Nocturne in Tempo Rubato
part twelveIf Mary had been an ordinary woman, Sherlock would not have come back. John would have simply lived happily ever after, blissfully unaware that the life he could have had was still out there, somewhere, alone now forever. Sherlock hadn't been motivated by jealousy but by concern, the same concern shared by Mary in their game of 'What's Best for John?'. The one thing everyone seemed to agree on was that John could not share the burden of a conscious made heavy with guilt. Crime was not a debatable topic. John did not tolerate the suffering of innocents or debate the value of the safety and quality of their lives. He had a soldier's heart, one that put everything into the service of others. Sherlock knew it, Mary knew it, and so, of course, in the end, Colonel Sebastian Moran knew it as well.
And exploited it.
And tested the reserves of strength that could bend a man's values and pride.
And did it gleefully. Expertly.
John hated to admit that the Colonel was winning. More than that, he was one breath away from having won. In a week of petty crimes and involvement in larger scale terrorist plannings, there was only so much he could say to himself to excuse the bartering each odd job involved between what was and was not an acceptable sacrifice for their own lives. Eventually there would come an order he could not obey. The fact that John had already planned out the murder-suicide killed something inside him. Killing Sherlock might end the game but living without him, with his blood on his hands, was no more an option than killing innocent bystanders all drawn in as pawns.
It would start with dinner out. He owed Mrs. Hudson so much more than to leave their bodies in her home for her to find. Perhaps the Royal Garden Hotel, table for two, or Angelo's for sentiment with a candle to make it more romantic. Since they'd both be dead before morning, it didn't matter if the tabloids saw. He hoped they did. Whatever backlash, whatever gossip, whatever stupid assumptions the whole of the world made, they wouldn't matter then. They'd at least have one part of it right: John was in love with the world's only consulting detective. And on that night Sherlock would know it too and at the very least die knowing he was loved. They would have the perfect romance, all ups and no downs, no fear of fallout because it ended where it began. Sherlock would probably suspect that somewhere in the willingness of his confession was some motive that forced his hand. But he didn't know love the way he knew crime. It would slow his assumptions just long enough to enjoy a few hours in mutual understanding.
Then they'd walk. No cab just yet, he'd think up an excuse on the spot, and they'd follow down an alley like they often did, bypassing the congested streets, keeping to themselves. He'd ask Sherlock to close his eyes and suspicious but trusting he would. If John was lucky, the bullet would break open his skull before he even knew the danger. The gunshot would get the police's attention and the isolation of the shooting would keep the gore from too many eyes. He'd place the muzzle in his own mouth and fire off the last bullet, deserving of something much more painful for the crimes of his guilt and fear but sufficient in its efficiency.
When the police searched John's laptop they'd find a confession saved to the desktop. For the crimes he couldn't admit to, he would confess to the murder of Mary Morstan and let Sherlock be remembered as the hero he was with no speculation towards otherwise. He owed him that and more. Surely even Mycroft, despite knowing better, would go along with the story as penalty for murdering his brother.
And Moran could do his own dirt work. And one day Mycroft would get him. Chances were no one would ever really know what had happened but at least the things that John could influence would be taken care of and those he could not would be left in capable hands. He'd plotted it all out in his head before bed, perfecting it till it seemed more than just doable, but likely. He'd had bad days but never like these. As much as he believed in Sherlock, he could not wait forever.
Sherlock, to his credit, was aware of something but unable to pinpoint it. John watched him often from over dinner or the day's paper with that particular, thoughtful frown. The bombs, Moran, the confession, they had all happened in so short a span of time it was a wonder John could tell the stress of one from the other. Surely Sherlock could not without knowledge of all three. John's nervous defensiveness, the obvious secrecy, the increased want of privacy were all likely thought of as response to Sherlock's candor. It pained John to let him believe that but like sickness, it was too perfect a cover to dispel. He'd set it straight one day over a candlelit supper. If John could live three years deceived, Sherlock could last another few months, or weeks, or days. It was all down to him and Moran though just how exactly the detective could not know. Either the Holmes boys found him or Moran pushed hard enough to put the cross-hairs on Sherlock's skull at an intimate distance.
John was going to ruin that beautiful, chiseled face. Surety over vanity; he would not let him suffer just to save his flesh for the fires.
Sherlock cleared his throat, square of toast in his hand as he absently--rudely--tapped away at his laptop at the breakfast table. John wasn't exactly a centerpiece of conversation himself, catching himself staring between sips of tea with nothing on his mind to share and everything to conceal. Sherlock's forced cough was probably due more to the texture of toast than a want of speech but John watched him and waited all the same. It had been a tensely quiet morning.
Sherlock caught his eye and looked back at his tea, his left eyebrow arching suspiciously. "Busy day planned?" he asked, long fingers gliding over the touch pad of his laptop. The screen was tilted to be unreadable from where John sat.
"Uh... could be. Not really sure." John tried not to swallow or take a drink immediately after speaking, finding himself doing it far too often and turning into, perhaps, a slight tell. "There's the police write up on the bomb case. And I should probably think about updating the blog with the case as well since the tube shutdown was pretty well known."
Sherlock nodded, typing, distracted. "Not a bad idea. I think you'll find Lestrade's men took care of the police report, however. I believe the exact wording of our involvement was 'Sherlock called in with the code, having figured it out on his own through unknown means'. I think I might actually prefer your wordy explanations. At least you don't describe deduction with the same tone as one might magic."
John chuckled, fingers curling against the denim of his jeans in his lap. "Yeah, and I probably would have added that I helped as well."
"You were instrumental," Sherlock agreed. He chewed another bite of toast, honey covered and leaving his lips tacky, his tongue following after every bite to lick away the sweetness. He chewed slowly, purposefully hesitating to speak. It made John nervous to see him so pensive. Nothing good could come of it. "Moran contacted me," he said at last.
John tried not to hold his breath. "Anything interesting?"
"Marginally. Mild congratulations on figuring out the code and a few bits on how I'm still missing what is right in front of me. I'm sure he thinks himself very clever by now. He's still no genius and certainly no Moriarty."
"Right... yeah." John's mouth felt far too dry. He picked up his tea and took a long sip, wishing away Sherlock's suspicions. "Any clues as to where to find him?"
"Some." He closed the lid on his computer and stood up, the last few bites of his breakfast forgotten as he spun off towards the stairs, his dressing gown floating behind him like a cape. "I need to revisit the bomb sites. Well enough yet to come?"
"To the... Oh."
"I never got a fair look at the music room. Had been working a completely different location at the time. If they're listed as one, two and three then I'm missing the whole picture." Sherlock was up the stairs and shouting down at John more than halfway through his thoughts. It had worked much better when his room had been on the same floor as the rest of the flat. His multitasking talking/dressing routine suffered from his relocation.
John let out a shaky breath with Sherlock no longer in the room. He wanted to go, if only for the fun of another tandem excursion. But Moran might call and he did not react kindly to voice mail. Or Sherlock might say or see something and turn his deductive mind on John. It was far too risky to be alone with him around cases he'd been involved in. He might slip and say something he shouldn't know or forget something he should thinking he shouldn't. He hadn't been that careful. He hadn't really had the time to be with the first crime. He still held his breath every time someone came to the door, waiting for it to be the police, expecting Mr. Preeti to have given in to thoughts more reasonable than fear. He shouted back up the stairs to Sherlock, tradition making it pointless to wait. "Still feeling a bit under the weather. Should probably stay home and work on the blog. Your reputation needs all the help it can get."
"Lestrade offered the advice 'More sex, less scandal'. I think he means for me to win public opinion by means far removed from my intellect." There was a thud and a slam, a shuffle and a bump. What Sherlock did upstairs was often puzzling. He appeared on the stairs having only completed the most basic steps in dressing, half his shirt buttons still undone as he finished tucking the ends into his trousers, belt hanging open in the loops. "My shirts aren't too tight, are they?" he asked, addressing a topic brought up in John's absence by the sound of it.
John smirked, pulling his lips taut. "Too tight? No. Not at all." There was, of course, a certain right amount of tight. If the tabloids spent half as much time willing the buttons to give up as they did trying to get shots of the two of them in candidly compromising positions, they'd find their tasks much easier to attend to. "Lestrade's not too off, though. Sex does sell."
"And if I were a rent boy, I'm sure I'd be interested in the advertising. As it stands, consulting detectives do not get jobs based on a scale from one to ten of shagability."
John choked slightly, covering his mouth with his hand. "Right... well, maybe I'll include a few photos with the blog updates just to give it a bit more interest all the same."
"John, you miss the point entirely." Sherlock buttoned his shirt in the doorway, fingers deft and dextrous in their task as he looped the shirt closed with each secured button. "Just don't make it the hat picture. Anything but the hat picture."
He chuckled, shaking his head. Every single time. Tense, stressed and miserable never could describe either of them for long. Not together. Far too childish to pick one set of emotions and stick with them. Their relationship had attention deficit hyperactivity disorder and crime was the new shiny. John didn't mind the symptoms. After the week he'd had it felt fantastic to smile.
Sherlock's eyes seemed to say the same thing. "Text me if anything comes up. Perhaps we can meet for lunch if you're feeling better?"
John nodded, fingers drumming at the table. "Yeah, sure. Uh... good luck finding.. well, finding Moran. This... we need to end this."
"I know."
His heart seized even as he tried to keep everything still and concealed, not react, not tense or breathe funny, not startle or shake. John swallowed, eyes lost in the pattern of their wallpaper. It didn't have to mean what he thought it meant. It was a simple response, a reasonable one, an expected one to something so obviously stated.
Sherlock synched the belt around his hips and grabbed his coat, leaving without a goodbye. The silence was the rust of coffin hinges, nails through the lid, six feet of soil on top.
His phone rang. John fumbled for it with a curse, pulling it from his pocket as he waited to hear the front door close, wincing at the unknown number before rushing to hold it to his face to answer. "Yes?"
"He knows."
John shook his head, wishing he knew how he kept such a close eye on them. "No, no, that's not what he said. That's not--I was stating the obvious and he was mocking me for it. You know Sherlock. I haven't said a damn thing. Not one goddamn thing and you know it."
"Then your deception has been a failure."
"He's Sherlock fucking Holmes!" John bit the insides of his mouth, pushing up from the table to pace to a more private corner. "I have done everything you've asked. Everything. Even if he does suspect, this is not my fault!" What kind of idiot was Moran to think anyone could keep Sherlock in the dark?
One with too much power and not enough sense not to use it in trivial games.
The sadist on the other end of the line seemed to consider for a moment, his voice a hum. "Perhaps. But the game isn't worth playing if he knows." Moran sighed roughly. "That makes things easier I suppose. Your assignment, Captain, is not going to be an easy one. You're to assist in setting a trap for Mr. Holmes."
"No."
"You have no choice."
John growled, fist clenched. "Sherlock's looking for you! If you want him, there's no point in setting a trap! He's waiting for the chance! Fucking tell him you'll be somewhere and he'll come!"
"Oh, yes, he'll come. Armed and ready. That's not how I want him."
"If you think Sherlock with a gun is the only time you need to be afraid of him you are dumber than he thinks."
"Who said I was afraid of him?" Moran's laugh sounded much kinder than its intent. "You'll set the trap, Captain. You know what I'll do if you don't."
"You know what? Fine! Because it doesn't matter! Even if you think you've got him where you want him, Sherlock is going to come out on top! So you just tell me how you want him and I'll get you Sherlock as promised. And it is going to be the last thing you do as a free man."
"If you really believe that then why do you sound so scared?"
John swallowed, willing his hands and body not to shake. "I'm not scared," he said, forcing himself to believe it. "I am just sick and tired of your shit."
"Boom, Captain. Remember who you're speaking to. Insubordination will not be tolerated. And at this stage, it's Sherlock you'll be risking. Now, I need you to head downstairs into 221c. I've had some important tools left there for storage for just this occasion. It'll make your task much clearer once you see."
John breathed deep, hesitating for only a moment before walking down the steps to the ground floor. He wasn't going to ask how they'd gotten into their home or why he'd left anything incriminating in the residence of the most observant man in the world. Details as such didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was sabotage. This was their first and probably only chance.
"You'll find the key above the door. Just slide your fingers over the frame and you'll find it."
John obeyed Moran as he listened to Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen, humming to the radio as music from her era drifted down the hall. He was careful not to drop the key as he worked it into the lock, his eyes darting to the right to be sure she would not see him. It was a new lock and a new key, neither expressing the groan of age as the bolt slid aside and he opened the door. He made sure to close it behind him, pocketing the key as he took the steps down into the room at the bottom.
John had never seen so many explosives. The walls were nearly bricked white in Semtex, wires running in rainbows across the walls to a single detonator ticking down the minutes to Armageddon with enough explosive power in the room to take out the block.
On the floor there was a computer tablet, the screen filled with the sick smile of a stranger holding up his phone in his right hand, hair cut military short with a scar on his left cheek. "Thank you for playing, Captain," the man said in a voice that had become part of John's nightmares. "Today, your assignment is to be bait."