Fight for Me

Chapter 54

Three Weeks Later

Lydia peered through the crosshairs of the rifle, her hands shaking as the back of Sherlock's head came into the center of her scope. She knew what was on the line if she failed her task, but even after the weeks of separation, her feelings for the detective had remained steady. She cursed him for not acting upon the information she had left for him, if he had she would never have been put in this position. She would likely be dead, but she would no longer have to chose between those that she loved.

With a sigh of determination, Lydia shook her head clear of her thoughts and gripped the cold metal of her rifle with immense force to steady her hands. She brought her index finger to the trigger and willed herself to pull back, but she was suddenly overwhelmed by the lingering sensation of Sherlock's lips on her own, his comforting smell burning in her nostrils.

She couldn't do it.

"Are you in position?" A voice spoke through her earpiece, snapping her out of her conflicted thoughts and back to reality with a sudden jolt followed by a panic, the kind you get when you've been daydreaming in class then suddenly are asked to answer the teacher's question after failing to hear what it was. If only her situation now was as trivial.

"I'm setting up aim now," Lydia lied easily, her voice even and steady. But as she looked back through her scope, she adjusted the aim slightly higher, lining it up with a photograph pinned to the wall. She pulled back on the trigger and watched the bullet hit its intended mark, having to suppress a sigh of relief.

Instead she muttered, "shit. I missed him by about a centimetre. I have to retreat, he'll know which flat I'm in."

There was a deafening silence on the other side of the line and she knew that there was no going back on the decision she had just made. Now the question would be if she could save her friends or if her decision to save Sherlock had just killed them.

Working quickly so that Sherlock did not catch her, she packed up her sniper rifle and quickly scribbled down the address of the hotel that she and her friends were being held in on a scrap of paper. That way she knew Sherlock would be able to find her, but she still had a chance to perhaps prevent a bullet from being lodged in Lawrence or Zoe.

...

"There's been another body," John question, noticing the additional photo hung up on the far wall. The busy wallpaper was now covered with photos of victims, notes on their background, where they had been found, any other information that Sherlock had deemed important, or at least worthy enough to be hung up. Those who walked into the flat might fear that Sherlock was getting obsessed, and perhaps he was, but he needed to prove that things weren't what he feared.

So Sherlock gave John no answer, instead letting his eyes graze over the photos for the thousandth time. They were all shot in the head, some by a sniper and some point blank, but all were found seated with a rose placed into their mouths post mortem.

"Sherlock, there's been nearly twenty bodies in these past two weeks, we need to tell Scotland Yard what we know," John prodded, finally achieving his goal of getting Sherlock's attention.

The detective's eyes hardened as he growled, "we do not know anything for sure, roses can symbolise many things. I will not act on suspicions, especially not when they have Lydia."

"You're positive that's where she's ended up?"

"She went to save her friends, John, there's no where else she would have gone. It's been three weeks and we haven't received any word from her, nor has her group resumed performances. They still have her." Sherlock stopped himself before he could finish his deductions, too afraid to speak his fears out loud. But the truth was, he was not entirely positive that Lydia was even still alive. And if she was, he had an even worse suspicion that they were exploiting other talents of hers.

"Maybe she's in hiding, that's why she hasn't been back. She probably wants to wait until the Rose Foundation is dismantled since she's seen first hand that Scotland Yard cannot provide protection against them. Do you ever think that that we should act on the information that-"

"No."

John waited for a further explanation, but none came. He could tell that he was pushing Sherlock to his limit, so he chose to remain silent, instead looking at the latest victim pinned to the wall. He was an older man, John couldn't imagine why anyone would have wanted him dead. He looked like he was about to kick the bucket without the help of a bullet, so why was he targeted?

"The victim does not matter," Sherlock answered John's unasked question, standing from his chair and approaching the wall. "If it is the Foundation, only eight of the victims having any links the Foundation or their competitors, the others are meant to throw Scotland Yard off."

"So they've gone from simply being a smuggling ring to killing random people to throw the investigation off? That seems quite the leap, especially for whoever they have ordered to go out and do the killing."

If Sherlock was going to answer John, he was cut off by a the shattering of glass as a bullet ripped through the space, embedding itself right through one of the photographs on the far corner of the wall, missing Sherlock's head only by a few centimetres. He immediately whipped around towards the broken window, starting to make his calculations as to where the shot had been fired from. Perhaps walking towards the window and thus becoming an easier shot was a mistake, but he had to deduce quickly if he wished to catch the shooter.

A glint of a sniper rifle flashed from inside an open window of a flat across the street. Without another word, Sherlock ran from the flat and sprinted across the street without looking, John quickly snapping out of his trance and hurrying to catch up with him. Sherlock dashed up the stairs, missing Lydia who had chosen to descend by way of the fire escape so that she would not get caught by the clever detective.

When Sherlock burst into the room, he fell disappointed upon seeing it completely empty. A breeze traveled in from the open window, keeping the room from returning to a dead stillness. Sherlock tore his eyes away from the rippling curtains, looking for any evidence that a person had been in this room. Indentations on the carpet where the sniper had knelt were still visible and the spot still warm, suggesting that the sniper had waited in a kneeling position for an extended period of time. The room itself was nearly immaculate, not an item out of place save for a loose scrap of paper placed on the coffee table.

Sherlock picked up the paper and immediately recognised the handwriting as belonging to Lydia's, despite how rushed she had been to scribble down the address. John had finally caught up to Sherlock, having had to blindly check every floor to determine where Sherlock had tracked the sniper to. Fortunately for him, Sherlock had not taken care to shut any doors behind him in his rush to catch the sniper - who he now knew was Lydia.

The truth crashed upon him in icy cold waves, which he found himself drowning beneath. The idea that Lydia was being the killings had briefly crossed his mind many times before, but he had always pushed it aside, refusing to allow himself to believe that the Foundation would force her to do something that was no doubt ripping her apart. But Sherlock knew one thing, he had to find her before they created a monster out of her.

-

(A/N): Well Lydia's certainly been thrown into a much more dramatic lifestyle (but hey, at least she didn't kill Sherlock!) However, do you think she'll be able to stop the repercussions of her actions? On a much brighter note, perks of working in a pharmacy had its perks because I got my first COVID shot today (you know, despite vaccine roll-out being a flaming hot mess in the US). Anyway, that was just a really great way to end a rather stressful day so I'm still being grateful for it. But I do hope that you enjoyed this chapter!