Sherlock (BBC): Martyr (1/3)
Title: Martyr Part I
Author: Vescaus @ the_thinktank
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Summary: Even the strongest of people with the best of intentions lose their way along the journey
Spoilers: A few for 1.03 The Great Game
Rating: PG-17
Words: 6.5k
Notes: The (finally) final part of the Intents and Purposes series. By now, necessary to have read the previous installments Sidekick and Villain. Wonderful, massive thanks to unduneljay, who shifted through my mistakes and made this story coherent.
Martyr Part I
By Vescaus
“One glass or two?”
John looked at the barman and then down at the full bottle of white wine in front of him. He smiled tightly. “Just one, I’m sticking with water.”
“Oh, John, still thinking that tactic works? If Clara couldn’t make it work, then you don’t have a bloody hope in hell.”
“Look, Harry, I’m not here to fight,” John said tightly, leaning back in the chair with his arms folded. In the comfortable, warm and intimate surroundings of the darkened bar, he looked as relaxed as a plank of wood.
“Really? That’ll make a change, however will we talk?” Harriet remarked, in a sarcastic tone made all the more hateful when she gently waved her wine glass in front of John. Her pale hair fell in front of her pale, hollow face and not for the first time, John was taken aback by how ill she looked.
“I need you to do me a favour.”
Harriet choked into her wine glass as she made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort. Voice dripping with derision, she responded, “A favour now? Careful, John, one more surprise and I’ll tell you how I’ve cured cancer.”
Sometimes, he couldn’t help the anger from spilling over, playing right into her trap. It was easy for everyone to press his buttons, he realised, to manipulate him and push him into doing whatever they wanted. “I’m being serious, Harry.”
Harriet sighed with regret and took a deep swallow from her glass. “You always are. Well, what is it, then?”
John pulled the violin case up from the floor and passed it to her. “I need you to give this to someone. My flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. If I haven’t contacted you by the end of the month to get it back from you, you need to give it to him.”
Harriet looked at the padlocked case in bewilderment. “Why is it all charred?”
“Because it was in a fire, why else? That’s not important right now.”
“Well, you live with him, why can’t you give it to him yourself?”
John resisted the urge to sigh in frustration. “Because I might not be here to do that, Harry.”
With that, Harriet looked up, her suddenly bright eyes betraying the worry for her brother she always felt under that mask of aloofness. “Why won’t you be here? Are you going back?” Her tone and expression reflected her utter contempt for John’s military ambition. John knew Harry was concerned for his safety; both of them knew it was this concern which had amplified her drinking problem when he left for the army.
It was an irony they never discussed.
“I’m not going back to the army,” he replied truthfully wanting to touch her to reassure her but knowing that overstepped the boundaries of their relationship. Weird, he thought, he felt completely relaxed touching someone as cold as Sherlock; he couldn’t contemplate a situation where he could hug his sister.
“So, Harry? Will you do it? It’s kind of important I know now.”
“Yeah, yeah, fine, I’ll do it. What’s your address again?”
“I gave it to you when I moved back to London.”
Harriet waved a hand lazily then picked up her glass. “Yeah, but I lost it. The flat’s a mess. Just give it to me again, for fuck’s sake it’s not such a big deal.”
Having relayed his address again (making sure Harry had it in her phone), reminded her of the instructions and made her swear on her life to carry out his orders, John left the bar without having finished his water.
He checked his phone. Three missed calls, all from the same number that had been haunting him. And one text from Sherlock practically ordering him back to the hospital to pick him up.
*
“Wow,” John murmured, stepping into the large entrance hall of the flat in Mayfair. It was grand and his voice echoed off marble walls. Decorated in the Georgian style, in light pastel colours with highly decorative curtains and furnishings, John felt he was stepping back in time. “Now, this…this is amazing. Can’t your brother get us a place like this?”
“We couldn’t afford the rent. There is a more pressing question,” Sherlock remarked coldly, as he himself entered the flat. Even now, John shudders at the bandages on Sherlock’s hands, hiding burn marks. “Why has my brother suddenly taken an interest in my affairs and offered not only his private apartment but also his resources to redo our flat.”
“Why should that seem weird?” John asked as evenly as he could, taking off his coat to hide any expression on his face. “He’s your brother. I wish my sister would do stuff like that for me.”
“Mycroft is not acting out of brotherly compassion,” Sherlock muttered, sounding annoyed either at Mycroft or his inability to decipher the meaning of his brother’s generous offer. “There’s always something far more underhand at work.”
“Well, let’s not bother with that now, hey?” John said, in his most chipper voice. “Don’t make mysteries out of everything just because there’s nothing else for you to do. Let’s be thankful that he offered us his place as well. And rest and unwind from all this Moriarty stuff.”
Sherlock remained in the hall, pensive, before taking out his Blackberry to fire out a barrage of texts again. Even with his lightly bandaged hands, Sherlock was willing to suffer the pain to send orders to the anonymous, freelance members of his pool of workers, and to his brother. John had never seen a man so ungrateful at a sibling’s seeming good will.
Instead, of staying to argue John walked off through a set of large white double doors into what appeared to be a living room. It was decorated in similar style to the hall, with intricate patterns, a coffee table and three plush sofas. It looked like it had been taken straight from a Jane Austen novel. Pristine, clean, without a speck of dust and everything in its place. Its orderliness made a mockery of John’s current life.
He wandered across to the large collection of books, stowed away inside a dark wooden cabinet, scanning the titles. Unlike Sherlock’s shelves, adorned with factual scripts on crime history, forensics, poisons and botany, Mycroft seemed to have a taste for the classical literature. Shakespeare and Byron were shelved side by side with Orwell and Hemmingway, making an impressive collection, even by John’s tame standards.
“Mycroft likes solitude,” Sherlock remarked coming up behind John silently, making him jump and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him for a moment. “This is his hideaway. Somewhere he can sit and lose himself in romanticism.”
“And you don’t like solitude?” John asked sceptically, twisting his head slightly.
John could practically hear the smirk as Sherlock placed his hands on his shoulders. He wanted to close his eyes; lean his head back against Sherlock’s chest and revel in the comfort that Sherlock was capable of offering. But that warm weight, which should have been idyllic and protective, simply made John feel trapped.
“I appear to have made an exception with you. Your company is my solitude. However, I have always thought escapism in literature, which is nothing more than entertainment, a pointless venture. What’s to be gained from hiding from reality?”
John looked back at the books, as Sherlock’s hands seemed to tighten on his shoulders. Maybe it was his imagination. He felt his heart rate increase, not with the proximity of Sherlock’s warm body against his back…but from the fear of Sherlock’s words.
“Sometimes it’s nice to forget about what’s really happening,” he murmured, wondering if that was why Sherlock never slept.
“Well, that is the inevitability of such forms of escapism - it cannot last forever.”
John did not respond but shifted out of Sherlock’s grasp and walked over to the sofa. He could feel Sherlock’s sharp eyes boring into his back, his database of a mind collecting, analysing and prioritising variables which could account for his strange behaviour. John knew he was acting out of sorts, but as long as the detective couldn’t see his expression he could attribute it to tiredness.
Sherlock looked down at a stack of books on the table next to the cabinet. On the top sat a note, in Mycroft’s painfully neat handwriting.
Something to pass the time whilst waiting, seeing as you are now in hiding.
With apathy, he picked up the thin top book and turned it over. It was old, probably published in the 1970s with a faded green cover and judging by the edges, well thumbed. The Third Man, by Graham Greene. Sherlock vaguely recognised the title; perhaps it was a film he and John had once watched on their more lacklustre days.
John’s phone vibrated, penetrating through the sudden silence. Sherlock watched as he lifted it out looked at the number momentarily before cancelling it.
“Who was that?” he asked, nonchalantly.
“Harry,” John lied, after a pause he prayed was not too noticeable. If he was lucky, Sherlock would see it as the reason for his current change in attitude.
When Sherlock did not respond, John pocketed his phone and walked over and took his hand to pull him along. He kissed Sherlock gently and watched as the detective’s resolve for once cracked and shattered under his ministrations.
“Come on,” John said quietly, a mischievous smile on his face. “Let’s find Mycroft’s favourite room and mess it up in our own way.”
*
A few days later, John was couriered to Scotland Yard in an elaborate show to ensure they lost any of Moriarty’s followers en route.
“We’re shipping him off to Mycroft’s team tomorrow,” Lestrade informed him, as they walked together down the corridor. “We won’t be able to get anything out of him, it’s better to let the boys with more gravitas do it. But he wants to have a word with you.”
“Oh? Why’s that?” John asked, putting his shaking hand into his pocket.
“I don’t know. But Mycroft Holmes wants to see if you can get any more information out of him.” They stop at the door and Lestrade stands in front of it. “John, you don’t have to do this, you know. Don’t feel pressured by Mycroft.”
John shrugged apathetically. “If it moves things along...”
Another a moment’s hesitation, Lestrade opened the door to one of the interview rooms where Colonel Moran was seated. Looking at him, John was momentarily taken aback by the outward respectability the man seemed to display. He seemed the sort of man who would be used to giving new lads entering the army pearly words of wisdom and advice as an old veteran. His fatherly demeanour would have lured people into a false sense of security, John suspected, because John knew that beneath that affectionate exterior, lay a man rotten at the core.
“Oh Doctor Watson,” Colonel Moran said, as John took the chair opposite. Lestrade remained by the door “It’s so good to finally meet you in person. Mr Moriarty has spoken at length about you. I think he is quite keen on you, in fact. Surprising.”
John looked at the man sitting in front of him. “You wanted to see me.”
“Yes, that is all I wanted. To meet the ordinary man who brought me down. And who intends to bring down Moriarty too.”
“You could make it easier on everyone by giving us information.”
Moran laughed sharply. “And you could tell Sherlock to cease in his persistent hunting. Needless people will die…and you will never catch him.”
John shook his head in disbelief. “How could you do it? All of it?”
“Oh, Doctor,” Moran sighed, “You are still so naïve and childlike in your view of the world. Just because I was a soldier does not mean I am a perfect citizen. The lines between good and bad are so blurred in today’s society. One can cross the line before they can even work out where it is.”
“I know the difference between self defence and conscious murder,” John hissed.
“Yes, and it’s a moral compass which makes our brains decide which is which,” Moran continued. “You should know better than anyone, as a soldier. We are men, Doctor, who entered the battlefield with enthusiasm and came out the other side changed and twisted by the notion of what is considered moral.” He leans back in his chair, his large frame engulfing the chair. “You know what I mean. After all, war turns all its victims into equals and shows the real character of an individual. A lawyer is on the same standing as a farmer when being faced with the genocidal gun. I have seen, as I’m sure you have, that humans are not unlike animals - our natural instinct is to survive, however possible. Man will do terrible things to man in order to survive.”
“What you and Moriarty have done,” John said through gritted teeth, “has nothing to do with survival. It’s about greed and power.”
“It is survival. I saw prisoners in the camps of Bosnia and Kosovo stealing food from each other. Bartering with anything they had. Women, tortured in horrendous ways, begging for death.”
John huffed in disbelief at Moran’s twisted version of Darwinism. “And sloppily killing a girl to cover your own gambling habits is survival as well?”
“Wars are not always fought in foreign countries,” Moran continued and John fought hard not to think of the battlefields Mycroft had been hinting at.
He took a deep breath. “You’re obviously intelligent. Very smart. Was your fall from grace so high in the army that it knocked all the decency out of you?”
“We all start with good intentions, Doctor,” Moran said calmly, unperturbed by John’s insistent emphasis on morality, as if he had locked that concept away. “Loyalty, for example, to a country. Love, for a country. Isn’t that why we became soldiers? Love for an idea, a belief - an ideology, even for God. Love…for a person, then, who takes our tarnished view of the world and turns it into something useful. Because you and I…we’ve given up on God, really. We need to believe in people to save us.”
John’s eyes flickered up to Moran’s, unable to stop the anger and hatred smouldering in his eyes. “Don’t you dare try and compare yourself to me. I’m nothing like you.”
“Really?” Moran asked, scoffing indignantly. “You mean Jim Moriarty didn’t see the same things in me that Sherlock sees in you? Someone interesting and unpredictable - someone who breaks convention but is not quite how they appear. I suppose next you’ll be saying Sherlock is nothing like Moriarty.”
“They are different people,” John hissed, finding the words hard to form, blotting out all the ways he had recently been comparing the two.
Moran learned forward, a knowing smile twisting his thin lips, stretching them into an expression of gratification as he watched John’s breaking resolve. Quietly, he continued, “If only it was as easy as good and evil. I assume Jim Moriarty, like Sherlock, also wouldn’t have chosen you if he didn’t think you were at least slightly capable of all the things you’ve already done. Killed? Lied? Deceived? The line separating right and wrong becomes very blurred, doesn’t it, Doctor Watson, when we act for what we believe in….Or who we believe in. Even if they don’t return our depth of loyalty.”
“Right, enough!” came a loud voice as John jumped up from his seat, not really knowing what he intended to do but unable to resist the urge for some physical violence. Lestrade’s hand clamped down on his shoulder before he could release that aggression, pulling him out of the door and away from Moran’s triumphantly smirking face.
Moran’s smooth and calmly smug voice followed him out of the door, floating threateningly. “In the same circumstances, people are never dissimilar, Doctor.”
*
In his time, Lestrade had seen officers that carried the expression of despair on their faces. As cases mounted, it was possible to watch their faith in humanity deteriorate with every murder, rape and creatively discarded body. The light of their naïve enthusiasm to help the world faded with the helplessness of their own futility. The confident steps of an officer with purpose became less and less assertive. Lestrade was happy when he saw it; it convinced him that not everybody in the world was as soulless as the people he had to catch. It was his job to ensure that they did not entirely give up hope.
He saw that same desolate expression in John Watson’s face when he finally found him round the back of the Scotland Yard building. Leaning against the grey brick walls, the doctor looked as though it was the only thing keeping him upright.
“It’s a ploy, don’t listen to him,” Lestrade said immediately. “He knows we have him and what we plan to do so now he’s going straight for you.” John didn’t speak or move in response to Lestrade’s assurances and the Inspector felt the guilt entrench into him deeper. “I shouldn’t have let you see him.”
“He’s right, though,” John answered quietly, closing his eyes again as the backdrop of London washed over him. “I have done questionable things. In Afghanistan. Now here, for Sherlock. Maybe I am no better than Moran.”
Lestrade stepped forward with determination and took John’s shoulders. He was half tempted to shake life into the dying automaton John Watson had become.
“I’ve had to kill a boy once who was so off his head on drugs he was threatening his own pregnant girlfriend with a knife. You think I wanted to kill him or that he deserved it? There’s a difference between doing something because you have to and doing things simply because you want to.”
John nodded in agreement. “In war, you don’t have time to think, you just act. I’m sure you were running on adrenaline too, when you shot that kid. But these are bloody mind games Moriarty’s playing. I’m not Sherlock, I can’t fight against that. Moriarty is ringing me constantly and I can't get rid of my phone because Sherlock will notice. There are people following me, I can’t tell if they’re Mycroft’s men or Moriarty's. We’re supposed to be in hiding but Moriarty’s not stupid, he knows where we are, he’s just waiting for the right moment. And even Moran is playing games. I'm walking on a volcano."
John pushed himself off the wall and walked away a few steps. He put his hands to clenched fists to his temples and squeezed his eyes tight. “The more I think about what they’re saying, the more I forget why I’m doing this.”
“You’re doing this for Sherlock. For you and Sherlock.”
“There is no me and Sherlock. That much is clear.”
“Well, it isn’t to me,” Lestrade interrupted gruffly.
John looked up at him and smiled sadly. “Come on, Inspector. He will always choose Moriarty over me. He doesn’t love me enough to stop when I ask and that’s how he’ll break us…and then kill us. So Moriarty was right when he had me. Maybe we love each other - or whatever you want to call it - but that doesn’t mean it’s going to work out. ”
Lestrade shook his head and stepped back, his heart twisting slightly at John Watson’s demeanour. He had seen the cracks beginning after the fire at 221b when John had sat in his office, nursing a glass of whiskey. And here again, Lestrade could see that chasm was growing wider and he was losing all the characteristics that made up John Watson. Just like the officers he had trained but psychologically fallen by the wayside, he was giving up hope. It had nothing to do with strength of character.
“I’m not Dear Deadrie, nor am I any Mystic Meg,” Lestrade insisted with discomfort, “And Sherlock might be a heartless bastard sometimes, but it’s just because he doesn’t know how to show it. Just be patient with him. Show him how. Because it’s bloody well obvious it’s not a game to either of you.”
*
It was ten o’clock before Sherlock walked out from under his personal black cloud and ventured out of his room. He hadn’t heard John leave and return again. During the course of the evening there were the tell-tale signs of a kettle boiling, pots and pans clanging and the TV humming away. John himself had been silent; he had not sought out Sherlock for anything, leaving him to his cave.
The living room lights were all switched off; the only brightness came from the muted and ghostly glow of the flickering television playing a barely audible old film. Sherlock felt that momentary flutter of panic within him whenever he was consciously unaware of John’s whereabouts but relaxed when he found John on the sofa, curled on his side facing the television, fast asleep.
Wandering into the kitchen, Sherlock found the remains of John’s simplistic but still flavour filled cooking. An oven dish in the sink and a plate of half-finished food on the side. Opening the fridge door, Sherlock pulled out another plate covered in cellophane with a note on top: CHICKEN PASTA. 1Min 40 SECONDS IN MICROWAVE. He put it back, grateful for John’s concern but as always, lacking in appetite when his mind was so enraptured by inconclusive thoughts. He disregarded the doctor’s advice that he should ‘get some more meat on him.’ John’s cooking, although wholesome, was quite transparent in its intentions.
However, as he looked back over at John, he did feel a slight twinge of regret for the way he had been acting the past few days since arriving at Mycroft’s. A sickening sensation grew within him whenever he was reminded that he had lost everything he had accumulated on Moriarty. It depressed his whole being. His brain dredged up anything it could remember in order to exploit any possibilities. After four days of moping and silence, John had finally spoken.
“Right,” John had said, “if you’re going to be like this all day, I’m going to the shops, you want anything?”
“Do I not have reason to be in a foul mood?” Sherlock mumbled, stretching out his arm on which he had placed a nicotine patch. He was facing the back of the sofa as if the light was offended him. In frustration, he had pulled off his bandages, dumping them on the table. “With the thought of London becoming the black hole of crime?”
John growled in annoyance, pulling on his coat. “Don’t exaggerate, Sherlock.”
“Exaggerate?” Sherlock snapped, flipping on the sofa violently to now face John. “I don’t exaggerate, I’m only precise. You think the correct course of action is to lounge here in Mycroft’s Georgian reverie, while the only criminal mastermind continues to breeze round London. That may satisfy your simple needs.”
John looked away and bit his lip to refrain from descending to Sherlock’s level of bickering. At this stage, he was incorrigible, like a child who’d had his toys taken away as punishment. It wasn’t a far stretch from the truth. “I don’t deserve your attitude,” he answered sternly.
Nothing he had done since picking Sherlock up from the hospital had distracted him from his increasing and jittery obsession with Moriarty. In fact, it had only increased. John could offer no more than himself. That didn’t seem to be enough. He couldn’t even muster an apology from Sherlock for his behaviour.
“Do you want to come out with me? Or are you going to sit here and sulk?”
“Of course not,” Sherlock scoffed. “I already sent out the word. Men ordered to go and burn down a flat is hardly inconspicuous - someone must know something. There are other avenues, though, even without all the documentation. There’s always Carl Powers.”
John’s jaw tightened. “Right, Carl Powers. We’re back to that again.”
“We should never have left it,” Sherlock muttered to himself. “He is the key.”
“No, he’s dead. Stop chasing pots of gold.” His frustration fell on deaf ears and John suddenly needed to leave. “So, do you want anything?” Once again, the detective didn’t answer, but continued to rub his arm as if it would stimulate his thought process. John was beginning to lose his patience. “Sherlock! Do you want anything?”
“Oh for heaven’s sakes, John!” Sherlock cried, standing up and walking towards the bedroom and away from John. “Just because we’re in Mayfair doesn’t mean that the shops or our dietary habits have changed. You have no need to consult me, so don’t ask pointless questions when you’re just going to buy the same things you always do.”
With that, he spun on the shiny marble floor and marched towards the door.
So desperate was Sherlock for the solitude to banish thoughts of that inevitable future. Yet surrounding his senses all the time was John. John, John, perfect, indisputable, resolute John. John, whose very presence blurred everything in the world around him so only he was in focus. And that was making it increasingly hard to concentrate.
I met you…and it’s made all the difference.
John, who against all orders, ran into a burning building to save him because he was a soldier. He hated abandoning his command. And had not been scalded by the flames of their flat but there were wounds manifesting themselves in other ways.
Ever since that night at the swimming pool, he had watched some entity consume John from within. His fear of purposeless that Moriarty instilled into him, that Sherlock had exposed all those weeks ago had not delved into the heart of the problem. He could feel, even though they had become closer physically and emotionally, John still seemed to be drifting away from him. There was not enough data to uncover why.
He noted every morning John woke up a little less refreshed than the day before. His eyes were becoming bloodshot and watered from the lack of sleep even though he spent countless hours lost to dreams; dark lines had begun to smudge under his eyes. His loss of appetite was evident, his face seemed hollow and ghostly. His aura, so firmly rooted in strong but silent, had simply become silent. Defeated.
And there were other more conscious habits where John had lapsed. He hadn’t shaved in nearly a week and a dark shade of stubble had formed, scratching Sherlock’s skin like sandpaper during empty kisses. His hair had far outgrown its usual military cut and had started to curl at the sides and at the nape. John created a rather primal picture than he had ever presented before. This wild and scruffy John was one Sherlock found rather endearing and curiously arousing yet it was overshadowed by the niggling in the back of his mind that these oddities were out of character for John; his John who had kept regular military discipline in all aspects of his life.
In hindsight, oh wonderful hindsight, he wished he hadn’t snapped at John. He noticed every eye roll, every exhaled angry huff of breath, every twitch of his hand and face, every barely restrained retort of John’s whenever he mentioned Moriarty. The sheer contempt John felt was simmering beneath the surface, Sherlock was not so poorly attuned to John’s attitude as to miss it. The scientist in him longed for the optimal outcome where he could have the case and John too. Yet it was the search for this Holy Grail that Sherlock believed was weighing down John.
However, Sherlock reasoned that keeping John safe that was the most important thing. And Sherlock had done that since the night at the swimming pool and more so since the fire - pursuing Moriarty was better than ignoring him.
Suddenly, there was a harsh vibrating sound. Sherlock jumped in surprise as he noticed John’s flashing iPhone buzzing against the hard wood of the coffee table. He peered over and saw Private Number and involuntarily found his hand reaching towards the phone to pick it up, curiosity peaked. His thumb was poised over the answer button when John suddenly shifted against the sofa.
“What?” he muttered confusedly, pulled out of his slumber at the sound. His eyes opened as they quickly adjusted to the darkness, his gaze fell on Sherlock holding the phone. In that instant it stopped ringing and there was silence.
Sherlock held it out. “Missed call,” he informed him uselessly.
John all but snatched it from him, holding it tight in his grasp. “We’ve talked about personal boundaries, Sherlock.” He paused, staring at the screen for a moment. “Are you all right?” he asked, unnerved by Sherlock’s appearance at his side as he woke up, obviously watching him.
“Of course,” Sherlock responded, his eyes flickering back to the phone. Then, as if to break the moment, he stood up and held out his hand elegantly. “A bed is far more comfortable than a sofa, wouldn’t you agree?”
John smiled uneasily and took his hand, happy to have Sherlock next to him again, a warm solid presence in the bed. He could never deny Sherlock when he offered him close contact. But Sherlock could not sleep, thoughts continued to whir restlessly in his mind, tossing over each other like clothes in a washing machine. It came as no surprise to John when he woke up the next morning, to find Sherlock was once more not there beside him.
*
The door to the quiet, sterile lab was opening slowly and timidly, and was followed by the faint click of heels which stopped at the entrance. For a few moments, there was nothing but silence, just the low thrum of the lab’s machines which had only just been turned on to start their day.
“Molly,” he said in a monotone, still staring blandly at the shoes in front of him on the table.
“Sherlock,” she practically whispered after a few moments, taking in the sight of Sherlock’s ruffled state and obvious burn marks on his hands and wrists. She ducked her head and remained by the entrance, guilt and trepidation holding her back. “The police told me what happened at the swimming pool. I’m so sorry.”
Sherlock, however, whipped his head up to regard her squarely for once. “Why are you sorry? What do you feel you should be sorry for?”
“Because of Jim. I didn’t know; I didn’t even notice anything. And you got hurt.” She took a deep breath.
“That still doesn’t require an apology. If I didn’t notice, how could I possibly have expected you to?”
“You at least noticed he didn’t care about me,” she responded quietly, plucking the courage to step further into the lit area around Sherlock’s table. She tried to laugh with light hearted embarrassment but it was filled with self-pity. “How could I have been so stupid? He was too focused on you!”
Sherlock shrugged dismissively. “Even if you had noticed, it is still a large leap for you to assume his attention on me was anything more than repressive lust. Even that was an act.”
“It was just…nice,” she admitted sadly, looking down at the table and missing Sherlock’s sneer at the word. “To have companionship. To know that, for someone, your time, your effort, your conversation actually mattered.” She took a deep breath, her eyes flickering over Sherlock. “We never grow accustomed to being less important to other people than they are to us.”
Sherlock looked up and took in her despondent face; saw the distressed crease in between her eyebrows that made her expression radiate despondency. He tapped his pen against the table a few times, trying to conjure the right words.
“If it makes a difference,” he tried, now in a kinder tone, “He’s extremely good at manipulating people and leading them down paths. It’s all a game to him so I wouldn’t torture yourself. Everyone is a genius with the gift of hindsight.”
The stressful lines of Molly’s face faded slightly and Sherlock was for once grateful that he was able to offer her some kind of comfort to remove her permanently pitiful expression. “At least he hasn’t managed to hurt you too much,” she answered with relief.
He could only smile grimly at her optimism. “That has yet to be seen. I intend to catch him before any more damage to people or property.”
She peered at the object Sherlock had been examining when she entered, presented underneath the harsh glare of the light, the only illumination in the room. “How are trainers going to help?”
Sherlock picked up the trainer with a latex gloved hand and held it up to the light to scrutinise it for the hundredth time. In truth, he had extrapolated everything he could hope to from the footwear. Even Sherlock knew an object had deductive limits but an irrational part of his brain, surfacing more frequently these days, insisted there had to be something more it could offer him.
“I’ve lost all the information I had on Moriarty. It was so vast that my brain can only remember parts of it and now I can’t make progress. This is all I have left. It’s the trophy of the first person Jim Moriarty killed.”
Molly put a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God,” she said sadly.
“To understand Moriarty, I have to go back to the beginning….understand why it all started.”
Molly reached over and picked up the other trainer. “I don’t see how inanimate objects can help with that. You need the people who knew him.”
Suddenly, Sherlock’s eyes brightened and he got up from his chair with such force that the scraping of the metal on the floor startled her. She watched in growing trepidation, tempted to shuffle away, as he rounded the table to stand in front of her. “Did he ever tell you anything? Anything at all about himself? His childhood, his pets, his family?”
A startled panic overcame Molly at the sudden and unexpected interrogation. “I…I don’t know. I didn’t really know him…”
“Anything about his past?”
“Why would he have said anything that would compromise him?” she asked in anxiety, afraid to be the one who could provide the answer.
“All the best stories are steeped in some truth. That’s how they convince us to believe they are real.” Sherlock knew he was pressuring her, forcing the mouse out of its hole, but the idea was suddenly ingrained in his mind. It wouldn’t leave. Here…here was a door opening that he might venture through and pick up Moriarty’s trail.
“He…He…” Molly closed her eyes, screwing them up in thought, her nerves thrumming at being forced into the spotlight. “His mum and dad are dead. He lived in America but moved here when he was sixteen. He said he went to university. In London. He was studying maths.”
Sherlock processed the information as Molly rattled whatever points came to her mind. “He was studying?”
Molly nodded. “Yes. He left before he finished. He didn’t say when or why.”
Sherlock nodded and stood up, grabbing his coat and gloves in a quick blur and slipping them on. His mind, already whirring into overdrive, barely registered anything else. “Doesn’t matter,” he murmured distractedly. “He’s said enough.”
“Sherlock!” Molly cried, as he opened the door, prepared to fly out. He looked at her inquisitively, watching her struggle to form the words. Finally, she took a deep breath. “I care…and I…I don’t want you to get hurt because of me.” Again.
Sherlock was contemplative for a moment as he looked at her and then answered in the most earnest tone he had ever had used towards her. “You wouldn’t want me, Molly. People do not associate with me in order to be safe and happy.”
“Why does John stay, then?” Molly asked quietly, as if she had fought to keep the words from escaping. It surprised Sherlock to hear that she did not sound as depressed over that as he might have expected. “I might not be as observant as you but I’m still a scientist. I work things out,” she added. “Why doesn’t he leave?”
Sherlock allowed a mirthless smile to escape. By all accounts Molly was suitable for a man. She did have a certain degree of prettiness about her, enough to imply she was a grounded individual. Her rather high intelligence was balanced out by her low self-esteem and the insecurity she felt about herself. But she lacked unpredictability that John offered, that tilting balance of admiration and fighting spirit.
“Because he wants peace,” Sherlock answered simply. “And he accepts you must fight the war to get it.”
And he was dammed if that was regret in his tone.
*
Both of them knew that the night of the fire was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
John had returned from Scotland Yard around midnight to sit check on Sherlock. He was unsurprised to find the detective, despite his exhaustion, still awake, albeit barely, frustrated by his hospital incarceration for smoke inhalation and groggy from the morphine he had been given for his burns.
John walked over to the bed and kissed Sherlock’s forehead to calm him, the contact doubly assuring him Sherlock was indeed alive and safe. Then he gratefully slid into the chair beside him, resting his head on the edge of the bed.
“I’ve been thinking,” Sherlock murmured quietly after a few moment of silence, his bandaged hand automatically weaving into John’s increasingly unruly hair.
“When do you not?” John replied, jokingly, his muffled voice by the bed sheets and filled with tiredness. His hand, which always itched to touch Sherlock when in such close proximity, had crept under the hospital clothes to run methodically over his stomach. The man was practically magnetised.
“Good point.” Sherlock shook his head to clear it off the web of morphine which so hindered his thought process. “I’ve been thinking about how this will end.”
Now John lifted his head to regard Sherlock. “You think it will end badly.”
“I can’t tell if it will end badly or not; that depends on what a person defines as a bad outcome.” Sherlock paused as he saw John roll his eyes in frustration. His hand moved down John’s face to hold his chin in a light lock.
“I fear, John, that I need this too much. The game, the puzzle, everything Moriarty does. I want to solve it. But…I don’t want it to ever end.”
I have to start over…I can’t let him win.
He remembered Sherlock’s words after the fire wanting to push on. But the more Sherlock pushed, the harder Moriarty pushed back. The cycle not only continued, it just escalated.
The panic that gripped John’s heart revealed itself outwardly as he clenched Sherlock’s shirt in his fist. “You’d just let him go?” he said sternly. At Sherlock’s silence and neutral stare he clenched his teeth in frustration. “You can’t do that, Sherlock!”
“And if I catch Moriarty, then what? There will be nothing else left to solve. I will have nothing left.”
It was the tedium that Sherlock feared; the feeling that the rest of his life would be an infinity of boredom. Because even though he ridiculed John when he spoke of it, he too felt the same fear of purposeless that vanquishing Moriarty would lead to.
In an ideal world, he and Moriarty could continue forever; Moriarty devising ingenious crimes, Sherlock solving them. However, that was where Moriaty had the upper hand because the relationship was not symbiotic. Sherlock knew he couldn’t exist without Moriarty; but Moriarty could exist without Sherlock.
John didn’t respond but watched the detective’s expression for a moment, saw how the crux of the issue gnawed away at him. When Sherlock snapped out of his inner reverie and turned to look at him, John hoped he managed to mask the outward panic he felt churning inside of him before it could penetrate Sherlock’s drug fuddled mind. Hurt, panic and disappointment that this could continue forever.
And underneath it all, there was a selfish sadness that John felt disgusted at himself for feeling.
Sherlock’s eyes widened and his mind scrambled for something to say to alleviate the weight of his drugged confession. He reached for John’s arm but his flatemate - lover, bodyguard, advocate - pulled away and walked to the other end of the hospital room, arms folded against his chest defensively.
Neither could help but feel they had reached the watershed. From now on, they would journey separately.
To be continued... Martyr Part II
Author: Vescaus @ the_thinktank
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Summary: Even the strongest of people with the best of intentions lose their way along the journey
Spoilers: A few for 1.03 The Great Game
Rating: PG-17
Words: 6.5k
Notes: The (finally) final part of the Intents and Purposes series. By now, necessary to have read the previous installments Sidekick and Villain. Wonderful, massive thanks to unduneljay, who shifted through my mistakes and made this story coherent.
Martyr Part I
By Vescaus
“One glass or two?”
John looked at the barman and then down at the full bottle of white wine in front of him. He smiled tightly. “Just one, I’m sticking with water.”
“Oh, John, still thinking that tactic works? If Clara couldn’t make it work, then you don’t have a bloody hope in hell.”
“Look, Harry, I’m not here to fight,” John said tightly, leaning back in the chair with his arms folded. In the comfortable, warm and intimate surroundings of the darkened bar, he looked as relaxed as a plank of wood.
“Really? That’ll make a change, however will we talk?” Harriet remarked, in a sarcastic tone made all the more hateful when she gently waved her wine glass in front of John. Her pale hair fell in front of her pale, hollow face and not for the first time, John was taken aback by how ill she looked.
“I need you to do me a favour.”
Harriet choked into her wine glass as she made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort. Voice dripping with derision, she responded, “A favour now? Careful, John, one more surprise and I’ll tell you how I’ve cured cancer.”
Sometimes, he couldn’t help the anger from spilling over, playing right into her trap. It was easy for everyone to press his buttons, he realised, to manipulate him and push him into doing whatever they wanted. “I’m being serious, Harry.”
Harriet sighed with regret and took a deep swallow from her glass. “You always are. Well, what is it, then?”
John pulled the violin case up from the floor and passed it to her. “I need you to give this to someone. My flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. If I haven’t contacted you by the end of the month to get it back from you, you need to give it to him.”
Harriet looked at the padlocked case in bewilderment. “Why is it all charred?”
“Because it was in a fire, why else? That’s not important right now.”
“Well, you live with him, why can’t you give it to him yourself?”
John resisted the urge to sigh in frustration. “Because I might not be here to do that, Harry.”
With that, Harriet looked up, her suddenly bright eyes betraying the worry for her brother she always felt under that mask of aloofness. “Why won’t you be here? Are you going back?” Her tone and expression reflected her utter contempt for John’s military ambition. John knew Harry was concerned for his safety; both of them knew it was this concern which had amplified her drinking problem when he left for the army.
It was an irony they never discussed.
“I’m not going back to the army,” he replied truthfully wanting to touch her to reassure her but knowing that overstepped the boundaries of their relationship. Weird, he thought, he felt completely relaxed touching someone as cold as Sherlock; he couldn’t contemplate a situation where he could hug his sister.
“So, Harry? Will you do it? It’s kind of important I know now.”
“Yeah, yeah, fine, I’ll do it. What’s your address again?”
“I gave it to you when I moved back to London.”
Harriet waved a hand lazily then picked up her glass. “Yeah, but I lost it. The flat’s a mess. Just give it to me again, for fuck’s sake it’s not such a big deal.”
Having relayed his address again (making sure Harry had it in her phone), reminded her of the instructions and made her swear on her life to carry out his orders, John left the bar without having finished his water.
He checked his phone. Three missed calls, all from the same number that had been haunting him. And one text from Sherlock practically ordering him back to the hospital to pick him up.
*
“Wow,” John murmured, stepping into the large entrance hall of the flat in Mayfair. It was grand and his voice echoed off marble walls. Decorated in the Georgian style, in light pastel colours with highly decorative curtains and furnishings, John felt he was stepping back in time. “Now, this…this is amazing. Can’t your brother get us a place like this?”
“We couldn’t afford the rent. There is a more pressing question,” Sherlock remarked coldly, as he himself entered the flat. Even now, John shudders at the bandages on Sherlock’s hands, hiding burn marks. “Why has my brother suddenly taken an interest in my affairs and offered not only his private apartment but also his resources to redo our flat.”
“Why should that seem weird?” John asked as evenly as he could, taking off his coat to hide any expression on his face. “He’s your brother. I wish my sister would do stuff like that for me.”
“Mycroft is not acting out of brotherly compassion,” Sherlock muttered, sounding annoyed either at Mycroft or his inability to decipher the meaning of his brother’s generous offer. “There’s always something far more underhand at work.”
“Well, let’s not bother with that now, hey?” John said, in his most chipper voice. “Don’t make mysteries out of everything just because there’s nothing else for you to do. Let’s be thankful that he offered us his place as well. And rest and unwind from all this Moriarty stuff.”
Sherlock remained in the hall, pensive, before taking out his Blackberry to fire out a barrage of texts again. Even with his lightly bandaged hands, Sherlock was willing to suffer the pain to send orders to the anonymous, freelance members of his pool of workers, and to his brother. John had never seen a man so ungrateful at a sibling’s seeming good will.
Instead, of staying to argue John walked off through a set of large white double doors into what appeared to be a living room. It was decorated in similar style to the hall, with intricate patterns, a coffee table and three plush sofas. It looked like it had been taken straight from a Jane Austen novel. Pristine, clean, without a speck of dust and everything in its place. Its orderliness made a mockery of John’s current life.
He wandered across to the large collection of books, stowed away inside a dark wooden cabinet, scanning the titles. Unlike Sherlock’s shelves, adorned with factual scripts on crime history, forensics, poisons and botany, Mycroft seemed to have a taste for the classical literature. Shakespeare and Byron were shelved side by side with Orwell and Hemmingway, making an impressive collection, even by John’s tame standards.
“Mycroft likes solitude,” Sherlock remarked coming up behind John silently, making him jump and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him for a moment. “This is his hideaway. Somewhere he can sit and lose himself in romanticism.”
“And you don’t like solitude?” John asked sceptically, twisting his head slightly.
John could practically hear the smirk as Sherlock placed his hands on his shoulders. He wanted to close his eyes; lean his head back against Sherlock’s chest and revel in the comfort that Sherlock was capable of offering. But that warm weight, which should have been idyllic and protective, simply made John feel trapped.
“I appear to have made an exception with you. Your company is my solitude. However, I have always thought escapism in literature, which is nothing more than entertainment, a pointless venture. What’s to be gained from hiding from reality?”
John looked back at the books, as Sherlock’s hands seemed to tighten on his shoulders. Maybe it was his imagination. He felt his heart rate increase, not with the proximity of Sherlock’s warm body against his back…but from the fear of Sherlock’s words.
“Sometimes it’s nice to forget about what’s really happening,” he murmured, wondering if that was why Sherlock never slept.
“Well, that is the inevitability of such forms of escapism - it cannot last forever.”
John did not respond but shifted out of Sherlock’s grasp and walked over to the sofa. He could feel Sherlock’s sharp eyes boring into his back, his database of a mind collecting, analysing and prioritising variables which could account for his strange behaviour. John knew he was acting out of sorts, but as long as the detective couldn’t see his expression he could attribute it to tiredness.
Sherlock looked down at a stack of books on the table next to the cabinet. On the top sat a note, in Mycroft’s painfully neat handwriting.
Something to pass the time whilst waiting, seeing as you are now in hiding.
With apathy, he picked up the thin top book and turned it over. It was old, probably published in the 1970s with a faded green cover and judging by the edges, well thumbed. The Third Man, by Graham Greene. Sherlock vaguely recognised the title; perhaps it was a film he and John had once watched on their more lacklustre days.
John’s phone vibrated, penetrating through the sudden silence. Sherlock watched as he lifted it out looked at the number momentarily before cancelling it.
“Who was that?” he asked, nonchalantly.
“Harry,” John lied, after a pause he prayed was not too noticeable. If he was lucky, Sherlock would see it as the reason for his current change in attitude.
When Sherlock did not respond, John pocketed his phone and walked over and took his hand to pull him along. He kissed Sherlock gently and watched as the detective’s resolve for once cracked and shattered under his ministrations.
“Come on,” John said quietly, a mischievous smile on his face. “Let’s find Mycroft’s favourite room and mess it up in our own way.”
*
A few days later, John was couriered to Scotland Yard in an elaborate show to ensure they lost any of Moriarty’s followers en route.
“We’re shipping him off to Mycroft’s team tomorrow,” Lestrade informed him, as they walked together down the corridor. “We won’t be able to get anything out of him, it’s better to let the boys with more gravitas do it. But he wants to have a word with you.”
“Oh? Why’s that?” John asked, putting his shaking hand into his pocket.
“I don’t know. But Mycroft Holmes wants to see if you can get any more information out of him.” They stop at the door and Lestrade stands in front of it. “John, you don’t have to do this, you know. Don’t feel pressured by Mycroft.”
John shrugged apathetically. “If it moves things along...”
Another a moment’s hesitation, Lestrade opened the door to one of the interview rooms where Colonel Moran was seated. Looking at him, John was momentarily taken aback by the outward respectability the man seemed to display. He seemed the sort of man who would be used to giving new lads entering the army pearly words of wisdom and advice as an old veteran. His fatherly demeanour would have lured people into a false sense of security, John suspected, because John knew that beneath that affectionate exterior, lay a man rotten at the core.
“Oh Doctor Watson,” Colonel Moran said, as John took the chair opposite. Lestrade remained by the door “It’s so good to finally meet you in person. Mr Moriarty has spoken at length about you. I think he is quite keen on you, in fact. Surprising.”
John looked at the man sitting in front of him. “You wanted to see me.”
“Yes, that is all I wanted. To meet the ordinary man who brought me down. And who intends to bring down Moriarty too.”
“You could make it easier on everyone by giving us information.”
Moran laughed sharply. “And you could tell Sherlock to cease in his persistent hunting. Needless people will die…and you will never catch him.”
John shook his head in disbelief. “How could you do it? All of it?”
“Oh, Doctor,” Moran sighed, “You are still so naïve and childlike in your view of the world. Just because I was a soldier does not mean I am a perfect citizen. The lines between good and bad are so blurred in today’s society. One can cross the line before they can even work out where it is.”
“I know the difference between self defence and conscious murder,” John hissed.
“Yes, and it’s a moral compass which makes our brains decide which is which,” Moran continued. “You should know better than anyone, as a soldier. We are men, Doctor, who entered the battlefield with enthusiasm and came out the other side changed and twisted by the notion of what is considered moral.” He leans back in his chair, his large frame engulfing the chair. “You know what I mean. After all, war turns all its victims into equals and shows the real character of an individual. A lawyer is on the same standing as a farmer when being faced with the genocidal gun. I have seen, as I’m sure you have, that humans are not unlike animals - our natural instinct is to survive, however possible. Man will do terrible things to man in order to survive.”
“What you and Moriarty have done,” John said through gritted teeth, “has nothing to do with survival. It’s about greed and power.”
“It is survival. I saw prisoners in the camps of Bosnia and Kosovo stealing food from each other. Bartering with anything they had. Women, tortured in horrendous ways, begging for death.”
John huffed in disbelief at Moran’s twisted version of Darwinism. “And sloppily killing a girl to cover your own gambling habits is survival as well?”
“Wars are not always fought in foreign countries,” Moran continued and John fought hard not to think of the battlefields Mycroft had been hinting at.
He took a deep breath. “You’re obviously intelligent. Very smart. Was your fall from grace so high in the army that it knocked all the decency out of you?”
“We all start with good intentions, Doctor,” Moran said calmly, unperturbed by John’s insistent emphasis on morality, as if he had locked that concept away. “Loyalty, for example, to a country. Love, for a country. Isn’t that why we became soldiers? Love for an idea, a belief - an ideology, even for God. Love…for a person, then, who takes our tarnished view of the world and turns it into something useful. Because you and I…we’ve given up on God, really. We need to believe in people to save us.”
John’s eyes flickered up to Moran’s, unable to stop the anger and hatred smouldering in his eyes. “Don’t you dare try and compare yourself to me. I’m nothing like you.”
“Really?” Moran asked, scoffing indignantly. “You mean Jim Moriarty didn’t see the same things in me that Sherlock sees in you? Someone interesting and unpredictable - someone who breaks convention but is not quite how they appear. I suppose next you’ll be saying Sherlock is nothing like Moriarty.”
“They are different people,” John hissed, finding the words hard to form, blotting out all the ways he had recently been comparing the two.
Moran learned forward, a knowing smile twisting his thin lips, stretching them into an expression of gratification as he watched John’s breaking resolve. Quietly, he continued, “If only it was as easy as good and evil. I assume Jim Moriarty, like Sherlock, also wouldn’t have chosen you if he didn’t think you were at least slightly capable of all the things you’ve already done. Killed? Lied? Deceived? The line separating right and wrong becomes very blurred, doesn’t it, Doctor Watson, when we act for what we believe in….Or who we believe in. Even if they don’t return our depth of loyalty.”
“Right, enough!” came a loud voice as John jumped up from his seat, not really knowing what he intended to do but unable to resist the urge for some physical violence. Lestrade’s hand clamped down on his shoulder before he could release that aggression, pulling him out of the door and away from Moran’s triumphantly smirking face.
Moran’s smooth and calmly smug voice followed him out of the door, floating threateningly. “In the same circumstances, people are never dissimilar, Doctor.”
*
In his time, Lestrade had seen officers that carried the expression of despair on their faces. As cases mounted, it was possible to watch their faith in humanity deteriorate with every murder, rape and creatively discarded body. The light of their naïve enthusiasm to help the world faded with the helplessness of their own futility. The confident steps of an officer with purpose became less and less assertive. Lestrade was happy when he saw it; it convinced him that not everybody in the world was as soulless as the people he had to catch. It was his job to ensure that they did not entirely give up hope.
He saw that same desolate expression in John Watson’s face when he finally found him round the back of the Scotland Yard building. Leaning against the grey brick walls, the doctor looked as though it was the only thing keeping him upright.
“It’s a ploy, don’t listen to him,” Lestrade said immediately. “He knows we have him and what we plan to do so now he’s going straight for you.” John didn’t speak or move in response to Lestrade’s assurances and the Inspector felt the guilt entrench into him deeper. “I shouldn’t have let you see him.”
“He’s right, though,” John answered quietly, closing his eyes again as the backdrop of London washed over him. “I have done questionable things. In Afghanistan. Now here, for Sherlock. Maybe I am no better than Moran.”
Lestrade stepped forward with determination and took John’s shoulders. He was half tempted to shake life into the dying automaton John Watson had become.
“I’ve had to kill a boy once who was so off his head on drugs he was threatening his own pregnant girlfriend with a knife. You think I wanted to kill him or that he deserved it? There’s a difference between doing something because you have to and doing things simply because you want to.”
John nodded in agreement. “In war, you don’t have time to think, you just act. I’m sure you were running on adrenaline too, when you shot that kid. But these are bloody mind games Moriarty’s playing. I’m not Sherlock, I can’t fight against that. Moriarty is ringing me constantly and I can't get rid of my phone because Sherlock will notice. There are people following me, I can’t tell if they’re Mycroft’s men or Moriarty's. We’re supposed to be in hiding but Moriarty’s not stupid, he knows where we are, he’s just waiting for the right moment. And even Moran is playing games. I'm walking on a volcano."
John pushed himself off the wall and walked away a few steps. He put his hands to clenched fists to his temples and squeezed his eyes tight. “The more I think about what they’re saying, the more I forget why I’m doing this.”
“You’re doing this for Sherlock. For you and Sherlock.”
“There is no me and Sherlock. That much is clear.”
“Well, it isn’t to me,” Lestrade interrupted gruffly.
John looked up at him and smiled sadly. “Come on, Inspector. He will always choose Moriarty over me. He doesn’t love me enough to stop when I ask and that’s how he’ll break us…and then kill us. So Moriarty was right when he had me. Maybe we love each other - or whatever you want to call it - but that doesn’t mean it’s going to work out. ”
Lestrade shook his head and stepped back, his heart twisting slightly at John Watson’s demeanour. He had seen the cracks beginning after the fire at 221b when John had sat in his office, nursing a glass of whiskey. And here again, Lestrade could see that chasm was growing wider and he was losing all the characteristics that made up John Watson. Just like the officers he had trained but psychologically fallen by the wayside, he was giving up hope. It had nothing to do with strength of character.
“I’m not Dear Deadrie, nor am I any Mystic Meg,” Lestrade insisted with discomfort, “And Sherlock might be a heartless bastard sometimes, but it’s just because he doesn’t know how to show it. Just be patient with him. Show him how. Because it’s bloody well obvious it’s not a game to either of you.”
*
It was ten o’clock before Sherlock walked out from under his personal black cloud and ventured out of his room. He hadn’t heard John leave and return again. During the course of the evening there were the tell-tale signs of a kettle boiling, pots and pans clanging and the TV humming away. John himself had been silent; he had not sought out Sherlock for anything, leaving him to his cave.
The living room lights were all switched off; the only brightness came from the muted and ghostly glow of the flickering television playing a barely audible old film. Sherlock felt that momentary flutter of panic within him whenever he was consciously unaware of John’s whereabouts but relaxed when he found John on the sofa, curled on his side facing the television, fast asleep.
Wandering into the kitchen, Sherlock found the remains of John’s simplistic but still flavour filled cooking. An oven dish in the sink and a plate of half-finished food on the side. Opening the fridge door, Sherlock pulled out another plate covered in cellophane with a note on top: CHICKEN PASTA. 1Min 40 SECONDS IN MICROWAVE. He put it back, grateful for John’s concern but as always, lacking in appetite when his mind was so enraptured by inconclusive thoughts. He disregarded the doctor’s advice that he should ‘get some more meat on him.’ John’s cooking, although wholesome, was quite transparent in its intentions.
However, as he looked back over at John, he did feel a slight twinge of regret for the way he had been acting the past few days since arriving at Mycroft’s. A sickening sensation grew within him whenever he was reminded that he had lost everything he had accumulated on Moriarty. It depressed his whole being. His brain dredged up anything it could remember in order to exploit any possibilities. After four days of moping and silence, John had finally spoken.
“Right,” John had said, “if you’re going to be like this all day, I’m going to the shops, you want anything?”
“Do I not have reason to be in a foul mood?” Sherlock mumbled, stretching out his arm on which he had placed a nicotine patch. He was facing the back of the sofa as if the light was offended him. In frustration, he had pulled off his bandages, dumping them on the table. “With the thought of London becoming the black hole of crime?”
John growled in annoyance, pulling on his coat. “Don’t exaggerate, Sherlock.”
“Exaggerate?” Sherlock snapped, flipping on the sofa violently to now face John. “I don’t exaggerate, I’m only precise. You think the correct course of action is to lounge here in Mycroft’s Georgian reverie, while the only criminal mastermind continues to breeze round London. That may satisfy your simple needs.”
John looked away and bit his lip to refrain from descending to Sherlock’s level of bickering. At this stage, he was incorrigible, like a child who’d had his toys taken away as punishment. It wasn’t a far stretch from the truth. “I don’t deserve your attitude,” he answered sternly.
Nothing he had done since picking Sherlock up from the hospital had distracted him from his increasing and jittery obsession with Moriarty. In fact, it had only increased. John could offer no more than himself. That didn’t seem to be enough. He couldn’t even muster an apology from Sherlock for his behaviour.
“Do you want to come out with me? Or are you going to sit here and sulk?”
“Of course not,” Sherlock scoffed. “I already sent out the word. Men ordered to go and burn down a flat is hardly inconspicuous - someone must know something. There are other avenues, though, even without all the documentation. There’s always Carl Powers.”
John’s jaw tightened. “Right, Carl Powers. We’re back to that again.”
“We should never have left it,” Sherlock muttered to himself. “He is the key.”
“No, he’s dead. Stop chasing pots of gold.” His frustration fell on deaf ears and John suddenly needed to leave. “So, do you want anything?” Once again, the detective didn’t answer, but continued to rub his arm as if it would stimulate his thought process. John was beginning to lose his patience. “Sherlock! Do you want anything?”
“Oh for heaven’s sakes, John!” Sherlock cried, standing up and walking towards the bedroom and away from John. “Just because we’re in Mayfair doesn’t mean that the shops or our dietary habits have changed. You have no need to consult me, so don’t ask pointless questions when you’re just going to buy the same things you always do.”
With that, he spun on the shiny marble floor and marched towards the door.
So desperate was Sherlock for the solitude to banish thoughts of that inevitable future. Yet surrounding his senses all the time was John. John, John, perfect, indisputable, resolute John. John, whose very presence blurred everything in the world around him so only he was in focus. And that was making it increasingly hard to concentrate.
I met you…and it’s made all the difference.
John, who against all orders, ran into a burning building to save him because he was a soldier. He hated abandoning his command. And had not been scalded by the flames of their flat but there were wounds manifesting themselves in other ways.
Ever since that night at the swimming pool, he had watched some entity consume John from within. His fear of purposeless that Moriarty instilled into him, that Sherlock had exposed all those weeks ago had not delved into the heart of the problem. He could feel, even though they had become closer physically and emotionally, John still seemed to be drifting away from him. There was not enough data to uncover why.
He noted every morning John woke up a little less refreshed than the day before. His eyes were becoming bloodshot and watered from the lack of sleep even though he spent countless hours lost to dreams; dark lines had begun to smudge under his eyes. His loss of appetite was evident, his face seemed hollow and ghostly. His aura, so firmly rooted in strong but silent, had simply become silent. Defeated.
And there were other more conscious habits where John had lapsed. He hadn’t shaved in nearly a week and a dark shade of stubble had formed, scratching Sherlock’s skin like sandpaper during empty kisses. His hair had far outgrown its usual military cut and had started to curl at the sides and at the nape. John created a rather primal picture than he had ever presented before. This wild and scruffy John was one Sherlock found rather endearing and curiously arousing yet it was overshadowed by the niggling in the back of his mind that these oddities were out of character for John; his John who had kept regular military discipline in all aspects of his life.
In hindsight, oh wonderful hindsight, he wished he hadn’t snapped at John. He noticed every eye roll, every exhaled angry huff of breath, every twitch of his hand and face, every barely restrained retort of John’s whenever he mentioned Moriarty. The sheer contempt John felt was simmering beneath the surface, Sherlock was not so poorly attuned to John’s attitude as to miss it. The scientist in him longed for the optimal outcome where he could have the case and John too. Yet it was the search for this Holy Grail that Sherlock believed was weighing down John.
However, Sherlock reasoned that keeping John safe that was the most important thing. And Sherlock had done that since the night at the swimming pool and more so since the fire - pursuing Moriarty was better than ignoring him.
Suddenly, there was a harsh vibrating sound. Sherlock jumped in surprise as he noticed John’s flashing iPhone buzzing against the hard wood of the coffee table. He peered over and saw Private Number and involuntarily found his hand reaching towards the phone to pick it up, curiosity peaked. His thumb was poised over the answer button when John suddenly shifted against the sofa.
“What?” he muttered confusedly, pulled out of his slumber at the sound. His eyes opened as they quickly adjusted to the darkness, his gaze fell on Sherlock holding the phone. In that instant it stopped ringing and there was silence.
Sherlock held it out. “Missed call,” he informed him uselessly.
John all but snatched it from him, holding it tight in his grasp. “We’ve talked about personal boundaries, Sherlock.” He paused, staring at the screen for a moment. “Are you all right?” he asked, unnerved by Sherlock’s appearance at his side as he woke up, obviously watching him.
“Of course,” Sherlock responded, his eyes flickering back to the phone. Then, as if to break the moment, he stood up and held out his hand elegantly. “A bed is far more comfortable than a sofa, wouldn’t you agree?”
John smiled uneasily and took his hand, happy to have Sherlock next to him again, a warm solid presence in the bed. He could never deny Sherlock when he offered him close contact. But Sherlock could not sleep, thoughts continued to whir restlessly in his mind, tossing over each other like clothes in a washing machine. It came as no surprise to John when he woke up the next morning, to find Sherlock was once more not there beside him.
*
The door to the quiet, sterile lab was opening slowly and timidly, and was followed by the faint click of heels which stopped at the entrance. For a few moments, there was nothing but silence, just the low thrum of the lab’s machines which had only just been turned on to start their day.
“Molly,” he said in a monotone, still staring blandly at the shoes in front of him on the table.
“Sherlock,” she practically whispered after a few moments, taking in the sight of Sherlock’s ruffled state and obvious burn marks on his hands and wrists. She ducked her head and remained by the entrance, guilt and trepidation holding her back. “The police told me what happened at the swimming pool. I’m so sorry.”
Sherlock, however, whipped his head up to regard her squarely for once. “Why are you sorry? What do you feel you should be sorry for?”
“Because of Jim. I didn’t know; I didn’t even notice anything. And you got hurt.” She took a deep breath.
“That still doesn’t require an apology. If I didn’t notice, how could I possibly have expected you to?”
“You at least noticed he didn’t care about me,” she responded quietly, plucking the courage to step further into the lit area around Sherlock’s table. She tried to laugh with light hearted embarrassment but it was filled with self-pity. “How could I have been so stupid? He was too focused on you!”
Sherlock shrugged dismissively. “Even if you had noticed, it is still a large leap for you to assume his attention on me was anything more than repressive lust. Even that was an act.”
“It was just…nice,” she admitted sadly, looking down at the table and missing Sherlock’s sneer at the word. “To have companionship. To know that, for someone, your time, your effort, your conversation actually mattered.” She took a deep breath, her eyes flickering over Sherlock. “We never grow accustomed to being less important to other people than they are to us.”
Sherlock looked up and took in her despondent face; saw the distressed crease in between her eyebrows that made her expression radiate despondency. He tapped his pen against the table a few times, trying to conjure the right words.
“If it makes a difference,” he tried, now in a kinder tone, “He’s extremely good at manipulating people and leading them down paths. It’s all a game to him so I wouldn’t torture yourself. Everyone is a genius with the gift of hindsight.”
The stressful lines of Molly’s face faded slightly and Sherlock was for once grateful that he was able to offer her some kind of comfort to remove her permanently pitiful expression. “At least he hasn’t managed to hurt you too much,” she answered with relief.
He could only smile grimly at her optimism. “That has yet to be seen. I intend to catch him before any more damage to people or property.”
She peered at the object Sherlock had been examining when she entered, presented underneath the harsh glare of the light, the only illumination in the room. “How are trainers going to help?”
Sherlock picked up the trainer with a latex gloved hand and held it up to the light to scrutinise it for the hundredth time. In truth, he had extrapolated everything he could hope to from the footwear. Even Sherlock knew an object had deductive limits but an irrational part of his brain, surfacing more frequently these days, insisted there had to be something more it could offer him.
“I’ve lost all the information I had on Moriarty. It was so vast that my brain can only remember parts of it and now I can’t make progress. This is all I have left. It’s the trophy of the first person Jim Moriarty killed.”
Molly put a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God,” she said sadly.
“To understand Moriarty, I have to go back to the beginning….understand why it all started.”
Molly reached over and picked up the other trainer. “I don’t see how inanimate objects can help with that. You need the people who knew him.”
Suddenly, Sherlock’s eyes brightened and he got up from his chair with such force that the scraping of the metal on the floor startled her. She watched in growing trepidation, tempted to shuffle away, as he rounded the table to stand in front of her. “Did he ever tell you anything? Anything at all about himself? His childhood, his pets, his family?”
A startled panic overcame Molly at the sudden and unexpected interrogation. “I…I don’t know. I didn’t really know him…”
“Anything about his past?”
“Why would he have said anything that would compromise him?” she asked in anxiety, afraid to be the one who could provide the answer.
“All the best stories are steeped in some truth. That’s how they convince us to believe they are real.” Sherlock knew he was pressuring her, forcing the mouse out of its hole, but the idea was suddenly ingrained in his mind. It wouldn’t leave. Here…here was a door opening that he might venture through and pick up Moriarty’s trail.
“He…He…” Molly closed her eyes, screwing them up in thought, her nerves thrumming at being forced into the spotlight. “His mum and dad are dead. He lived in America but moved here when he was sixteen. He said he went to university. In London. He was studying maths.”
Sherlock processed the information as Molly rattled whatever points came to her mind. “He was studying?”
Molly nodded. “Yes. He left before he finished. He didn’t say when or why.”
Sherlock nodded and stood up, grabbing his coat and gloves in a quick blur and slipping them on. His mind, already whirring into overdrive, barely registered anything else. “Doesn’t matter,” he murmured distractedly. “He’s said enough.”
“Sherlock!” Molly cried, as he opened the door, prepared to fly out. He looked at her inquisitively, watching her struggle to form the words. Finally, she took a deep breath. “I care…and I…I don’t want you to get hurt because of me.” Again.
Sherlock was contemplative for a moment as he looked at her and then answered in the most earnest tone he had ever had used towards her. “You wouldn’t want me, Molly. People do not associate with me in order to be safe and happy.”
“Why does John stay, then?” Molly asked quietly, as if she had fought to keep the words from escaping. It surprised Sherlock to hear that she did not sound as depressed over that as he might have expected. “I might not be as observant as you but I’m still a scientist. I work things out,” she added. “Why doesn’t he leave?”
Sherlock allowed a mirthless smile to escape. By all accounts Molly was suitable for a man. She did have a certain degree of prettiness about her, enough to imply she was a grounded individual. Her rather high intelligence was balanced out by her low self-esteem and the insecurity she felt about herself. But she lacked unpredictability that John offered, that tilting balance of admiration and fighting spirit.
“Because he wants peace,” Sherlock answered simply. “And he accepts you must fight the war to get it.”
And he was dammed if that was regret in his tone.
*
Both of them knew that the night of the fire was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
John had returned from Scotland Yard around midnight to sit check on Sherlock. He was unsurprised to find the detective, despite his exhaustion, still awake, albeit barely, frustrated by his hospital incarceration for smoke inhalation and groggy from the morphine he had been given for his burns.
John walked over to the bed and kissed Sherlock’s forehead to calm him, the contact doubly assuring him Sherlock was indeed alive and safe. Then he gratefully slid into the chair beside him, resting his head on the edge of the bed.
“I’ve been thinking,” Sherlock murmured quietly after a few moment of silence, his bandaged hand automatically weaving into John’s increasingly unruly hair.
“When do you not?” John replied, jokingly, his muffled voice by the bed sheets and filled with tiredness. His hand, which always itched to touch Sherlock when in such close proximity, had crept under the hospital clothes to run methodically over his stomach. The man was practically magnetised.
“Good point.” Sherlock shook his head to clear it off the web of morphine which so hindered his thought process. “I’ve been thinking about how this will end.”
Now John lifted his head to regard Sherlock. “You think it will end badly.”
“I can’t tell if it will end badly or not; that depends on what a person defines as a bad outcome.” Sherlock paused as he saw John roll his eyes in frustration. His hand moved down John’s face to hold his chin in a light lock.
“I fear, John, that I need this too much. The game, the puzzle, everything Moriarty does. I want to solve it. But…I don’t want it to ever end.”
I have to start over…I can’t let him win.
He remembered Sherlock’s words after the fire wanting to push on. But the more Sherlock pushed, the harder Moriarty pushed back. The cycle not only continued, it just escalated.
The panic that gripped John’s heart revealed itself outwardly as he clenched Sherlock’s shirt in his fist. “You’d just let him go?” he said sternly. At Sherlock’s silence and neutral stare he clenched his teeth in frustration. “You can’t do that, Sherlock!”
“And if I catch Moriarty, then what? There will be nothing else left to solve. I will have nothing left.”
It was the tedium that Sherlock feared; the feeling that the rest of his life would be an infinity of boredom. Because even though he ridiculed John when he spoke of it, he too felt the same fear of purposeless that vanquishing Moriarty would lead to.
In an ideal world, he and Moriarty could continue forever; Moriarty devising ingenious crimes, Sherlock solving them. However, that was where Moriaty had the upper hand because the relationship was not symbiotic. Sherlock knew he couldn’t exist without Moriarty; but Moriarty could exist without Sherlock.
John didn’t respond but watched the detective’s expression for a moment, saw how the crux of the issue gnawed away at him. When Sherlock snapped out of his inner reverie and turned to look at him, John hoped he managed to mask the outward panic he felt churning inside of him before it could penetrate Sherlock’s drug fuddled mind. Hurt, panic and disappointment that this could continue forever.
And underneath it all, there was a selfish sadness that John felt disgusted at himself for feeling.
Sherlock’s eyes widened and his mind scrambled for something to say to alleviate the weight of his drugged confession. He reached for John’s arm but his flatemate - lover, bodyguard, advocate - pulled away and walked to the other end of the hospital room, arms folded against his chest defensively.
Neither could help but feel they had reached the watershed. From now on, they would journey separately.
To be continued... Martyr Part II