Sherlock woke the next morning feeling entirely better. His headache was faint, and he was a little tired, but aside from that, the other symptoms we re all gone. He turned over in bed, stretching his long limbs out as far as possible. He opened his eyes and saw John, completely asleep. He smiled slightly, or about as much as he was he was capable of doing, and got out of bed. He changed into a burgundy pajama set and pulled his tan house coat over his shoulders. Sherlock set out down the hallway, closing his bedroom door behind him and venturing to the kitchen. He saw that Mrs. Hudson had already brought tea, and it was still hot. She'd made it just how he likes it; milk and two sugars. He took it off the tray and sat in his chair, sipping it gingerly. He sat for a while, drinking his tea and letting his mind wonder from the bright sunlight hitting the back of his neck, to the way the light hit John's chair, to how John's eyes looked in the light.
That was Sherlock's newest addiction. Thinking about John all the time. It was hard for him to concentrate on cases, experiments, clients. Especially if John is in the room. He distracts him. Meddles with his thoughts and makes him...
He really never had any 'urges' (as John likes to put it) before John came into his life. He knew what society perceived as attractive, so he couldn't help noticing someone (mostly men) that were pleasing to the eye. But John Watson was a completely different story. He had a bright smile, pretty eyes, and as he heard people say when he walked in the street with John, a lovely arse. Not only was he attractive to Sherlock, but he was kind. So very kind to Sherlock, but he never let anyone walk all over him or overstep their boundaries. He was rough, but smooth around the edges. Dominant, but never pushy. Sherlock always knew that John had most of the authority in their relationship. When John says jump, Sherlock says how high. That was something that was never spoken of between them, but it was a standing rule in the John-and-Sherlock relationship. Sherlock always loved a firm hand, but nothing compared to that of John Watson. He had never met anyone as willing to stand up to him as John. And he admired a man who could think for himself. Not to mention John is quicker than most of the people he associates himself with.
Sherlock had been lost in thought for a while, and before he knew it he was standing beside the window, playing his violin. He was unconsciously composing, playing the way his thoughts were wondering. Slowly when he was thinking about John, speeding up the pace when he was thinking about cases, somewhere in between when he was thinking about the situation at hand.
John walked into the room slowly, rubbing his eyes and yawning, his shirt untucked and wrinkled. He fell asleep last night in Sherlock's bed, after he read all the letters Sherlock and John had written to each other, sent or unsent.
He walked into the kitchen and grabbed his luke-warm cup of tea. He tasted it, but decided he'd rather not reheat it anyways. He stretched and walked over to where Sherlock was playing violin.
John had always liked it when he played. Especially in the morning, because it was like a peaceful alarm clock. It helped him wake up in a good mood, it calmed him down when he'd had a bad day at the clinic, or when he was tired and needed a nap.
He remembered the first time he heard it; he thought he was dreaming. John walked into the room and found Sherlock playing the instrument intently, not even reading his music sheets. He watched the way he slowly waltzed around the room, sliding the bow with slender fingers. It captivated him. He'd watched Sherlock for hours before he even noticed John was in the room.
John watched Sherlock, his eyes closed and his fingers gently guiding the bow. He sat in his chair, watching Sherlock and trying to wake himself up.
"Good morning, John." Sherlock said, fully aware John had come in.
"Morning. How're you feeling?" He said, his voice gravely.
"Fine." Sherlock said bluntly, still playing his violin.
"Any symptoms?"
"No." Sherlock said bluntly.
John sighed and watched Sherlock, basking in the warm morning sun floating i through the windows.
The doorbell rang. Sherlock kept playing.
"Client, John." He said suddenly. John got up and went to him bedroom, changing his clothes quickly. He washed his face in the bathroom and came back out to find Sherlock speaking with the client, a small woman in her late sixties or seventies. White hair, wrinkled eyes, delicate hands. She wore a pink jumper, a black and baby blue knit scarf, black trousers, and pink rain boots to match her jumper. She fiddled with the fringe on the ends of her scarf nervously, and she spoke softly and hesitantly.
Sherlock sat in his chair, his legs draped over the sides and still in his pajamas. His eyes were closed in concentration, listening to the old woman speak. John sat in his chair, nodding at the woman, who smiled and continued her testimony.
"And that was when I'd noticed the door was unlocked, and all of my things were still there. I checked upstairs to see if my granddaughter was in her room, but she wasn't there. She left her cellphone, and her clothes were thrown all over the floor. I found it odd then, because my granddaughter-"
"What's her name, Mrs. Bentley?" Sherlock interrupted.
"It's Ivy, sir." She said politely.
"Continue, please. Why did you find that odd?"
"I found it odd that she'd thrown her clothes on the floor, because my granddaughter has always been very neat, even when she was a small child. She takes after her father."
"Where are her parents?"
"They died in an accident last year. She's been living with me and my husband, Oswald." Mrs. Bentley unconsciously twisted her wedding ring. It was old, John observed, thirty plus years.
"Where was he, while you were out and when you noticed your granddaughter had disappeared?"
"He was at lunch with our son."
"Has Ivy ever been in any trouble?"
"Yes, sir. She got into bad crowd of people when her parents died. She was arrested for drugs. We got her away from them though, and she's been clean as a whistle since then." Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Your granddaughter has returned to old habits, Mrs. Bentley. You'll find her with her old friends. Good day." Sherlock got out of his chair, helping the old woman up and ushering her quickly out of the flat.
"Mr. Holmes, she-"
"Bye now!" Sherlock closed the door in her face. John shook his head and picked up the paper from his side table.
Sherlock's mobile rang. He huffed and put it on silent before he even looked to see who it was.
"You're not going to answer it?" John asked, looking up from the paper.
"Insignificant." He said.
The phone rang again.
"What could you possibly want Anderson?" He snapped into the receiver. He paused for a moment, and a look of surprise flashed across his face.
"Where was he last seen?" He said, disappearing into his bedroom and throwing on clothes. He came out, pulling on his shoes while hopping on one leg.
John got up, looking at Sherlock quizzically.
"I'll be there." Sherlock said, hanging up the phone.
"Lestrade's been kidnapped. I'll need your assistance." Sherlock said, walking out the door and pulling on his coat and scarf.
"He what?" John said, moving to the door and grabbing his coat as well. They were hurrying down the steps and throwing themselves into a cab.
"He's been kidnapped. They don't know much yet, but it is the Scotland Yard. Who knows what goes on in their funny little brains. Let's hope we get there before they compromise the crime scene." The rest of the drive went silently, Sherlock tapping his fingers against his leg, deep in thought.
They arrived at Lestrade's house and Sherlock jumped from the cab, John following shortly after. Sherlock flashed an ID at the officer who was guarding the door and walked in, immediately looking for Lestrade before he realized he wasn't there. Anderson and Sally Donovan stood in the living room, looking at something on the floor. Sherlock moved closer and pulled out his magnifying glass, examining the blood. A few feet away was a broken coffee cup, the contents spilled around it and covering the broken mug. He walked into the clean kitchen, which was cleaned by Lestrade's wife that morning, just before his wife left for work, he observed. He closed his eyes and imagined the situation.
Lestrade came down the stairs, made coffee, gotten ready for work. He was on his way out of the house, walking to the door. Someone came from behind him, attacked him. He dropped the cup, his shoes spreading it around while fighting off his attacker. Judging by the way he spread the coffee, it was only with his toes, indicating the man (obviously) was taller than Lestrade and had considerable strength. Lestrade managed to get free, but the attacker punched him, hence the blood on the tile from where it dripped from his mouth as he bent over. He tackled the attacker, pushing him to the ground. He didn't get far, he was turned over (scratches on the floor from his belt) and Was hit several times. Dragged from the spot on the floor and taken out of the back, where a car waited, put in the back, and driven out of the alley with his attacker in the car with him.
By now, John and the rest of the officers had followed Sherlock out into the alley and to the street. He stood up from the place where he was examining the tire marks on the pavement.
"They went left from the alley, that's all I can tell as of now. The attacker was 6 feet 3 inches tall, he wore dress shoes, and had red-brown hair. There were clear signs of a struggle, even the lot of you could deduce that. Lestrade was surprised, and he recognized he recognized him. He was angry towards him. The attacker was merciless, truly determined to take Lestrade. This man had a motive." Sherlock finished, talking so quickly few of the crowd could understand him. John's mouth was agape, his face showing pure bewilderment.
The crowd dispersed and John watched Sherlock stroll out to the street and hail a cab. He opened the door and waited for John, who jogged to get to the cab. They climbed in and Sherlock told the cabbie to take them back to Baker Street.
Sherlock pulled his mobile out and opened his messages, frowning and then giving the driver an address John had never heard before. The ride took longer than John had hoped. They drove almost out of London, closer to the country.They drove through trees and at this point, the fare had become expensive. They drove up to a wrought iron gate, which lead to a long driveway lined with hedges. They got out and Sherlock payed the driver, who grumbled in response and cursed at Sherlock, mumbling something about him and John.
"Sod off!" Sherlock shouted as he sped off, leaving them at the gate. Sherlock walked up to it, waving at a camera. The gates opened seconds later. John wearily followed behind Sherlock.
"Where are we?" John finally asked. He'd hoped he would know the address once he got there at least, but he'd never been here with Sherlock. Not that he knew of, anyways.
"Mycroft's monstrosity of a mansion. He's always been one to boast about his pay grade." Sherlock said, scoffing at his own words. John furrowed his eyebrows and shrugged, taking in the scenery.
They walked up the long driveway and turned, revealing Mycroft's..palace, as John saw it. It was enormous, with trees and beautiful grey stone. It fit Mycroft Holmes perfectly. It looked like something out of one of the rich people magazines they kept in the waiting room of the clinic.
They finally arrived at the front door, which was immediately opened by a small, white-haired old man.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. Please, come in." He said, his voice small and quiet.
"Thank you, Sterling. You look well." Sherlock said, making sure he could hear him.
"Thank you, sir. May I take your coats?" He said, smiling. Sherlock nodded and shrugged his off, giving it to the butler, John promptly doing the same. He hung their coats on hooks, which were mounted on the grey wall.
"Is Mycroft in?"
"Not as of now, sir. He should be arriving in-" He checked his pocket watch, which was an antique from his father, Stephen. "Ten minutes. I can show you to his office, if you'd like." Sterling said, clasping his hands in front of him.
"That would be lovely, thank you." Sherlock said. John smiled inwardly at how polite and kind he was being to Sterling. It was a nice change from his usual pessimistic, sarcastic self.
Sterling turned on his heel and walked to a long flight of stairs similar to an hourglass. It was white with black on the tops of the steps, leading to two different parts of the house. Sterling turned left, John looking down the right, which was a long hallway with at least 20 doors. The left was the same. The butler lead them down the hallway, stopping at a room with white french doors.
"Here we are. I'll go put some tea on."
"Very well, thank you Sterling." Sherlock said, opening the doors. Sterling nodded and smiled, turning and going back down the hallway and downstairs to the kitchen.
Sherlock pushed the doors open and stepped in, revealing a rather impressive office. Wooden bookshelves (all filled to the brim with what looked like very book you could ever imagine) lined the walls, there was a large, very expensive desk facing away from the windows, which went from floor to ceiling. They overlooked the property; green trees and clear skies. John paced around the room, taking it all in. There were two large leather chairs in front of Mycroft's desk. Mycroft's chair was tailored to fit him to the stitch, like his suits. It was tall and brown, silver studs lining the edges. It even looked like Mycroft.
Sherlock was wondering around, picking things up and going through the drawers and cabinets in the room. He got to his desk and scoffed, picking up a picture and laughing at it silently.
He set it down and stared at it. He could feel John looking at him. His eyes etching into his skin, making his entire body heat up.
The picture was of his family. His Mum and Dad, Mycroft, and himself. He couldn't have been more than 7 years old at most. Mycroft was a teenager, 16 or 17. They all stood, smiling, Sherlock on Mycroft's shoulders and his parents with their arms around each other. John came around to the desk, wondering what Sherlock was doing. He stood beside him and looked at the picture, baffled by the sight.
"That's you? And Mycroft? Who're they?" John asked.
"My parents." He said, looking through the drawers in Mycroft's desk. There were files, a gun, a few mobile phones. He got bored and plopped down in one of the leather chairs, John doing the same after looking at the picture for a while.
"What are they like?" John asked after a moment.
"My parents? Ordinary. Boring. Not much to them." Sherlock said, staring blankly in front of him, watching the courtyard through the window. "Mycroft is here."
John craned his head to see if what he said was true, and sure enough, a black car drove up to the house. After a few moments, they heard the front door open and Sterling greeted him. The house was so quiet and empty, you could hear footsteps from the other side of the house echoing off the walls.
Mycroft walked into the room, Sterling at his heels carrying a tray of tea.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen."
"Hello, brother." Sherlock said, desperately wanting to get to the point.
John nodded at the eldest Holmes brother.
Mycroft sat in his chair, taking his tea and sipping it before folding his hands in his lap professionally.
"So, shall we discuss the matter at hand or finish our tea first?" Mycroft sneered.
"I need your help in finding Sebastian Moran." Something clicked in John's head, and it sounded so familiar. Like it was on his mind, but he couldn't remember why.
"I've been notified that he was on the move this morning. Have you finally decided to get around to it?"
"He has Detective Inspector Lestrade." John's eyes widened. That's why we're here.
"I'm aware. I expected a visit from you, little brother."
"Where does he have him?"
"Well we can't exactly know everything, but I do know his known hideouts. And there's still the off chance that he went somewhere else. Somewhere more...symbolic. He's obviously trying to get your attention, and now he's certainly gotten it." Mycroft drawled.
Sherlock's thoughts clicked into place. His eyes went wide as saucers and his mouth was practically gaping.
"I know where he is, John." Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and tugged him out of his chair, dragging him behind him as he ran down the stairs.
"No need to thank me!" Mycroft shouted after them. They climbed into Mycroft's black limousine and Sherlock shouted an address at the driver. He started the engine and Sherlock instructed him to go as fast as he can.
"Where is he?" John said, closing the car door.
"Where it all started. Where we first met Moriarty. He kidnapped you so he could meet me. Strapped a fucking bomb to your chest. He knew my weaknesses, and so does Moran." Sherlock hissed, clenching his fists.
"I have my gun, if we need it." John said timidly.
"We will."
-
John looked at Sherlock intently, watching him muttering to himself. He couldn't make out what he was saying, but it was something between insults and ramblings about Moriarty. John hadn't been told about him as much as he had hoped, since he was the reason that Sherlock left for 2 years. He always wanted to know what that had been like, but once he found the letter he wrote to Sherlock during that time, he didn't want to know. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly and put his fingers to his temples.
"No, no, not that. It's not that, STOP IT!" Sherlock shouted. John jumped and put his hand on Sherlock's arm.
"Sherlock." John said softly. Sherlock tensed under his grip and pulled away quickly, anger flashing across his face.
"This is my fault, John. I killed Sebastian Moran a year ago. He's supposed to be dead. I shot him myself. Do not comfort me, I can hear it in your voice. Lestrade may die if we don't get there in time. Moran knows that I figured out that it was him." Sherlock rambled. John furrowed his brow and put his hand on Sherlock's thigh.
"It's not your fault. You didn't know this would happen and you certainly wouldn't let him take Greg if you could help it. It's okay, we'll get to him. I've got my gun, you've got that brain of yours, you know. It's admittedly more use than my gun is."
"Finally someone agrees with me." Sherlock scoffed. John laughed at his bluntness.
John never removed his hand. Sherlock placed his own over John's after a while.
They arrived at the address Sherlock gave the driver. It was a seemingly abandoned building. It was a simple white building with a blue stripe across the top. There were glass doors in the front. They tried them, but it was locked. Sherlock found a back entrance and kicked it open. The door opened to a small hallway with a flimsy door at the end. A chemical scent filled their noses and Sherlock sniffed the air loudly.
"He's been here." Sherlock said. John pulled his gun out and cocked it, his hands steady. Sherlock opened the door, John squinting as a bright light filled the dark hallway. John peeked around Sherlock to get a look at the room. It was a swimming pool, one for working out and swim meets. It was lit by rows of fluorescent lights. Sherlock stopped and went stiff.
Lestrade was tied to a chair at the end of a diving board. It was tipped slightly, and his arms and legs were tied together with rope. John reached in his pocket for his knife and made his way towards Lestrade.
"John!" Sherlock shouted, warning him. John looked at Sherlock and saw that they weren't alone. John's heart stopped. Sebastian Moran stood there, his red hair like fire against Sherlock's pale skin. His gun was pressed against Sherlock's temple. John raised his gun and pointed it at Moran's head.
"Ah, ah, ah. That's not how that works. Drop it before I shoot his brains out." Moran said, pressing the gun harder against Sherlock's head. Sherlock had a completely blank look on his face.
"Alright, I'm dropping it," John said cautiously, setting his gun on the tile floor.
"You alright, Greg?" John said, not taking his eyes off Moran and Sherlock.
"Yeah, I'm good." He said quietly. He struggled in his chair, but stopped once the diving board shook from movement.
Sherlock was blinking rapidly. John didn't notice at first, but he saw Sherlock trying to tell him something. Morse code?
GET HIM. Sherlock said, looking at Lestrade.
John gulped and looked between Lestrade and Sherlock.
"Listen, whatever you want, you don't have to kill him for it." John negotiated, ignoring Sherlock's communication.
STOP. Sherlock blinked rapidly.
"Oh, believe me, I do. Jim wanted this. Who am I to deny his dying wish?" Moran said. "And sorry, but I've got to kill you and the inspector over there. Can't have you coming after me, now can we?" Moran cocked the gun and Sherlock clenched his jaw tightly.
"WAIT!" John and Lestrade shouted in unison. John's blood was pounding through his veins. He moved towards them and Moran pointed the gun at John. He held Sherlock by the neck, who was scratching at his attacker's arm. Sherlock was rapidly blinking at John again.
NOW, JOHN. Sherlock nodded at John and Sherlock broke free from Moran's grasp. He kicked his legs out from under him and John lunged for his gun, picking it up and aiming it right at Moran. Sherlock wrestled with him and finally got the gun from Moran's hand, pinning him on the ground with his hands behind his back and put the gun against the back of his head.
"You are weak. A frankly poor excuse for an assassin, and a disgusting excuse of a man." Sherlock spat in his ear. Moran struggled beneath him and John rushed to Lestrade. He edged out on the diving board, careful not to wobble it. Lestrade was terrified and tired. The board shook and John stopped in his tracks. He pulled the knife from his pocket and tossed it carefully to Greg. Lestrade angled the knife so he could cut the first rope. John looked at Sherlock, who was calling someone on his phone now, the gun still against Sebastian's head. Lestrade got him arms untied, but as he moved to get to his legs, the chair tipped and he fell into the water, knife in his hands and still attached to the wooden chair.
"Shit!" John gasped and ran to the edge of the diving board and diving into the freezing water. He opened his eyes, the scene blurry from the water. He found the knife and started working on the rope, sawing it as quickly as he could. Lestrade struggled to get free. He was letting the air out of his lungs, and John saw the bubbles floating to the surface as he struggled to hold his breath. He struggled while John worked at the thick rope.
Lestrade went still. John took a few more seconds to saw through the last strand, and he grabbed Lestrade by his waist up to the surface. He hauled himself over the edge and pulled Lestrade onto the cold tile. Sherlock and Moran were in the same spot, Sherlock unable to move and unable to speak. John started CPR and pumped his chest.
"Come on, Greg." John pleaded. No response. After a few more pumps, Lestrade choked and spat out water, coughing violently.
"Thank god." John sighed. He looked at Sherlock, who was smiling at him warmly. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and John couldn't help but smile back, his chest warming despite his freezing clothes clinging to him.