Concertos and Blackmail, part 12
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Part Twelve
Outside, the air is cool and the silence brief but deafening. John has only a moment to enjoy the lack of hammering footsteps and raised voices before the wail of a police siren howls to his right. He glances over at the flashing lights visible through the chain-link fence at the end of the alley.
“This way!” cries Sherlock from somewhere to his left. John turns just in time to catch the violin case flying in his direction, running after Sherlock as he launches himself at the high grey wall. The detective barely manages to get a grip on the top and hauls himself up, his expensive shoes scrabbling at the bricks. When he’s finally straddling the wall, John throws the violin after him, waiting as he sets it down well behind him and leans forward again, holding out his arms. John takes two steps back, sizing up the wall and shaking his head, his breath searing at his lungs.
“Oh, for God’s s-”
John tucks his gun away in his pocket and, mustering all his remaining strength, takes a running leap at the wall, throwing his arms up and still managing to miss the top by almost a foot. He doesn’t fall, though, Sherlock’s outstretched hands fumbling for his and clinging below his wrists as his body slams into the bricks. John twists his hands around and grasps Sherlock’s arms in return, scrambling for a foothold as they both give an almighty heave. Sherlock pulls John up to the top of the wall, but just as he locks his arms over the bricks, a loud metal clang sounds behind them, and the service entrance bursts open.
“HEY!”
Cursing, John tries desperately to pull himself over the wall, but all too soon, there’s a hand on his ankle and his hands are slipping. Sherlock lets out a strangled yell, tugging at John’s shoulders as the doctor kicks out with his free foot, managing to connect with his attacker’s nose. John locks his fearful gaze with Sherlock’s, and they both pull harder; but despite their combined efforts, John’s arms slide out of Sherlock’s grip as the guard pulls him down with ease, sending them both tumbling to the asphalt.
“JOHN!” Sherlock screams, leaning precariously over the wall, one hand steadying himself as the other strains for his friend.
“Go!” John shouts, even as he rolls off the guard, glancing up at Sherlock, now barely astride the wall. The guard lunges after him, tackling him back to the ground and sending a fist at John’s face. He retaliates with an elbow to the man’s jaw and throws him off, looking again to Sherlock in the momentary opening. “Go!”
With a final, terrified glance, Sherlock grabs the violin and disappears over the wall, swinging his legs around and sliding out of sight with a flash of his tails. John has no time to linger: a second later, the guard is back on him, struggling to hold his arms down and restrain him long enough for backup to arrive and subdue him entirely.
John refuses to let that happen.
Using the guard’s bulk against him, John pushes up at his attacker, rolling them until the guard has his back to the ground. A knee connects with John’s gut, and he throws two punches in return. A hand flies for his face, but he breaks the wrist before it can make contact, using the opening to backhand the guard and reach for his gun. Before he can raise it properly though, the guard surges up toward him, grabbing his right arm to hold back the weapon and elbowing John in the chest. Despite the pain blooming in his ribs, John reaches out to hold back the guard’s free arm at the same time as he brings his knee crashing down into the man’s diaphragm. Winded, the guard’s grip slackens just enough for John to free his arm and promptly pistol-whip the man into unconsciousness.
At the street-side end of the alley, more police cars are assembling, and John can hear raised voices and shouted orders. Above him, Appledore Tower is a beacon in the night, thrumming with life as the authorities seek out the intruders.
Not waiting for more guards to make their way to the service entrance, John takes one glance over his shoulder and immediately dismisses the idea of trying to make it over the back wall of the alley. He scrambles to his feet, curling momentarily over his bruised ribs, and tucks his gun into his cummerbund as he staggers past the limousine and to the chain-link fence. On the other side, police are swarming into the building through the lobby, the lights from the cars and building flooding over the street and eliminating the shadows that used to hide the mouth of the alley from view.
Taking barely a moment to regain his breath, John throws a final glance at the officers milling outside the building and pulls himself up onto the fence, climbing it with significantly more ease than the brick at the other end. It isn’t until he’s swung himself over the top and begun his descent that the high, metallic shivering attracts the attention of one of the policemen on the street. A warning shout rings out, and a dozen faces turn toward John as he drops the last four feet to the ground and stumbles into a run. Behind him, shouts and footsteps begin to follow, and he puts on a burst of speed, calling to mind Sherlock’s instructions and swinging around the first corner he reaches: the first alleyway on the left.
Sherlock was right. The alley, despite its twists and turns and occasional side entrances, leads more or less directly back to a familiar, boarded-up fence, a pile of bins and rubbish forming a convenient series of steps to the top of the wall. John leaps up them, kicking the final bin out of the way as he mounts the fence. He holds himself in place on top of the boards with one hand and uses the other to pull out his gun as a dozen or so police and security guards round the final bend far behind. Deliberately aiming above their heads, John fires three shots into the alley, and his pursuers throw themselves to the ground in fear.
With a fleeting, slightly manic grin, John twists around and scrambles down the other side of the fence, dropping the last two feet into a crouch before throwing himself into a run and not looking back. He sprints through the darkened construction site, darting between vaguely familiar piles of bricks and beams and avoiding anything resembling an office or floodlight. Sherlock may have had the place memorised, but John now relies only on instinct to get him through unnoticed and at least relatively unscathed. His blood pounds in his ears and his breath tears at his throat as he runs, the gun the perfect weight in his hand and his muscles singing with adrenaline. His own body is so loud that he doesn’t hear the scuffle of approaching footsteps until he rounds an abandoned forklift and barrels headfirst into a tall, dark-haired figure.
“John!” Sherlock gasps as he stumbles back, wild-eyed and trembling with exertion and fear. “I heard gunshots, are you -”
“It was me, I’m fine,” John pants in return, grabbing Sherlock’s arm and tugging him around, pushing him back the way he came. “Just keep going, we need to get out of here.”
“How did you make it so far without getting caught?” Sherlock asks between breaths, glancing down at his friend.
“You learn a thing or two in a warzone, Sherlock,” John replies. “Instinct,” he adds, when Sherlock continues to frown. “It helps sometimes.”
From there on, they remain silent apart from their harsh breaths, Sherlock leading the way through the twisting maze of construction until they reach the outer fence. Sherlock goes first, passing the violin case to John as he climbs up and fumbles with the wooden board on the other side, sliding it out of the way and swinging himself over the top before holding out his hands for the case. Within seconds, John has tucked away his gun and joined him, and they’re slotting the board firmly back into place.
“Where to now?” John whispers between heaving breaths as Sherlock picks up the violin case and glances around them.
“This way,” he hisses, tugging once at John’s arm and running away from the lights of Euston Road. He leads them on a twisting, turning route through the streets, primarily alleys and back roads, that seems to be heading in no particular direction, zig-zagging and spiralling and doubling-back on itself until John has lost all sense of direction. Sherlock, on the other hand, knows exactly where they’re going. His mental map of London doesn’t fail him, and he never hesitates before turning a corner or ducking in and out of dingy, unlit alleyways. At one point, they cut across the middle of Regent’s Park, disappearing amidst the silent, eerie shadows and then bursting out onto the street again at the other end. They remain in the light for just a moment before diving back into the hidden shadows of the city, turning away from Baker Street in another confusing circuit.
Eventually, Sherlock stumbles to a halt in a long, impossibly narrow lane between two tall rows of houses, not even wide enough for the two of them to walk side-by-side. Lowering the violin case to the ground, he shuffles around until he can fall back against the bricks, his feet in one gutter and his back against the wall over the other. John, his chest heaving and his vision swimming just slightly, positions himself against the wall opposite, curling over what feels like three and a half stitches and slowing his breath down from its desperate rasp. They stay like that for a minute, gasping and swallowing, their legs trembling slightly in the cold night air. John’s stitches fade enough for him to straighten just a little, wincing and resting his hands on his thighs. Sherlock shifts his weight on his aching feet, gulping down air.
High above them, a low growl of thunder rolls back and forth across the city.
Without warning, Sherlock begins to laugh.
It starts as just a hitch in his throat, barely distinguishable from his panting breaths. John glances up from under his sweaty brow as the hitch resolves into a breathless chuckle, and, helpless to resist, immediately joins in. Sherlock’s laugh turns from a gasp to a deep, throaty rumble as John bends over, hands on his knees, his chest heaving. Just as their chuckles begin to fade, Sherlock glances down at the same time as John looks up, and all of a sudden, the absolute absurdity of what they’ve done comes crashing home. Peals of laughter echo up and down the lane, and John giggles and giggles until he’s all but hissing through his teeth, doubling over and shaking his head at the both of them, his eyes watering, unable to breathe. Sherlock’s chuckles lose all sound until the only indications of his mirth are his wide grin and his silently trembling shoulders. Growing steadily weaker, his body crumples, and he leans forward until his head rests on John’s shoulder opposite.
“Jesus Christ, you’re insane,” John chuckles breathlessly into Sherlock’s ear, dropping his head and failing to gain control of himself. Sherlock gasps for a second, trying to regain enough breath to speak.
“A madman’s a rather poor judge of sanity, wouldn’t you say?” he mutters, turning his head slightly, the tail end of his sentence lost amidst a fresh wave of laughter.
Expelling the contents of his already-empty lungs, John gasps out a renewed, soundless cackle, shaking his head. His mouth seems to be forming the word ‘no’, but not even a whisper of breath sounds it out, and for a second, he is completely and utterly silent but for a few, helpless squeaks in his chest. When he finally manages to suck in a breath, it’s only to fuel more wheezing laughter as he pulls away to look at Sherlock straight on. Sensing the movement, Sherlock rolls his forehead against John’s shoulder until he can just catch his eye, beaming madly, his icy iris just visible behind the mask.
“Oh God, we’re completely mad,” John breathes, grinning, as he lets himself slide down the wall to the sodden asphalt, fatigue finally overcoming adrenaline. Sherlock follows, his knees bending smoothly beneath him and his exhausted, gangly form turning and curling over to keep his forehead resting on John’s shoulder. Their laughs finally subside, replaced by heavy, heaving breaths and the occasional hiccupping giggle. A small, slightly hysterical smile remains on John’s face as he lets his head fall to the side, his cheek coming to rest against Sherlock’s hair. He’s far too ragged to care, though; too comfortable to bother moving for appearances’ sake. He could stay here all night, with the damp seeping through his trousers and his ruined dinner jacket catching on the brick, Sherlock’s knuckles pressed against his ribs and the corner of the curb digging into the small of his back. Already the dark fingers of drowsiness are beginning to creep up behind his eyelids.
One misstep, John thinks - one underestimated leap or unblocked punch - and it would all have been over, every mad adventure brought to a humiliating end. Sherlock is limp and warm at his side, and they are both gloriously alive, and it is with a ridiculous note of reverence that John manages to speak.
“We made it,” he whispers, his slowing breaths stirring up Sherlock’s damp curls. “We fucking made it, Sherlock.”
Somewhere beneath his chin, Sherlock’s eyes fall closed and his breath rushes out of his lungs with the realisation. “Yes John,” he sighs in return. “We made it.”
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