Sleepless
part twelveSherlock could feel the soldier's grabbing him by the arms, forcing them back to the point of pain as they dragged him towards the walls and away from the body on the floor. He was more aware of the pain in his shoulders than he was of what he was seeing. That pain was numbed to the point of nonexistence. It couldn't be real, after all. That was John. He'd been with him since that morning. And through the night before. And in his presence nearly every hour of the day for weeks. John was a constant, not a variable. So what was he doing down there, on the floor, crumpled and silent? It just didn't make sense.
A gloved hand came up over Sherlock's mouth, his open lips pressing against leather as his tongue tasted the acrid shine. He was shouting then. There was only one word that came to mind. One name. The way they held him back and twisted his joints said he was struggling. This body and its actions did not feel like they were a part of him, somehow disconnected from his mind. In a way, he wasn't sure he knew which part of him had it right: the part that was all heart and instinct, or the part that was all reason, and saw a lump of vacant flesh instead of the still warm corpse of his beloved John.
"Get that out of here," Chapman instructed with a look of disgust as he gestured to his handiwork.
Sherlock sneered, biting down into the gloved flesh as his two halves seem to find common ground in rage. That was John. That was his client. And that putrid piece of cowardly filth presuming power behind his desk was a murderer. The game was on. This wasn't about biological warfare or saving thousands of lives anymore. He honestly couldn't care less. This was about a crime no camera had filmed, committed in a locked room with paid off witnesses. And Chapman would go down in flames for this.
The soldier removed his hand quite quickly, shaking out the sting of the bite while his other hand tightened around his elbow in retaliation. An other guard was already in motion, obeying the coward's orders as he took an arm and dragged John towards the door, unfolding him into a straight line that squeaked across the floor on his face. Not human. Not worth any amount of dignity, even in death. Sherlock glared at Chapman as the man stared back at him with the same pale fear on his face as had struck him before he'd ended John's life.
"Him too," he nearly stuttered, all but falling into his chair. "Get him outside. They'll be here within the hour. I want him out there before Mycroft mobilizes. The American forces can deal with it then."
The soldiers gave their nod of acceptance, the last one taking out from his holster the gun that was meant to keep Sherlock at bay as the other two forcibly shoved him. The door was only open for seconds, John's body having passed the threshold with Sherlock several feet behind, when the lights flickered once, twice, and then burned more brightly on surge before fading to the correct wattage. One bulb in the ceiling shattered, Chapman giving a terrified shout as he knocked his knees against the underside of his desk. "It's Mycroft, I know it is!" he screamed, gesturing wildly out the door. "Hurry! Get them out! GET THEM OUT!"
One harsh pull and Sherlock knew his shoulder was out of socket, the pain making white starlight flash behind vision as he tripped on his steps in their hastened retreat. John went one way--towards the Ark central, down towards the interior channels, circling towards the furnace; and he went the other--destined for the outer rings and the long driveway up and out. They were terrible with goodbyes anyway. Rubish. And for some strange reason all he could think was that he'd never asked if Mycroft had kept his promise to him and gotten the teddy bear he'd requested the last time goodbye wasn't an option. Sentiment was never convenient when he truly felt the desire to indulge in the stupid, pointless things that people did. If John was gone, he wanted to watch him burn. He wanted to see the skin melt through the chamber of his ribcage, his organs boil and burst, his hair turn from muddy blonde to coils of black ash. He wanted to see his body be destroyed and know that it was just flesh and bones, even if he didn't believe in anything else.
Focus. Sherlock used the pain in his shoulder to blot out the roar of pain elsewhere. Chapman was wrong--the lights weren't Mycroft's doing. Mycroft's cameras had blackouts that he thought Sherlock was responsible for and the lights in their room behaved unnaturally. Whatever it was, it was centered in on him, and it could be the thing that helped him get away now.
There was something he had forgotten, something he'd heard, something that made it all make sense. It was on the tip of his mind like a name on the tongue. There was a connection, there had to be a connection. One at a time then. First thing's first.
The light switch. Smallest and most inconsequential but repeatable and observable. If Sherlock asked, the lights obliged, regardless of the fact that they were not voice activated. Camera in the room suggested that someone was watching, then. Someone who was able to control the minutia of the power grid and do so quickly.
The cameras. Mycroft's exact words: If you can manage to orchestrate timed blackouts with the surveillance equipment, getting access to the computer systems should be a fairly simple operation... Would be nice if you would put such resources towards more pressing concerns... More pressing concerns than what? What did he think they were using black outs for? His tone at the time had indicated he was aware of his and John's little arrangement--was he implying they cut off the camera to hide their private displays? It fit with his general annoyance but as John's curiosity confirmed, this was not something he himself had set up with Mary. Nor the business with the lights. Everything pointed to acute observation by a third party that had a rather vested interest in them to the point of being obvious.
The busted bulb. That one was easy. As soon as John's dead body was visible from the hallway cameras, the room had experienced a power outage followed by a surge. The cameras were indicative of everything that happened, the common thread, the link that would point to his potential savior who was likely to be watching right now.
So who did he know with a history of voyeurism and an inability to not get involved? Who fit the profile of a person who would use the cameras to track his every movements and who would be so affected by John's death that they would cause power fluctuation in the blind room to try and ferret the assailant out into the open? Parts of it sounded like Mary. The cameras, just like everything else, would feed into the centralized computer where she could--Oh. Oh!
In startled revelation, Sherlock laughed. It started as a quiet chuckle but quickly erupted into hysteria as the pieces meshed into perfect accord. He was so stupid. No, they were so stupid. Every last one of them. How had he forgotten? Why had no one caught it before? The laughter jostled him in the soldiers' grip, agitating his shoulder painfully but not enough not to all but cackle at the coming storm.
The soldier to his left squeezed his arm tight. "What are you laughing about?" he demanded.
Sherlock was nearly crying from laughter and pain. Was it really going to be this easy? Was it really possible to have victory this close to defeat? Deus ex machina, he thought, and with that his laugh all but blurted out in a choke.
The soldiers stopped, forcing Sherlock to stand upright as he sagged in their grip. "Stand up," one ordered, the other kicking the back of his leg to urge him to walk, the third poking him in the neck with his gun.
"What for?" Sherlock asked, the lights buzzing overheard in warning. "Didn't anyone tell you? Sherlock Holmes doesn't want to live in a world where he loses John Watson," he informed them, his chin tilting up to stare smiling at the closest camera. "Which is why it's always a good idea to pack a spare."
The lights faded out then burned bright enough to blind as Sherlock closed his eyes and wrenched his good arm out of the soldier's surprised grip, hand to the gun, elbow to disarm the one behind him, and down to the floor as bulbs burst and left them in pitch blackness save for the red power light active on the camera above.