Sherlock (BBC) Fanfic - Survival - Chapter 4
Title: Survival (Chapter 4)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: Sherlock, John, Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Moriarty (men.), Homeless Network, Col. Moran
Genre: Drama, hurt/comfort, angst, friendship - there will be a great deal of bromance (or pre-slash, you can in fact read this one either way)
Rating: T
Chapter Length: 3,973 words
Spoilers: End of series 2, “The Reichenbach Fall”
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs
Summary: “Sherlock had never expected dismantling Moriarty’s empire would be anything less than gruelling, however he also never anticipated just how desperately he would miss home.” Post-Reichenbach to reunion; Sherlock’s p.o.v.
Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3
A.N.: Thank you, again, to everyone who has been so kind as to let me know what they think of my scribbles - I'm still trying to get my head around how positive the response has been, to be honest. Thank you so much!
And, as ever, I must offer a huge thank you to the lovely betas working with me on this. velveteenkitten, interjection, patchsassy, and infinityuphigh... Never mind this scribble of mine - I would probably have gone completely mad by now, if I was trying to do this without your many kindnesses.
ooo
SURVIVAL - CHAPTER 4
ooo
Sherlock Holmes is, typically, not a patient man. He had very nearly forgotten this fact whilst living with John, because after two weeks of living with him John had found that his life was infinitely better when it did not include a cantankerous, whining detective. From then on the doctor had ensured that there was always something around to keep Sherlock occupied off-case. It had not been a foolproof method - the distractions had not always proven diverting or effective by any stretch of the imagination - but there had always been something. Alone as he now is Sherlock finds himself floundering mere moments after flopping on to his Camden sofa-bed.
This is why he had fully intended on spending the night in the house up in Rickmansworth. The Camden flat is above an old-fashioned teashop, and is tiny in every way. There are only two rooms including the bathroom, no real space to store the clutters and comforts of home, and a single bookshelf less than three feet long whose bounty has obviously been plundered over the last few years - only three slim paperbacks remain. Two poetry, one novel. None interest him very much. There is a radio tucked at one end of the windowsill that could be used to play… Something, he supposes. Regrettably, it is late afternoon and the single station he can listen to without wanting to permanently deafen himself will be broadcasting an in-depth news hour; he would either be forced to suffer through further tedious speculation regarding himself or be taunted with interesting cases he is allowed exactly nowhere near. It would be torture. No. He has nothing to do but lie still and go over his plans until they are scrolling repeatedly through his head and driving him as mad as Anderson does.
He could still hop back on to the Underground and make the journey to Rickmansworth, he knows; it is only four o’clock and he could lose himself in the crowds as effortlessly as he did this morning. The station there is outside the town though, and there are little old ladies in the area who will be more than just a little inquisitive about a lone, unfamiliar man entering a house they are certain no one currently inhabits. The little redbrick is better left for holing up in for a month than recklessly using for a single night. No matter how much more homely it is or how extensive its library.
He stays where he is, moving only to undress and brush his teeth before trying his best to sleep again. The noise outside helps - he has never found it easy to sleep enclosed in pure silence, having always been close to a busy road and keeping the strangest of hours. Trying to sleep in East Ham in the stillness of pre-dawn had been a terrible idea, although unavoidable at the time; now Sherlock is eased down to oblivious rest by the clatter of cheap cups and friendly candescence of the voices downstairs.
He sleeps well, and dreams of Baker Street.
ooo
The flight to St. Petersburg was more expensive than he feels it should have been, much as he can understand why. Over a third of the plane is empty and Sherlock’s long frame is squashed into far too short a space. It is doing his leg and ribs no good, he thinks, but there is little he can do now. He certainly cannot afford the upgrade to first class. Eventually he stretches his long limbs out into the aisle, offering a hopefully endearing apology each time the stewardess (late twenties, misses home, suffers from near-debilitating migraines) passes him; soon she is passing with much more frequency and Sherlock wishes John were here for her to coo over instead. He, at least, would not find it so annoying. Although, then Sherlock would be annoyed that she was stealing John’s attention every ten minutes for the whole damned flight rather than allowing the two men to enjoy their private conversation, and he would undoubtedly end up saying something cutting and then be in John’s Bad Books for the following few hours. Suddenly the irritation of being forced to constantly be pleasant to a woman with all the brain-power of a rocking horse does not seem nearly so awful.
Landing at Pulkovo International is a trial all its own due to uncommonly strong winds, and for one frightening moment as the plane lists to the right and the lights flicker out Sherlock cannot help the thought that it would be typical, just typical, if the weather got him before Moriarty’s toy soldiers could. Sally and Anderson (perhaps even John and Lestrade as well after the initial resurgence of grief wore off) would probably laugh themselves sick if they were ever to know. On the second try, the pilot has a much improved idea of the conditions and they hit the tarmac with no more than a gentle bump - the damage is done though, and Sherlock watches, unable to help being a little too amused, as the other passengers rush for the exit even before it is opened.
St. Petersburg is a beautiful city, as far as cities go. Unfortunately the hours of daylight are limited even during the summer months, and Sherlock has no leeway for sightseeing. He had seen no reason to book in at a hotel considering how many there must be in such a hub of tourism and trade; considering that he is now caught in the midst of a Russian storm, he is willing to acknowledge his mistake. He had thought to wander the downtown areas a little and find a small bed and breakfast with a room available, but the bitter sleet comes as he makes his way through the harassment of the immigration checks and he flings himself in to a taxi instead, asking with help from a quickly-purchased phrasebook to be taken to the largest Nevsky hotel.
The address he needs is tucked into both his pocket and his brain - a glance at the map left by the businessman dropped off last tells him Moriarty’s contacts can be found down a short side-street close to the North bank of the Fontanka - and it matters very little where he stays as long as it is not the same street and within the city limits. He is taken to the Nevsky Central, just over two miles from where he needs to be, and quickly checks in to a comfortable double room. The staff are friendly but not at all intrusive, which is the decider, and he calls down to the desk to book the suite for the rest of the week.
The hotel’s one failing is the lack of room service. Sherlock takes almost an hour to fuss and laze his way to the conclusion that he should eat something (the thought, “John would want him to,” settles the matter) and another twenty minutes to actually leave the warmth and comfort of his temporary home. The kotlety is delicious when he eventually eats it and he finds himself unable to finish the meal without getting close to tears - John would love it, Sherlock is certain he would; the loop of, “I wish John was here,” that he has been forcing to the more obscured corner of his mind bursts forth and refuses to be ignored or silenced.
It becomes a constant, conscious thought. Sherlock has not known one of these for years, the last being, “I am not a freak,” which ran around the inside of his skull, day-in and day-out, from the age of twelve to three weeks after he met Lestrade. The then-Detective Sergeant finally managed to silence it by unknowingly convincing Sherlock that he did genuinely care about his well-being. It is one of the many disadvantages of a mind without an ‘off’ switch. The thought will not leave him, Sherlock deduces, unless or until he is able to say a warm greeting to his friend.
He could still go home.
He cannot go home yet.
God, the longing alone will drive him insane.
ooo
The week Sherlock spends in St. Petersburg becomes the most miserable of his life. He has the freedom to go out without fear of recognition but fails to take advantage of it. It seems unwise, after he spends three hours reminding himself that John is not beside him - forgetting that, talking to him and pointing out interesting stimuli, does nothing aside from draw attention to himself. The keyring he buys on a whim (and in the hope that he will have the chance to pass it on to his friend) is nothing but useless baggage. He leaves the hotel only a handful of times after that debacle in order to walk by Moriarty’s ‘office’; it transpires that there are three men there constantly and Sherlock quickly makes the decision not to confront them himself. Buckner had been trouble enough - any one of these three could break him between their index finger and thumb. The information he took from Hammersmith combined with his own observations is more than enough to trigger a police raid and multiple trials from which they would be impossibly lucky to emerge unscathed.
Finding an ‘honest’ police officer in Russia is purported to be a challenge - Sherlock finds it incredibly easy. Just to ensure success, he checks on the officers’ higher-ups, compiling a file to be passed on with the damning evidence against Moriarty’s representatives. The translation of his notes is an arduous task, taking a full four days, however he is not exactly working to a schedule and the difficulty makes it a welcome distraction. No John, no crimes, no experiments… It is absolutely horrific. He finds himself eating at the oddest of times and far more often than he usually would. Fortunately the hotel’s restaurant staff seem to like him and enjoy his attempts to order his meals (John would call the majority of them snacks) in Russian, so he continues to haunt the place without compunction.
He books a flight to Barcelona the same day that he makes the decision not to confront Moriarty’s representatives personally from the cyber-café in the next street. He is not quite so welcome there, as he has very little patience for the giggling idiots running the place. Although he refrains from using any of the Russian insults he is quickly picking up he makes no secret of his disdain, but the internet access is a draw he cannot resist when the alternative is total, mind-numbing boredom. He visits only a few times and suffers through the indignity of having to drink grainy, industrial coffee rather than touch the dishwater the owners refer to as tea. Regardless of their many failings, he is able to follow a few leads and find what appears to be a decent hotel in Barcelona’s Gothic Quarter using their computers.
The temptation to check John’s blog is close to excruciating, as is the empty, hollow sensation each time he leaves without doing so. He fails to pin down a reason for the continual denial, which only makes it worse. He eventually settles on the likelihood of the idea just being unbearable, unsatisfactory as the conclusion is, because if he misses the man now he dreads to think of his reaction if faced with solid proof of his life moving on without him. Be it an expression of support or vilification, Sherlock doubts that he would be able to withstand it.
ooo
If St. Petersburg was miserable, Barcelona is absolute Hell.
To begin with, the heat is unbearable. The sun scorches the pale skin of his nose and the nape of his neck, his scalp only saved by the same hand-knitted beanie he had appropriated in East London, and he spends the first three days of his stay in constant discomfort until the repeated applications of after-sun lotion finally begin to do their job. After that aggravation, he spends a fortune on sun-cream and uses it religiously; unhappily, it does nothing to bring down his temperature and Sherlock finds himself bathing at least twice a day just to feel a little less vile. Which is the trigger for the second cause of his loathing for what is, to the eyes of most, another pleasing city.
Sherlock has a tendency towards reflection when he bathes. It is why he rarely does so, forgoing the comforts of a long soak for the speed of a shower. He has found previously that he never seems to come off well during these reflective periods, and the most recent are no exception. Sherlock spends at least an hour of every day spent in the sweltering metropolis wracked with self-loathing.
His head fills with it all and will not be forced into order. None are failings, he knows, but that logical, impersonal fact does nothing to lessen the depth of his regrets… His decision to keep John and the others in the dark. The agony and grief written all over John, in Lestrade’s wide and alcohol-hazed eyes, screaming from Mrs. Hudson’s trembling shoulders. The three men he killed without hesitation or regret - whose deaths he still cannot bring himself to lament, if they mean safety for the people Sherlock cannot bear to lose.
The fact that they are lost to him anyway, with no reprieve in sight.
The desolation of the last takes him a full two days to recover from, a full two days wasted. Caring about anything but what he has lost is an impossible task during those dismal forty-eight hours. He extends his booking without trouble and gets back to work mid-way through the next morning, all too aware of the damage his self-indulgent delay may be causing.
The office is located in a small square at the very heart of the Gothic Quarter frequented by tour groups and local children. There is a tree planted irksomely off-centre in what would have previously been a fountain, the once-beautiful external walls of the buildings are pitted and scarred by gunfire (the Spanish Civil War; however, this damage would have likely been wrought by foreign troops providing ‘aid’ to one side or the other), and overall the scene appears to fit Moriarty’s tastes perfectly. As do the staff - those Sherlock observes are far more subtle, of far higher class than the three bruisers in western Russia (two from the aristocracy, the other three from new-money families, all highly educated and well-read, all with a distinct appreciation for the finer things in life) and although he has no doubt that the will prove far better equipped to defend themselves than they appear, he is also significantly more confident that he can accomplish what he needs to. If John was to hear that, it would be yet another mark in the, “a bit bad, yes,” column. Unfortunately he currently has far too few options and faces far too many risks. He does not have the information required to make any sort of profitable move against the remaining majority of Moriarty’s web - he needs access to that office, and he needs as long as possible with the knowledge therein. If he has to employ violent measures to achieve this, then Sherlock refuses to claim false hesitance.
And he doesn’t hesitate, although he does at least aim for late afternoon, when only one young lady and an older man are on duty. He simply walks in, the picture of a confused tourist, and as the door slides closed behind him the woman appears from a kitchenette at his right, sympathetic and unguarded. He plays his part well, requests a small drink of water in stilted, upset Spanish, and knocks her unconscious with one well-placed strike to the base of her skull when she turns to fetch a glass. The man is faster on the uptake, his fist brushing along Sherlock’s cheekbone, and it takes a precious moment to similarly incapacitate him; he ties them together and, for security, to the corner leg of the heavy oak desk in the lobby, just out of sight of the door.
He has brought his backpack, having emptied it across his hotel bed, and loads it with as many of the most significant files as he can, before rushing to pack as many more as he can carry in one of the storage boxes stacked beside the main filing cabinet. By the time he is ready to leave his hands are riddled with paper cuts and his breathing is heavy with earnestness. The intelligence he now has is enough to bring down the other three Spanish and Portuguese hubs with only minor exertion within the cities themselves. All is well until the unmistakable click of a handgun’s safety being released sounds from behind him.
The bullet misses. The gunman (one of the younger aristocrats he observed leaving earlier, untrained but willing to kill) is openly surprised by Sherlock’s speed; he had not expected him to move with such urgency only because he heard one vaguely metallic warning, and his reaction is slow. Sherlock’s is not. The boy (twenty-five, but as naïve and self-righteous as any teenager) barely manages to raise his arm by half the required distance before the detective’s fingers curl around it and twist, directing the gun towards the pinstripe-clad leg of his assailant. He does not even need to touch the weapon itself - the idiot panics and his fingers spasm, sending a bullet hammering through the flesh of his thigh. A non-fatal wound, as long as he receives medical attention quickly; it will leave him with a severe limp though (not one to be healed by ridiculous chases after taxis, this; he cannot help the rise of the same sense of satisfaction he felt when he stabbed Buckner), and the agonised screech ripped from his throat makes it quite clear that the injury definitely feels serious enough.
Sherlock grabs his bounty and runs.
There is no back entrance, no hidden getaway, so he tugs his beanie down and hopes for the best. It must be dinnertime, judging by the emptiness of the square, and he slows to a brisk walk after a few long, shadowed streets; there is no pursuit, so sprinting about like a man with something to hide would only make people more likely to remember him. He makes it back to the hotel without further incident but the feeling of disarray remains with him, dogging him even after his door is closed and locked. Such a thing to go wrong… It is not like Sherlock to miscalculate so badly, so damned disastrously. The worry that he has missed something else takes root too quickly and too deeply for him to do much more than try to ignore it.
There are so many possibilities, so very many worst-case scenarios that he is across the room with his phone clamped in his hand before he even registers his first step. The sensation of his body being ahead of his mind for once stills him momentarily, until the visions of John captured, John dead, 221B with its beloved occupants burned to the ground and Lestrade lying broken in the road fill his head again and his fingers fly to get the numbers typed in.
“Hello?” is the faint, familiar answer.
“Are they alright, Molly?” he asks, his voice a study in professionalism whilst his heart beats out a staccato waltz in his chest.
The woman’s breathing halts, and the returning question is choked. “Sherlock? Oh, God, it - Are you - You’re okay?”
“Robert, Molly,” he replies, impatient but unwilling to bark at her after everything she has done, “And please, are they alright?”
“Y-yes, they’re fine. I mean, not fine, obviously, they’re grieving, but they’re okay. Safe. They’re all safe, I think,” the pathologist manages, stumbling over almost every syllable. “You got a new phone?”
“You have mine?”
“W-well, yes, I got to the roof in time and, well, I didn’t think, I mean it didn’t feel right to just…” She quietens for a moment before concluding, “It didn’t feel right to just throw it away.”
“Thank you, again. For everything, Molly,” he whispers, still not content with thanking her a mere twice when he was barely conscious, and the note on her receipt surely does not count as a heartfelt expression of gratitude. He is alive because of her intervention - John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are, in part, alive because of her (he will never know if he would have found the courage to save them without the chance of survival, if she had not helped him plan for all eventualities), and he could repeat the words for a year without it being enough. “Please hold on to the phone for me. And keep an eye on everyone.”
“I will, Sh- Robert.”
“Don’t call. Unless one of you is dead or in such severe danger that Mycroft can’t help you, don’t contact me at all. If you must, text me,” he instructs, his tone grave. “I may not call you either - I may not be able to risk it. You certainly won’t hear from me for months, Molly. Do not contact me. Understood?”
She sounds frightened and impossibly sad when she answers. “I promise. Just, please… Please be careful?”
“I will do my utmost. Thank you. Goodbye, Molly.”
“Goodbye, Sher- Robert.” He has to close his eyes, remind himself to breathe as he hangs up - that word, “goodbye,” is one he never heard from John and the realisation of that fact causes a pain he has no intention of inspecting. It is enough to know that it is raw and jagged, as though something he desperately needed has been ripped away.
No. Now is not the time for introspection or morose wishes. This is what he has always meant when he has deemed sentiment to be a terrible weakness. It debilitates the individual, distracting them and slowing them down, putting them in danger when speed and common sense are all they require to escape any semblance of peril. He cannot afford to be preoccupied right now. He needs to think, needs to act.
He cannot stay at the hotel, that much is obvious. By morning Moriarty’s people will have made their decision of whether or not to make a sacrifice of the young man who fired upon him with intent to kill and no warning. If so, they will make quick, light work of clearing the building of anything incriminating, making their call to the authorities by the early hours of the morning at the latest. Sherlock may only have hours until police will be searching for him, calling at every hostel and hotel in the hope of finding a guest matching his description. His tourist ruse was reasonable and effective, however it also drew attention to his already abysmal Spanish accent, and the distinct unlikelihood of a man with skin so pale and easily burnt being a Spanish national - he has to leave tonight. Decision made, he heads for the door. The lobby sells extra bags - he saw and considered them when he arrived, and whilst it would be a risk if he intended to keep the damned thing with him using it to carry the files he will be turning over to the police in less than an hour is a perfectly acceptable solution.
He ends up buying two, of course, when it occurs to him that he is no longer in London, able to ride the Tube bloodstained and toting a very obviously used harpoon, and a tourist carrying a box of files may be met with a little scepticism. He pays for his room at the same time, settling up with an unconcerned smile and the excuse of a cheap, last-minute flight to placate the receptionist.
He is packed and gone within ten minutes.
ooo
Thank you for reading! Fingers crossed you enjoyed this chapter. If you have the time, it would be wonderful if you could let me know what you think - no flames, please, but con-crit is always welcome.
Continue to chapter 5...
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: Sherlock, John, Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Moriarty (men.), Homeless Network, Col. Moran
Genre: Drama, hurt/comfort, angst, friendship - there will be a great deal of bromance (or pre-slash, you can in fact read this one either way)
Rating: T
Chapter Length: 3,973 words
Spoilers: End of series 2, “The Reichenbach Fall”
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs
Summary: “Sherlock had never expected dismantling Moriarty’s empire would be anything less than gruelling, however he also never anticipated just how desperately he would miss home.” Post-Reichenbach to reunion; Sherlock’s p.o.v.
Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3
A.N.: Thank you, again, to everyone who has been so kind as to let me know what they think of my scribbles - I'm still trying to get my head around how positive the response has been, to be honest. Thank you so much!
And, as ever, I must offer a huge thank you to the lovely betas working with me on this. velveteenkitten, interjection, patchsassy, and infinityuphigh... Never mind this scribble of mine - I would probably have gone completely mad by now, if I was trying to do this without your many kindnesses.
ooo
SURVIVAL - CHAPTER 4
ooo
Sherlock Holmes is, typically, not a patient man. He had very nearly forgotten this fact whilst living with John, because after two weeks of living with him John had found that his life was infinitely better when it did not include a cantankerous, whining detective. From then on the doctor had ensured that there was always something around to keep Sherlock occupied off-case. It had not been a foolproof method - the distractions had not always proven diverting or effective by any stretch of the imagination - but there had always been something. Alone as he now is Sherlock finds himself floundering mere moments after flopping on to his Camden sofa-bed.
This is why he had fully intended on spending the night in the house up in Rickmansworth. The Camden flat is above an old-fashioned teashop, and is tiny in every way. There are only two rooms including the bathroom, no real space to store the clutters and comforts of home, and a single bookshelf less than three feet long whose bounty has obviously been plundered over the last few years - only three slim paperbacks remain. Two poetry, one novel. None interest him very much. There is a radio tucked at one end of the windowsill that could be used to play… Something, he supposes. Regrettably, it is late afternoon and the single station he can listen to without wanting to permanently deafen himself will be broadcasting an in-depth news hour; he would either be forced to suffer through further tedious speculation regarding himself or be taunted with interesting cases he is allowed exactly nowhere near. It would be torture. No. He has nothing to do but lie still and go over his plans until they are scrolling repeatedly through his head and driving him as mad as Anderson does.
He could still hop back on to the Underground and make the journey to Rickmansworth, he knows; it is only four o’clock and he could lose himself in the crowds as effortlessly as he did this morning. The station there is outside the town though, and there are little old ladies in the area who will be more than just a little inquisitive about a lone, unfamiliar man entering a house they are certain no one currently inhabits. The little redbrick is better left for holing up in for a month than recklessly using for a single night. No matter how much more homely it is or how extensive its library.
He stays where he is, moving only to undress and brush his teeth before trying his best to sleep again. The noise outside helps - he has never found it easy to sleep enclosed in pure silence, having always been close to a busy road and keeping the strangest of hours. Trying to sleep in East Ham in the stillness of pre-dawn had been a terrible idea, although unavoidable at the time; now Sherlock is eased down to oblivious rest by the clatter of cheap cups and friendly candescence of the voices downstairs.
He sleeps well, and dreams of Baker Street.
ooo
The flight to St. Petersburg was more expensive than he feels it should have been, much as he can understand why. Over a third of the plane is empty and Sherlock’s long frame is squashed into far too short a space. It is doing his leg and ribs no good, he thinks, but there is little he can do now. He certainly cannot afford the upgrade to first class. Eventually he stretches his long limbs out into the aisle, offering a hopefully endearing apology each time the stewardess (late twenties, misses home, suffers from near-debilitating migraines) passes him; soon she is passing with much more frequency and Sherlock wishes John were here for her to coo over instead. He, at least, would not find it so annoying. Although, then Sherlock would be annoyed that she was stealing John’s attention every ten minutes for the whole damned flight rather than allowing the two men to enjoy their private conversation, and he would undoubtedly end up saying something cutting and then be in John’s Bad Books for the following few hours. Suddenly the irritation of being forced to constantly be pleasant to a woman with all the brain-power of a rocking horse does not seem nearly so awful.
Landing at Pulkovo International is a trial all its own due to uncommonly strong winds, and for one frightening moment as the plane lists to the right and the lights flicker out Sherlock cannot help the thought that it would be typical, just typical, if the weather got him before Moriarty’s toy soldiers could. Sally and Anderson (perhaps even John and Lestrade as well after the initial resurgence of grief wore off) would probably laugh themselves sick if they were ever to know. On the second try, the pilot has a much improved idea of the conditions and they hit the tarmac with no more than a gentle bump - the damage is done though, and Sherlock watches, unable to help being a little too amused, as the other passengers rush for the exit even before it is opened.
St. Petersburg is a beautiful city, as far as cities go. Unfortunately the hours of daylight are limited even during the summer months, and Sherlock has no leeway for sightseeing. He had seen no reason to book in at a hotel considering how many there must be in such a hub of tourism and trade; considering that he is now caught in the midst of a Russian storm, he is willing to acknowledge his mistake. He had thought to wander the downtown areas a little and find a small bed and breakfast with a room available, but the bitter sleet comes as he makes his way through the harassment of the immigration checks and he flings himself in to a taxi instead, asking with help from a quickly-purchased phrasebook to be taken to the largest Nevsky hotel.
The address he needs is tucked into both his pocket and his brain - a glance at the map left by the businessman dropped off last tells him Moriarty’s contacts can be found down a short side-street close to the North bank of the Fontanka - and it matters very little where he stays as long as it is not the same street and within the city limits. He is taken to the Nevsky Central, just over two miles from where he needs to be, and quickly checks in to a comfortable double room. The staff are friendly but not at all intrusive, which is the decider, and he calls down to the desk to book the suite for the rest of the week.
The hotel’s one failing is the lack of room service. Sherlock takes almost an hour to fuss and laze his way to the conclusion that he should eat something (the thought, “John would want him to,” settles the matter) and another twenty minutes to actually leave the warmth and comfort of his temporary home. The kotlety is delicious when he eventually eats it and he finds himself unable to finish the meal without getting close to tears - John would love it, Sherlock is certain he would; the loop of, “I wish John was here,” that he has been forcing to the more obscured corner of his mind bursts forth and refuses to be ignored or silenced.
It becomes a constant, conscious thought. Sherlock has not known one of these for years, the last being, “I am not a freak,” which ran around the inside of his skull, day-in and day-out, from the age of twelve to three weeks after he met Lestrade. The then-Detective Sergeant finally managed to silence it by unknowingly convincing Sherlock that he did genuinely care about his well-being. It is one of the many disadvantages of a mind without an ‘off’ switch. The thought will not leave him, Sherlock deduces, unless or until he is able to say a warm greeting to his friend.
He could still go home.
He cannot go home yet.
God, the longing alone will drive him insane.
ooo
The week Sherlock spends in St. Petersburg becomes the most miserable of his life. He has the freedom to go out without fear of recognition but fails to take advantage of it. It seems unwise, after he spends three hours reminding himself that John is not beside him - forgetting that, talking to him and pointing out interesting stimuli, does nothing aside from draw attention to himself. The keyring he buys on a whim (and in the hope that he will have the chance to pass it on to his friend) is nothing but useless baggage. He leaves the hotel only a handful of times after that debacle in order to walk by Moriarty’s ‘office’; it transpires that there are three men there constantly and Sherlock quickly makes the decision not to confront them himself. Buckner had been trouble enough - any one of these three could break him between their index finger and thumb. The information he took from Hammersmith combined with his own observations is more than enough to trigger a police raid and multiple trials from which they would be impossibly lucky to emerge unscathed.
Finding an ‘honest’ police officer in Russia is purported to be a challenge - Sherlock finds it incredibly easy. Just to ensure success, he checks on the officers’ higher-ups, compiling a file to be passed on with the damning evidence against Moriarty’s representatives. The translation of his notes is an arduous task, taking a full four days, however he is not exactly working to a schedule and the difficulty makes it a welcome distraction. No John, no crimes, no experiments… It is absolutely horrific. He finds himself eating at the oddest of times and far more often than he usually would. Fortunately the hotel’s restaurant staff seem to like him and enjoy his attempts to order his meals (John would call the majority of them snacks) in Russian, so he continues to haunt the place without compunction.
He books a flight to Barcelona the same day that he makes the decision not to confront Moriarty’s representatives personally from the cyber-café in the next street. He is not quite so welcome there, as he has very little patience for the giggling idiots running the place. Although he refrains from using any of the Russian insults he is quickly picking up he makes no secret of his disdain, but the internet access is a draw he cannot resist when the alternative is total, mind-numbing boredom. He visits only a few times and suffers through the indignity of having to drink grainy, industrial coffee rather than touch the dishwater the owners refer to as tea. Regardless of their many failings, he is able to follow a few leads and find what appears to be a decent hotel in Barcelona’s Gothic Quarter using their computers.
The temptation to check John’s blog is close to excruciating, as is the empty, hollow sensation each time he leaves without doing so. He fails to pin down a reason for the continual denial, which only makes it worse. He eventually settles on the likelihood of the idea just being unbearable, unsatisfactory as the conclusion is, because if he misses the man now he dreads to think of his reaction if faced with solid proof of his life moving on without him. Be it an expression of support or vilification, Sherlock doubts that he would be able to withstand it.
ooo
If St. Petersburg was miserable, Barcelona is absolute Hell.
To begin with, the heat is unbearable. The sun scorches the pale skin of his nose and the nape of his neck, his scalp only saved by the same hand-knitted beanie he had appropriated in East London, and he spends the first three days of his stay in constant discomfort until the repeated applications of after-sun lotion finally begin to do their job. After that aggravation, he spends a fortune on sun-cream and uses it religiously; unhappily, it does nothing to bring down his temperature and Sherlock finds himself bathing at least twice a day just to feel a little less vile. Which is the trigger for the second cause of his loathing for what is, to the eyes of most, another pleasing city.
Sherlock has a tendency towards reflection when he bathes. It is why he rarely does so, forgoing the comforts of a long soak for the speed of a shower. He has found previously that he never seems to come off well during these reflective periods, and the most recent are no exception. Sherlock spends at least an hour of every day spent in the sweltering metropolis wracked with self-loathing.
His head fills with it all and will not be forced into order. None are failings, he knows, but that logical, impersonal fact does nothing to lessen the depth of his regrets… His decision to keep John and the others in the dark. The agony and grief written all over John, in Lestrade’s wide and alcohol-hazed eyes, screaming from Mrs. Hudson’s trembling shoulders. The three men he killed without hesitation or regret - whose deaths he still cannot bring himself to lament, if they mean safety for the people Sherlock cannot bear to lose.
The fact that they are lost to him anyway, with no reprieve in sight.
The desolation of the last takes him a full two days to recover from, a full two days wasted. Caring about anything but what he has lost is an impossible task during those dismal forty-eight hours. He extends his booking without trouble and gets back to work mid-way through the next morning, all too aware of the damage his self-indulgent delay may be causing.
The office is located in a small square at the very heart of the Gothic Quarter frequented by tour groups and local children. There is a tree planted irksomely off-centre in what would have previously been a fountain, the once-beautiful external walls of the buildings are pitted and scarred by gunfire (the Spanish Civil War; however, this damage would have likely been wrought by foreign troops providing ‘aid’ to one side or the other), and overall the scene appears to fit Moriarty’s tastes perfectly. As do the staff - those Sherlock observes are far more subtle, of far higher class than the three bruisers in western Russia (two from the aristocracy, the other three from new-money families, all highly educated and well-read, all with a distinct appreciation for the finer things in life) and although he has no doubt that the will prove far better equipped to defend themselves than they appear, he is also significantly more confident that he can accomplish what he needs to. If John was to hear that, it would be yet another mark in the, “a bit bad, yes,” column. Unfortunately he currently has far too few options and faces far too many risks. He does not have the information required to make any sort of profitable move against the remaining majority of Moriarty’s web - he needs access to that office, and he needs as long as possible with the knowledge therein. If he has to employ violent measures to achieve this, then Sherlock refuses to claim false hesitance.
And he doesn’t hesitate, although he does at least aim for late afternoon, when only one young lady and an older man are on duty. He simply walks in, the picture of a confused tourist, and as the door slides closed behind him the woman appears from a kitchenette at his right, sympathetic and unguarded. He plays his part well, requests a small drink of water in stilted, upset Spanish, and knocks her unconscious with one well-placed strike to the base of her skull when she turns to fetch a glass. The man is faster on the uptake, his fist brushing along Sherlock’s cheekbone, and it takes a precious moment to similarly incapacitate him; he ties them together and, for security, to the corner leg of the heavy oak desk in the lobby, just out of sight of the door.
He has brought his backpack, having emptied it across his hotel bed, and loads it with as many of the most significant files as he can, before rushing to pack as many more as he can carry in one of the storage boxes stacked beside the main filing cabinet. By the time he is ready to leave his hands are riddled with paper cuts and his breathing is heavy with earnestness. The intelligence he now has is enough to bring down the other three Spanish and Portuguese hubs with only minor exertion within the cities themselves. All is well until the unmistakable click of a handgun’s safety being released sounds from behind him.
The bullet misses. The gunman (one of the younger aristocrats he observed leaving earlier, untrained but willing to kill) is openly surprised by Sherlock’s speed; he had not expected him to move with such urgency only because he heard one vaguely metallic warning, and his reaction is slow. Sherlock’s is not. The boy (twenty-five, but as naïve and self-righteous as any teenager) barely manages to raise his arm by half the required distance before the detective’s fingers curl around it and twist, directing the gun towards the pinstripe-clad leg of his assailant. He does not even need to touch the weapon itself - the idiot panics and his fingers spasm, sending a bullet hammering through the flesh of his thigh. A non-fatal wound, as long as he receives medical attention quickly; it will leave him with a severe limp though (not one to be healed by ridiculous chases after taxis, this; he cannot help the rise of the same sense of satisfaction he felt when he stabbed Buckner), and the agonised screech ripped from his throat makes it quite clear that the injury definitely feels serious enough.
Sherlock grabs his bounty and runs.
There is no back entrance, no hidden getaway, so he tugs his beanie down and hopes for the best. It must be dinnertime, judging by the emptiness of the square, and he slows to a brisk walk after a few long, shadowed streets; there is no pursuit, so sprinting about like a man with something to hide would only make people more likely to remember him. He makes it back to the hotel without further incident but the feeling of disarray remains with him, dogging him even after his door is closed and locked. Such a thing to go wrong… It is not like Sherlock to miscalculate so badly, so damned disastrously. The worry that he has missed something else takes root too quickly and too deeply for him to do much more than try to ignore it.
There are so many possibilities, so very many worst-case scenarios that he is across the room with his phone clamped in his hand before he even registers his first step. The sensation of his body being ahead of his mind for once stills him momentarily, until the visions of John captured, John dead, 221B with its beloved occupants burned to the ground and Lestrade lying broken in the road fill his head again and his fingers fly to get the numbers typed in.
“Hello?” is the faint, familiar answer.
“Are they alright, Molly?” he asks, his voice a study in professionalism whilst his heart beats out a staccato waltz in his chest.
The woman’s breathing halts, and the returning question is choked. “Sherlock? Oh, God, it - Are you - You’re okay?”
“Robert, Molly,” he replies, impatient but unwilling to bark at her after everything she has done, “And please, are they alright?”
“Y-yes, they’re fine. I mean, not fine, obviously, they’re grieving, but they’re okay. Safe. They’re all safe, I think,” the pathologist manages, stumbling over almost every syllable. “You got a new phone?”
“You have mine?”
“W-well, yes, I got to the roof in time and, well, I didn’t think, I mean it didn’t feel right to just…” She quietens for a moment before concluding, “It didn’t feel right to just throw it away.”
“Thank you, again. For everything, Molly,” he whispers, still not content with thanking her a mere twice when he was barely conscious, and the note on her receipt surely does not count as a heartfelt expression of gratitude. He is alive because of her intervention - John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are, in part, alive because of her (he will never know if he would have found the courage to save them without the chance of survival, if she had not helped him plan for all eventualities), and he could repeat the words for a year without it being enough. “Please hold on to the phone for me. And keep an eye on everyone.”
“I will, Sh- Robert.”
“Don’t call. Unless one of you is dead or in such severe danger that Mycroft can’t help you, don’t contact me at all. If you must, text me,” he instructs, his tone grave. “I may not call you either - I may not be able to risk it. You certainly won’t hear from me for months, Molly. Do not contact me. Understood?”
She sounds frightened and impossibly sad when she answers. “I promise. Just, please… Please be careful?”
“I will do my utmost. Thank you. Goodbye, Molly.”
“Goodbye, Sher- Robert.” He has to close his eyes, remind himself to breathe as he hangs up - that word, “goodbye,” is one he never heard from John and the realisation of that fact causes a pain he has no intention of inspecting. It is enough to know that it is raw and jagged, as though something he desperately needed has been ripped away.
No. Now is not the time for introspection or morose wishes. This is what he has always meant when he has deemed sentiment to be a terrible weakness. It debilitates the individual, distracting them and slowing them down, putting them in danger when speed and common sense are all they require to escape any semblance of peril. He cannot afford to be preoccupied right now. He needs to think, needs to act.
He cannot stay at the hotel, that much is obvious. By morning Moriarty’s people will have made their decision of whether or not to make a sacrifice of the young man who fired upon him with intent to kill and no warning. If so, they will make quick, light work of clearing the building of anything incriminating, making their call to the authorities by the early hours of the morning at the latest. Sherlock may only have hours until police will be searching for him, calling at every hostel and hotel in the hope of finding a guest matching his description. His tourist ruse was reasonable and effective, however it also drew attention to his already abysmal Spanish accent, and the distinct unlikelihood of a man with skin so pale and easily burnt being a Spanish national - he has to leave tonight. Decision made, he heads for the door. The lobby sells extra bags - he saw and considered them when he arrived, and whilst it would be a risk if he intended to keep the damned thing with him using it to carry the files he will be turning over to the police in less than an hour is a perfectly acceptable solution.
He ends up buying two, of course, when it occurs to him that he is no longer in London, able to ride the Tube bloodstained and toting a very obviously used harpoon, and a tourist carrying a box of files may be met with a little scepticism. He pays for his room at the same time, settling up with an unconcerned smile and the excuse of a cheap, last-minute flight to placate the receptionist.
He is packed and gone within ten minutes.
ooo
Thank you for reading! Fingers crossed you enjoyed this chapter. If you have the time, it would be wonderful if you could let me know what you think - no flames, please, but con-crit is always welcome.
Continue to chapter 5...