Sherlock fic: The Repetition Of Affirmations
Title: The Repetition Of Affirmations
Pairing/characters: Sherlock/Watson (kinda)
Rating M
Words: 3,200
Summary: Prompt: I don't believe in heroes. I just believe in one. Full prompt here on sherlockbbc_fic.
Warning: Mentions of violence, language. Spoilers to s02xe03
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine
A/N: This is the sequel to To Save A Life although it can basically be read as a stand alone.
It’s the repetition of affirmations that leads to belief
Muhammad Ali
They take him as he leaves the morgue, moon already suspended high overhead. A hood is thrust over his head, hands cuffed at his back. He should’ve known really. More criminals who believe themselves masterminds. They’ve been trying to fill the void, slip into the power vacuum that has been there since a bullet passed through Moriarty’s skull. These ones are Americans, their jarring accents leaking through the black material obscuring his eyes but he can’t pick up the words.
Sherlock wants to laugh. Stupid fools. Perhaps they don’t know who he is or perhaps they don’t care. Perhaps they don’t know that there’s no way this can end well.
Fading out their voices, he concentrates on where they’re going. He’s in a van, the engine too loud for a car but not guttural enough for a truck. There won’t be much traffic on the road at two in the morning and by judging how long it takes for the car to stop after applying the brakes, he calculates they’re travelling at approximately 40 km/h. A minute later they hit the A40 - unless Sherlock’s mistaken, which he isn’t - and pick up to 80 km/h.
Twenty minutes later the van peels away, slowing as it turns off the A40. They’re in Park Royal, industrial playground of factories and warehouses. They bump gently over train tracks - the central line, Acton Station nearby - and take a few more turns.
Then they’re stopping and hands are pulling him roughly from the van. His feet stumble momentarily and he falls against one of his captors. Muscular, well-built, quick reflexes that catch him easily. Cold metal touches his skin and he can feel all the dips and dives of a Glock semi-automatic.
“Keep your fucking feet.” There’s a European lilt to this voice, not American like the ones that spoke in the cab of the van. A hired thug, then.
A hand pushes against his back, the muzzle of a gun brushes his neck. Blindly Sherlock walks forward, guided by the occasional nudge of cold metal. Ahead of him, the Americans talk in hushed voices. A door opens and they pass through, Sherlock momentarily bumping against the painted doorframe. There’s another door, this one metal.
A second later he’s stopped and spun. Hands shove him backwards and his bones ache as wood meets his spine. A chair, waiting for its captor. The handcuffs are momentarily removed then locked again, binding his hands to the wooden slates of the chair. Fingers yank the hood from his head and the rush of bright light forces his eyes shut until they adjust to normality.
They’re in an abandoned warehouse, the kind that would make Mycroft salivate. Before him stand three men, two wearing white masks to hide from Sherlock’s cataloguing eyes. The third is the hired hand, a Glock clasped between thick fingers and a loose suit barely concealing his well-muscled frame. His jaw line’s strong, eyes overshadowed by a jutting forehead and a hooked scar curving around the top of one nostril.
Interesting. The two Americans are afraid to show their faces, suggesting that they aren’t planning to kill him. Yet the third, fingers flexing around his weapon, didn’t bother to hide his identity. Uncaring, untraceable or already wanted?
“Mr. Holmes.” The middle man steps forward, hands clasped in front of him. “You possess some information we require regarding your current homicide investigation.”
Suit tailored to fit someone taller. Cuffs well-worn and shoes scuffed. Hands positioned in a defensive stance, uncomfortable. Turned slightly away from the second American, distrust, uncertainty? Outline of two cell phones visible in blazer pockets: carrying another’s phone. Slightest bulge under each arm: hand guns. No jewellery but a large watch, expensive and well cared for: a promotional gift.
“Mr. Holmes?”
Second American. Perfectly fitted suit, high quality fabric, rarely worn. Gold cufflinks and gold ring emblazoned with an insignia. No watch: time fitted to him rather than he to time. Hands relaxed in pockets, feet shoulder width apart: leader, boss, chief.
“What is it you wish to know?” He doesn’t look away from the second American. “You’re not the ones who killed the victim. I know who did that.”
“Exactly.” The boss steps forward, forcing the first American to shrink back. “And you’re going to tell us who that was.”
“I see.” The ring; he’s close enough now for Sherlock to see the insignia. It matches the one on the victim’s body. “He worked for you.” Slight wince, barely recognisable resentment. “No, you worked for him.” Surprise: correct deduction. “You need to know who killed him and so you’re using me to find out.”
“Very good, Mr. Holmes.” Cold voice: impassionate but affected rather than natural. A man who grew into the life of a criminal rather than one born or forced into it.
“The victim is evidence, a trail that could lead back to you now that I know the connection. You’re wearing masks so you’re clearly not interested in killing me, although it would be little to you.” It reveals itself then, the answer, in a kaleidoscope of connections and conclusions and that smooth snap of certainty that means Sherlock’s right.
“Oh,” he grins, wide and assured. “This isn’t just a kidnapping. This is a job interview, a trial. You’re making sure I’m as great as everyone says. I’m better, but I won’t tell you who killed your boss.”
The American’s hands slide out from his pockets to resettle the smoothly ironed blazer. “We were told by a source that you would co-operate fully, that you were looking for a less ordinary job.”
Moriarty. It makes sense. Spider in a web spanning continents, traversing seas in conspiracies and contracts. Even in death he’s hunting Sherlock, bargaining and bartering, twisting in an attempt to convert him, an attempt to unravel the consulting detective’s name. Donavan always said that one day Sherlock would snap, spin to the other side of the law. Inevitable, inescapable.
So. Very. Boring.
“Your source was wrong.” Quickly he returns to that map that had been spread on the table where Mycroft’s four agents sat. Map of the world, covered in pins and string and newspaper clippings. All of Moriarty’s plans, clients, crimes traced and assigned. Sherlock focuses on America, trying to decide which of the crime families this is standing before him.
“Our source said you’d say that.” There’s little flourish as the man pulls the mask from his face, the other American copying him. Interesting. He moves forward, eyes sharp and narrow. Sherlock supposes he must’ve been handsome once but climbing up the Mob’s hierarchy has left little but scar tissue and a nose broken too many times to fix. “He also said you’d know who he was.”
“Indeed,” he smirks. It’s slight, almost not there, displaced through time and conscious suppression. The ‘r’ wavers, slipped upon with an accent long forgotten. New York. “Such a shame he’s dead.”
This is going on too long, a conversation Sherlock was never interested in having. “I’m not for hire, especially not to simple thugs like you.” The European steps forward, hand raised, but the American reaches out an arm to stop him.
“No. Let him think that he’s still in control.” There’s a smirk on his face, eyes cold and mirthless. “Let him think we won’t kill him.”
“New York, yes?” Sherlock raises an eyebrow and doesn’t wait for an answer. “The Genovese family if I’m correct and you should know I’m always correct. Your current boss is unknown, the position’s understood to have been in limbo since Gigante’s death. Moriarty was helping you move various unsavoury things through European customs until his death.
“Now he’s using you to get to me. Your victim, the man in my morgue; he’s no one important and neither are you. He was your boss and you resented him for that, however he was still your brother and your trivial mind requires revenge.”
The man drops his arm, hands clenching momentarily. He tries to smile, shrug off Sherlock’s conclusions, but it falls flat. Instead he reaches out a hand and the second American pulls out a gun and places it in the upturned palm.
Sherlock can’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. All these criminals and mobsters, men who think themselves bigger than they actually are. Always they think a gun will scare whomever it is they’re threatening. It’s only a symbol of power for those who run the risk of losing.
“Mr. Holmes, I’m not a man of patience.” Sherlock resists the urge to laugh as the gun’s levelled at his head. “You may have played games with Moriarty, but I’ll not play games with you. Tell me what I want to know or I’ll kill you.”
“Not the best way to end a job interview,” Sherlock says with a smile. “Still, it’s nice to know I’ll be walking out of here alive.”
“I think not, Mr. Holmes.”
“Then why would I be afraid of you killing me? Surely now it’s inevitable, inescapable. Surely now it’s no longer a threat that you can hold over me.”
The American’s hand flexes against the gun. His mouth opens, preparing to say something, but he’s interrupted. The sound of an engine filters through the dirty, cracked glass. It’s too loud to be a car on the road. Squares of yellow light travel across the warehouse walls, thrown from a car’s headlights. They stop, beams shining against the wall, engine idling. A door opens, shuts and Sherlock’s already smiling.
“Go,” the American hisses at the hired thug. The latter turns and slinks towards the metal door at the end of the warehouse, passing through the vehicle spotlight. The boss turns back to Sherlock, face twisted in a sneer that skews his nose further to the side. “Has the great Sherlock Holmes called for help?”
“Sir?” The second American has his gun out now, face uncertain. His eyes flick between the door and Sherlock. “Perhaps we should-”
“There’s no need.” The American doesn’t turn from the consulting detective. “No one can get past Gustav. Not unless they’re some kind of hero and I don’t believe in heroes.” He pushes in close to Sherlock, breath hot and tinged with mint. “Do you believe in heroes, Mr. Holmes?”
“No, I don’t believe in heroes.” A gunshot echoes from beyond the warehouse walls, sudden and punctuating. The American flinches, eyes snapping to the side. “I just believe in one.”
The door bursts open, a short figure charging through, nothing more than a shadow beyond the beam of car headlights. There’s a gun in his hand and he’s fired twice before the American’s can move. Both go down. They’re still alive, sounds of pain filling the warehouse. The boss clutches his leg, the other his shoulder.
“John,” Sherlock smiles as his blogger strides closer, gun still raised. “I was expecting you at least a minute ago. Do look in their pockets, these handcuffs are chaffing.”
“Not all of us can fit to your schedule,” John’s muttering as he pulls a key-ring from the pocket of the first American. “Are there anymore men?”
“I shouldn’t think so.” John disappears behind Sherlock, holstering his gun. Fingers brush against his wrist, rushed but steady, not fumbling. Truth be told Sherlock doesn’t know if there are any more men. He hasn’t encountered the mob before, not in London. Moriarty has changed the map of the criminal world. “You managed to follow the phone’s GPS then?”
“Yes, I did.” Sherlock had texted John as he left the morgue, told him the case had been solved. Dependable John. He had called Sherlock minutes later, prepared to complain about the late hour.
The handcuffs come undone with a click and Sherlock eases the blood back into his hands, fingers massaging his pulse point. Dipping into his pants pocket he pulls out his phone and ends the call from John Watson.
“I came as quickly as I could,” John says and Sherlock doesn’t doubt it.
“You stupid fuck.” The voice comes from the floor and instantly John has his gun out, trained on the angry American clutching at his leg. “You think you and your dog can just kill us and walk away?”
“Kill you? No.” Sherlock smirks and takes the cuffs John offers. “Send you to jail for a very long time? Yes.”
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It takes almost half an hour of explaining - that’s precisely what I just said, you incompetent bumble - before Lestrade and his detectives let them go. It isn’t exactly commonplace for mob members to kidnap Londoners. John tries to do as much of the talking as Sherlock will allow.
It turns out that Gustav - bullet hole in his thigh, placed to tear muscle but not veins - is wanted by no less than four European governments. Murder and grievous bodily harm dominant his crimes. The Americans are minor members of the Genovese mob family, a street boss and his assistant in all things necessary.
“So who was it?” John asks as he climbs into the back of the cab. Sherlock follows him in and John can’t quite stop himself from sliding across until his thigh’s pressed against Sherlock’s. It feels too much like comfort, that reassurance of life in the warmth that seeps through the layers of clothing and drapes across his skin. There’s no complaint from the consulting detective.
“What?” Sherlock’s distracted, mind already focussed on some shiny conundrum that has presented itself to him. “It was the American mob, John. Do keep up.”
He doesn’t bother trying to act offended; finds his annoyed glance becomes an affectionate smile instead. “No, who killed the victim from the case the mob wanted you to solve?” And that’s a strange question, their lives now infiltrated by the American mafia as well as all the crimes of London.
“Oh, that.” Sherlock’s gaze turns to the cab window, streetlamps spinning across his eyes. “It was simple really. Jagged-edge knife wounds suggested a serrated knife, traces of citric acid, quercetin and various flavonoids determining it was used in a kitchen. The victim’s wallet was taken but his gold ring and expensive clothes left therefore not a mugging gone wrong.
“The body was discovered in the dumpster of a restaurant from which the knife came. The wounds on the body focussed on the face and continued post-mortem. It was a crime of passion hurriedly covered-up by someone who didn’t want us to know the victim’s identity.
“Conclusion; he was murdered by whoever accompanied him from New York. Certainly he wouldn’t have been alone and it’s unlikely there was anyone else who would want to kill him and disguise his identity. Lestrade will discover who was travelling with him. There’s nothing more to interest me in that case.”
“Incredible,” John sighs, his gaze tracing the high cheekbones of Sherlock’s face. “Really, just incredible.”
There’s a long silence before Sherlock speaks, eyes not moving from the outside world. “Thank you, John.”
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It’s half past three by the time they get back to Baker Street. John’s exhausted and rightfully so. Still, four thirty comes and he can’t sleep.
There are too many things to think about. His mind runs through the rescue mission - because that’s what it was really, a rescue mission of one - pauses on adrenaline breaths and the steady squeeze of the trigger. No one was killed, not this time. Memories freeze on their faces, twisted in agony. His leg aches in sympathetic pain.
Do you believe in heroes?
He thinks of Gustav, holding his gun with a military stance, military mind, military man back from war, or perhaps he’s still facing it? And are they any different, he and Gustav? Men crafted by war, attack dogs. One does it for money, the other for a man. They’re just in love with different things.
No, I don’t believe in heroes.
John freezes his thoughts then, folds them up and puts them away for another day when he feels braver, steadier, safer with both feet on the ground. He freezes his thoughts and runs away, pushing himself out of bed.
There’s a single light on in their sitting room. Sherlock’s curled up in his armchair, staring at the skull on the mantelpiece, which he still hasn’t gotten rid of. John finds his doesn’t mind, finds he likes the reminder of the way Sherlock has allowed John to displace so much of his life.
John drops into his own armchair, revelling in the way the foam and feathers accept his sleepy weight. Sherlock doesn’t look at him and John takes the opportunity to catalogue the detective himself. Sherlock’s clearly tired. It’s obvious in the red veins that run through his eyes and the dark shadows that loop underneath. John doesn’t think he’s ever seen his friend look this tired.
There’s a gun in his lap. John didn’t notice it before, the black metal sinking into the shadows cast by the single light. It’s John’s, plucked from where he left it on the kitchen table. The safety’s on and from his position it’s clear that there’s no magazine in the body. It’s not something to worry about, just an anomaly, a curiosity.
Sherlock blinks and seems to notice John for the first time, gaze shifting to him. After a moment his hand reaches out, phone resting in his palm. John takes it wordlessly and turns on the screen. There’s a text from Lestrade. The victim’s Alexander Bellomo. He came into the country with Joe Bellomo, his brother.
John looks up at Sherlock, eyes sharp with shock. “Is he-”
“The American who kidnapped me, yes.”
“But why?” John doesn’t understand. Brother kills brother, it seems so ancient, so archaic. It seems so boring, when Sherlock has unravelled crimes scenes at a glance and solved the murders in suicides. The consulting detective doesn’t reply and John suspects he doesn’t know.
They sit there for a long time, Sherlock lost on a case or a crime that John will never know. Meanwhile he thinks about handcuffs ensnaring thin wrists and that long cab ride where all he could do was remember how to breathe.
Finally he stands, mutters a goodnight - or a good morning as it happens. He holds out the phone to Sherlock and jumps when a hand closes around his wrist, fingertips resting against his pulse point.
“You said you wouldn’t be there.” There’s a strange lilt to Sherlock’s voice, thin and wavering as if there’s uncertainty in his thoughts, a riddle he can’t answer. It takes a moment for John to catch on, understand where Sherlock’s words are coming from. Late nights lit by street lamp. John had told the consulting detective that he wouldn’t always be there.
He gently pulls the fingers from his wrist, turns Sherlock’s hand so he can press the phone into his empty palm. Eyes flick up to meet his and he smiles. “I’ll be there, Sherlock.”
The man sitting below him nods slowly, lets a silent contract tie them together. Sleep creeps over John’s eyes, reminds him that it’s almost morning. He drops his hands from Sherlock’s and drags himself back to his room. It’s ten to five. Sleep finds him easily, dreams showing nothing of the horrors of reality, nothing but the black curls and rapid words of his detective.
I just believe in one.