Sherlock: I Used to Be Fearless
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock, John, Moriarty, Mary
Words: ~ 4500
Rating/Warning: PG-13 for the general darkish drama of things
Summary: The events leading up to the Reichenbach incident.
A/N: I know it's been done, but I wanted to write a Reichenbach fic, too, so here it is and I hope I managed to put a bit of a different spin on it.
I Used to Be Fearless
The world is a sum of facts. The things that are and the things that were, the changes they underwent. There is no room for uncertainty in the past or the present, just incomprehension. The truth is written in the facts, if you can read them. The only uncertain thing in the world is the future, this inestimable sum of possibilities. The unknown.
The waiting room is painted pale green, green to induce trust Sherlock doesn't feel. He has watched this room for too long, he feels like he's been trapped here for days. The scuff marks on the floor, the dusty foot-prints in that corner, the lint on one of the chairs, the abandoned newspaper, the rubbish in the bin, fingerprints on the vending machine and on the window, the faint traces of perfume against the sterile hospital smell; Sherlock can reconstruct the history of this room back to the beginning of the week when the fluorescent tube in one of the lamps has been replaced, he knows how many people sat here today, could give a vague description of most of them without ever having seen them. It is just there, fact, and it's irrelevant and boring and maddening, because he can't stop thinking about the half eaten Mars bar in the bin, about whoever left it there to run from the room, about all the other things that don't matter.
In his head he is running through a Bach piece, but some notes are missing and he can't remember the title. Something in D minor, it's ridiculous that he can't remember, he knows he heard it for the first time on the radio, in their sitting room on a long past day in late November, when Mycroft held his hand and waited with him while their father died on the second floor.
D minor is the saddest of keys.
The future has split into two worlds: one that continues, that is much like the one Sherlock is used to, and one without John. And there is no way to know which one will become fact.
~
John smiles weakly as he opens his eyes and sees Sherlock.
“You're all right,” he says, voice rough but solid, and he pulls his hand out from between Sherlock's to grip his arm above the elbow. Reassuring, though Sherlock isn't sure for whom of them more.
John is wrong, though.
Sherlock can feel the faint burning of the shallow wounds on his stomach. He smiles back and lies to John and tries not to think about John's blood running through his fingers.
John will live, that is fact, that is what matters.
~
They don't let him stay at the hospital all the time, so Sherlock comes home in between visiting hours. He doesn't sleep, he searches old case files and all his connections for signs of Moriarty. He needs to know the plan. Moriarty must be stopped.
John's armchair is empty and the skull offers nothing but dark prophecies.
When it becomes unbearable, Sherlock goes into the kitchen and makes tea the way John likes it. It tastes wrong of course, the cheap brand John prefers, steeped too short, with too little sugar and too much milk. But Sherlock drinks it and pretends John is there, allowing him to steal it.
~
John talks about his nurse. Apparently she's lovely. Sherlock hates her. He hopes John only talks about her because his days in hospital are so dull. He's not allowed to move much, too much sensitive tissue that could tear and bleed.
She smiles charmingly when she enters John's room and tells Sherlock to call her Mary. She likes Sherlock, because he saved John's life.
This is a misapprehension.
Sherlock just woke and crawled over to John and tried to hold the blood and guts in until the paramedics forced him to let go. It was a moment so completely out of his control that the active deed of saving a life is an impossibility.
It is luck that John lives. This was Moriarty throwing a coin.
~
He dreams the recoil of the gun, but not the sound. He knows what is going to happen, but he still feels the moment of surprise when nothing explodes. In his dream he can see Moriarty grin. The dream doesn't reproduce the sickly sweet smell of the anaesthetic, but it ends with that moment of clarity. A moment of perfect understanding of how wrong he had been.
He wakes, curled up on John's bed. He stares at the clock, gives in to tiredness for a few seconds more before he pulls himself up. Some hours for work and then visiting hours at the hospital. Maybe John can come home soon.
In the bathroom, after the shower, he stares at himself in the mirror. The message is fading. Just shallow cuts that won't even scar if he keeps them clean. He contemplates opening them up again, making them deeper. There is a lesson to be learned in those four little words and the shallow underlining cut beneath them that will never scar like the corresponding one on John's stomach. A warning and a lesson.
In the end he doesn't want anything of Moriarty's on him, so he decides to let them heal and just make sure he'll never forget.
Can you feel it?
~
When John comes home he is determined. Sherlock is still working on understanding Moriarty's network, on searching for ways to trap him and John is weak, it will be weeks before he is strong enough again.
“We're in this together, Sherlock,” John says one evening, his voice mingling with the last note lingering in Sherlock's violin. A stern and concerned Coda to Sherlock's thoughtful little Fugue. They look at each other for a long moment, Sherlock understands that it is far too late to fake confusion over John's non-sequitur. Maybe there was never a chance to do so in the first place, John is dangerous in his own way. “You're not doing this alone, do you hear me? I know you're thinking about it, but you can't. You need to wait until I'm well. You need me.”
Sherlock averts his eyes and starts playing again. He can't think of a solution to this problem.
~
Life goes back to normal, more or less. It will never be like before.
John and Mary are still meeting. Dating. Sherlock can't hate her when she makes John smile like this. He can't hate her when she never says a bad word about him and the cases, when she makes John so happy.
They once looked at each other when John wasn't in the room and in her eyes was the same fear Sherlock felt, the same silent request not to take him away.
In his dreams she laughs, gently, almost motherly, she kisses Sherlock until he bleeds and takes his eyes out so he can see how John looks at her. She strokes his hair, too nice and too cruel to just give in to his pleas and rip out his heart. If she ate it, this could stop and the world would right itself again.
Sherlock wakes up on the couch and blinks tears from his eyes. He feels unstable. The flat is empty. John won't come home tonight.
~
It takes months for Sherlock to set up the game. When he sets it in motion it is out of his hands, a cascade of events he may or may not survive. His first move is prosaic. A long and detailed letter to the department of public prosecution. His full statement is in Mycroft's hands until the process starts, in case he won't be able to testify personally.
The police moves fast, the investigations are well-planned, and there are some strokes of luck, evidence turning up quite unexpectedly.
Moriarty sends assassins. In the night of the second day there's a fire in Baker Street. It is put out fast, nothing important lost, just a lot of smoke and water damage, but it's enough to make his intentions clear. That night Sherlock brakes into Mary's flat, where John lives half of the time by now. Most of the time in the last few days, because Sherlock vanished.
“We leave tonight,” Sherlock says and isn't sure if he fears or hopes that John has forgotten his demand (his promise) and decided to stay here with Mary. John just nods and leaves the room to put on clothes and pack a few things. He has things to pack in Mary's flat, Sherlock tries not to dwell on it. Mary stands next to Sherlock in the sitting room, small in her bright orange bathrobe and her crumpled night shirt. She looks frightened and brave.
“Please Sherlock,” she says. She looks at him, worried, like she knows him. Like she likes him. She looks at him like John does and Sherlock isn't sure why that hurts so much. “The most important thing,” she says, “is that you both come back.”
What she means, of course, is that John has to stay alive. Sherlock promises.
~
For a few days Sherlock feels exhilarated. Strangely free, his only objective is to stay alive until Moriarty's network is taken care of back in London. It's just him and John sneaking through Europe. Almost like it used to be before Moriarty.
The sniper finds them in Antwerp. Sherlock spots him early enough, no shots fired, but he stays close, always just one step behind them the whole way through Belgium. They shake him off when they cross the German border in a car with two students Sherlock chatted up in Liége.
One of the girls is earnest and shy and talks about medicine with John in awkwardly precise English while she drives, the other girl is not shy at all and flirts outrageously while Sherlock observes the traffic through the rear window. “Spar dir die Mühe,” he snaps, when she gets too annoying, “ich bin vergeben.” She follows his short glance to John and sighs.
A few hours later, on the night train south, John's still chuckling now and then. Sherlock glares. “It's hardly all that funny.”
“I thought I'm here to save you from assassins, not from girls.”
Sherlock doesn't respond and stares out of the window into the darkness until he feels John's head sag against his shoulder. He looks down into John's sleeping face, feels soft hair brush his jaw. It's a moment of peace and dread and perfect stillness but for the rattling of the train approaching the Alps.
~
They've been on the run for four days and in the personal ads of the Sun MH wonders why naughtyshirley hasn't been online for so long. Sherlock grumbles and searches for the next internet café. On a popular chat website he goes to registration and creates an account as naughtyshirley. The captcha says 'name 1stdog'.
We had a cat, you tosser, Sherlock writes and is accepted. A chat window opens.
BigBrother entered the room. John snorts from his spot looking over Sherlock's shoulder.
nets closed, big fish escaped
Sherlock rolls his eyes so hard it hurts. Stop it, I'm not in the mood to play spy.
SM left L few hours after you
JM yesterday
more connections than anticipated
world-wide net
trails running dry
He's coming for me.
maybe
come back to L
quite out of his reach at the moment
And he'll be out of my reach.
What is your plan?
Can't tell. Will play this by ear.
bad idea
What about JW?
“I'm with you,” John says. Sherlock looks up at him, loyal John Watson, and for a short moment he feels nothing but despair.
Not your concern, he types.
I want to emphasise my strongest objections.
Noted.
Take care.
Sherlock logs out.
~
There's no room to think in the offensive Gemütlichkeit of their hotel room and Sherlock feels like he's suffocating, so he goes out for a walk.
“But you'll come back,” John says cautiously. It's not quite a question and not quite a command.
Sherlock nods. “I just need to think.”
“Be careful.”
Sherlock gives a vaguely affirmative hum and leaves. He feels disturbed. The apprehension that befell him on that train to Zurich hasn't lifted and Mycroft's news were bad on all accounts. This won't be over soon, Moriarty's organisation isn't dead, just wounded, but Sherlock has shown his hand in what he can find, what he can do. He is a threat to them, he will be on the run as long as the organisation exists.
The sniper in Antwerp was Moran, Moriarty's right hand man, allegedly. Not able or not yet allowed to get serious? Sherlock has the disconcerting feeling that his continued survival hangs entirely on Moriarty's obsession with him. He doesn't understand.
~
The hotel room is dark when he enters, but for the faint glint of the barrel of John's gun pointed at him. “It's me.”
The shadows shift, Sherlock's eyes adjust to the dim light from the window and he can make out John sitting up in his bed. “I thought you'd left.”
“I told you I wouldn't,” Sherlock says surprised.
“Yeah well. I didn't believe you.”
“You'd just let me go.” His voice sounds strange in his own ears.
“No!” John shifts on the bed. “No, Sherlock. Come here.”
Sherlock can't move, he is numb, he is falling, it doesn't make sense. It was stupid to come back. So why?
John comes over, naked feet on creaking floor boards. He lays a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock tries not to flinch, not to lean into it. “Of course I wouldn't just let you go, I was going to hunt you down and beat some sense into you.”
And then he hugs Sherlock, tight and so warm from the bed, smelling of sleep and soap and gun oil. Sherlock can't breathe.
“How would you find me?” It is meant to sound condescending, but it comes out choked and John just hugs him closer. Sherlock clings to him, he'll allow himself this one moment and then he will be strong again, he tells himself. “I don't know what to do,” he admits, whispered into John's ear like a secret.
It's more than a secret, it's defeat. He can't let Moriarty go, because Moriarty won't let him go and he can't run forever. He can't take John with him, because it's selfish and wrong and it will kill them both, and he can't leave John alone, because Moriarty knows and he will find John.
“We'll figure something out,” John says against Sherlock's shoulder, soothing and trusting and utterly wrong. “We're doing well, aren't we? And you're brilliant, you just need a bit of sleep, you're not yourself.”
Sherlock wishes that was true, he'd like a bit of distance to figure this out.
~
For a long time he lies awake in his bed, listens to John's quiet breathing from the other side of the room and traces the letters on his belly with his fingers. He can't feel them, there are only fading pink lines left, just about visible close up and under the best of light, another week and nothing will remain. He will always know each one of them.
Can you feel it?
It is ingenious, Sherlock has to admit, keeping a man hostage like that, with just four letters in blood and a knife wound. It shouldn't work, but it has Sherlock's thoughts running in ever-tightening circles.
“We need to stay together,” John says out of the darkness. Sherlock knew he wasn't asleep. John is dangerous like that, he doesn't have all the facts, he can't know, but there he is, breaking in on Sherlock's thoughts. “You don't have to do this alone, Sherlock. You have me.”
What about Mary? Sherlock thinks. What if it takes years, what if it takes a lifetime?
“I need you,” he admits and John seems to take it as agreement, because he is silent after that.
Acknowledgement, he remembers, is the first step in breaking an addiction.
~
Sherlock sleeps fitfully.
He dreams of John standing at the far end of Baker Street with his back to Sherlock. He knows that Moran is on one of the roofs, rifle trained at John, and he wants to shout, warn him, but he can't make a sound. So he runs, runs as fast as he can, but John is so far away, never getting closer and his movements are slowed as if he's wading through water. He looks down and sees that the blood reaches up to his hips, thick and sticky and holding him back. He hears Moriarty laugh and the shot, both sounds like one and falls to his knees besides John, exhausted and beyond desperation. He can't read the words on John's forehead through his tears, but he doesn't have to. His hands are read and clumsy when he tries to hold the blood in and he feels John's body crumble under his fingers, bones and skin breaking like dry leaves, wounds caving in, blood seeping-
A cool hand on his forehead wakes him and Sherlock can't hold back the sob. “I'm sorry,” he says, voice thick and croaking and not quite his own, “I'm so sorry.”
John just hums and lets his hand rest where it is, thumb drawing soothing circles into Sherlock's scalp. It takes some seconds for Sherlock to find his way back into reality, him in cold sweat and John kneeling beside his bed. Still in that awful hotel room in Meiringen painted sickly green with the very first morning light.
“You have a bit of a fever,” John says, always concerned.
Sherlock shakes his head, props himself up on one elbow and regrets it when John takes his hand away. “It's nothing.”
John looks unconvinced, but doesn't reply. For the longest moment they just stare at each other. In the twilight John's face is like stone and his eyes are the brightest and darkest place. Sherlock doesn't know what they're searching for in him, but he hopes they find it. He feels fragile, like it could tear him apart if John stood up now, as if he would vanish as soon as John stops looking at him.
Sherlock touches his shoulder, firm and warm under the thin shirt he's wearing, just to check. It's stupid, it was just a dream, but it's reassuring nonetheless, the slight shift of bones and muscle under warm skin as John lets out a shaky breath, as John leans forward, so close, and kisses Sherlock.
It startles him. John's lips are soft and dry and cool on his own. Sherlock can't react, he feels... too much, overwhelmed, like his chest could explode. He can't think right, he can't even breathe. It's only a few seconds and then John leans back again, his eyes on Sherlock again, and Sherlock tries to get his thoughts in order.
He was wrong, he thinks with an edge of hysteria, about the things that could tear him apart.
~
A few hours later, Sherlock sits at the small table and watches the patches of light crawl over the floor towards his bed and John's sleeping form. He doesn't look like himself like this, but oddly young and vulnerable. Sherlock finds it fascinating, but he doesn't like it. He likes it when John wakes up, when he becomes alert and dangerous. He likes John's greying hair and his various scars, all healed, all beautiful, all things that couldn't kill him. Red and white lines writing 'survival' into John's skin, weaving magic, making him invincible like a bath in dragon's blood.
He blames the fanciful thoughts on the early hour and the leaflet that had been shoved through under the door. There are no fingerprints on it.
Visit the Reichenbach Falls!
It has to end, he thinks.
“We should rest for a bit,” John says from the bed. Sherlock watches him as he sits up and rubs at one of his eyes. “Just a day or two, you look tired.”
Sherlock isn't tired, he is exhausted, but sleep has nothing to do with it. He takes the few steps over to drop the leaflet into John's lap. John looks up at him with raised eyebrows. “Didn't picture you as the hiking type.”
Sherlock shrugs, distracted by John's hand closing around his wrist and the lines of his upturned face. He is learning new angles of John and he feels a slight smile pulling on his lips for no reason at all. John tugs at his wrist and they kiss again, like it could become something normal.
~
The boy delivers his story admirably, his mother toppled down a slope, they were hiking, she is injured, just half an hour down that way into the valley, so glad to find someone who knows first aide, a doctor even. If Sherlock hadn't paid him in the first place, he would point out the mobile phone in his pocket and the fact that a local boy (obvious) would know where the next village is and wouldn't run half an hour in the false direction. John doesn't question it, though, all his attention on possible injuries and how to fix them. He only hesitates to look at Sherlock.
“Go on,” he says. “I'll go up and wait at the falls for you.”
“You sure?” It's only form, John is already turning to follow the child.
Sherlock smiles mildly. If this should be the last he sees of John, it is good. Determined and competent and on the way to help someone. John smiles back at him, takes a few steps backwards just to keep looking at him for a few moments longer, his whole face transformed into that of a happier person. They're being silly, it's ridiculous.
And devastating, Sherlock lets himself think as he turns away, safe from John's eyes. He would have liked to get to know that happy John Watson.
~
He has no eyes for the nature on his way up, it's John who appreciates a view and the peaceful scenery of a forest. It's artless, a kind of shamefully romantic, tame wilderness Sherlock can't understand as anything but backdrop. He takes out his phone and starts typing an e-mail to John.
My dear John, he writes and stares at the possessive pronoun almost for a minute, before he decides not to delete it. I write this mail, because I am aware that Moriarty awaits me at the falls. It is inevitable that we end this prolonged chase. He can't be allowed to escape. In a different world I might have been tempted to let him continue his game; it is still a bitter thought to lose the challenges he'd be able to pose. But I think of you and I know that he must be destroyed. I fear that my own death is a risk I must take to free the world of him. I imagine you will be livid, if you read this, and I'm sorry that it had to come to this. You will take it hard and hate me for deceiving you and facing him alone. Please believe me that I don't doubt your abilities or your loyalty, I just can't bear the thought of dragging you into our mutual destruction. I can't lose you and what would be the point of dying for a world without you in it?
He halts, his thumb hovering over the backspace key. I thought about erasing the last sentence, he writes at last, but I should be honest at least in this letter. Ideally, I'll live and never show you this mail, but when I think about the alternative, I picture a world that is slightly safer than this one, because of me - for you and maybe for your children one day. I picture you living a good long life. Mary for you and my work for me... I have recently come to resent that scenario, but if I die today, I wish you nothing less than happiness. I hope you can forgive me these extreme measures. I apologise for everything I was too cowardly to do or say. I hope you understand that I am
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
~
Moriarty is there of course. “A dramatic background for a dramatic occasion,” he shouts over the roaring water. A cascade of seven falls, potential energy transformed into noise, mist and crushing force. It's been a bit over a week since Sherlock started their last game and it's left its mark on both of them. Moriarty is pale, stressed and his eyes look more murderous than ever, his smirk more dangerous.
He looks around, theatrically, then cocks his head. “Where's your little friend? Did he run off? I had such a nice surprise for him.” His eyes flicker to the side, unconsciously probably, but maybe he wants Sherlock to know. Behind him is the cliff and a place on top of the gorge where a sniper could lie. Sherlock can't see him, but he's suddenly sure that Moran is there. He looks back into Moriarty's smiling face.
“You, me, here, at last,” the madman drawls like he can't be bothered to outline his thoughts further. “I admit it's all a bit cloak and dagger, but it's not really a duel, is it?”
“Not?” Sherlock says and lifts an eyebrow. He feels calm now.
Moriarty shrugs. “It could have been, but you're so disappointing. I kick your dog and you take it so personal. It's disgusting. Can't take a joke.” There's more rage behind each new word he speaks until he is screaming over the thundering falls. “You had to go and make me mad at you!”
“So now you want to kill me?”
“Don't take it the wrong way,” Moriarty says, irritatingly calm again. “I really enjoyed this, but I have a business to run, you understand.” He turns around towards the path that's been carved into the stone. There are wooden handrails, slippery from the eternal drizzle of the falls. “Come on,” he shouts over his shoulder. “You should see this, could be the last thing.”
Sherlock follows, because the path leads him away from the sniper. Close to the falls the water numbs all senses. White noise, white mist, even the smell is just indistinguishable wetness. Moriarty turns and steps closer, Sherlock braces himself for an attack that doesn't come.
“You know what will happen, if I die and you leave here alive?” Moriarty's voice is almost drowned out by the rushing water.
“Moran will shoot me?”
Moriarty grins and shakes his head. “That's what I would do. Sebastian is more the traditionalist. An eye for an eye.”
Sherlock nods and pulls out his phone to send the e-mail.
.
Characters: Sherlock, John, Moriarty, Mary
Words: ~ 4500
Rating/Warning: PG-13 for the general darkish drama of things
Summary: The events leading up to the Reichenbach incident.
A/N: I know it's been done, but I wanted to write a Reichenbach fic, too, so here it is and I hope I managed to put a bit of a different spin on it.
I Used to Be Fearless
The world is a sum of facts. The things that are and the things that were, the changes they underwent. There is no room for uncertainty in the past or the present, just incomprehension. The truth is written in the facts, if you can read them. The only uncertain thing in the world is the future, this inestimable sum of possibilities. The unknown.
The waiting room is painted pale green, green to induce trust Sherlock doesn't feel. He has watched this room for too long, he feels like he's been trapped here for days. The scuff marks on the floor, the dusty foot-prints in that corner, the lint on one of the chairs, the abandoned newspaper, the rubbish in the bin, fingerprints on the vending machine and on the window, the faint traces of perfume against the sterile hospital smell; Sherlock can reconstruct the history of this room back to the beginning of the week when the fluorescent tube in one of the lamps has been replaced, he knows how many people sat here today, could give a vague description of most of them without ever having seen them. It is just there, fact, and it's irrelevant and boring and maddening, because he can't stop thinking about the half eaten Mars bar in the bin, about whoever left it there to run from the room, about all the other things that don't matter.
In his head he is running through a Bach piece, but some notes are missing and he can't remember the title. Something in D minor, it's ridiculous that he can't remember, he knows he heard it for the first time on the radio, in their sitting room on a long past day in late November, when Mycroft held his hand and waited with him while their father died on the second floor.
D minor is the saddest of keys.
The future has split into two worlds: one that continues, that is much like the one Sherlock is used to, and one without John. And there is no way to know which one will become fact.
~
John smiles weakly as he opens his eyes and sees Sherlock.
“You're all right,” he says, voice rough but solid, and he pulls his hand out from between Sherlock's to grip his arm above the elbow. Reassuring, though Sherlock isn't sure for whom of them more.
John is wrong, though.
Sherlock can feel the faint burning of the shallow wounds on his stomach. He smiles back and lies to John and tries not to think about John's blood running through his fingers.
John will live, that is fact, that is what matters.
~
They don't let him stay at the hospital all the time, so Sherlock comes home in between visiting hours. He doesn't sleep, he searches old case files and all his connections for signs of Moriarty. He needs to know the plan. Moriarty must be stopped.
John's armchair is empty and the skull offers nothing but dark prophecies.
When it becomes unbearable, Sherlock goes into the kitchen and makes tea the way John likes it. It tastes wrong of course, the cheap brand John prefers, steeped too short, with too little sugar and too much milk. But Sherlock drinks it and pretends John is there, allowing him to steal it.
~
John talks about his nurse. Apparently she's lovely. Sherlock hates her. He hopes John only talks about her because his days in hospital are so dull. He's not allowed to move much, too much sensitive tissue that could tear and bleed.
She smiles charmingly when she enters John's room and tells Sherlock to call her Mary. She likes Sherlock, because he saved John's life.
This is a misapprehension.
Sherlock just woke and crawled over to John and tried to hold the blood and guts in until the paramedics forced him to let go. It was a moment so completely out of his control that the active deed of saving a life is an impossibility.
It is luck that John lives. This was Moriarty throwing a coin.
~
He dreams the recoil of the gun, but not the sound. He knows what is going to happen, but he still feels the moment of surprise when nothing explodes. In his dream he can see Moriarty grin. The dream doesn't reproduce the sickly sweet smell of the anaesthetic, but it ends with that moment of clarity. A moment of perfect understanding of how wrong he had been.
He wakes, curled up on John's bed. He stares at the clock, gives in to tiredness for a few seconds more before he pulls himself up. Some hours for work and then visiting hours at the hospital. Maybe John can come home soon.
In the bathroom, after the shower, he stares at himself in the mirror. The message is fading. Just shallow cuts that won't even scar if he keeps them clean. He contemplates opening them up again, making them deeper. There is a lesson to be learned in those four little words and the shallow underlining cut beneath them that will never scar like the corresponding one on John's stomach. A warning and a lesson.
In the end he doesn't want anything of Moriarty's on him, so he decides to let them heal and just make sure he'll never forget.
Can you feel it?
~
When John comes home he is determined. Sherlock is still working on understanding Moriarty's network, on searching for ways to trap him and John is weak, it will be weeks before he is strong enough again.
“We're in this together, Sherlock,” John says one evening, his voice mingling with the last note lingering in Sherlock's violin. A stern and concerned Coda to Sherlock's thoughtful little Fugue. They look at each other for a long moment, Sherlock understands that it is far too late to fake confusion over John's non-sequitur. Maybe there was never a chance to do so in the first place, John is dangerous in his own way. “You're not doing this alone, do you hear me? I know you're thinking about it, but you can't. You need to wait until I'm well. You need me.”
Sherlock averts his eyes and starts playing again. He can't think of a solution to this problem.
~
Life goes back to normal, more or less. It will never be like before.
John and Mary are still meeting. Dating. Sherlock can't hate her when she makes John smile like this. He can't hate her when she never says a bad word about him and the cases, when she makes John so happy.
They once looked at each other when John wasn't in the room and in her eyes was the same fear Sherlock felt, the same silent request not to take him away.
In his dreams she laughs, gently, almost motherly, she kisses Sherlock until he bleeds and takes his eyes out so he can see how John looks at her. She strokes his hair, too nice and too cruel to just give in to his pleas and rip out his heart. If she ate it, this could stop and the world would right itself again.
Sherlock wakes up on the couch and blinks tears from his eyes. He feels unstable. The flat is empty. John won't come home tonight.
~
It takes months for Sherlock to set up the game. When he sets it in motion it is out of his hands, a cascade of events he may or may not survive. His first move is prosaic. A long and detailed letter to the department of public prosecution. His full statement is in Mycroft's hands until the process starts, in case he won't be able to testify personally.
The police moves fast, the investigations are well-planned, and there are some strokes of luck, evidence turning up quite unexpectedly.
Moriarty sends assassins. In the night of the second day there's a fire in Baker Street. It is put out fast, nothing important lost, just a lot of smoke and water damage, but it's enough to make his intentions clear. That night Sherlock brakes into Mary's flat, where John lives half of the time by now. Most of the time in the last few days, because Sherlock vanished.
“We leave tonight,” Sherlock says and isn't sure if he fears or hopes that John has forgotten his demand (his promise) and decided to stay here with Mary. John just nods and leaves the room to put on clothes and pack a few things. He has things to pack in Mary's flat, Sherlock tries not to dwell on it. Mary stands next to Sherlock in the sitting room, small in her bright orange bathrobe and her crumpled night shirt. She looks frightened and brave.
“Please Sherlock,” she says. She looks at him, worried, like she knows him. Like she likes him. She looks at him like John does and Sherlock isn't sure why that hurts so much. “The most important thing,” she says, “is that you both come back.”
What she means, of course, is that John has to stay alive. Sherlock promises.
~
For a few days Sherlock feels exhilarated. Strangely free, his only objective is to stay alive until Moriarty's network is taken care of back in London. It's just him and John sneaking through Europe. Almost like it used to be before Moriarty.
The sniper finds them in Antwerp. Sherlock spots him early enough, no shots fired, but he stays close, always just one step behind them the whole way through Belgium. They shake him off when they cross the German border in a car with two students Sherlock chatted up in Liége.
One of the girls is earnest and shy and talks about medicine with John in awkwardly precise English while she drives, the other girl is not shy at all and flirts outrageously while Sherlock observes the traffic through the rear window. “Spar dir die Mühe,” he snaps, when she gets too annoying, “ich bin vergeben.” She follows his short glance to John and sighs.
A few hours later, on the night train south, John's still chuckling now and then. Sherlock glares. “It's hardly all that funny.”
“I thought I'm here to save you from assassins, not from girls.”
Sherlock doesn't respond and stares out of the window into the darkness until he feels John's head sag against his shoulder. He looks down into John's sleeping face, feels soft hair brush his jaw. It's a moment of peace and dread and perfect stillness but for the rattling of the train approaching the Alps.
~
They've been on the run for four days and in the personal ads of the Sun MH wonders why naughtyshirley hasn't been online for so long. Sherlock grumbles and searches for the next internet café. On a popular chat website he goes to registration and creates an account as naughtyshirley. The captcha says 'name 1stdog'.
We had a cat, you tosser, Sherlock writes and is accepted. A chat window opens.
BigBrother entered the room. John snorts from his spot looking over Sherlock's shoulder.
nets closed, big fish escaped
Sherlock rolls his eyes so hard it hurts. Stop it, I'm not in the mood to play spy.
SM left L few hours after you
JM yesterday
more connections than anticipated
world-wide net
trails running dry
He's coming for me.
maybe
come back to L
quite out of his reach at the moment
And he'll be out of my reach.
What is your plan?
Can't tell. Will play this by ear.
bad idea
What about JW?
“I'm with you,” John says. Sherlock looks up at him, loyal John Watson, and for a short moment he feels nothing but despair.
Not your concern, he types.
I want to emphasise my strongest objections.
Noted.
Take care.
Sherlock logs out.
~
There's no room to think in the offensive Gemütlichkeit of their hotel room and Sherlock feels like he's suffocating, so he goes out for a walk.
“But you'll come back,” John says cautiously. It's not quite a question and not quite a command.
Sherlock nods. “I just need to think.”
“Be careful.”
Sherlock gives a vaguely affirmative hum and leaves. He feels disturbed. The apprehension that befell him on that train to Zurich hasn't lifted and Mycroft's news were bad on all accounts. This won't be over soon, Moriarty's organisation isn't dead, just wounded, but Sherlock has shown his hand in what he can find, what he can do. He is a threat to them, he will be on the run as long as the organisation exists.
The sniper in Antwerp was Moran, Moriarty's right hand man, allegedly. Not able or not yet allowed to get serious? Sherlock has the disconcerting feeling that his continued survival hangs entirely on Moriarty's obsession with him. He doesn't understand.
~
The hotel room is dark when he enters, but for the faint glint of the barrel of John's gun pointed at him. “It's me.”
The shadows shift, Sherlock's eyes adjust to the dim light from the window and he can make out John sitting up in his bed. “I thought you'd left.”
“I told you I wouldn't,” Sherlock says surprised.
“Yeah well. I didn't believe you.”
“You'd just let me go.” His voice sounds strange in his own ears.
“No!” John shifts on the bed. “No, Sherlock. Come here.”
Sherlock can't move, he is numb, he is falling, it doesn't make sense. It was stupid to come back. So why?
John comes over, naked feet on creaking floor boards. He lays a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock tries not to flinch, not to lean into it. “Of course I wouldn't just let you go, I was going to hunt you down and beat some sense into you.”
And then he hugs Sherlock, tight and so warm from the bed, smelling of sleep and soap and gun oil. Sherlock can't breathe.
“How would you find me?” It is meant to sound condescending, but it comes out choked and John just hugs him closer. Sherlock clings to him, he'll allow himself this one moment and then he will be strong again, he tells himself. “I don't know what to do,” he admits, whispered into John's ear like a secret.
It's more than a secret, it's defeat. He can't let Moriarty go, because Moriarty won't let him go and he can't run forever. He can't take John with him, because it's selfish and wrong and it will kill them both, and he can't leave John alone, because Moriarty knows and he will find John.
“We'll figure something out,” John says against Sherlock's shoulder, soothing and trusting and utterly wrong. “We're doing well, aren't we? And you're brilliant, you just need a bit of sleep, you're not yourself.”
Sherlock wishes that was true, he'd like a bit of distance to figure this out.
~
For a long time he lies awake in his bed, listens to John's quiet breathing from the other side of the room and traces the letters on his belly with his fingers. He can't feel them, there are only fading pink lines left, just about visible close up and under the best of light, another week and nothing will remain. He will always know each one of them.
Can you feel it?
It is ingenious, Sherlock has to admit, keeping a man hostage like that, with just four letters in blood and a knife wound. It shouldn't work, but it has Sherlock's thoughts running in ever-tightening circles.
“We need to stay together,” John says out of the darkness. Sherlock knew he wasn't asleep. John is dangerous like that, he doesn't have all the facts, he can't know, but there he is, breaking in on Sherlock's thoughts. “You don't have to do this alone, Sherlock. You have me.”
What about Mary? Sherlock thinks. What if it takes years, what if it takes a lifetime?
“I need you,” he admits and John seems to take it as agreement, because he is silent after that.
Acknowledgement, he remembers, is the first step in breaking an addiction.
~
Sherlock sleeps fitfully.
He dreams of John standing at the far end of Baker Street with his back to Sherlock. He knows that Moran is on one of the roofs, rifle trained at John, and he wants to shout, warn him, but he can't make a sound. So he runs, runs as fast as he can, but John is so far away, never getting closer and his movements are slowed as if he's wading through water. He looks down and sees that the blood reaches up to his hips, thick and sticky and holding him back. He hears Moriarty laugh and the shot, both sounds like one and falls to his knees besides John, exhausted and beyond desperation. He can't read the words on John's forehead through his tears, but he doesn't have to. His hands are read and clumsy when he tries to hold the blood in and he feels John's body crumble under his fingers, bones and skin breaking like dry leaves, wounds caving in, blood seeping-
A cool hand on his forehead wakes him and Sherlock can't hold back the sob. “I'm sorry,” he says, voice thick and croaking and not quite his own, “I'm so sorry.”
John just hums and lets his hand rest where it is, thumb drawing soothing circles into Sherlock's scalp. It takes some seconds for Sherlock to find his way back into reality, him in cold sweat and John kneeling beside his bed. Still in that awful hotel room in Meiringen painted sickly green with the very first morning light.
“You have a bit of a fever,” John says, always concerned.
Sherlock shakes his head, props himself up on one elbow and regrets it when John takes his hand away. “It's nothing.”
John looks unconvinced, but doesn't reply. For the longest moment they just stare at each other. In the twilight John's face is like stone and his eyes are the brightest and darkest place. Sherlock doesn't know what they're searching for in him, but he hopes they find it. He feels fragile, like it could tear him apart if John stood up now, as if he would vanish as soon as John stops looking at him.
Sherlock touches his shoulder, firm and warm under the thin shirt he's wearing, just to check. It's stupid, it was just a dream, but it's reassuring nonetheless, the slight shift of bones and muscle under warm skin as John lets out a shaky breath, as John leans forward, so close, and kisses Sherlock.
It startles him. John's lips are soft and dry and cool on his own. Sherlock can't react, he feels... too much, overwhelmed, like his chest could explode. He can't think right, he can't even breathe. It's only a few seconds and then John leans back again, his eyes on Sherlock again, and Sherlock tries to get his thoughts in order.
He was wrong, he thinks with an edge of hysteria, about the things that could tear him apart.
~
A few hours later, Sherlock sits at the small table and watches the patches of light crawl over the floor towards his bed and John's sleeping form. He doesn't look like himself like this, but oddly young and vulnerable. Sherlock finds it fascinating, but he doesn't like it. He likes it when John wakes up, when he becomes alert and dangerous. He likes John's greying hair and his various scars, all healed, all beautiful, all things that couldn't kill him. Red and white lines writing 'survival' into John's skin, weaving magic, making him invincible like a bath in dragon's blood.
He blames the fanciful thoughts on the early hour and the leaflet that had been shoved through under the door. There are no fingerprints on it.
Visit the Reichenbach Falls!
It has to end, he thinks.
“We should rest for a bit,” John says from the bed. Sherlock watches him as he sits up and rubs at one of his eyes. “Just a day or two, you look tired.”
Sherlock isn't tired, he is exhausted, but sleep has nothing to do with it. He takes the few steps over to drop the leaflet into John's lap. John looks up at him with raised eyebrows. “Didn't picture you as the hiking type.”
Sherlock shrugs, distracted by John's hand closing around his wrist and the lines of his upturned face. He is learning new angles of John and he feels a slight smile pulling on his lips for no reason at all. John tugs at his wrist and they kiss again, like it could become something normal.
~
The boy delivers his story admirably, his mother toppled down a slope, they were hiking, she is injured, just half an hour down that way into the valley, so glad to find someone who knows first aide, a doctor even. If Sherlock hadn't paid him in the first place, he would point out the mobile phone in his pocket and the fact that a local boy (obvious) would know where the next village is and wouldn't run half an hour in the false direction. John doesn't question it, though, all his attention on possible injuries and how to fix them. He only hesitates to look at Sherlock.
“Go on,” he says. “I'll go up and wait at the falls for you.”
“You sure?” It's only form, John is already turning to follow the child.
Sherlock smiles mildly. If this should be the last he sees of John, it is good. Determined and competent and on the way to help someone. John smiles back at him, takes a few steps backwards just to keep looking at him for a few moments longer, his whole face transformed into that of a happier person. They're being silly, it's ridiculous.
And devastating, Sherlock lets himself think as he turns away, safe from John's eyes. He would have liked to get to know that happy John Watson.
~
He has no eyes for the nature on his way up, it's John who appreciates a view and the peaceful scenery of a forest. It's artless, a kind of shamefully romantic, tame wilderness Sherlock can't understand as anything but backdrop. He takes out his phone and starts typing an e-mail to John.
My dear John, he writes and stares at the possessive pronoun almost for a minute, before he decides not to delete it. I write this mail, because I am aware that Moriarty awaits me at the falls. It is inevitable that we end this prolonged chase. He can't be allowed to escape. In a different world I might have been tempted to let him continue his game; it is still a bitter thought to lose the challenges he'd be able to pose. But I think of you and I know that he must be destroyed. I fear that my own death is a risk I must take to free the world of him. I imagine you will be livid, if you read this, and I'm sorry that it had to come to this. You will take it hard and hate me for deceiving you and facing him alone. Please believe me that I don't doubt your abilities or your loyalty, I just can't bear the thought of dragging you into our mutual destruction. I can't lose you and what would be the point of dying for a world without you in it?
He halts, his thumb hovering over the backspace key. I thought about erasing the last sentence, he writes at last, but I should be honest at least in this letter. Ideally, I'll live and never show you this mail, but when I think about the alternative, I picture a world that is slightly safer than this one, because of me - for you and maybe for your children one day. I picture you living a good long life. Mary for you and my work for me... I have recently come to resent that scenario, but if I die today, I wish you nothing less than happiness. I hope you can forgive me these extreme measures. I apologise for everything I was too cowardly to do or say. I hope you understand that I am
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
~
Moriarty is there of course. “A dramatic background for a dramatic occasion,” he shouts over the roaring water. A cascade of seven falls, potential energy transformed into noise, mist and crushing force. It's been a bit over a week since Sherlock started their last game and it's left its mark on both of them. Moriarty is pale, stressed and his eyes look more murderous than ever, his smirk more dangerous.
He looks around, theatrically, then cocks his head. “Where's your little friend? Did he run off? I had such a nice surprise for him.” His eyes flicker to the side, unconsciously probably, but maybe he wants Sherlock to know. Behind him is the cliff and a place on top of the gorge where a sniper could lie. Sherlock can't see him, but he's suddenly sure that Moran is there. He looks back into Moriarty's smiling face.
“You, me, here, at last,” the madman drawls like he can't be bothered to outline his thoughts further. “I admit it's all a bit cloak and dagger, but it's not really a duel, is it?”
“Not?” Sherlock says and lifts an eyebrow. He feels calm now.
Moriarty shrugs. “It could have been, but you're so disappointing. I kick your dog and you take it so personal. It's disgusting. Can't take a joke.” There's more rage behind each new word he speaks until he is screaming over the thundering falls. “You had to go and make me mad at you!”
“So now you want to kill me?”
“Don't take it the wrong way,” Moriarty says, irritatingly calm again. “I really enjoyed this, but I have a business to run, you understand.” He turns around towards the path that's been carved into the stone. There are wooden handrails, slippery from the eternal drizzle of the falls. “Come on,” he shouts over his shoulder. “You should see this, could be the last thing.”
Sherlock follows, because the path leads him away from the sniper. Close to the falls the water numbs all senses. White noise, white mist, even the smell is just indistinguishable wetness. Moriarty turns and steps closer, Sherlock braces himself for an attack that doesn't come.
“You know what will happen, if I die and you leave here alive?” Moriarty's voice is almost drowned out by the rushing water.
“Moran will shoot me?”
Moriarty grins and shakes his head. “That's what I would do. Sebastian is more the traditionalist. An eye for an eye.”
Sherlock nods and pulls out his phone to send the e-mail.
.