Fic: Hearts Under Fire (1/5)
Rating: Mature
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Warnings: Angst, character death, (false) accusations of child abuse
Beta: the incomparable lady_t_220 who continues to steer me through this crazy never-ending story :-)
Summary: Sherlock and John come under fire as Moriarty makes good on his threat to burn the heart out of Sherlock.
*Part Four of the Hearts At Home series.*
****
"You've made the paper."
"Excuse me?" John said, looking up from the blog post he was working on. Sherlock was sitting next to him at the table, seemingly engrossed in a number of articles at once.
Sherlock only held out the paper in reply, his lips pressed together in a frown. John took the paper and turned it around, only to see a picture of himself. It was from a few years ago, his dog collar a prominent slash of white against his black shirt. His eyes flicked from the photo to a smaller one in the bottom corner. It was a paparazzi-style shot of him and Sherlock leaving Bishop Malcolm's funeral only a few weeks ago. They were walking closely together, both smiling. He narrowed his eyes and finally turned his attention to the story itself.
It seemed the media had grown bored with the little amount of gossip they could glean about the 'genius detective' and, with all the recent uproar about murder at the heart of the Church, they had jumped at the news that Sherlock Holmes' partner was a former priest. There was a detailed write-up of his time in the Church, and even an extract from his very first blog entry, in which he had announced his departure from the priesthood. He had no idea where most of the information had come from, and in addition he had to wonder just why his life story was worth a whole page in a national newspaper. He could only presume whoever had written it had aimed for the shock factor with the thinly-veiled implication that he and Sherlock were partners in more ways than one.
John shook his head and set the paper aside, turning towards Sherlock.
"Why are you reading The Daily Mail anyway?"
"It can be surprisingly insightful sometimes," Sherlock said, not even looking up from the paper he was now reading. John just shook his head and turned back to the laptop.
He was still in the process of writing up the case of Deacon Thomas' murder spree for his blog, but it was one of the more difficult posts he had written, not least because of his own run-in with the murderer. The bruises had long faded, but the memories didn't seem in any rush to leave, and he had been woken several times by nightmares that felt so real he'd struggled to breathe. Sometimes, horribly, he dreamed that it was Sherlock being attacked and it felt a hundred times worse.
He was startled back to the present by Sherlock's hand coming to rest over his. He looked up, but Sherlock was still absorbed in the paper he held.
"You were thinking about it again," Sherlock said softly, brushing his fingers over the back of John's hand. John didn't even bother to ask how Sherlock knew; instead he curled his hand around Sherlock's.
"Anything good?" he asked, nodding towards the paper even though Sherlock couldn't see him.
"Sadly not."
"I suppose we could do with a break."
"This isn't normal. It's been far too quiet for weeks. Nothing but petty crimes and boring political scandals," Sherlock complained.
"That one with the Ambassador was quite interesting."
Sherlock scoffed. "Remind me not to offer my services to Mycroft again. It's never worth it."
John laughed and rose to his feet, picking up his empty mug and reaching over to grab Sherlock's too.
"More tea?"
"I'm fine, thank you."
"I thought that art theft might be up your street," John called from the kitchen. "That Turner painting, the waterfall one."
"Falls of the Reichenbach."
"Yeah, that one."
"Boring."
John smiled to himself and flicked the kettle on. Sherlock may have been growing frustrated with the lack of 'good' cases, but John was more than content to have a rest. He had been quite thrown by the Deacon Thomas affair and he had needed time to properly deal with it, and some of the lingering issues it had brought to light. It was the main reason he had started seeing a psychiatrist, somewhat to Sherlock's annoyance. It helped, though, to talk to someone outside of his life - and outside of the Church - about his conflicted feelings and the sometimes overwhelming guilt.
Talking to the psychiatrist had been one step on the road to recovery, but the most important for him had been returning to church. Every Sunday, except on very rare occasions when he couldn't get away, he went to Mass at their local church. Not long after John started going, Simon had transferred to the church, and John was glad to see that any bad feeling between them had completely disappeared. He had even stayed for tea after the service on several occasions, and he and Simon had become something close to friends.
John had also made it a point to visit Lawrence as often as he could, and in fact that was where he was off that very morning. He finished up his second cup of tea before he washed and dressed, all whilst avoiding Sherlock's attempts to persuade him into not going.
"Didn't you say Molly was going to let you see that body with the syphilis?" John asked, pulling on his jumper.
Sherlock huffed and threw himself back on the bed in an inelegant sprawl.
"She changed her mind."
"What did you do this time?"
"Nothing!" Sherlock exclaimed, then let out an annoyed sigh. "Molly was so much more receptive when she thought I was interested in her. I wish you hadn't made our relationship quite so obvious."
"You kissed me first!" John countered. Sherlock rolled his eyes and let out another huff of annoyance.
John just shook his head and bent down low over the bed, wrapping his hand around Sherlock's wrist.
"I'm going now. Promise me you won't just lie around and sulk all day."
Sherlock didn't answer but when John pressed a kiss to his mouth, Sherlock reached up to grab a handful of John's jumper, preventing him from moving away again.
"I'm definitely going," John whispered, brushing his lips against Sherlock's. "Really."
Sherlock lured him back into another kiss, but John eventually tore himself away, straightening with a lopsided grin.
"I'm going."
"Fine," Sherlock said, retrieving his phone from his dressing gown pocket and proceeding to text someone with pointed movements. John smiled and shrugged his jumper back into place again.
"I'll see you later."
Sherlock gave a vague hum in reply and John left him to whatever he had found to distract himself.
****
Lawrence was not, as John expected, alone. A redheaded woman sat opposite the priest, regarding him with a slight frown - which morphed into a wide smile as John let himself in through the kitchen door.
"John, this is--" Lawrence started, but was cut off as the woman got to her feet, walking over to John and shaking his hand.
"Kitty Riley," the woman said. "You must be the famous John Watson."
"Oh, I don't know about famous."
"Ms Riley is from The Sun," Lawrence explained.
"Ah," John said.
"I'd love to have just a minute of your time," Ms. Riley said with a warm smile.
"I'm afraid I'm not interested in doing any interviews, Ms Riley."
The woman's smile disappeared, her eyes narrowing slightly.
"Don't you want to set the record straight?" she asked.
"I didn't think there was a record to set straight," John said with a slight smile.
"So you deny the rumours about your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"
"What rumours?" John asked, more than a little bemused.
"What exactly is your relationship then?"
"I don't think that's any of your business."
"Aren't you a bit old for him?" Kitty suggested, obviously trying to force a reaction from him that would give her a nice juicy scoop.
"A bit old for what exactly?" John countered mildly, and the journalist seemed to give up with a snarl.
"Well, if you change your mind, Mr. Watson, here's my card." She slipped a small rectangle of card from her pocket and handed it to John, before heading for the door. She paused at the last moment and turned to Lawrence. "Thank you for your time," she got out stiffly.
"You're welcome."
She frowned at both of them and then let herself out. John turned to Lawrence and quirked an eyebrow in amusement.
"Well, that was interesting."
"You appear to have become a celebrity," Lawrence commented.
John laughed and shook his head, moving to the sideboard.
"I'll make the tea, shall I?"
"Please. I think we've got a lot of catching up to do. I want to know how you go from the partner that never gets mentioned to 'the famous John Watson' in a few weeks."
John laughed again and turned the kettle on. His life seemed to have taken a rather surreal turn of late.
****
John returned home later that afternoon to find Sherlock ranting to a bemused Lestrade.
"Don't you see?" Sherlock was saying. "The security guard had diarrhoea. He left his post, and that's when they snuck in."
Lestrade nodded in greeting to John and Sherlock stopped for a brief moment to cast a glance in John's direction, before starting up again.
"They had an informant, someone inside the gallery who knew the guard was lactose intolerant. All they had to do was swap his lactose free milk for some normal milk, and as soon as he had a cup of tea he was violently ill."
John settled in his usual chair, watching Sherlock pace and pontificate with a smile.
"Alright," Lestrade finally cut in. "Stop telling me what we've done wrong, and tell me what to do now."
Sherlock smiled and launched into a detailed explanation of where exactly the police would find the missing painting. Once he was done, Lestrade thanked him and left quickly, already on his phone.
"Not so boring after all then?" John asked with a smile.
"Still laughably simple."
Sherlock drifted over to John's chair, perching on the edge of the arm. John shook his head fondly and wrapped an arm around Sherlock's hips.
"Well, at least it kept you occupied."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, leaning slightly into John's embrace.
"I thought we could eat out tonight," Sherlock said out of the blue. "There's a very nice Persian place over in Covent Garden."
"What are you trying to avoid?" John asked with a knowing look. "Or should I say 'who'?"
Sherlock scowled and John smiled. "Let me guess... Mycroft rang."
"Obviously."
"He offered you a case, and just to spite him you took the painting case instead. But now you've solved that one..."
"Yes yes, alright," Sherlock snapped. John smiled and gave Sherlock's hip a little squeeze.
"Dinner sounds nice," he said, deciding to take pity on his partner.
Sherlock gave him a wide grin and bent down to press a kiss to his mouth.
They were interrupted only a few moments later by noises downstairs and, soon enough, footsteps making their way up the stairs to the flat. Sherlock pulled away with a familiar grimace that was John's first and only clue as to who their visitor might be.
Sherlock moved away and flung himself dramatically on the sofa just as Mycroft walked through the door.
"Not interested," Sherlock barked.
"Hello to you too, Sherlock," Mycroft answered, unruffled as always by his brother's theatrics. "John."
"Mycroft," John greeted back. "What can we possibly do for you?"
Mycroft gave him one of his usual enigmatic smiles and turned towards his brother, bending to lay down a file he had been holding onto the coffee table. Sherlock's gaze flicked over it, but then he turned away, feigning nonchalance.
"Not interested," Sherlock repeated.
"Oh, I think you will be."
"And why's that?"
"This," Mycroft said, with a grand wave towards the file, "... is everything the combined intelligence services of the UK and America know about James Moriarty."
John's eyes were drawn to the file, which couldn't have been more than a centimetre thick. When he glanced up, he could see that Sherlock's interest had been piqued with the mere mention of that name.
"Not exactly impressive," Sherlock commented.
"No," Mycroft agreed. "Which is why we need your help."
"Why now? It's been a year since we've seen any sign of him."
"Come now, brother," Mycroft chided with a brief glance towards John. "I know you've been keeping track of him. Or at least of his rather distinctive signature."
John's eyes flew to Sherlock, narrowing. Sherlock's interest in Moriarty a year ago had bordered on obsessive and unhealthy, but John had thought the attraction had been severed by the events at the Pool. Hearing that, on the contrary, Sherlock had continued to follow this man - and had decided to keep it from John, which was perhaps rather telling - left him admittedly rather stung.
Sherlock's expression turned visibly guilty, and that just made things worse. John rose silently to his feet and made his way into the kitchen, the Holmes brothers' voices still clearly audible as he bent over the work top, trying to calm his breathing.
"I can't tell you why," Mycroft was explaining. "But I can tell you that the government suddenly finds itself very much interested in Moriarty."
"He has something you want," Sherlock stated. Mycroft didn't answer and Sherlock continued after a moment's silence. "Why me?"
"You understand him. You know how he works. We're hoping you can find him."
The room went silent again and John clenched his fingers against the work top, before releasing it with a sigh and going through to the bedroom. The mere thought of Moriarty made him feel dizzy, bringing back memories of the most terrifying experience of his life. He could almost feel the phantom weight of a Semtex vest and he had to violently shake the memory away.
It was long minutes before John eventually heard Mycroft leave and he sat on the edge of the bed as Sherlock hesitantly made his way to the bedroom. Sherlock appeared in the doorway, hovering awkwardly for a moment before taking a step forwards.
"You're upset."
John let out a sigh and raked a hand through his hair. "Yes, I'm upset."
"John--"
"Why are you so obsessed with him?" John snapped. "He's left us alone, so why do you have to go looking for trouble?"
"He's only biding his time, John. He'll be back."
John let out a frustrated huff and ran a hand through his hair. Sherlock took another step closer, drawing John's gaze back to him.
"He threatened you, John. He threatened us," Sherlock said in a low but insistent tone. "I needed to keep track of him to make sure I was ready if he showed up again."
John closed his eyes and shook his head a little, before meeting Sherlock's gaze.
"So are you taking Mycroft's case?"
"You don't want me to," Sherlock said with a frown.
"I just..." John sighed. "I wish I never had to hear the name Moriarty again."
Sherlock finally took the last remaining steps and sat down beside him.
"I will stop him, John," he said, reaching out to grasp John's arm. "Whatever it takes, I'll stop him."
He looked so fierce and insistent, and yet at the same time so hopelessly young and naive, that John could do nothing but nod as he drew Sherlock in close.
"You will."
****
Part Two