Coda
part tenJohn had the cab drop him off a few kilometers short of the inn. He needed a walk and lovely as the scenery was, it wasn't in his nature to wander without purpose. His mind worked best sometimes when his feet were carrying him--like a kinetic connection that kept the gears turning, a self-powered motor, a sustainable energy from foot-meets-pavement. A wandering man was sure to have wandering thoughts. Having a destination meant a conclusion and in general that worked for his mind as well. He scuffed his soles against the loose grave, watching tiny rocks skip in random patterns over the grey road or off into the waving grass. Three kilometers to figure it all out. It wasn't a challenge he enjoyed.
It had all started with Church, he supposed. What did he know about the man? Nothing outside the fact that he was exactly who he said he was--their little field trip had proven that much at least. The case? So simple and yet still unsolved though granted Sherlock had been on it for less than a full day. John's concessions took away the long night hours he would normally devote to something like this. Not that it seemed to really matter. If Church wanted to, with the circumstantial evidence they did have, he could lock James McCarthy up and never have another worry about him. The fear, he supposed, was that Moriarty had played the system before and won. James or Jim, he was likely just as connected to the necessary resources to do it all again. That thought, more than any other, made John's brain feel sour in his skull; cold and spoiled like an overripe fruit. Futility and Moriarty went hand in hand. They were all lucky, then, that Sherlock had so many friends in high places.
As far as John could see it, it didn't matter which Moriarty they were up against if one's interests extended towards the terrorist network both apparently had run just as well as the other. The difference was the obsession with Sherlock--which they all hoped only one of them had. The world had as much to fear from either but Church needed to know if Sherlock was still in danger. A friend of Sherlock's. He could trust the man more by what he didn't say than by what he did. But if Mycroft, the British Government, hadn't been enough to save Sherlock from the one before, he wasn't sure how having someone who only happened to work for MI-6 at a reasonably privileged level was going to save them in the future.
It was too hard to tell the difference between James or Jim. In a way, though, John didn't have to. It was the obsession, not the identity, that was important to define. And James McCarthy knew of Sherlock, had surely known he was alive from all the press surrounding his return, and in that time had done nothing to bring attention to himself. It seemed the man wanted to be believed dead as much as Sherlock had wanted to come alive again. It would have been better had the two men remained ships passing in the night. They were heading for a head on collision now and even if Jim had never met either of them before, as the object of his brother's obsession, surely Jim would want to get to the bottom of what had been so special about Sherlock.
In that way, John had made up his mind. James McCarthy--Jim Moriarty the original--was a danger. He was a threat as sure as slugs to a garden and life could never be that peaceful thing he'd half dreaded. More sour brain, more pickled thoughts. He hated to love that thrill as much as he loved the rush of the worry. Sherlock knew about the brother but perhaps it was time John tell him he was alive. They were playing in the childhood landscape of a killer after all, walking in the footprints of a madman, surrounded in the very sounds and smells and sights that had been the backdrop for mental disorder. It was almost enough to make the nightmare human. John had spent so long thinking of him as a thing, an entity of malice, and yet here there were childhood friends, secret meeting spots, family... James McCarthy was a person. And like Sherlock, deep down, he probably even had a heart.
John nearly stubbed his toe as he kicked at the ground, anger rooting him even as it tried to dissipate. Moriarty and Sherlock were not alike. Sympathy for one should not and would not count towards the other. Moriarty was evil where Sherlock was misunderstood. They were two sides of the same genius and throughout the entire autistic spectrum or the long lists of physiological conditions there could never be enough excuses for shameless murder and the adoption of a life of crime. But there almost was. For every excuse he'd ever made for Sherlock's callousness or unfeeling, dispassionate response to the human condition, he could see Moriarty slipping closer on the Venn diagram into the shade of grey between Understandable and Incomprehensible. A man on par with Hitler in John's mental list of villains did not deserve a string of thoughts bordering on concern for two growing boys, their father, and a hell of a lot of isolating woods.
John left those thoughts attached to a tree that looked like it would be very good for climbing as he continued to walk along the road.
He wondered instead why Sherlock had not told him about Moriarty. John at some point had become the designated worrier, the one who got told things in order that Sherlock not have to remember the lesser details or be bothered while he worked. The more romantic portion of his brain wanted to say it was to spare John the anxiety of not knowing if they were safe. The part of him that felt pity sided with the option that Sherlock was too scared to live in a world where Moriarty could still be alive and chose to delete it. Realistically, not being able to say for certain, having to admit to not knowing, probably had just as much to do with it as anything. In Sherlock's world, there was Jim and there was James and there was only one known grave. John's world was more informed but he wasn't sure which one had the most reason to fear. Somehow he imagined it would be a small relief to Sherlock to know for certain all the same. His phone felt heavy in his pocket with the text he still had not sent.
The wind kicked up slightly with the smell of summer riding on its back. No car exhaust, no smog, with dust that tasted far less tangy than the metallic silt from home. There was always the distinct, slightly moldy flavor of the river's banks lingering over the hairs on his upper lip, but it was welcome to a nose that had become far too accustomed to the Thames. John loved London, Sherlock's London, but he missed getting away just as much if the way the wind calmed him had anything to say about it. Knowing the man like he did, they'd be gone once the case was solved, catching the first ride back home without a moment spared past packing. There should have been picnics and long walks; Sherlock on a blanket, a nice wine and plate of cheese to share, some fruit, bit of bread, and nothing to do but sit and eat with idle interest as they counted ducks or watched the clouds, always on the edge of a nap with nothing important worth saying; classically romantic and isolated from the rest of the world that never stopped wanting so much from them.
Lestrade was right: they were married. There was love but very little one could call romance. John credited himself as being very good in that department but Sherlock's idea of a fun night often included tetanus shots and court orders. The hometown of their arch nemesis was hardly the best location for a lover's sport of whimsy but neither had an electronic connection the best way to tell the man he loved him, nor pissed off and vengeful been the best motivations for their first kiss. Nothing had ever gone in any traditional ways. They moved in as strangers, bonded like husbands while platonic friends, and become lovers in all but actions long after the lifelong connection was made. Making out on an inn bed a few kilometers from where James Moriarty's ashes were soaked into the earth was really rather par for the course. It wasn't quite dancing on his grave but given the chance, John wouldn't have batted an eye at rolling slippery in the mud near Boscombe naked.
It's the simple things in life, really.
If only loving Sherlock was simple.
John left those thoughts tied loosely to the wind so he could come back to them later, letting them drift off behind as the thatch roofings of the town came all the closer.
There was really only one more thing now. All the smaller thoughts that had troubled him seemed much harder to recall when matched against the current load. Billie was there somewhere in the list of things that irked him but so far down on the list that it was petty to consider. There was continued curiosity about Sigerson and the things unsaid in their years of conversation that Church alone might be privy to but that too was too small in the overall scope of things. All his major concerns could all quite easily be summed up in just two groups: the things worth dying for and the things that wanted to kill them. If it didn't fall into either of those, it didn't matter. He wasn't sure where his profession lay within.
John was a doctor. He'd studied hard at medicine, applied it to his own detriment in war, and came home to continue to practice it. It wasn't a fall back with a military career ended by injury, it had been the career he'd wanted from the start. It was hard work to get from treating sniffles at a local surgery to getting a position with an actual hospital where people's lives were put into his hands. It had taken him years, devoting himself to further study until he was the someone other people consulted. He was finally at a place where he really wanted to be--part of the reason he'd considered it time to finally settle down with Mary in the first place. He could get old as a doctor and provide for them both so Sherlock could quit with the Yard and come home to be idle and happy in his boorish misery and take up hobbies that would probably surprise them both.
It was always the case with Sherlock that John was made to chose between him and things he loved or cared about. He'd always chosen Sherlock in the past. He'd never regretted it either. But it was never asked of Sherlock to choose between his work and John and it never would be; John respected the intimate relationship between the man and his applied genius, but the fact remained that it was always John's sacrifice in the end. John hated the danger Sherlock found himself in as much as he envied him of it and Sherlock hated the way the hospital occupied John's time and kept him busy away from his own interests. There was no middle ground. There was either John quitting at the hospital to make Sherlock happy or Sherlock quitting at Scotland Yard to make John happy. And the longer he thought on it, the less it felt like his decision alone. He knew where he stood, what was important to him, what he wanted and what he was fearful of. Relationships were give and take and perhaps it was time Sherlock realize that. It would probably be their first big decision to make as a couple, especially with a Moriarty waiting in the pews.
That thought he tucked in his pocket, storing it someplace nice and secret until it was time to come out again, as he pulled out his mobile phone.
The quaint white walls of the homes and businesses of Ross were practically upon him as he slowed his steps, distracted by technology. He could hear a cab rolling along the road and stepped further into the grass as he opened his phone's screen. He wasn't sure how to best word what he needed to say. Did he start with "I know about the other Moriarty" or slide in behind "We need to discuss the second case"? There had to be an easy way to say 'I know that you know but you need to know that I know so we can talk about what you don't know'. He didn't get to put too much more thought into it as his phone suddenly sprang to life, his ringtone startling him for a moment as his caller ID announced "Patience" like a rather ironically timed message from the cosmos. He looked around, finding himself more than adequately alone, as he raised his mobile to his ear and gave a simple "Hello?"
"John?" Her voice was half panicked. "John, he's after me. He's going to kill me!"
John pressed his phone closer to his head, cupping the other ear from the slight roll of the wind. "Who's after you?" he asked, walking just a little faster towards the familiar visage of the Red Lion Inn.
"Jim! H-He sent me a note. Someone who works for him sent me this note! He's going to have me killed, John! Please help me!"
"Alright, calm down. Have you called the police?"
"How can I trust the police? For all I know, they're working for him! John, you're the only one I can trust! You're the only one I know for sure isn't one of Moriarty's men! Please, I'm at the inn, where are you?"
"Almost there." He began to jog, his feet slipping only slightly against the damp grass as he crossed back onto the pavement. "Look, you're in a public place; that's good. Take a seat in the bar, stay anywhere where people can see you and keep as far away from windows as you can. I'll be there in just a few minutes." He kept the phone on as he continued on the final stretch, as much to calm her as to keep himself informed. He could hear very little background noise but the rush of the world around him was loud enough to drown it easily.
It made sense. Patience knew Jim, knew who and what he was, knew more than enough about both sides of his life to be a very damaging witness in any trial. Childhood friends turned murderer and whistle blower. It was far from surprising but nowhere near what John wanted to hear. The cases were getting so far ahead of him he'd missed the point at which they'd met.
He skidded into the bar area with no small pride in the way he was only marginally out of breath with a pulse tapping a samba against his ribs. One step, two steps, three steps, Patience as she wrapped her arms around him, head buried in the side of his neck, her purse rolling around to smack against his backside as her arms clasped him around his trunk.
"John, oh God, I have never been so happy to see anyone in my entire life!"
John coughed as the much needed air failed to enter his lungs, his hands finding safe purchase of her shoulders. "You're okay," he said, trying to sound comforting while his lungs begged him simply to pant. "Look, let's have a seat. I'll call Sherlock and we'll figure out what to do from there."
She nodded, sniffling into his collar, as she slowly pulled back. "Okay... okay, I'd like.. I'd like that."
He forced a smile as he steered them both towards a table. The all-knowing woman who had welcomed him at the front desk watched with raised brows and a well formulated frown.
John took a seat, his feet still throbbing slightly in his shoes. He was not a young man anymore. He dialed for Sherlock and waited, his eyes searching out the windows, glancing over the other patrons. No one looked like an assassin but he wasn't going to call his own opinion the final say on the matter. Sherlock would have a much better idea of what exactly they might be dealing with.
Sherlock always had his phone with him. There were few instances that would make him miss a call from John and they were all reasonably dire and quite acceptable. There was hardly a ringtone at all, though, before his voice mail message kicked in--John's recording after he'd gotten tired of the "This better be interesting" greeting Sherlock had made. John scowled at the sound of his own voice and tried again with much the same result.
"What's wrong?" Patience asked, hands knotting in the napkin.
John exhaled loudly. "I've got a signal but I'm not getting through."
"Where is he?"
"He's actually out there visiting the homes in the area." He licked his lips, his jaw feeling tight. "Guess he didn't make it to your place yet. What's reception like out there?"
Patience's face said it all. John cursed under his breath as he leaned back in his seat, trying again with a text this time in hopes it would find its way bouncing through the ether to him. "Urgent. Call me. - J" he wrote, and sent it with his lip caught between his teeth in anticipation. The disheartening failure notification wasn't really all that much a surprise. He'd have had as much luck with a couple of empty tins and a string.
"Right... I guess we wait here," he said at last, placing his phone on the table between them. His feet tapped against the floor with nervous energy, stagnation filling him with an abundance. He raised his hand to call the waitress over to their table. With her nerves obviously shot, he figured Patience could use a drink.
Patience grabbed his arm instead, pulling it back down to stay the call. "John, I ran out of my place the moment I read the note. What if Moriarty has already sent a killer to my place?" she asked, the implication hanging unspoken in the air.
John clenched his jaw, his teeth protesting to the strain. "Did you bring the note with you?"
She nodded, unzipping the top compartment of her purse to bring out a slightly crumpled piece of paper. She smoothed it out on the table beside his phone, the single word popping off the middle in dark, bold writing.
"Hammurabi"
John puzzled over it for a second, the name a funny memory from his school days. "What, an eye for an eye?" he asked.
"Equal give and take," Patience pulled her hands from the page as though wary of a venomous bite. "I put Jim in danger of being hanged for murder. It's a threat against my own life. No one would send me this but him."
On that John had few doubts. People didn't normally leave notes with the name of ancient Babylonian kings at random. And Sherlock was going to the Turner's home--if he wasn't there already. "We have to call the police. Sherlock's with Wiggins; someone will be able to get a call out to him at least, I'm sure."
"Do you trust Wiggins?"
He'd hardly met the man. John shrugged, taking the note from the table and folding it into his own pocket. "We don't really have a choice in the matter," he admitted. "Sherlock might be in danger right now and there's no other way to get in contact with him. A police scanner is our best bet."
Patience looked at her lap, brown hair falling over her shoulders. "We could go back. Through the wood. I know all the shortcuts--we'd be back at my place in less than half an hour if we walked fast and the signal seems okay over the shorter distances. Might get him on your phone once we're closer"
"I'm not going to make you go back there if you're afraid." Though the offer was tempting. John felt fit to run if just pointed in the right direction. But he could still see the tremors in her shoulders, the hardly imperceptible tells of fear. He knew what it felt like to no longer feel able to confide in the police. There were few things more alienating and hopeless than losing that trust. "If you want to hide out in my room while I handle this, I understand."
She shook her head hard. "No. I.. I feel safer with you. I'll go wherever you go so... let's go to Sherlock."
"Are you sure?"
She nodded. John wasn't about to insist otherwise. He stood up, taking her arm to follow as they went quickly upstairs to his room. He got the gun from its hiding spot and slipped it into the waistband of his trousers, throwing off the dress jacket and tie in a quick yank before grabbing a light coat to hide his weapon. He considered sitting and trading out his shoes for proper trainers necessary enough to waste a few more moments on before dashing off back down the stairs with Patience still in tow.
"Follow me!" she shouted as they rushed through the front doors, heading off across the road towards the unbroken line of trees looming at the other end of a wide, waving field.
John rushed to keep up, heels pounding hard against the earth as they both fell into a short run through the vulnerable space between them and their next cover.