Pantomime
part tenLow lights, smoke in the air, green felt tables and pints of lager resting next to stacks of multicolored chips; the card hall was more or less exactly what John had been expecting. It was cleaner than his worst conceptions of it but the air was still just as poisonous. Ignorance to the smoking ban was the least of the proprietor's ills, however, if Sherlock was right about the patronage. It was certainly why he kept his pistol tucked in the back waist of his jeans. John scanned the tables from his stance at the bar, taking in the faces of the men who sat with downcast eyes. Somewhere in the room there was a murderer just waiting for the excuse to put a bullet in the doctor's head. He breathed in deep and thanked the barman for his pint. He was going to need a good bitter to keep from looking as nervous as he felt. The disguise Sherlock had fitted him with had hardly taken much effort. A floppy knit hat and a pair of wire rimmed glasses were apparently all Sherlock assumed it would take to turn ex-soldier John Watson into mild-mannered John Mitchel. John got the distinct impression they had changed only his surname not because John was so common but because Sherlock couldn't be bothered to remember an alias other than his own.
Sherlock stood beside him, ginger and bespectacled and calling himself James once more. His posture was all wrong for a middle class man looking to double his fortunes, the scotch in his hand less predicable than an ale, but there was always some flaw to his deceptions. He seemed unimpressed and bored already. That, John mused, or the fake beard was already starting to make his chin itch. He hoped for the latter. The bastard deserved to be as irritated as he was irritating.
Sherlock nodded towards a table of players sitting in on a quickly declining game. "Same table?" he asked.
John shook his head. "I told you, I'm not playing against you. You find your own table and with any luck we'll meet back up later with Moran." He took a drink of his bitter, feeling the bite as it welcomed him to the second dumbest thing he'd ever done.
Sherlock shrugged, offering from his wallet a few hundred quid which he held out in his gloved hands. The game was on. "May the best man win."
"Well, guess that's not going to be you then." John snatched the money from him, no qualms whatsoever about betting with his best friend's money after their discussion that afternoon. Besides which, they shared everything anyway; what was a few hundred quid between mates?
John found a table willing to deal him in and set about reacquainting himself with the game. After three abysmal hands and a loss of twenty-five, he started to feel the rhythm of it again and made back fifty. There was a man who bit the inside of his bottom lip when he had a good hand, one who had an unfortunate vein in his forehead that pumped with excitement, and another who seemed to switch what side of his mouth he chewed his gum on depending on his cards. These weren't deductions, they were just tells and simple things that all players tried to observe and look for. He was certain at his own table Sherlock was doing deductive wheelies trying to take home the pot, discerning more from a man's home life and profession about when he might bluff rather than look for a normal sign.
It wouldn't make him better at cards than him. It would give Sherlock a different edge, surely, but for the first time in a long time, John was quite sure he was engaged in a competition against his friend in which he was the better. John would win, he would take all their money, and he would spend it all on gaffer tape and a utility dolly. Sherlock was going to be at his wedding if he had to hire someone to wheel him in.
Hours went by far too quickly. John wasn't the best player at the table but he put a great many of the others to shame as his pile of blue and red chips stood to testify. He cast a glance over at Sherlock's last known location, sorry to see a similar stack gracing the space between his elbows. He was falling out of character, letting his disguise do all the work. His fingers were steepled at his lips, his chin held high, his keen eyes flashing. Every mannerism screamed Sherlock Holmes louder than any deerstalker ever could. Sherlock was lucky most people weren't so versed in what the true genius looked like. Most people, to their own benefit, were not John.
John looked away, attention required as he was served another hand: ten, eight, Jack, Ace, ten; three hearts, a diamond and a spade. He pulled the corners back then laid them flat, putting his ante in with a flippant toss and setting two cards aside to exchange on his turn. He caught movement out the corner of his eye and followed it back towards Sherlock's table as a man stood hovering behind him. He leaned in over his shoulder, hand clasping down over Sherlock's right bicep as he seemed to whisper into his ear. Whatever he said got Sherlock's attention. He stood from the table, cashing out with the dealer. He caught John's eye and shook his head minutely: 'stay there'.
John narrowed his eyes at him, brown wrinkled and hairline pulled forward.
Sherlock walked with the man over towards the bar area, his posture stiff but confident. So long as he was still in John's sight, the soldier would take the understood request. They seemed to order drinks, the stranger all smiles and hand gestures as he leaned against the bar in his expensive looking suit, regaling James with whatever stories or information he had. One didn't buy a drink for someone caught counting cards and reading a man's bluff in his life's story through the collar of his shirt. James shouldn't have had any connections in London, though, and the man's air seemed too familiar to be random. John wished Sherlock was there to explain to him what he was missing. Who the hell was that man and why did he make Sherlock nervous?
"You gonna bet or just sit there making eyes at that fella at the bar?"
John turned back to his table, looking at the pile of chips in the middle and finding himself at a sudden disadvantage. "Right, sorry." He looked at his cards again, now two pair, Aces high, then threw in two blue chips to up the stakes. "Raise you twenty-five," he announced, trying to get his head back in the game while his eyes continued to catch furtive glimpses at the bar.
The suited man was still smiling but his eyes were harsh as it seemed Sherlock's time to speak. For his part, Sherlock looked anything but pleased himself. Stoic masque or genuine disinterest, he seemed stuck in something tedious but necessary. His fingers were tight around the glass of scotch in his hand, though. Something was definitely wrong.
It was down to him and one other man as the other players folded. John needed this game to end. He'd cash out, go buy another drink at the bar, and loiter there within earshot until it was time to move on. For all he knew, the man at the bar with Sherlock was the very man they were there to see and nothing was worse than the idea that perhaps he was on to them.
John pushed his stack of coins forward. "All in," he said.
The other player grimaced, the white-shocked hair of his mustache shifting with irritation over his lip. He checked his cards then pushed forward his chips as well. "Alright, you little bastard. I'll take that."
John flipped his cards just as he heard a loud bang and jumped up immediately from his chair. It wasn't a gunshot but a thick 'thunk' and a crash, punctuated by a laugh as John's eyes raced to the bar. Sherlock wasn't there anymore. The stranger was having a good chuckle, eyes cast to the floor in the spot where Sherlock had been. John quickly weaved his way through the tables over as a second stranger bent down and heaved Sherlock off the ground by his arms, his body limp and head bleeding from the hairline.
"Well, guess someone can't hold his liquor," the first man joked to the exasperated barman.
John pushed past the curious onlookers, eyes wide at the stream of blood. "I'm a doctor," he said, trying to direct the man handling the unconscious weight of his friend. "Put him down in a chair, I'll-" John froze mid-sentence. This time it was a gun, the muzzle pressed against his ribs. His breath was suddenly stolen from his lungs.
"Hello, Dr. Watson." The first stranger was behind him, the gun in his hand. "It's been ages since I last had you in my sights."
John swallowed hard, feeling his knees lock and his heart race. The assassin. "What did you do to him?"
"Nothing I wouldn't rather make permanent." The gun pushed in hard, John's ribs aching under the assault. "Nice and quiet now. We're going to help this poor fellow outside to sober up and being such a good doctor, you're coming with us."
"And if I refuse? Going to execute me right here in public?"
The stranger hummed with amusement. "I won't have to. You'll come. Because I've got something of yours you're going to want back."
The man holding Sherlock began to haul him off as the gun shoved John to follow. He hated proving them right. John took his first step on anxious legs, trying to act natural and praying someone was paying attention to more than just a fake drunkard and his good Samaritans. Head wounds bled alarmingly but even knowing it was normal, the sight of the red streams against the pale of Sherlock's face made John's stomach knot. He'd seen that face before once with silver eyes open to the abyss. He tried to keep his breath normal and his walk strong. They were going to get out of this. Tomorrow morning he was going to go to work and call Mary at lunch to ask which kid was driving her the most crazy on a Monday, he was going to be sneezed on and bitten at least once and Sherlock was going to be bored and texting him all day as he slowly tore the flat to pieces. He was not going to die tonight.
They walked towards an employee entrance, a door leading to a back alleyway, probably a skip. It wasn't exactly his first choice for a location to be alone with a gunman. John's own gun was still tucked in the waist band of his jeans, a hard, comforting weight against his spine. He yearned to pull it before someone thought to search him. It was already two against one, and with Sherlock's unconscious state working against him, it put the odds even more in the strangers' favor. John pushed the bar to unlatch he door at the gun's insistence and carefully scanned the alley for anyone who could be of assistance as he stepped out into the urine scented back road. The lamp on the brick wall was hazy and cast a piss-yellow light which spread only two feet under the fixture's spray. A sign requesting no loiterers hung above the overflowing puke-green skip.
The man hauling Sherlock held him none too gently against the echoing metal of the trash container as he ripped the beard from his face and shoved off the ginger wig. Both flew into the skip. Sherlock did not so much as wince though John did in sympathy at the sound of spirit gum ripping past its bond to the flesh.
The door to the card hall closed, leaving them in quiet but without peace.
"There you are, Sherlock," The assassin said with a large grin. He moved his gun from John's ribs to his head, no longer concerned about an audience. "Such a silly, vain man, don't you agree, Dr. Watson?"
John breathed deep, concentrating on a single flow of motion: wait for an opportunity, grab the gun, shoot the man; wait, grab, shoot. He turned his head, seeing nothing but the hollow throat of the pistol. "Are you Moran?" If he was going to survive this, he needed to at least know the name of the man he was about to kill.
"Me? Hardly." The assassin sounded flattered. "He's got bigger things to deal with than a couple loose threads like you two. No, I'm more than enough to see that you and he get exactly what you deserve."
"You realize this is ridiculous, don't you. It's been nearly three years. Who the hell even cares anymore?"
"Sebastian cares." The assassin cocked his gun, the sharp edges of the barrel finding and digging in to John's temple. "I'm sure Moriarty would too. The wrong man came down off that roof that day, Dr. Watson."
John clenched his jaw, looking at Sherlock's unhelpful repose against the arms of the silent accomplice. Not a sound, not a stir, not a sign at all that he was okay though the blood seemed to clot and cease its staining of his brow.
"Against the wall, Dr. Watson." The assassin ordered, a cheerfulness in the sound. "I like to play Rorschach with the detritus. Let's see what pictures your funny little brain can paint."
John closed his eyes. No opening, no opportunity. There was no way in hell he was going down without a fight. "You're making a huge mistake," he cautioned as he took small, tentative steps towards the brick.
"Sebastian will forgive me, I'm sure."
The muzzle moved from his temple to the back of his head, rolling flush against his hair. John breathed in deep. If this worked, he was going to have to donate heavily to some charity to balance out his fortune. John glanced over at Sherlock, still limp and useless. He didn't have to force the panic as he shouted, "Sherlock, don't!"
The assassin looked. Even the man supporting the consulting detective's body spared a glance to see that there was no change in his condition. He was Sherlock Holmes, though; one learned to expect the unexpected from him. A suspension of disbelief was part of the whole Sherlock experience and certainly, demonstrably, these men had known that. One second's doubt was all John had afforded himself and one second's distraction was all he needed.
John spun to face his attacker, rolling along the gun arm to avoid its fire as he pulled his own weapon. One shot to the stomach and the eyes of the assassin grew large; a second shot and they became heavy. The man sunk to his knees then fell to his face in a puddle of unspeakable filth. John turned his weapon on the second man, hesitating to avoid further injury to Sherlock.
To his credit the second man was quick. He threw Sherlock at him before running down the alley, faster than he looked but stumbling in fear. Unarmed, John figured, as he rushed to catch Sherlock before he fell. A very angry part of him wanted to shoot the man in the back as he ran. It was no less the kind of thing he could expect from the likes of them had he tried.
But he wasn't like them. Never wanted to be. Never would be.
John carefully reset the safety on his gun as he shoved it into Sherlock's coat pocket. Using both arms he heaved Sherlock against the brick wall, hands searching for a pulse even as he could still hear his own pounding in his ears. Sherlock's was much steadier, normal, completely healthy. His breathing was even and unlabored. John exhaled, damp with sweat and trembling from nerves. He let Sherlock sit on the ground as John removed his own coat and jumper, both spotted in blood-spray, and threw them in the skip. He didn't bother moving the body. It wasn't about covering up a murder in self-defense but rather avoiding arrest or questioning for now. Kneeling on the ground between Sherlock's legs, he heaved him up onto his back, using the wall to help him as he sorted limbs and balance. He took one last look at the would-be assassin then hurried down the alley way towards the streets and hopefully for a cab.
He had warned him.