, it wasn’t. I was reacting to the slightest stimulus. I forced my way on to a crime scene and after was told it was only by sheer chance that I did not damage any evidence vital to the case. The freshly promoted Detective Inspector who had begun to put his trust in me gave me a choice, working with the Met or the drugs.”
“You chose the drugs.” It was not a question. John already knew the length and breadth of Sherlock’s addiction and as much as he did not want to shame himself further, he had promised John answers.
“Not my most intellectually brilliant choice, in retrospect,” he admitted, though he knew he would not take the choice back if it meant losing Below. He could not give it up, the first place in the entire world that Sherlock fit. “However, I did try. I was mostly clean for three months.”
“What happened?” John asked, because of course he knew it had not worked. That Sherlock had eventually moved from cocaine to heroin when the buzz was no longer enough, when the world had needed to become duller rather than brighter.
“I was not taken seriously, by anyone except the Detective Inspector, Lestrade was his name.” Occasionally Sherlock wonders what happened to Lestrade, the only member of the Met Sherlock had deemed halfway bright enough for him to approach.
He swallowed as he reached the crux of the matter, where it had all gone wrong. What defined his life Above from his life Below.
John waited patiently.
“What I do has never… It has never garnered me any favour. I had thought it would be different, that if nothing else my skills would be respected. They were not. Cocaine allowed me to switch off the background noise, the questions, accusations, abuse, the disbelief. Not just from the Met, but from everywhere.”
John was silent, his face thoughtful as he ate for several more minutes before turning back to Sherlock. “And you don’t get that here, do you?”
For one endless moment Sherlock was entirely consumed by everything about John and the way he continued to surprise him. The simple fact that he understood, was a feat few had achieved in Sherlock’s experiences with personal interactions.
He did not need to tell John that Below, where nothing was normal, Sherlock had a place in the world. Something he had never had Above.
Sherlock shook his head and John offered him a warm smile in return.
They finished eating in silence and Sherlock could not stop his eyes from occasionally straying to John. Amazing, wonderful, John. His features lit up by the fake sunrise, painted a warm orange with bright, hot streaks of red across his cheeks like blood.
Sherlock forced his attention back to his food. To swallowing it down along with the urge to reach and across and kiss John. To ask him to stay, once it was through, once they were safe and Below was free from fear, at least for a period of time.
//
“So why are they trying to kill you, and by default, me?” John asked.
A brief, entertained smile curved the corner of the consulting detective’s lips and John suppressed a chuckle by putting the last of his bread into his mouth. He’d need at least another ten minutes sitting down to digest a bit, though it felt good to have a full belly after so long walking through the tunnels with all his gear on his back.
“As I’m sure you gathered, killing people is rather their specialty. Along with other violent acts in the same vein, kidnap, torture, beatings. Moriarty is clever, certainly the brains of the pair. Moran is the muscle.”
“Well, they didn’t give the impression of being the saving kittens caught up trees sort,” John said. It was easy to assign the names to the faces John had seen with what the consulting detective had said. Moriarty the snake, Moran the wolf.
“I think it’s best if we don’t consider what they would do to a kitten in a tree. It would not be pleasant. Just as what I believe they have in mind for me will be extremely unpleasant should they get to carry it out,” the consulting detective said bluntly and John had to admit, he had balls. There were plenty of people who’d be a crying, gibbering wreck just at the sight of Moriarty and Moran, let alone the thought of being tortured by them.
“So what you’re saying is, they’re mercenaries.”
“That is exactly what I’m saying,” the consulting detective confirmed.
John wasn’t even close to being surprised. It fit with their behaviour so far and everything John had thought, and suspected, when he’d first saw them on his doorstep. It didn’t take a genius, or the consulting detective to work out what their current job was. “And you’re on their list.”
“Correct,” the consulting detective said with a nod. He pulled a bottle from inside his coat that John hadn’t noticed him purchase and took a drink. “Though that is not where this all begins. Six months ago the first of the Seven Sisters was murdered. Within a month the Lady Serpentine was the only sister to remain and she has been in hiding ever since. There have been fifteen other high profile deaths, the last of which to my knowledge was the Lady Bethnal. I discovered her body shortly before you found me.”
John ignored the fact that it sounded like the consulting detective was picking places names off a London map and focused on the important facts. Everything else would have to wait until later. “All Moriarty and Moran’s work?”
“Yes, and they have been employed,” the consulting detective said again in the tone that spoke of facts rather than conjecture. He offered the half empty bottle to John. “It’s water, perfectly safe.”
John took it and drank. He hadn’t realised how thirsty he had been. The consulting detective continued.
“There is someone behind them, pulling the strings. Each person they have been contracted to kill is one of power and of standing Below. There is no government here, only a system of tribes and the balance of power and influence.”
“A coup,” John said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ”I’ve seen what happens to leader-less tribes first hand. Anyone can just sweep in and take power.”
“Yes,” the consulting detective agreed, looking impressed. John blamed the sudden surge of warmth in his belly on the food. “Whoever is behind this is attempting to cause disarray among the peoples of Below. Given the chance to unite, and to my knowledge it has only been done once before, the combined force of all the tribes of Below would be virtually impossible to overthrow.”
“So they’re going for divide and conquer.” Easy, and effective, so long as you didn’t get caught. Which was why they wanted the consulting detective out the way.
“There are enough remaining tribe members that suspicions are aroused, accusations are being made. Soon, there will be all-out war and when it’s over?”
Oh, but it was clever. Leave key and rival tribe leaders alive. Allow the suspicion to fall on them as the perpetrator. Sit back and watch as they start their own genuine war and then, “The bastard behind all this just steps over the bodies and takes over.”
“You are rather good at this,” the consulting detective said with a small, meaningful smile. John’s palms sweated in ways they never did when there was a gun, or a scalpel, in them.
“Do you know who it is?”
“No,” the consulting detective said and there was no denying the frustration in his tone. After all, he was brilliant and he knew it. “I have a reputation for problem solving. I used to come to the market and trade answers for whatever I needed. Is my husband cheating? Who stole my corpse? It’s been enough to sustain me and ever so occasionally challenge me intellectually. The Baron and the Lady Serpentine were aware of my skill for deduction and investigation, and engaged my services.”
“What did you find?” John asked, genuinely curious to hear more of the consulting detective’s deductions. Facts pulled as if from thin air, the idea of which still fascinated John. It was bloody amazing.
“That Moriarty and Moran were behind the murders and that like myself, they were being employed for their talents. They treat client confidentiality very seriously and when I failed to save three people from their hands, I turned my attention to their employer.”
“Doubt anyone was happy with that.”
“Hardly. Within two days they were hunting me. When I finally realised the Lady Bethnal was their next target I tried to reach her in time, but I was too late. They have studied me, just as they study all their jobs. They’ve ensured all my attention has been devoted to staying alive, to keeping one step ahead of them, as you have seen, they are the best at what they do.”
John nodded. They were good. They were bloody good. Not that he expected anything less. It wasn’t just a job for men like Moriarty and Moran. It was a way of life. They trained and honed their skills, just as John had, only they took lives rather than tried to save them.
They’d gotten the measure of the consulting detective easily and had used it against him. Just like any professional. “They effectively stopped you from thinking about anything else. Is that why we’re here? To give you time to think?”
“No, I’m to meet with the Baron. Inform him of Lady Bethnal’s death if he does not already know and collect information the Lord of Raven’s Court has been gathering for me. Then we are leaving.”
“And where are we going?” John asked, looking at the hustle and bustle of the market and for just a moment, wanting to lose himself in it. He knew it was safer to slip away while the market was still in session, before Moriarty and Moran saw them. That didn’t change the little flare of want he felt at the idea of hiding with the consulting detective just a little longer, to walk and talk in safety.
“To see my brother, Mycroft.”
//
“You have a brother down here, too?” John said, his entire face painted with shock.
Of course, he was wrong, but Sherlock could almost understand how he came to such an erroneous conclusion. “No,” he corrected. “Mycroft is still Above.”
“Wait,” John said, little burrows marring his forehead that Sherlock told himself very sternly he did not already adore. “I’m confused. I thought they couldn’t-.”
“They can’t,” Sherlock agreed. It was easy to spot where John was heading, after all, it had been Sherlock who informed him of the basic fact of life Below. You no longer existed Above. “Fortunately, my brother has never been like everyone else. All through our lives he has greatly enjoyed reminding me that there is only one person more intelligent in the world than myself, and that he was my older brother.”
“Are you telling me there’s another you?” John asked, amusement creeping into his features.
“Yes, only he is significantly fatter and less attractive,” he responded instantly. He was not going to have John’s interest, whatever it was, stray to his sibling, not even for a second. Especially not if Mycroft had actually been successful with the diet.
“I have not tested the theory until now, I’ve not had significant motivation, but I believe if there is anyone who can successfully bridge the gap between Above and Below it’s Mycroft. He is the only one with the mental capacity to see, and to remember, us.”
As much as Sherlock resented Mycroft’s controlling, overbearing attitude when they were growing up, he was counting on it working in his favour for once. He was the last resort.
“And how’s that going to help exactly?”
“My brother holds a position in the British government that allows him access to certain services that most people do not have at their disposal,” Sherlock answered, leaning in close to John’s ear to ensure they weren’t overheard.
John turned to Sherlock, so close Sherlock could feel, taste John’s breath on his lips. “So we’re going to hide?”
Sherlock couldn’t suppress the shudder of excitement that ran through him. He didn’t pull away from John, but pressed in close until their shoulders were touching and his lips brushed John’s cheek with every word. “Essentially yes, not an ideal course of action but the only one left to us. I need both time and safety to think. My brother can provide them until I can accurately conclude who is behind this. Who it is that you and I must stop.”
“You and I?” John echoed and Sherlock could feel his body tense, that he was holding his breath.
“Yes,” he whispered into John’s ear and hoped. “If you will come with me. Stay, with me.”
//
John’s heart was racing. The din of the market turned to nothing as the consulting detective took over all his senses, flooded them with want.
There was no way that it was one-sided. It couldn’t be, not with the way he pressed close and begged John to stay with him.
John turned, leaned in with the word yes and intention on his lips when a booming voice cut into the silence, so deep and loud it startled John to the core.
“There you are!”
The consulting detective pulled back and John almost fell flat on his face before he caught himself.
“We weren’t sure if you were going to make it, old chap!” The voice continued and it felt like John’s brain was rattling around inside his head with the force of it.
The consulting detective scrambled to his feet with a little less grace than he usually moved with, his face angry as he demanded, “Quiet. Quiet!”
John got to his feet, securing his pack on his back in case they had to make a run for it, before joining the consulting detective. The two men stood opposite him could not have been more different if they’d tried.
The man who’d done the shouting and was now attempting to whisper apologies was about the size of your average semi-detached house. John was certain he was a heart-attack waiting to happen and he had somehow managed to cram himself into a 1920s tuxedo that looked about three sizes too small for him. He was waving a silver-topped cane and was wearing a monocle. His whole face was bright red and sweaty and his head was covered in a mop of golden curls.
Any man standing next to him would have looked small, except his companion was slight even in comparison to the consulting detective. His face was sallow, long and thin with a sharp, beaklike nose. His clothes were perfectly fitted, a Victorian suit covered in what looked like a fine layer of dust and his short black hair was slicked back off his face. He watched John with intensity, while the larger man gave the consulting detective a look of deep admiration, not that John blamed him on that front.
“This is my associate, he’s a doctor,” the consulting detective said, drawing John into the conversation.
“Oh, oh my!” The larger man said excitedly, his eyes going so wide his monocle fell out and bounced off his massive stomach before he caught it. “A doctor you say?”
“Yes,” John greeted, offering them both his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
The larger man took it in his own and the handshake he received was vigorous, sweaty, hot, and deeply unpleasant. He beamed. “What wonderful news, a doctor! We’ve not had a doctor in the Underside for at least twenty years.”
It took John a moment to process what the fat man was saying. There hadn’t been a doctor Below for twenty years? What did the people do? When they were hurt, when they were sick? If they had no one, and this bloke’s reaction was anything to go by, they wouldn’t care about a shaking hand or that he used to stitch squaddies back together.
The consulting detective cut in to John’s thoughts, introducing the men in front of them, “This is the Baron, and the Lord of Raven’s Court.”
The Lord ignored John’s hand and even the consulting detective looked offended on John’s behalf. John hoped that wasn’t why he didn’t sugarcoat the news.
“The Lady Bethnal is dead. I found her body yesterday.”
The Baron looked genuinely shocked and upset, but the Lord’s expression didn’t change. He gave nothing away as the Baron sniffed loudly.
“Terrible, terrible news. The shepherds will be devastated,” the Baron said, pulling a large, lace-edged hanky from his pocket and blowing his nose loudly.
Both the consulting detective and the Lord had identical looks of disgust on their face.
“Here is the information you requested,” the Lord said as the Baron looked like he was preparing for another big honk. His hand disappeared inside his morning coat and pulled out an ancient looking notebook, which he handed to the consulting detective.
You’d have been forgiven for thinking was Christmas, the way the consulting detective looked to have it in his hands. “Thank you,” he said, stroking the cover. “This will help immensely.”
The Lord nodded and the consulting detective motioned to John and the bag on his back. “May I?”
“‘Course,” John nodded and turned to give him access. He let his eyes wash over the crowds of people in the market, surprised to see what looked like a stall selling nothing but rubbish.
Then he saw him.
Moriarty.
//
It was only a glimpse, but John would know that smile anywhere. Vicious and gleeful and deadly.
“Time to go,” he said, leaving no room for argument in his voice. He took the consulting detective’s elbow and started to lead him away.
He began to struggle and the Baron and the Lord watched in obvious curiosity. John didn’t trust either of them, he didn’t trust anyone, so he dropped his voice for the consulting detective’s ears only. “We’ve got company.”
//
It had been foolish to think that they would not be found, that the crowds of the market would protect them for any length of time. Sherlock had said it himself, it was important that they were not seen by Moriarty and Moran, that they were not seen leaving.
There was no choice now.
They could not allow Moriarty and Moran more time to follow them through the market. There were still several possible exits and if they moved quickly they might be able to get to one of them without being seen. If they were going to make it to Mycroft they required some sort of advantage.
Sherlock was extremely glad that John had his gun.
He made no apologies to the Baron or the Lord Raven, just took John’s hand and pulled him into the crowd.
//
John followed the consulting detective through the crowds of the market, ignoring the shouts and curses as they pushed and wound their way through people trying to go about their business. He looked everywhere for Moriarty and Moran, eyes constantly scanning the hoards of people around them for any sign of the crisp blue suits, a snake-like smile or sharp, dangerous eyes.
John didn’t see anything, any hint of them.
They were trying to flush him and the consulting detective out. They’d meant to be seen by John and now they were hidden, watching which way they escaped and preparing to attack.
As soon as they cleared the edges of the market John took the gun and flicked the safety off. The consulting detective nodded in agreement, before pulling open a metal hatch John had never noticed on his visits to the Tate Modern.
“Inside,” the consulting detective instructed and John obeyed, climbing inside the hatch that was just big enough for him to fit through.
It was two steps before he lost his footing, the metal floor giving way to a steep, slippery slope and it wasn’t just a hatch. It was a chute.
John hit the ground ten seconds later hard and with a thump. His arse hurt and he rolled out of the way just in time not to be squashed the consulting detective following him down and somehow managing to make it look classy.
“Come on,” he said, taking John’s hand and pulling him up.
“Which way?”
The consulting detective looked around and John had no idea how he was going to get them out of this one. They were in a metal and stone tunnel, so long that it seemed to fade into the blackness. Small shafts of light coming from tiny air vents at regular intervals along the ceiling tried to light the room, but did little in the gloom and John’s eyes struggled to adjust.
Between them were doors, and not just any doors. At least six inch thick iron ones opening into the tunnel that would turn each section into a room, into a vault, by the looks of the locks and levers to hold each one in place.
“This is where they used to store the coal,” the consulting detective said, as they ran. “The doors create fireproof chambers, to stop the whole place going up in case of an accident.”
Sirens went off in John’s head. “How strong are they?”
The consulting detective’s eyes lit up and John knew he was having exactly the same thought. “Strong-,” he started but there was a noise behind them.
The distinctive sound of one body, then a second, hitting the floor at the bottom of the chute echoed down the tunnel. Moriarty and Moran.
They didn’t need to speak, they both ran to the closest half open door and John chucked his pack through the doorway before throwing his whole weight against it. John pushed with all his strength while the consulting detective pulled from the other side, the door moving with an agonisingly slow creak and grind of decades-old hinges.
John could hear the footsteps behind him, approaching at an almost lazy stroll. They weren’t going to get the door shut in time. Moriarty and Moran knew it, were counting on it.
John’s heart was pounding behind his ribs so loudly he almost didn’t hear the consulting detective shout his name. Then a body, strong and lean and familiar was wrapped around him and they hit the floor together. There was a sharp pain in John’s right arm and the clang of metal hitting metal.
“Are you alright?” The consulting detective asked as laughter echoed down the tunnel.
There was a cooing laughter from further away as Moriarty teased, “How sweet, that he tried to save his little pet.”
It was Moran that was closest to them, then.
John sat up and felt the warm sting of blood on his arm. He pressed his fingers to it, found it was little more than a knick and he had the consulting detective to thank that it wasn’t any worse. There was a knife on the floor, just like the one John removed from the consulting detective’s shoulder.
“Shut the door,” John ordered in hushed tones, nodding at it behind them still half open. The consulting detective’s mouth opened, and John gave him a look that cut off any objections. “I need you behind me, keep working on the door.”
The consulting detective nodded and John waited for him to go. He took several deeps breaths and listened over the rush of blood in his ears and the thundering beat of his heart. Adrenaline thrummed through his system as he got up, gun a solid, secure weight in his hands.
There wasn’t enough light. Moran was only a blurry shadow and Moriarty was completely hidden in the darkness. There wasn’t a clear shot, not even for John.
They needed more time.
There wasn’t any choice.
He pulled the trigger. Moran groaned and Moriarty screamed, blood curdling and angry. Only Moran didn’t hit the ground, kept coming towards John and he fired again.
The shot echoed through the tunnel.
Moran went down and Moriarty was suddenly on his knees at his side, shouting and screaming incoherently as he put pressure on the wounds.
It was enough.
John ran.
// Part Six //