"Stupid, stupid bloody detectives and their stupid-AHH!" Clara rounded a corner and smacked straight into Sherlock and John.
"Jesus, Clara, what are you doing?" John exclaimed.
Clara snagged on Sherlock's coat to stop herself from falling. "Finding you two idiots," she answered, blowing her hair out of her face.
"We're being chased by the police!" he argued.
"Which is why we need to get out of sight!" Sherlock hissed and dragged them deeper into the alley.
Clara had her back flattened to the wall, her shoulder flush against Sherlock's. Flashing blue and red lights reflected off of the graffiti for a brief second. Clara turned to find him waving his gun around like it wasn't a weapon that could fire at any second. "Clara, go home or to Mycroft or to - look, just get out of here."
"No, no way Cheekbones," Clara answered. She grabbed the gun by the barrel and shoved it out of her face. "I don't really want to be shot in the face, thanks."
Sherlock sighed, the frustration plain in the lines of his face. "Back when we were investigating Moriarty for the first time - the snog box day, the-"
"What?!" John said, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.
"The fake painting and the Golem...? What did you make me promise?" He asked, his like intense pools of ice. "I remember it very well because you slapped me very hard."
"Oh, right," Clara said, a red blush creeping up her neck. "Um, I dunno..."
"I promised to not let another innocent person die for the sake of the game."
Clara swallowed, searching his face. What was he going on about? "Yes, I remember but-"
He cut her off by snapping a pair of handcuffs around her wrist and the adjoining cuff around a rusted pipe. "Sherlock!" she screeched, rattling her hand against the restraint. Did he keep a pair on him at all times?
"I'm sorry," he murmured. He leant forward, dragging John's arm with him and pressed his lips against her hair. She was too stunned to move, to say anything. "I'm so sorry, Clara."
He walked away, dragging John with him. John spared her a pitiful glance and a shake of his head - he couldn't do anything to help.
"Sherlock?" Clara called, her brain finally connecting with her mouth. "Sh-shit..." The cuff clanked against the pipe, making her skin bark in pain.
.
"Don't look at me like that," Sherlock muttered, his face blank of emotions.
"You can't just leave her there!" John protested.
"She's probably texted half of Scotland Yard by now."
"We don't know that!" Sherlock kept on walking, ignoring John's bitter sideways glances. They stuck close to the wall as the familiar lights of another police car flashed past. John looked backwards, spying a figure hiding in the shadows. "We're being followed. I knew we couldn't outrun the police."
"That's not the police. It's one of my new neighbours from Baker Street. Let's see if he can give us some answers."
"Where the heck are we even going?"
Sherlock smirked. "We're going to jump in front of that bus."
"What?!"
Sherlock started sprinting, the handcuffs snapping taut between them. The red double decker's driver slammed on the horn, the brakes squealing as Sherlock and John halted in front. Yet they were going to be splattered across the highway regardless. A man charged on the road, tackling the two to the curb. Sherlock grunted, his head hitting the damp pavement. He could already feel the rough graze on his shoulder bleeding into his dress shirt. He scrambled up, snatching the man's pistol from his jacket and pointing it at him. The assassin was balding, with heavy stubble gracing his jaw and looked very surprised to have his own weapon threatening him.
"Tell me what you want from me," Sherlock demanded, finger resting calmly on the trigger. "Tell me!"
"He left it at your flat," he growled through his teeth, as if it was a struggle to say it.
"Who?"
"Moriarty."
"What?" They all started to get to their feet, the gun still separating them from their so called neighbour.
"The computer key code."
"Of course," Sherlock breathed, realisation hitting him like a gust of wind. He dropped his guard - mind whirling. "He's selling it – the programme he used to break into the Tower. He planted it when he came around."
Suddenly, three gunshots pierced the air. The assassin convulsed, the bullets ripping through his chest and dropped to the ground. Police sirens wailed from a few blocks away. John and Sherlock sprinted in the opposite direction, stopping to catch their breath in a secluded archway.
"It's a game-changer. It's a key – it can break into any system and it's sitting in our flat right now. That's why he left that message telling everyone where to come. 'Get Sherlock.' We need to get back into the flat and search."
"We can't - CID will be camped out there and...Clara. Why plant it on you though?"
"It's another subtle way of smearing my name. Now I'm best pals with all those criminals."
John looked away, and spied a stack of newspapers. He read the front page, brows drawing and the lines in his face deepening. "Yeah, well, have you seen this?" He took one, 'The Sun' logo blaring off the page in red font. "A kiss and tell. Some bloke called Rich Brook."
Sherlock spared it a glance. It was an upcoming exposé and completely irrelevant except for two names: Rich Brook and the author, Kitty Riley.
.
John could sense Sherlock fidgeting, despite the darkness they sat in. The handcuffs joining them shifted ever so slightly as Sherlock tapped his fingers. They'd been sitting on Kitty Riley's lumpy couch for over an hour. John jolted at every squeak of the window panes, paranoid that a swat team would barge through the door at any moment. It was a relief when they finally heard the footsteps of the journalist. She rattle her keys out of her bag but paused, realising the door was ajar. She fumbled for the light and jumped when she saw them sitting on her own sofa, drumming their fingers. "Too late to go on record?" Sherlock drawled. She grumbled something and dumped her bag at the base of the armchair and sat down, crossing her legs. "Got a hair pin?" Sherlock mumbled, rattling the handcuffs.
She rolled her eyes and pulled one from her bun and flicked it over. "Congratulations," he said, jiggling the lock, "The truth about Sherlock Holmes." He uncuffed his wrist, rubbing the red marks. He handed the pin to John. "The scoop that everyone wanted and you got it - bravo!"
"I gave you the opportunity!" Kitty argued, waving her hands. "I wanted to be on your side, remember? You turned me down, so..."
Sherlock started to pace in front of her, hands clasped behind his back. "And then, behold, someone turns up and spills all the beans. How utterly convenient. Who is Brook?"
Kitty shook her head, lips sealed shut.
"Oh, come on, Kitty. No-one trusts the voice at the end of a telephone." Sherlock hardly noticed that John had finally freed himself from the handcuffs. "There are all those furtive little meetings in cafés; those sessions in the hotel room where he gabbled into your dictaphone. How do you know that you can trust him? A man turns up with the Holy Grail in his pockets. What were his credentials?"
Suddenly, someone walked through the front door. "Darling, they didn't have any ground coffee so I just got normal..." John's stomach dropped to the floor. There he was - cardigan, jeans and sloppy white shirt. Jim Moriarty was still recognisable despite his appearance. Jim dropped his shopping bags and backed away, hands up in defence. "You said that they wouldn't find me here. You said that I'd be safe here," he said, staring at Kitty with plain fear.
"You are safe, Richard. I'm a witness. He wouldn't harm you in front of witnesses," Kitty assured him.
John's face slackened with shock but a second later anger hardened his features. "So that's your source? Moriarty is Richard Brook?!"
"Of course he's Richard Brook. There is no Moriarty. There never has been."
John was puffing in rage. "What are you talking about?"
"Look him up. Rich Brook – an actor Sherlock Holmes hired to be Moriarty."
John looked at Sherlock, hoping he would do something - anything! But the detective was just staring at Jim with blank eyes.
"Doctor Watson, I know you're a good man," Moriarty started. John had never heard him plead. It was strangely human. John took a step towards him, anger fueling his thoughts. "Don't ... don't h... Don't hurt me," Moriarty shrieked, backing into the wall.
"No, you are Moriarty!" John shouted, pointing at this man, this pretender. He turned to Kitty, "He's Moriarty!" He pointed back to Moriarty, practically snarling. "We've met, remember? You were gonna blow me up!"
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Moriarty told him, clutching his face. He gestured wildly to Sherlock, tears lining his eyes. "He paid me. I needed the work. I'm an actor. I was out of work. I'm sorry, okay?"
John swallowed his anger, even though his hands clenched into fists regardless. "Sherlock, you'd better...explain...because I am not getting this."
"Oh I'll ... I'll be doing the explaining – in print." Kitty shoved a thick binder into his hands. "It's all here – conclusive proof." Sherlock flicked through the pages - news articles, pictures, proof.
"You invented James Moriarty, your nemesis," Kitty spat, her eyes slicing to Sherlock.
"Invented him?" John protested, still flicking the pages.
"Mmm-hmm. Invented all the crimes, actually – and to cap it all, you made up a master villain."
"Oh, don't be ridiculous!" He slammed the binder shut.
Kitty pointed to Jim, her face twisting in vexation. "Ask him. He's right here! Just ask him. Tell him, Richard!"
"Look, for God's sake, this man was on trial!" John shouted.
"And he rigged the jury," she replied, motioning to Sherlock. "Not exactly a West End role, but I'll bet the money was good. But not so good he didn't want to sell his story."
"I am sorry. I am. I am sorry," Jim repeated, again and again.
"So-so this is the story that you're gonna publish. The big conclusion of it all: Moriarty's an actor?!" John didn't know what to do. Sherlock was deathly silent and Clara...Clara was probably still handcuffed to a pole in an abandoned alley. Why wasn't she here to stop everything - to put some life into Sherlock's eyes?
"He knows I am. I have proof. I have proof. Show him, Kitty! Show him something!" Another binder was pressed into John's hand. More proof. What the fuck was happening?! "I'm on TV. I'm on kids' TV. I'm The Storyteller. It's on DVD."
Moriarty turned to Sherlock, his voice frantic. "Just tell him. It's all coming out now. It's all over. Just tell them. Just tell them. Tell him!"
Sherlock finally snapped. His teeth were bared as he took a few steps towards Moriarty. "Don't you touch me! Don't you lay a finger on me!"
"Stop it - STOP IT NOW!"
Jim sprinted up the stairs. Kitty and John were both shouting as Sherlock followed. Jim slammed the door shut. Sherlock pushed on the door and ended up ramming his shoulder into it. He fell through into a bathroom but all he found was an open window and a blast of cold air freezing his face. He roared in fury and hurtled down the stairs.
Kitty blocked him at the front door, her words venomous. "D'you know what, Sherlock Holmes? I look at you now and I can read you. You...Repel...Me..."
Sherlock stormed outside, hardly able to organise his thoughts. John was blabbering something but he couldn't focus. "He's been sowing doubt into people's minds for the last twenty-four hours. There's only one thing he needs to do to complete his game, and that's to..." Sherlock stopped dead. His face was bloodless.
"Sherlock?"
"Something I need to do."
"What? Can I help?"
"No – on my own."
.
"This will break her heart," the Doctor whispered. His hands were still by his side for once in his life.
Sherlock swallowed, the emotion was thick in his throat. "I know. That's why I'm asking you."
"You have no idea what this will do to her," the Doctor hissed, the words crawling out from between his gritted teeth angrily.
Sherlock looked at him, eyes gilded with sorrow and fury. "No, I know exactly what this will do. I know how much this could possibly hurt," he spat, almost sneering. How dare this man think for a second that he didn't know how Clara's chest would cave in, her sobs drowning his own heart. "The sky will fall in on her head, she'll walk off the edge of the Earth and I won't be able to stop it - so please, please look after her. She's strong, but she's not invincible. And I think we both know that."
The Doctor's face seemed to soften slightly. His brown eyes grew sorrowful and he pressed his mouth into a thin line. "Okay," he whispered, looking at the ground.