Major Pieces, Chapter 6: Endgame
Rating: PG-13 (for adult themes, not sex)
Pairings: Gen
Spoilers: Through The Great Game.
Warnings: Chapters 1 and 2 contain gory crime scenes. Trigger warnings for discussion of (off-screen) sexual assault and violence against women.
Special thanks to: stellar-dust, my beyond awesome beta, who managed to be both insanely quick and tremendously helpful. Thanks also to everyone who listened to me natter (particularly
melannen, that one night at Sarah's).
Summary: Sherlock knew that he could thoroughly rely upon John Watson's moral sense. And that's why he knew that Lestrade was wrong, wrong, wrong.
Chapter 6: Endgame
[There are] enormous difficulties to be surmounted, even when there are hardly any pieces left, when playing against an adversary who knows how to use the resources at his disposal. -José Raúl Capablanca, Chess Fundamentals
Veihnult Riesen's headquarters consisted of a mid-sized office building fronting on a quiet street in outer London. It was a well-kept neighborhood, with street lights at frequent intervals and yellow "This area under closed circuit surveillance" signs everywhere, but at this hour no one was loitering on the street. The glass front door was covered by a dark curtain, as were the large windows to either side. The office appeared dark. Sherlock approached the front door warily and tugged the handle. Locked. He also noticed a security camera pointed directly at the door, its 'ready' light winking steadily. Obviously Moriarty would not put himself under the eye of a camera; there must be another entrance.
When he found the rear service, the door was slightly ajar. It did not suggest chance or burglary: the hasp was undamaged but marked by recent scratches from a padlock which had been removed. Obviously a person meticulous enough to take the padlock after opening the door would not leave it open by accident. Which meant the open door was intentional, a clear invitation. Sherlock took the gun out of his pocket and released the safety as he stepped inside, but he found only empty hallways full of doors to equally empty offices. The fluorescent lights along his route were all on. Of course, Sherlock had been invited; there would have been no sense in putting artificial roadblocks in his way to the meeting.
He could tell that he was heading to the front of the building and whatever public reception area Veihnult Riesen was equipped with. No doubt there would be marble and wood paneling; it seemed that sort of office, and his opponent had shown himself to be a man who valued not only appearance, but the sort of elaborate set pieces and reveals such a setting would suggest.
Therefore, Sherlock was not terribly surprised when he reached the well-lit, modern lobby and saw James Moriarty.
Moriarty was perched primly on the edge of the receptionist's desk, again dressed impeccably in a bespoke tailored suit and a ridiculously expensive pair of Gucci loafers. Sherlock's attention was drawn to Brian Rufus, who was seated in one of the stylish metal chairs along the side wall, to Moriarty's left. His hands were bound to the arms of the chair, his ankles to the legs. Beyond the seating area and the reception desk was an open space featuring a small fountain spilling water into a black marble basin and beyond that, the front door, surrounded by tall, curtained windows.
"Welcome!" Moriarty said. He truly did sound welcoming; one could almost be fooled into thinking he belonged here, that he was a businessman about to call a meeting of colleagues to order. But despite the appropriateness of his clothing, Sherlock thought that the man seemed as out of place here as he had at the pool, and there was still a certain half-wild look in his eye. Sherlock brought his arm up and leveled the gun at Moriarty, who appeared not to notice. "Have a seat. Can I offer you some coffee?"
Strangely, he did appear to have a brass-fitted coffee urn of the sort used for catering set up on the desk next to him, with a small selection of china cups and saucers. He gestured broadly, as if suggesting Sherlock sit on the large, blocky planter across from him. Sherlock slowed his steps as he came further into the room, wanting to continue examining details but unwilling to take his eyes from Moriarty. "I'll stand, thank you."
Moriarty slid a cup under the spigot and served himself coffee. He sipped daintily from the cup. "Lower the gun. It's bad manners to point a weapon at a man who's offering you a job."
"Looking to recruit more serial killers? I'd have thought you were all staffed up at present." Sherlock tilted his head in Rufus' direction without moving the gun. Something was wrong. The lobby was all open spaces and clean lighting, there were no rafters and the curtains covering the windows were very, very dark; there was nowhere to hide snipers here, but Moriarty was not armed and did not appear even slightly alarmed at having a gun waved at him.
"I may have an opening quite soon," Moriarty said brightly. Rufus made a sort of choking noise. "Hush," Moriarty said without looking, his voice like iron. Then the genial businessman was back. "But no, I think you've shown a certain...management potential."
The suggestion did not surprise Sherlock. The confrontation at the pool hadn't been about the threat, obviously, because that could easily have been accomplished without the risk of Moriarty exposing himself. And snipers aside, it had been a risk. No, Moriarty had been giving him an entirely different message by appearing in person, flirting, giving Sherlock "a glimpse, just a teensy glimpse" of what he was doing. It was an invitation. You can't stop me, but you can join me. Consulting detective and consulting criminal, two sides of the same coin. The message in his abduction of John had also been clear. He is a liability and he is beneath you. I am neither.
Moriarty had gotten his attention, but not his affection, for that little stunt. Perhaps he had not anticipated Sherlock's reaction, had assumed that Sherlock must logically agree with his characterization of John as his pet, as a mere amusement. But in fact that was not Sherlock's view of John at all, so when Moriarty had posed the unspoken question Will you join me? Sherlock hadn't bothered to give it any thought at all before he answered No. Moriarty was smart and he was interesting, but Sherlock did not like him.
"You've been so bored these past few months," Moriarty said, smiling. "I know you. You've been as bored as I have. No challenge at all, are they, those ordinary people with their ordinary problems?" Moriarty sipped his coffee again, and casually swung one ankle up over the opposite knee. Sherlock kept his silence, to prevent himself blurting out something obvious. "I was quite flattered when you called me brilliant. You wonder what it would be like, to work with someone as amoral and brilliant as yourself."
And Sherlock had wondered, of course. He couldn't not think about things. So he'd thought about it, if playing with Moriarty would be as interesting as playing against him had been. If planning an unsolvable crime would be more interesting than unraveling it. How novel, to never be bored, because the danger was constant. But when he began to think even semi-seriously about Moriarty's implicit offer, he fetched up with a bump against a single thought- John wouldn't like it -that made him discard the entire line of reasoning. He remembered the disgusted twist to John's mouth as he stood, strapped in Semtex, listening to Moriarty's boasting. He remembered the first time he'd had to take a second look at John's face to recognize the expression there, and John's acidic reply when he said in astonishment I've disappointed you. He knew John would tell him that even considering Moriarty's offer was far more than a bit not good, and somehow over the past few months, not disappointing John had become even more important than preventing himself from becoming bored.
"I'll pass," Sherlock said evenly. "What fun's the game if there's no one on the other side of the board?"
"Ah!" Moriarty breathed. "Well- we won't use their board." Another smile, showing teeth. "And we can rewrite the rules."
"You could always come play on my side."
Moriarty laughed, the response Sherlock expected. "Oh, you don't mean that. You'd be bored to tears. And so would I. And there's nothing we despise more than being bored." Moriarty drained the last of his coffee, and set cup and saucer neatly back beneath the spigot. He looked pointedly at the gun, still in Sherlock's hand. "Your arm is getting tired; how long do you think you can hold that thing up? Do put it down."
"I don't think so. I'm actually rather comfortable." Mentally comfortable, anyway. He was still waiting for the pin to drop, and he'd rather he had the option of putting a bullet in Moriarty when it did.
Moriarty's eyes barely flickered, but it was enough to remind Sherlock that he had his back to the door. He only managed to turn halfway towards it before something caught him a wicked blow on the ear. Sherlock's finger squeezed the trigger almost involuntarily, but his arm had swung up and the shot went wild, plowing a groove in expensive, cream-colored wallpaper. Then skilled fingers were pinching the nerves in his wrist- still bruised from that ultimately pointless experiment with the rope- while a meaty fist delivered heavy punches to his ribs. Sherlock twisted his side towards his attacker to present a smaller target. He wavered between flailing punches at the other man and trying to twist his wrist free, and did very poorly at both. With his hand pinioned and his back half-turned he could not get far enough away to properly box. His hand finally went numb and the gun was slapped from his loosened fingers; at the same time Sherlock was hooked by a foot behind his ankle and slammed hard to the floor. He clawed for the gun, but his opponent swiftly scooped it up and tossed it to Moriarty, who immediately pointed it at Sherlock.
"Wait in the hallway," Moriarty said without taking his eyes off Sherlock. "I never make a request more than twice," Moriarty said cheerfully. "Once people get in the habit of saying 'no' to you...Well, there's no getting anything done." The crazed something in his eyes drained down into his smile and his voice hardened again. "Have. A. Seat."
With some effort, Sherlock regained his feet and sat gingerly on the edge of the planter. Moriarty set the gun on the desk next to the china. Sherlock was closer to Moriarty than he had been, but they were still separated by more distance than a desperate leap could bridge, and Moriarty could have the gun in his hand before Sherlock reached him. He noticed that while he had been fighting the henchman, Moriarty had donned a pair of latex gloves, which he now adjusted by delicately plucking at the ends of the fingers.
"So, I take it you got my message? I hope I wasn't whispering too quietly." Moriarty resumed their earlier conversation as if the interlude with the gun had not happened.
"On the contrary, you practically shouted it." People are interchangeable sacks of meat. "But one for one is hardly statistically significant. There are just over seven million people in the greater London area." Sherlock gently pressed the side of his head, trying to gauge the severity of his wound, and winced. "There's bound to be some overlap."
"Hairsplitting!" Moriarty giggled. "The point is, there are seven million of them; there are only two of us."
There's only one of John, Sherlock wanted to say, but didn't, because that would sound absurd, and he could see where this was going.
"That lark at the pool was such a surprise, Sherlock!" Moriarty said. "And you know yourself how rarely anything in the mundane world surprises. You and your tame doctor, working together. Saving the day! Having a pet seemed to suit you so well, I thought I might like a little doggie of my very own." Moriarty smiled brightly and darted a glance at Rufus, who blanched. "It was lovely at first- he was so obedient and loyal- but then it got tedious, protecting him from the dog warden." Rufus stared at the floor, hunching his shoulders miserably. "So I thought, one dog's as good as another, isn't it?"
Sherlock grimaced, less at Moriarty's words than at his own cold rage. "He doesn't seem very loyal now."
"That's the trouble with dogs," Moriarty said. "In the end, they always disappoint you." Moriarty picked up the gun and toyed with it, tossing it lightly from hand to hand. "You should be thanking me. Though it didn't take much at all, really- a few skin cells, a fingerprint. And you practically finished the job."
"Shut up." There was no reason this should affect him. John's imprisonment was not an error, it was a frame-up.
"Sending him out to buy the rope? Perfect touch. One would almost think you welcomed my help."
"Shut up!" Sherlock didn't think he meant to shout that. He breathed deeply and tried to calm down. Everything had been engineered, even his own deductions. Not his responsibility, surely.
"Ooh, sore spot!" Moriarty smiled again. "Really think about the past few days. Isn't it faster, simpler, without him at your heels?" And Moriarty's wrongness brought Sherlock even more clarity, because once again, he had failed to read Sherlock's feelings about John. "Slowing you down? Making you vulnerable?" Aiding his work. Guarding his back
"I don't find this line of reasoning terribly persuasive," Sherlock said.
"Well, maybe I should make it easier for you." Moriarty hopped off the desk and strode over to Rufus, spinning a neighboring chair out of the way so that he could press the gun to the bound man's head.
"No," Sherlock said involuntarily. He had the links, the deductions, but he needed to put Rufus in Lestrade's hands or it wouldn't be enough to contradict the case against John.
“Yes." Moriarty jabbed Rufus with the gun and Sherlock flinched. "Beautiful." His voice gentled. "Even in this, they are interchangeable. It's as good as having your pet doctor here." Moriarty cocked the handgun. "Have you ever held a man's life in your hands?"
"Yes," Sherlock said, thinking of a hundred cases where only he could unlock an innocent man's alibi; but he knew that wasn't what the question meant.
"No!" Moriarty almost shouted, his calm amusement twisting into loathing for a fraction of a second. "Don't play at stupidity!" The smile was back, all teeth. "I mean really held it."
Sherlock saw the secondary trap, and oh but it was brilliant. He didn't have to fake the expression of fascination that he now put on. Almost as fascinating was the momentary break in Moriarty's self-control, and Sherlock was tempted to say something else dully obvious just to make the mask slip again. But Moriarty's knuckles were nearly white, and his reaction if Sherlock went off-script again might be unpredictable. "No," he answered instead, truthfully this time. But his voice was teasing, because he was back to playing the game. "I thought you didn't like to dirty your hands."
"Well, technically I'm dirtying yours." It was all laid before him like a chess problem: the few remaining pieces static on the board, and Moriarty holding a handgun covered with Sherlock's fingerprints. Even if he escaped a murder charge, the police would never listen to him again.
Sherlock's voice was perfectly level when he answered immediately, "You took my rook, so I take your pawn?" Really John was more a queen, at once the most flexible and least subtle piece on the board. Sherlock was the rook: moving further and more directly than any other chessman and at angles to most of them, so that only the queen could really move in parallel. But that would be giving entirely too much away. "Hardly sporting."
"We're not hobbyists," Moriarty said. "We're playing by tournament rules, now."
The lunatic wanted Sherlock to simply tip the board over and walk away with him, and it wasn't even tempting. It was clear Moriarty, despite being the only man he had ever met capable of understanding him, didn't understand him at all. Sherlock let himself reply "Genius," in that breathy voice Moriarty seemed to crave, because he was too good an actor to show his crushing disappointment. This was Moriarty's endgame. Given the position of the pieces, the best that Sherlock could realistically hope for was a draw. And if he let himself be outmaneuvered, the pawn was not going to be the only one to die.
But Sherlock had played a lot of chess, and he was very, very good at rook and pawn versus rook.
Sherlock prided himself on how smoothly he was able to unfold himself from his seat on the planter. His head was pulsing with pain from the wound and a wicked headache, and it was a serious effort to banish all hesitancy from his posture as he crossed the open space to Rufus' chair. He had never acted so well, or to such an audience. Moriarty stood with the muzzle of the gun pressed to Rufus' head, his body turned sideways to Sherlock.
Sherlock stopped and the gun was tilted slightly toward him, the gesture an obvious invitation. Slowly, deliberately, Sherlock reached out. Their forearms pressed against each other, expensive jackets catching a bit as Sherlock's palm cradled the opposite side of the handgun's grip. Moriarty's breath hitched very slightly as Sherlock's left trigger finger came to rest lightly on top of Moriarty's right.
"Yes." Moriarty's had tilted his head up and his breath, calm and even again, warmed the back of Sherlock's neck. Moriarty quickly reversed their grip, gently caressing Sherlock's finger with his own. Sherlock now gripped the trigger directly. Gooseflesh rose on his arms; he had not been this physically intimate with another human being since he was eight years old.
He wondered if Moriarty's heart was pounding as hard as his own.
"It's so easy, Sherlock," Moriarty murmured. His arm was tense, finger tight over Sherlock's; it would take Sherlock longer to overpower him than it would take Moriarty to squeeze. Rufus emitted another sob, which both of them ignored. Awful as it was, the act had improved his position; Sherlock had at least a chance to survive now, even if Rufus still did not.
In that perfect moment, Sherlock's mind was filled with nothing but immediate physical sensation. The warmth of the gun grip, the soft huff of Moriarty's breathing, the faint odor of aftershave and warm leather, the throbbing pain in his temple. Sherlock's mind had never been so empty, and it gave him a different kind of euphoria from the rush brought on by cases or cocaine. As they hung suspended, he wondered distantly if this was what it always felt like to stand on the cusp of murder.
He was adrift, and he had no plan. Why couldn't he seem to think past this instant?
He felt Moriarty's finger begin to tighten.
The door to the offices slammed open and into the wall, a double bang that sounded like thunder in the silent room. The moment shattered like a dropped glass and Sherlock's mind was suddenly moving whip-fast again as Moriarty's finger slackened. Sherlock jerked the gun towards him and Moriarty squeezed the trigger, but the distraction had been enough and the firing of the gun merely made another alteration to the office's decor.
There was nothing brilliant or calculating about the ensuing struggle between Sherlock and Moriarty. They grappled desperately for the gun, Sherlock's reach and wiry muscle against Moriarty's coiled strength and bulldog-like tenacity, until somehow Sherlock got Moriarty on his back on the receptionist's desk and was banging the bastard's right hand against it. The coffee urn and the china crashed to the floor when Moriarty tried to kick, and he got his teeth into the elbow that was in his face as Sherlock caught his wrist just right on the corner of the desk. They both shouted in pain and the gun went spinning off across the room.
Then it was more wrestling, both of them furious and panting and beyond words. Moriarty got his fists in Sherlock's shirt and managed to roll them off the desk, so that Sherlock landed on his back with both of their full weights. It drove the breath out of him, and kept him from getting his hands up fast enough to stop Moriarty from gripping his throat. Sherlock heaved for air and pried at the throttling hands and desperately hoped that his last sight in life wasn't going to be the wide-eyed, frenzied rage painted across Jim Moriarty's face.
His eyes had rolled back into his head and his hands were only plucking uselessly at Moriarty's when the chokehold suddenly disappeared and Moriarty rolled off him. Something large and solid slammed into Sherlock's left shoulder and made a sickening, audible crunch.
"FUCK!" roared a voice right on top of him. "Fucking- sorry! Sorry!" Not Moriarty's voice. Most of Sherlock's limited energy was going toward sucking great, painful gasps of oxygen into his lungs, but he managed to spare some to focus his eyes.
DI Lestrade was standing over him with the coffee urn hanging from his hands. He let it fall to the ground and shouted, "STOP, POLICE!" as he jumped over Sherlock's prone form and pelted past the reception desk towards the front door. Sherlock rolled up on his right side and could just see past the desk to the figure of Moriarty, leaning against the door onto the street and fumbling with the lock.
Moriarty got the lock open and disappeared through the door and Lestrade slammed through after him. Relative silence fell again; the only sounds were Rufus' halting whimpers and Sherlock's own raspy breathing. With an effort, Sherlock dragged himself to his feet with his right arm, using the desk as a crutch. Fortunately the adrenaline still surging through his system was dulling the pain in his body, although his headache was still hellish. He tried to make his body run towards the door, but after two steps he had to give it up as a bad job. He was certain that his clavicle was broken, and probably his scapula as well. He had damaged his own hand inadvertently during the struggle for the gun, it was throbbing and he couldn't seem to move the fingers properly, and his back was going to hurt like the devil. Besides which, his vision was still white around the edges and every labored breath felt like he was inhaling fire. He probed gently at his throat and decided that there probably wouldn't be any permanent damage to his larynx.
Rufus was safe enough at the moment, tied to his chair, so Sherlock went searching for the gun. With his heart still pounding and senses attenuated everything seemed to be moving unbearably slowly, and it felt like ages before Sherlock found John's handgun over by the fountain. He flipped the safety on, then grimaced in disgust when he found that at some point a massive gash had been torn through his coat, rendering the right-hand pocket useless. With his left hand unable to grip, he couldn't get the gun into his left coat pocket, so he crammed it awkwardly into his trouser pocket instead and did his best to smooth the jacket over it. He splashed his face with water from the cascade dropping into the marble basin, and it felt cool and lovely. Sherlock desperately wanted a drink, but he could smell the faint chemical tang of the water and didn't quite trust it.
Instead, he walked back over to the door that went deeper into the office, and noted that the doorknob had made a half-inch-deep indentation in the wall when it slammed open. Lying half into the room was the man who had disarmed Sherlock earlier. The man was thoroughly unconscious and Sherlock was pleased to note a blossoming bruise over his right eye and the blood dripping down his chin. Lestrade had evidently cost him his roman nose and several teeth. No one else was in the hallway, and there was no sound from the offices. If any other minions had been there, they had long since retreated.
He walked back into the lobby when he heard the front door again, to find Lestrade panting against the reception desk. "Lost him. Had a car. Can't run. Like I used to."
"No matter," Sherlock said, his voice barely a whisper. Hardly surprising that the Met couldn't bring down Moriarty, was it? And Lestrade had obviously put in a good effort despite being well past his prime. If only Sherlock had the wind to join the chase himself. "I'm sure your constables fared no better."
Lestrade looked up at him. "Just me." Sherlock blinked. Lestrade had come alone? Of course, his wits were wandering. There were no signs that Lestrade had brought help, it was just a foolish assumption. "That was the bomber? Moriarty?" Lestrade was regaining his breath somewhat, but Sherlock still hurt, and he just nodded in response. "This is the second time you've had to be bailed out, you know. You might consider calling me first, next time."
"If I had known he would be here, perhaps-" Sherlock rasped. But the adrenaline was fading and he suddenly felt too exhausted to bother finishing the lie.
"Stubborn sod." Lestrade's tone was almost affectionate. "Did you solve it? Tell me it wasn't Moriarty, we'll never get that into court."
Sherlock smiled faintly. "What do you think?"
"Did you solve it?" Lestrade said, more desperately.
Sherlock pointed with his good hand. "Brian Rufus. Go to 49 Lambeth Walk- that's where he stored his victims' bodies before disposing of them. The crime scenes were elegantly staged, but he left traces all over his bolthole." Sherlock's throat hurt even worse now, but he couldn't stop talking, not until Lestrade was convinced. "Ex-army, saw action in Iraq. Trained as a surgeon but sent down when he was suspected of murdering his girlfriend. Which he did, incidentally. No friends, no family, no lovers. He-"
"Oi, Sherlock," Lestrade said sharply, making a placating hand gesture. "That's enough, all right? You sound like hell." Lestrade glanced over at the thug in the doorway. "Hope he stays out a while, I had to use my cuffs on the man guarding the back door."
Sherlock thought about sitting back down on the planter and decided he'd really rather not. He dragged one of the visitor chairs well away from Rufus and sat on that instead, back to the wall. Much better. Lestrade was on his mobile, ordering an armed response team and what sounded like an excessive number of ambulances. He clicked the phone shut and gave Sherlock a severe look that he was more used to seeing on John. "I called you an ambulance," he said. "And you're going to hospital even if I have to bloody well hit you over the head with that coffee urn."
Sherlock ignored that. "Following me?" Sherlock asked. He couldn't think how else Lestrade could have made his way here.
"No. I...assumed you'd come to me when you found something." Lestrade looked embarrassed. "I guess I shouldn't have. I knew you were angry with me."
"Not angry." Sherlock closed his eyes wearily. He didn't have the energy for a conversation about emotions, not now. "So how?"
"Anonymous tip. A concerned citizen called me, said that you could use a hand." Lestrade dragged out a chair for himself and sat down with a sigh of relief, rubbing his thigh. Cramping muscle? No, Lestrade clearly exercised regularly, he'd already slowed his breathing to normal. Old football injury.
Sherlock noticed all that merely out of habit, while he wondered: Who told Lestrade? Who knew he was here? Moriarty, obviously. Couldn't have called himself, but he could have ordered it. Possible but it didn't fit with the rest of his plan; why were there guards on the doors if Moriarty had deliberately planned an interruption? Sherlock remembered the CCTV camera pointed at the front entrance and thought of a second possibility.
"What did he say, Lestrade?" Sherlock forced out. "His exact words."
Lestrade's eyes raked him. "Is it important?"
"Very." Just not for the reason Lestrade was thinking.
"He gave me the address and he said...Your consultant could use your assistance. He does insist on getting himself into these situations."
The inflection in Lestrade's voice was almost perfect and Sherlock half-chuckled. Mycroft. The interfering git. He moved to change the subject before Lestrade could ask any questions. "I suppose you'll be curious about the gun."
"What gun?" Lestrade's sounded perfectly innocent, and Sherlock almost snapped back an insult before he saw the corners of the detective inspector's mouth turning up very slightly.
"Ah. Quite." His heart rate was back to normal, and he felt almost peaceful in the afterglow. Solving a case always had that effect, even if the result had not been entirely satisfying. He might even sleep tonight, possibly.
Lestrade sighed. "I've broken more regulations today...I'll be lucky if they don't banish me to traffic enforcement."
"Chin up, detective inspector. You've caught a serial killer, after all. I'm sure you'll be the Yard's darling once word gets out of how your tireless efforts kept an innocent man out of prison.
"I didn't do any of that, and you know it." Lestrade's voice was so low and close to broken that it almost sounded like a growl.
"Your guilt is ridiculous," Sherlock said, irritation flaring. Honestly, the mental gymnastics people went to, clinging to their self-indulgent emotions. He'd had more than enough of that tonight.
"Who says I'm feeling guilty? I've done nothing but my job," Lestrade snapped. Even as he defended himself, his inflection sounded off. My job, said with utter disgust.
"You are John's friend but could not ignore strong indicators of his guilt. The conflict is obvious," Sherlock said. "Our professions force certain strictures on us. Yours requires you to sublimate your personal responsibilities to your professional ones. For example, that is why you are estranged from your teenaged children."
Lestrade slowly shook his head, but he let that pass. "And your profession requires you to attend midnight conferences with psychopaths." He scrubbed his hand over his face. "Christ, what a night."
"Someone needs to go to Lambeth immediately," Sherlock rasped. Lestrade seemed to think the work was over, which alarmed him. "Before Moriarty tries to cover his tracks."
"Not you," Lestrade said firmly. "You're going in an ambulance, I told you."
"I am not." Sherlock glared. He was exhausted and could use some painkillers, true, but some things were more important than personal comfort. This case was at the top of that list.
"I tell you what," Lestrade said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I'll write off yet another night of sleep and take care of the scene myself if you let me drive you to the hospital first." Sherlock opened his mouth to object, but Lestrade cut him off. "And we'll stop by Baker Street and you can put whatever's in your pocket back where it came from, because I suspect John is going to get home before you do." Sherlock snapped his mouth shut. It was not a terrible idea, at that. With the case solved, he could just about trust Lestrade not to muck up the crime scene. Besides which, John would have very strong feelings about guns being taken to hospital. There could be shouting. He liked the rows when he was bored, but he wasn't bored just now.
"Fine," Sherlock said, but he noted Lestrade's expression of satisfaction and made a mental note to seriously undermine him at the next possible opportunity.
After all, Moriarty had been right about one thing: you couldn't let people get too used to having their own way.
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Pairings: Gen
Spoilers: Through The Great Game.
Warnings: Chapters 1 and 2 contain gory crime scenes. Trigger warnings for discussion of (off-screen) sexual assault and violence against women.
Special thanks to: stellar-dust, my beyond awesome beta, who managed to be both insanely quick and tremendously helpful. Thanks also to everyone who listened to me natter (particularly
melannen, that one night at Sarah's).
Summary: Sherlock knew that he could thoroughly rely upon John Watson's moral sense. And that's why he knew that Lestrade was wrong, wrong, wrong.
Chapter 6: Endgame
[There are] enormous difficulties to be surmounted, even when there are hardly any pieces left, when playing against an adversary who knows how to use the resources at his disposal. -José Raúl Capablanca, Chess Fundamentals
Veihnult Riesen's headquarters consisted of a mid-sized office building fronting on a quiet street in outer London. It was a well-kept neighborhood, with street lights at frequent intervals and yellow "This area under closed circuit surveillance" signs everywhere, but at this hour no one was loitering on the street. The glass front door was covered by a dark curtain, as were the large windows to either side. The office appeared dark. Sherlock approached the front door warily and tugged the handle. Locked. He also noticed a security camera pointed directly at the door, its 'ready' light winking steadily. Obviously Moriarty would not put himself under the eye of a camera; there must be another entrance.
When he found the rear service, the door was slightly ajar. It did not suggest chance or burglary: the hasp was undamaged but marked by recent scratches from a padlock which had been removed. Obviously a person meticulous enough to take the padlock after opening the door would not leave it open by accident. Which meant the open door was intentional, a clear invitation. Sherlock took the gun out of his pocket and released the safety as he stepped inside, but he found only empty hallways full of doors to equally empty offices. The fluorescent lights along his route were all on. Of course, Sherlock had been invited; there would have been no sense in putting artificial roadblocks in his way to the meeting.
He could tell that he was heading to the front of the building and whatever public reception area Veihnult Riesen was equipped with. No doubt there would be marble and wood paneling; it seemed that sort of office, and his opponent had shown himself to be a man who valued not only appearance, but the sort of elaborate set pieces and reveals such a setting would suggest.
Therefore, Sherlock was not terribly surprised when he reached the well-lit, modern lobby and saw James Moriarty.
Moriarty was perched primly on the edge of the receptionist's desk, again dressed impeccably in a bespoke tailored suit and a ridiculously expensive pair of Gucci loafers. Sherlock's attention was drawn to Brian Rufus, who was seated in one of the stylish metal chairs along the side wall, to Moriarty's left. His hands were bound to the arms of the chair, his ankles to the legs. Beyond the seating area and the reception desk was an open space featuring a small fountain spilling water into a black marble basin and beyond that, the front door, surrounded by tall, curtained windows.
"Welcome!" Moriarty said. He truly did sound welcoming; one could almost be fooled into thinking he belonged here, that he was a businessman about to call a meeting of colleagues to order. But despite the appropriateness of his clothing, Sherlock thought that the man seemed as out of place here as he had at the pool, and there was still a certain half-wild look in his eye. Sherlock brought his arm up and leveled the gun at Moriarty, who appeared not to notice. "Have a seat. Can I offer you some coffee?"
Strangely, he did appear to have a brass-fitted coffee urn of the sort used for catering set up on the desk next to him, with a small selection of china cups and saucers. He gestured broadly, as if suggesting Sherlock sit on the large, blocky planter across from him. Sherlock slowed his steps as he came further into the room, wanting to continue examining details but unwilling to take his eyes from Moriarty. "I'll stand, thank you."
Moriarty slid a cup under the spigot and served himself coffee. He sipped daintily from the cup. "Lower the gun. It's bad manners to point a weapon at a man who's offering you a job."
"Looking to recruit more serial killers? I'd have thought you were all staffed up at present." Sherlock tilted his head in Rufus' direction without moving the gun. Something was wrong. The lobby was all open spaces and clean lighting, there were no rafters and the curtains covering the windows were very, very dark; there was nowhere to hide snipers here, but Moriarty was not armed and did not appear even slightly alarmed at having a gun waved at him.
"I may have an opening quite soon," Moriarty said brightly. Rufus made a sort of choking noise. "Hush," Moriarty said without looking, his voice like iron. Then the genial businessman was back. "But no, I think you've shown a certain...management potential."
The suggestion did not surprise Sherlock. The confrontation at the pool hadn't been about the threat, obviously, because that could easily have been accomplished without the risk of Moriarty exposing himself. And snipers aside, it had been a risk. No, Moriarty had been giving him an entirely different message by appearing in person, flirting, giving Sherlock "a glimpse, just a teensy glimpse" of what he was doing. It was an invitation. You can't stop me, but you can join me. Consulting detective and consulting criminal, two sides of the same coin. The message in his abduction of John had also been clear. He is a liability and he is beneath you. I am neither.
Moriarty had gotten his attention, but not his affection, for that little stunt. Perhaps he had not anticipated Sherlock's reaction, had assumed that Sherlock must logically agree with his characterization of John as his pet, as a mere amusement. But in fact that was not Sherlock's view of John at all, so when Moriarty had posed the unspoken question Will you join me? Sherlock hadn't bothered to give it any thought at all before he answered No. Moriarty was smart and he was interesting, but Sherlock did not like him.
"You've been so bored these past few months," Moriarty said, smiling. "I know you. You've been as bored as I have. No challenge at all, are they, those ordinary people with their ordinary problems?" Moriarty sipped his coffee again, and casually swung one ankle up over the opposite knee. Sherlock kept his silence, to prevent himself blurting out something obvious. "I was quite flattered when you called me brilliant. You wonder what it would be like, to work with someone as amoral and brilliant as yourself."
And Sherlock had wondered, of course. He couldn't not think about things. So he'd thought about it, if playing with Moriarty would be as interesting as playing against him had been. If planning an unsolvable crime would be more interesting than unraveling it. How novel, to never be bored, because the danger was constant. But when he began to think even semi-seriously about Moriarty's implicit offer, he fetched up with a bump against a single thought- John wouldn't like it -that made him discard the entire line of reasoning. He remembered the disgusted twist to John's mouth as he stood, strapped in Semtex, listening to Moriarty's boasting. He remembered the first time he'd had to take a second look at John's face to recognize the expression there, and John's acidic reply when he said in astonishment I've disappointed you. He knew John would tell him that even considering Moriarty's offer was far more than a bit not good, and somehow over the past few months, not disappointing John had become even more important than preventing himself from becoming bored.
"I'll pass," Sherlock said evenly. "What fun's the game if there's no one on the other side of the board?"
"Ah!" Moriarty breathed. "Well- we won't use their board." Another smile, showing teeth. "And we can rewrite the rules."
"You could always come play on my side."
Moriarty laughed, the response Sherlock expected. "Oh, you don't mean that. You'd be bored to tears. And so would I. And there's nothing we despise more than being bored." Moriarty drained the last of his coffee, and set cup and saucer neatly back beneath the spigot. He looked pointedly at the gun, still in Sherlock's hand. "Your arm is getting tired; how long do you think you can hold that thing up? Do put it down."
"I don't think so. I'm actually rather comfortable." Mentally comfortable, anyway. He was still waiting for the pin to drop, and he'd rather he had the option of putting a bullet in Moriarty when it did.
Moriarty's eyes barely flickered, but it was enough to remind Sherlock that he had his back to the door. He only managed to turn halfway towards it before something caught him a wicked blow on the ear. Sherlock's finger squeezed the trigger almost involuntarily, but his arm had swung up and the shot went wild, plowing a groove in expensive, cream-colored wallpaper. Then skilled fingers were pinching the nerves in his wrist- still bruised from that ultimately pointless experiment with the rope- while a meaty fist delivered heavy punches to his ribs. Sherlock twisted his side towards his attacker to present a smaller target. He wavered between flailing punches at the other man and trying to twist his wrist free, and did very poorly at both. With his hand pinioned and his back half-turned he could not get far enough away to properly box. His hand finally went numb and the gun was slapped from his loosened fingers; at the same time Sherlock was hooked by a foot behind his ankle and slammed hard to the floor. He clawed for the gun, but his opponent swiftly scooped it up and tossed it to Moriarty, who immediately pointed it at Sherlock.
"Wait in the hallway," Moriarty said without taking his eyes off Sherlock. "I never make a request more than twice," Moriarty said cheerfully. "Once people get in the habit of saying 'no' to you...Well, there's no getting anything done." The crazed something in his eyes drained down into his smile and his voice hardened again. "Have. A. Seat."
With some effort, Sherlock regained his feet and sat gingerly on the edge of the planter. Moriarty set the gun on the desk next to the china. Sherlock was closer to Moriarty than he had been, but they were still separated by more distance than a desperate leap could bridge, and Moriarty could have the gun in his hand before Sherlock reached him. He noticed that while he had been fighting the henchman, Moriarty had donned a pair of latex gloves, which he now adjusted by delicately plucking at the ends of the fingers.
"So, I take it you got my message? I hope I wasn't whispering too quietly." Moriarty resumed their earlier conversation as if the interlude with the gun had not happened.
"On the contrary, you practically shouted it." People are interchangeable sacks of meat. "But one for one is hardly statistically significant. There are just over seven million people in the greater London area." Sherlock gently pressed the side of his head, trying to gauge the severity of his wound, and winced. "There's bound to be some overlap."
"Hairsplitting!" Moriarty giggled. "The point is, there are seven million of them; there are only two of us."
There's only one of John, Sherlock wanted to say, but didn't, because that would sound absurd, and he could see where this was going.
"That lark at the pool was such a surprise, Sherlock!" Moriarty said. "And you know yourself how rarely anything in the mundane world surprises. You and your tame doctor, working together. Saving the day! Having a pet seemed to suit you so well, I thought I might like a little doggie of my very own." Moriarty smiled brightly and darted a glance at Rufus, who blanched. "It was lovely at first- he was so obedient and loyal- but then it got tedious, protecting him from the dog warden." Rufus stared at the floor, hunching his shoulders miserably. "So I thought, one dog's as good as another, isn't it?"
Sherlock grimaced, less at Moriarty's words than at his own cold rage. "He doesn't seem very loyal now."
"That's the trouble with dogs," Moriarty said. "In the end, they always disappoint you." Moriarty picked up the gun and toyed with it, tossing it lightly from hand to hand. "You should be thanking me. Though it didn't take much at all, really- a few skin cells, a fingerprint. And you practically finished the job."
"Shut up." There was no reason this should affect him. John's imprisonment was not an error, it was a frame-up.
"Sending him out to buy the rope? Perfect touch. One would almost think you welcomed my help."
"Shut up!" Sherlock didn't think he meant to shout that. He breathed deeply and tried to calm down. Everything had been engineered, even his own deductions. Not his responsibility, surely.
"Ooh, sore spot!" Moriarty smiled again. "Really think about the past few days. Isn't it faster, simpler, without him at your heels?" And Moriarty's wrongness brought Sherlock even more clarity, because once again, he had failed to read Sherlock's feelings about John. "Slowing you down? Making you vulnerable?" Aiding his work. Guarding his back
"I don't find this line of reasoning terribly persuasive," Sherlock said.
"Well, maybe I should make it easier for you." Moriarty hopped off the desk and strode over to Rufus, spinning a neighboring chair out of the way so that he could press the gun to the bound man's head.
"No," Sherlock said involuntarily. He had the links, the deductions, but he needed to put Rufus in Lestrade's hands or it wouldn't be enough to contradict the case against John.
“Yes." Moriarty jabbed Rufus with the gun and Sherlock flinched. "Beautiful." His voice gentled. "Even in this, they are interchangeable. It's as good as having your pet doctor here." Moriarty cocked the handgun. "Have you ever held a man's life in your hands?"
"Yes," Sherlock said, thinking of a hundred cases where only he could unlock an innocent man's alibi; but he knew that wasn't what the question meant.
"No!" Moriarty almost shouted, his calm amusement twisting into loathing for a fraction of a second. "Don't play at stupidity!" The smile was back, all teeth. "I mean really held it."
Sherlock saw the secondary trap, and oh but it was brilliant. He didn't have to fake the expression of fascination that he now put on. Almost as fascinating was the momentary break in Moriarty's self-control, and Sherlock was tempted to say something else dully obvious just to make the mask slip again. But Moriarty's knuckles were nearly white, and his reaction if Sherlock went off-script again might be unpredictable. "No," he answered instead, truthfully this time. But his voice was teasing, because he was back to playing the game. "I thought you didn't like to dirty your hands."
"Well, technically I'm dirtying yours." It was all laid before him like a chess problem: the few remaining pieces static on the board, and Moriarty holding a handgun covered with Sherlock's fingerprints. Even if he escaped a murder charge, the police would never listen to him again.
Sherlock's voice was perfectly level when he answered immediately, "You took my rook, so I take your pawn?" Really John was more a queen, at once the most flexible and least subtle piece on the board. Sherlock was the rook: moving further and more directly than any other chessman and at angles to most of them, so that only the queen could really move in parallel. But that would be giving entirely too much away. "Hardly sporting."
"We're not hobbyists," Moriarty said. "We're playing by tournament rules, now."
The lunatic wanted Sherlock to simply tip the board over and walk away with him, and it wasn't even tempting. It was clear Moriarty, despite being the only man he had ever met capable of understanding him, didn't understand him at all. Sherlock let himself reply "Genius," in that breathy voice Moriarty seemed to crave, because he was too good an actor to show his crushing disappointment. This was Moriarty's endgame. Given the position of the pieces, the best that Sherlock could realistically hope for was a draw. And if he let himself be outmaneuvered, the pawn was not going to be the only one to die.
But Sherlock had played a lot of chess, and he was very, very good at rook and pawn versus rook.
Sherlock prided himself on how smoothly he was able to unfold himself from his seat on the planter. His head was pulsing with pain from the wound and a wicked headache, and it was a serious effort to banish all hesitancy from his posture as he crossed the open space to Rufus' chair. He had never acted so well, or to such an audience. Moriarty stood with the muzzle of the gun pressed to Rufus' head, his body turned sideways to Sherlock.
Sherlock stopped and the gun was tilted slightly toward him, the gesture an obvious invitation. Slowly, deliberately, Sherlock reached out. Their forearms pressed against each other, expensive jackets catching a bit as Sherlock's palm cradled the opposite side of the handgun's grip. Moriarty's breath hitched very slightly as Sherlock's left trigger finger came to rest lightly on top of Moriarty's right.
"Yes." Moriarty's had tilted his head up and his breath, calm and even again, warmed the back of Sherlock's neck. Moriarty quickly reversed their grip, gently caressing Sherlock's finger with his own. Sherlock now gripped the trigger directly. Gooseflesh rose on his arms; he had not been this physically intimate with another human being since he was eight years old.
He wondered if Moriarty's heart was pounding as hard as his own.
"It's so easy, Sherlock," Moriarty murmured. His arm was tense, finger tight over Sherlock's; it would take Sherlock longer to overpower him than it would take Moriarty to squeeze. Rufus emitted another sob, which both of them ignored. Awful as it was, the act had improved his position; Sherlock had at least a chance to survive now, even if Rufus still did not.
In that perfect moment, Sherlock's mind was filled with nothing but immediate physical sensation. The warmth of the gun grip, the soft huff of Moriarty's breathing, the faint odor of aftershave and warm leather, the throbbing pain in his temple. Sherlock's mind had never been so empty, and it gave him a different kind of euphoria from the rush brought on by cases or cocaine. As they hung suspended, he wondered distantly if this was what it always felt like to stand on the cusp of murder.
He was adrift, and he had no plan. Why couldn't he seem to think past this instant?
He felt Moriarty's finger begin to tighten.
The door to the offices slammed open and into the wall, a double bang that sounded like thunder in the silent room. The moment shattered like a dropped glass and Sherlock's mind was suddenly moving whip-fast again as Moriarty's finger slackened. Sherlock jerked the gun towards him and Moriarty squeezed the trigger, but the distraction had been enough and the firing of the gun merely made another alteration to the office's decor.
There was nothing brilliant or calculating about the ensuing struggle between Sherlock and Moriarty. They grappled desperately for the gun, Sherlock's reach and wiry muscle against Moriarty's coiled strength and bulldog-like tenacity, until somehow Sherlock got Moriarty on his back on the receptionist's desk and was banging the bastard's right hand against it. The coffee urn and the china crashed to the floor when Moriarty tried to kick, and he got his teeth into the elbow that was in his face as Sherlock caught his wrist just right on the corner of the desk. They both shouted in pain and the gun went spinning off across the room.
Then it was more wrestling, both of them furious and panting and beyond words. Moriarty got his fists in Sherlock's shirt and managed to roll them off the desk, so that Sherlock landed on his back with both of their full weights. It drove the breath out of him, and kept him from getting his hands up fast enough to stop Moriarty from gripping his throat. Sherlock heaved for air and pried at the throttling hands and desperately hoped that his last sight in life wasn't going to be the wide-eyed, frenzied rage painted across Jim Moriarty's face.
His eyes had rolled back into his head and his hands were only plucking uselessly at Moriarty's when the chokehold suddenly disappeared and Moriarty rolled off him. Something large and solid slammed into Sherlock's left shoulder and made a sickening, audible crunch.
"FUCK!" roared a voice right on top of him. "Fucking- sorry! Sorry!" Not Moriarty's voice. Most of Sherlock's limited energy was going toward sucking great, painful gasps of oxygen into his lungs, but he managed to spare some to focus his eyes.
DI Lestrade was standing over him with the coffee urn hanging from his hands. He let it fall to the ground and shouted, "STOP, POLICE!" as he jumped over Sherlock's prone form and pelted past the reception desk towards the front door. Sherlock rolled up on his right side and could just see past the desk to the figure of Moriarty, leaning against the door onto the street and fumbling with the lock.
Moriarty got the lock open and disappeared through the door and Lestrade slammed through after him. Relative silence fell again; the only sounds were Rufus' halting whimpers and Sherlock's own raspy breathing. With an effort, Sherlock dragged himself to his feet with his right arm, using the desk as a crutch. Fortunately the adrenaline still surging through his system was dulling the pain in his body, although his headache was still hellish. He tried to make his body run towards the door, but after two steps he had to give it up as a bad job. He was certain that his clavicle was broken, and probably his scapula as well. He had damaged his own hand inadvertently during the struggle for the gun, it was throbbing and he couldn't seem to move the fingers properly, and his back was going to hurt like the devil. Besides which, his vision was still white around the edges and every labored breath felt like he was inhaling fire. He probed gently at his throat and decided that there probably wouldn't be any permanent damage to his larynx.
Rufus was safe enough at the moment, tied to his chair, so Sherlock went searching for the gun. With his heart still pounding and senses attenuated everything seemed to be moving unbearably slowly, and it felt like ages before Sherlock found John's handgun over by the fountain. He flipped the safety on, then grimaced in disgust when he found that at some point a massive gash had been torn through his coat, rendering the right-hand pocket useless. With his left hand unable to grip, he couldn't get the gun into his left coat pocket, so he crammed it awkwardly into his trouser pocket instead and did his best to smooth the jacket over it. He splashed his face with water from the cascade dropping into the marble basin, and it felt cool and lovely. Sherlock desperately wanted a drink, but he could smell the faint chemical tang of the water and didn't quite trust it.
Instead, he walked back over to the door that went deeper into the office, and noted that the doorknob had made a half-inch-deep indentation in the wall when it slammed open. Lying half into the room was the man who had disarmed Sherlock earlier. The man was thoroughly unconscious and Sherlock was pleased to note a blossoming bruise over his right eye and the blood dripping down his chin. Lestrade had evidently cost him his roman nose and several teeth. No one else was in the hallway, and there was no sound from the offices. If any other minions had been there, they had long since retreated.
He walked back into the lobby when he heard the front door again, to find Lestrade panting against the reception desk. "Lost him. Had a car. Can't run. Like I used to."
"No matter," Sherlock said, his voice barely a whisper. Hardly surprising that the Met couldn't bring down Moriarty, was it? And Lestrade had obviously put in a good effort despite being well past his prime. If only Sherlock had the wind to join the chase himself. "I'm sure your constables fared no better."
Lestrade looked up at him. "Just me." Sherlock blinked. Lestrade had come alone? Of course, his wits were wandering. There were no signs that Lestrade had brought help, it was just a foolish assumption. "That was the bomber? Moriarty?" Lestrade was regaining his breath somewhat, but Sherlock still hurt, and he just nodded in response. "This is the second time you've had to be bailed out, you know. You might consider calling me first, next time."
"If I had known he would be here, perhaps-" Sherlock rasped. But the adrenaline was fading and he suddenly felt too exhausted to bother finishing the lie.
"Stubborn sod." Lestrade's tone was almost affectionate. "Did you solve it? Tell me it wasn't Moriarty, we'll never get that into court."
Sherlock smiled faintly. "What do you think?"
"Did you solve it?" Lestrade said, more desperately.
Sherlock pointed with his good hand. "Brian Rufus. Go to 49 Lambeth Walk- that's where he stored his victims' bodies before disposing of them. The crime scenes were elegantly staged, but he left traces all over his bolthole." Sherlock's throat hurt even worse now, but he couldn't stop talking, not until Lestrade was convinced. "Ex-army, saw action in Iraq. Trained as a surgeon but sent down when he was suspected of murdering his girlfriend. Which he did, incidentally. No friends, no family, no lovers. He-"
"Oi, Sherlock," Lestrade said sharply, making a placating hand gesture. "That's enough, all right? You sound like hell." Lestrade glanced over at the thug in the doorway. "Hope he stays out a while, I had to use my cuffs on the man guarding the back door."
Sherlock thought about sitting back down on the planter and decided he'd really rather not. He dragged one of the visitor chairs well away from Rufus and sat on that instead, back to the wall. Much better. Lestrade was on his mobile, ordering an armed response team and what sounded like an excessive number of ambulances. He clicked the phone shut and gave Sherlock a severe look that he was more used to seeing on John. "I called you an ambulance," he said. "And you're going to hospital even if I have to bloody well hit you over the head with that coffee urn."
Sherlock ignored that. "Following me?" Sherlock asked. He couldn't think how else Lestrade could have made his way here.
"No. I...assumed you'd come to me when you found something." Lestrade looked embarrassed. "I guess I shouldn't have. I knew you were angry with me."
"Not angry." Sherlock closed his eyes wearily. He didn't have the energy for a conversation about emotions, not now. "So how?"
"Anonymous tip. A concerned citizen called me, said that you could use a hand." Lestrade dragged out a chair for himself and sat down with a sigh of relief, rubbing his thigh. Cramping muscle? No, Lestrade clearly exercised regularly, he'd already slowed his breathing to normal. Old football injury.
Sherlock noticed all that merely out of habit, while he wondered: Who told Lestrade? Who knew he was here? Moriarty, obviously. Couldn't have called himself, but he could have ordered it. Possible but it didn't fit with the rest of his plan; why were there guards on the doors if Moriarty had deliberately planned an interruption? Sherlock remembered the CCTV camera pointed at the front entrance and thought of a second possibility.
"What did he say, Lestrade?" Sherlock forced out. "His exact words."
Lestrade's eyes raked him. "Is it important?"
"Very." Just not for the reason Lestrade was thinking.
"He gave me the address and he said...Your consultant could use your assistance. He does insist on getting himself into these situations."
The inflection in Lestrade's voice was almost perfect and Sherlock half-chuckled. Mycroft. The interfering git. He moved to change the subject before Lestrade could ask any questions. "I suppose you'll be curious about the gun."
"What gun?" Lestrade's sounded perfectly innocent, and Sherlock almost snapped back an insult before he saw the corners of the detective inspector's mouth turning up very slightly.
"Ah. Quite." His heart rate was back to normal, and he felt almost peaceful in the afterglow. Solving a case always had that effect, even if the result had not been entirely satisfying. He might even sleep tonight, possibly.
Lestrade sighed. "I've broken more regulations today...I'll be lucky if they don't banish me to traffic enforcement."
"Chin up, detective inspector. You've caught a serial killer, after all. I'm sure you'll be the Yard's darling once word gets out of how your tireless efforts kept an innocent man out of prison.
"I didn't do any of that, and you know it." Lestrade's voice was so low and close to broken that it almost sounded like a growl.
"Your guilt is ridiculous," Sherlock said, irritation flaring. Honestly, the mental gymnastics people went to, clinging to their self-indulgent emotions. He'd had more than enough of that tonight.
"Who says I'm feeling guilty? I've done nothing but my job," Lestrade snapped. Even as he defended himself, his inflection sounded off. My job, said with utter disgust.
"You are John's friend but could not ignore strong indicators of his guilt. The conflict is obvious," Sherlock said. "Our professions force certain strictures on us. Yours requires you to sublimate your personal responsibilities to your professional ones. For example, that is why you are estranged from your teenaged children."
Lestrade slowly shook his head, but he let that pass. "And your profession requires you to attend midnight conferences with psychopaths." He scrubbed his hand over his face. "Christ, what a night."
"Someone needs to go to Lambeth immediately," Sherlock rasped. Lestrade seemed to think the work was over, which alarmed him. "Before Moriarty tries to cover his tracks."
"Not you," Lestrade said firmly. "You're going in an ambulance, I told you."
"I am not." Sherlock glared. He was exhausted and could use some painkillers, true, but some things were more important than personal comfort. This case was at the top of that list.
"I tell you what," Lestrade said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I'll write off yet another night of sleep and take care of the scene myself if you let me drive you to the hospital first." Sherlock opened his mouth to object, but Lestrade cut him off. "And we'll stop by Baker Street and you can put whatever's in your pocket back where it came from, because I suspect John is going to get home before you do." Sherlock snapped his mouth shut. It was not a terrible idea, at that. With the case solved, he could just about trust Lestrade not to muck up the crime scene. Besides which, John would have very strong feelings about guns being taken to hospital. There could be shouting. He liked the rows when he was bored, but he wasn't bored just now.
"Fine," Sherlock said, but he noted Lestrade's expression of satisfaction and made a mental note to seriously undermine him at the next possible opportunity.
After all, Moriarty had been right about one thing: you couldn't let people get too used to having their own way.
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