John's POV
It was only two days later that we got the call from Greg. "We've got eyes on him, we're going after him. The intersection of Brixton and Villa." He hung up without another word.
Sherlock, who had been sitting nearby, listening, was on his feet in an instant. We both grabbed our guns quickly and were out the door in a matter of seconds. The place wasn't far from the flat so we took off in a sprint.
We ran together, arms pumping and breathing labored until we came to the intersection. Sherlock had already pulled his phone out, looking for more information on where to go. "They're headed down Brixton, come on," he grabbed my arm, basically pulled me along with him.
We found the others quickly, it had only been ten minutes since the call had happened in the first place. Donovan was the only two I really knew other than Greg. I pulled my gun out, cocking into place. Greg nodded to us and glanced back out into the street from the alley we were in.
"He's inside that store," his head jerked to indicate the hardware shop three doors down from the alley. "Only shoot if you have to, and only to hurt. Not kill, he'll lead us to the rest of the organization."
I nodded, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I glanced at Sherlock, noting his eyes blown wide, chest heaving with breath. The night air was cool and crisp against my skin. I turned back to the street, ready to run at a moment's notice.
Seconds later, a white man in his early 60's walked out of the stores. Paul Stewart. Greg stepped out into the street, gun pointed directly at him. Two others and Donovan had gone out with him, creating a flank against him.
"Scotland Yard, put your hands in the air!"He turned and saw four guns pointed directly at him. He grinned devilishly, revealing crooked yellow teeth. He lifted the hood off his face, revealing the rest of him.
Brown eyes dead with roiling hatred, his light brown hair peppered with gray. The tattoo wasn't just a swastika, it was intertwined with a symbol I vaguely recognized from the American terrorist organization, the Klu Klux Klan.
"Well, well, it seems that the police finally got their act together. Unfortunately, you're not going to shoot me. You need me, for information." His voice was like nails on a chalkboard, scratching against my ears.
"Catch me if you can," he teased. He bolted in the opposite direction, leaving us with no option but to follow.
Greg cursed loudly as the five of us sprinted after him. Sherlock was running the fastest, gaining ground with every second. The path Paul Stewart had taken was filled with twists and turns, having us slamming against walls every so often in order to make the sharp turns.
Sherlock halted, barely giving the rest of us enough room to stop before slamming into him. "We'll lose him if we keep following him this way," his eyes flitted around the alley, mind spinning with the thousands of possibilities. He reached for a fire escape of a building and began to scale it. I followed suit behind him.
"Are you insane?" Greg called up. We were both halfway up the building when I called down.
"One thing I learned the second night I knew my husband, Greg, was that he can get anywhere in London in the fastest way possible. Come on, or we'll lose him." Greg paused only for a moment before following. Donovan was the last to join, hesitating longer than the others.
Before the others had even joined us on the top of the building, we were running again, jumping down from small ledges until we reached a gap. The two of us leaped without a second thought, landing easily on the other side. The others followed closely after a moment of hesitation before jumping.
"There he is!" Sherlock exclaimed. He was right. Down to the left of us was Paul Stewart, still running.
Sherlock had already peeled away and was quickly scaling down another fire escape. He was running towards Stewart as the rest of us followed. My chest was heaving when I landed.
Sherlock was focused solely on Stewart and didn't notice as six more Skinheads emerged from the shadows. Panic seized my body and I snapped my gun up at one of them as I ran. Greg and Donovan were already running towards the others. They all wore masks, except for Stewart.
This was a trap. We were outnumbered.
I saw Sherlock tackle Stewart to the ground out of the corner of my eye. The man saw me and turned to me. He was my height, though bulging muscles came from all angles of him.
He threw the first punch, landing the blow to my stomach. It knocked my gun from my hand, out of reach.I reeled back, clutching my stomach. I managed to dodge the next one and flung my fist into the side of his face.
We were dealing blows, bone-crunching against impacts before I managed to get my gun back. I pointed at him, breathing heavily. He was on his knees below me, blood slowly leaking from under his mask.
I could hear Sherlock from a distance. He'd gotten Stewart into handcuffs, and Greg was pulling him up off the pavement. The devilish, yellow grin was still stuck on his face, sticky from the blood pouring from his cheek.
I turned my attention back to the masked Skinhead in front of me. "It's over now, you and your friends have been caught." The mask only revealed his eyes and lips, which curled back to show a wicked smile.
"Have we?" he snarled. And with that, his foot shot out, knocking me to the ground. He broke into a run into the maze of alleys and disappeared from sight. My head spun as my eyes fell shut.
"John!"I was awoken by Sherlock's voice, distant. I groaned, opening my eyes. I pushed myself into a sitting position as Sherlock ran up. He dropped to his knees helping me. "Are you alright?" I nodded, rolling my stiff shoulder and bleeding shoulder.
"Your shoulder," he muttered. My shirt was ripped, revealing a cut made by the rings the Skinhead had been wearing. It wasn't deep, but still painful.
"I'm fine, are you okay?" He nodded. I let my hands roam over his arms and face, looking for any serious damage. He was okay. I breathed a sigh of relief and let him pull me to my feet.
Donovan had left in the police car with Paul Stewart to get him to Scotland Yard.
Greg came jogging over, gun still in hand. "The rest got away, no idea where they went." Sherlock helped me to my feet. I stifled a groan at the pain in my shoulder and leaned against into him.
"We'll talk to him in the morning, for now, we're going home. Give Mycroft my regards." Greg nodded, letting us walk towards the main road.
Sherlock and I were both holding onto each other as we found a cab back home. "I'm okay, Sherlock. Really, I'm fine. A little sore, but I'm fine." He nodded, the worry not leaving his eyes.
We got home and Sherlock helped me inside. I sat heavily on the bed, pulling off my shirt to inspect the cut. "Love, could you fetch me the first aid kit?" He nodded, disappearing from the room.
The cut wasn't deep, but there was a layer of dirt and grime around it, it needed to be cleaned. He came back, handing the bag to me. I thanked him and set about cleaning the cut.
He leaned against the doorway, watching silently. "If I hadn't been so focused on Paul Stewart, I would've seen the others. You wouldn't have gotten hurt," his voice cracked as tears welled his eyes.
"Come here, love." I finished bandaging my shoulder and patted my leg. He unfolded his arms and came to sit on my lap. I kissed him firmly. His arms draped around my neck and I pulled far enough away to look at him.
Blue eyes still watering, raven curls messed up. "I know what this is for you, my love. I do not blame you for that, for any of this. You need to stop blaming yourself."
I tucked a curl behind his ear and kissed him again. His hands went to either side of my face, kissing me sweetly. He pulled back after a moment and simply hugged me.
"I saw him knock you to the ground. I saw your eyes shut, and I was so scared, John." I rubbed his back soothingly, my other hand pressing into the back of his head.
"It's okay, I'm here. I'm okay," I whispered. His breaths were shaky and rapid but began to calm as I stroked his back and hair. I reached down, pulling off both our shoes so that we could lie on the bed. I helped him unbutton his shirt, stopping to kiss him after every button.
He helped me slip into a sleep shirt, it was too painful to get it on by myself. He slipped into pajama pants and helped me back into bed. We were facing each other in bed, kissing slowly. My hands roamed over his skin, slowly making sure that he didn't have any wounds at all. He didn't have any, but I noted his own fingers tracing over me. We were okay, we'd caught him. I fell asleep with his head resting on my chest.
Sherlock's POV
I awoke in the night, skin burning with heat. John had rolled away in sleep, now on his back with his arms slung about. I kicked off the blankets, trying to cool down. I was still boiling, my pajamas sticking to my legs. I sat up, careful not to disturb my sleeping husband. I pushed my hair away from my forehead, dripping with sweat.
I stood, glancing back to John. He'd gotten hurt, in my own selfish blindness. I wanted to hurt Paul Stewart, for everything he'd done to Olivia, to Alice, my Mycroft, to myself. I hadn't seen the others, hadn't seen them until I saw one knock him to the ground. I bent down and pressed a kiss to his cheek before walking out.
The sitting room was much cooler, though still far too warm. I padded to the window, cracking it to let the night air in. Not so much night really.
The first rays of the sun were descending on London, washing the city in warm, pink light. Not enough time to go back to bed then, we were supposed to go down to Scotland Yard to question Paul Stewart in just a couple hours.
Instead, I pulled my violin out of its case. I hadn't played since Olivia's death, I hadn't wanted to. It reminded me too much of the spells she could cast with her voice. Before then, it had become a habit to play it every day, but now... It had been two weeks since she died. Two weeks without playing, two weeks plagued by an unnameable sadness.
I lifted it to my chin, the bow coming to strings. I drew out one note, long and deep. Another, this one higher but still dark. And another, and another until I was playing a slow melancholy melody.
After a while, John padded in, yawning. I didn't stop as he paused to press his lips to the corner of my mouth before going into the kitchen to make tea. I stopped when he was standing beside me again, two steaming mugs in his hands. I set the violin back in its case and accepted the mug from his hands.
"Morning, Sherlock. What's got you up so early?" He took a sip from his own mug, the other hand running up and down my spine. "Couldn't sleep," I mumbled.
He nodded and leaned in to kiss just below my ear. "You play beautifully." We both knew it was the first time I'd played since she'd died.
"I can't believe she's been gone for two weeks, John." I took a sip of my tea, as he responded. "I know. Neither can I, it feels like both two days and two months."
He made breakfast wordlessly, luring me in so that I would eat. I did without complaint, before going to shower and dress. He was already ready to go when I emerged. He handed me my coat and scarf, even though the weather was warm enough to go without them.
"Into battle?" John asked softly. I slipped the coat over my shoulders and he flipped the collar up. He leaned in, kissing me with a softness that I had not known two years ago.
"Into battle," I confirmed as he drew away. I tied my scarf on before we left in a cab, fingers knotted together.
Greg was waiting for us when we arrived. He led us back to where Paul Stewart was currently being questioned.
"No information from him so far, though we're hoping that'll change." He stopped in front of a window, looking in to see the Skinhead lounging on the other side of the table from Donovan.
His dry lips were pulled back in a sly grin, showing the yellow teeth. Bottomless brown eyes that portrayed no emotion whatsoever. The tattoo took up half his face easily. His mouth moved, but I couldn't tell what he was saying. I swallowed, a memory flickering in the back of my mind.
I remember him, remembered his voice, his violence. He'd been the most violent, most cruel, of my father's friends. John's hand pressed into mine, understanding what I was feeling. Donovan stood, frustrated. She walked out, huffing.
"Nothing. Not a thing. He won't talk to me," she was trembling with rage. I glanced back, realizing what he'd been saying. Donovan was rubbing her brown skin as if she could rub it away. I felt my eyes widen with the realization.
He wouldn't talk to her because she was mixed race. Because her skin was brown, her hair textured. The tattoo on his cheek proved it. "Donovan," I said quietly. Her eyes lifted to mine, her lips trembling. "I'm sorry," I stated simply. There was nothing else to say, she'd been deemed inferior by him.
We all knew it wasn't true, that she was as useful to Scotland Yard as anyone else. We'd never gotten along, she had never liked me and I had never liked her. But that didn't mean she deserved to be treated like shit.
"Get the answers, Sherlock. I want him and his organization gone as much as anyone else." It was one of the only times she'd called me by name.
I steeled myself and nodded. I walked in with John, shutting the door behind me. "Well, well, it seems they've finally thrown in who I really want to see," the croaky voice drawled. I swallowed again, sitting down in the metal chair across from him.
"You already know who I am, so let's skip the small talk." The Skinhead raised his brow, eyes lifting to John.
"Sharp today, are we? You didn't use to be like that, you know. You were all wobbly knees and shaking voice last time we really talked. That's not quite true now, is it? Just look at what you've done to my tattoo." The rings I wore, John's rings, had made quite the bloody mess of the left side of his face and tattoo, to my small satisfaction. But it didn't override the rest of what he was saying.
My lips were set into a firm line to keep from showing how much the mention of my childhood affected me. "Where are the rest? We know you've got a base in London, there's no use in keeping it from us. Where are the rest?"
Pale, shriveled fingers drummed on the table, "Interesting that you haven't asked me about your little friend. About whether or not I killed her." I clenched my fists under the table but kept my voice calm and smooth.
"There's enough evidence as it is to show that you killed her." He smirked, leaning across the table. "Is there? Perhaps I plead not guilty, would there be enough evidence to slam me in jail? Would there be no-"
"Yes, now back to my question. Where are the rest?" I cut him off, not particularly caring to hear the rest. He glanced at John who stood with his back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.
"I knew you were a faggot when you were just a kid. Your father didn't believe me, of course, he didn't think he was capable of producing such horrid offspring. I didn't push it any further, I knew he would see it eventually. He did, but you landed him in jail."
"Where. Are. The. Rest?" I ground out through gritted teeth. Memories dashed across my brain, painful lashes against my skin, screamed insults.
"Do you still have the scars? I know there had to be some, with how badly he beat you. But did it fade over time? Or were they deep enough to-"
"WHERE ARE THE OTHERS?" I bellowed, rising to stand over him. His smile was lupine, obscene. His eyes showed no sign of even a flickering emotion. "TELL ME! WHERE ARE THEY?"
"You'll never know, William." I stood straight up, spine cracking as I stood. I shot my arm out, delivering a right hook. I pulled him by the shirt collar up before he could fall off the chair.
"You ever call me that again, and I'll kill you," I spit. I released him as John grabbed my shoulder, pulling me out of the room.
Greg didn't quite look shocked and shrugged. "Mycroft told you about that," I accused. He shrugged again, arms crossed over his chest. No one had moved, I realized. No one had made a move, no one went to pull me away. John had only intervened after I'd punched him.
"He deserved it, and it just so happens," Greg said, "That the cameras were down for inspection." John's brow raised, one hand coming around my waist.
"Thank you," I murmured. I could feel John's confusion, no one else knew about this. No one but Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson knew, and now apparently Greg. He nodded again and let us go. Normally, I would've insisted to stay, learn more. But today, I just wanted to go home. I just wanted to sleep, forget that he'd ever existed. Just for today. I could deal with it all tomorrow, but not today.
John was quiet during the ride home, though it was evident that he had questions. He didn't ask until we were in the sitting room, mugs of tea in hand.
"Sherlock? Love?" I nodded, setting the mug down on the coffee table. He didn't understand exactly what had caused my outburst, his brow was scrunched as he tried to work it out. I stood from my chair, stretching. I curled up in his lap, letting my legs dangle over the edge of his chair.
His free hand came to rest on my hip, his thumb stroking it gently. His lips closed around my collarbone before he drew away.
"When I was younger, when my father was still around," I began shakily. "He called me William. Nothing else, even when I'd asked to be called Sherlock. And being called by name, not boy or stupid boy, usually meant a beating."
His eyes were trained on mine, his gaze soft and open. Horrified, but comforting. "I used to flinch at the sound of my own name, but Sherlock wasn't what he called me. That's why I wanted to be called it so badly." I sniffed, picking at my nails.
"I didn't know, I'm so sorry Sherlock," John murmured. He set his tea down carefully, his hands now coming to stroke either side of my face.
"I don't hate my name anymore. That's thanks to you, you know." He smiled sympathetically. I was referring to all the times he'd lovingly, endearingly called me by my whole name. But it was the care and love that he said it with that made it not so bad.
John smiled softly, leaning in to kiss me once. I sighed, leaning against him. I was still upset about the conversation with the Skinhead, despite my husbands best efforts to cheer me up. His face was pressed into my neck, breathing in deeply.
"Darling?" I asked. His grip on me tightened, holding me close to him. I let my fingertips drag across his cheek, waiting for him to speak. He eventually brought his head up and leaned his forehead against my own.
"I am reminded, every day, how much I love you. How far I would go to protect you, to keep you safe. But these last few weeks, with Olivia," he swallowed. "We already know I would kill for you, and I would die for you, but watching Alice begin to lose her mind again, it puts it all in perspective. I can't go five minutes without thinking about her or how terrified I am that I'll lose you too."
Tears stung the backs of my eyes, exhaustion hanging onto my bones. "I love you, John. My brave man, I love you. I know, it's terrifying. But I'm here, I'm here." He pulled my body against him, clinging tightly to me.
"I know it's barely noon, but neither of us slept well, can we at least go take a nap?" John laughed, releasing me.
"Sure, love. That sounds great, actually." I pulled him up and into our bedroom. I had barely slept for three hours, him not much longer. I fell asleep not an hour later, listening to his heartbeat against my ear.
***
The next day, John and I went in to talk to the team of agents and Greg and Mycroft about what was going to happen now. Though Paul Stewart was now in custody, Alice wasn't exactly safe. We knew of at least six others within the organization, with no telling how many there truly were.
Seated around the same table as of when the last meeting occurred, when Olivia was still here, the air was thick and heavy. Afiba and Nneoma were not here, nor Jack. They were all home, stuck in the same air of anguish.
Sofia stood, taking charge of the meeting. "Now that Paul Stewart is in our custody, there is no current reason for Miss Truby to remain in a safe house." Her red hair shined in its high bun, catching the glinting light.
"However, I believe it would be best to keep twenty-four-hour surveillance on her. She could be moved back into her own home, just with at least one agent in the flat, and at least one in the shop. Two outside wouldn't hurt as well, but that would be up to the family."
I ran my tongue over my teeth. Perhaps it would be best for Alice to come back to the city, though that could just as easily set her off again. I'd visited her multiple times, her condition was only worsening. Last time I'd seen her, she'd talked solely about Olivia's hair. It had been heartbreaking to see, to understand what she was going through.
The psychologist nodded, the tip of his pen slipping in and out of his mouth. "I'd like to visit her every other day, her condition is understandably getting worse, but much more and her mental sanity could be at risk."
Greg, Mycroft, and Sofia discussed specifics of what would happen to Alice, solemn faces all around. John squeezed my hand under the table, giving me a sad smile. I squeezed his hand in response before letting it go to stand.
"When is Alice getting moved?" My voice was much steadier than I felt and I had to keep a hand on the table to keep my composure.
Sofia glanced up from the paperwork set about. "She can be moved today if she'd prefer it. Though, terms and other legal work will need to happen before the transfer can be complete. I'd say realistically within two or three days."
I nodded as I felt a strong arm slide soothingly along my back. Mycroft signed a paper, not looking up. "Brother mine, go home. This is all legal work from here on out, so there's no reason for you to be here."
I stepped back, eyes narrowing. "No reason? If it involves Alice, I have a reason to be here." John squeezed my shoulder, shaking his head. His stormy gaze caught mine, lovely and sad all at once.
"Come on, dear. Mycroft's right. Let's go home, okay? We can sort through the transcription of Paul Stewart's questionings." I nodded and let him lead me out of the room.
We left the building, heading back home. It wasn't until we were home that we truly spoke. "I know this is difficult, Sherlock. It is for everyone, we all miss her." I slumped against him, letting him slowly massage my back and shoulders.
"Do you want to work, eat, sleep, or shower? Or all?" He asked quietly. I chuckled, turning my head to kiss his cheek.
"All. Preferably work, eat, shower, sleep," I mumbled. He nodded, breaking away.
"You go set everything up then, and I'll make tea for us." He leaned in, brushing his lips against mine before whisking away.
We ended up working for a couple more hours, picking up where we'd left off in the afternoon. It was late at night when I'd gotten to Detective Scott's conversation with Stewart. After a couple rounds, Greg had figured out that he would only talk if the person was white, straight, and Christian. Detective Scott, while a kind man, suited all of those descriptions, and had gotten some significant answers from him.
"John, come look at this," I called. Moments later, he appeared behind the chair, looking over my shoulder. His eyes scanned it, before peeling away to look at me.
"I mean, we already knew that he'd gotten significant answers, what are you thinking?" It wasn't anything we hadn't already seen, but the pieces were falling into place in my mind.
"Scott asked if there were any more attacks coming. How did Stewart reply?" He glanced back at the sheet, his brow knitting together.
"Well, he said, 'You won't know until it comes. Until it all comes. Until the day you die.' Sherlock, we already knew there was a plan for more attacks." He shrugged, not understanding.
"I don't think that was necessarily directed at Scott. What happens in four days. What happened a year ago, in four days? March 16th?" His eyes widened as the puzzle fell into place in his mind as well."
"Your last attempt." He straightened, walking to the case board on the wall. "How could he possibly know that? I mean, it was never even truly mentioned on my blog."
"We don't know how large the organization truly is. We don't know if it's just the six other men we saw, or if it's a hundred more. We don't know what they know. All we know is that one year ago, on March 16th, I attempted again, and all we know now is that they are taunting us." I stood, walking to the wall as well. My eyes flitted over all the documents, the files, the pictures, maps, every scrap of evidence we'd collected since December.
"I think something is going to happen. Maybe not something big, but the next domino in line will fall. The curtain rises, and new actors are on the stage."
John loosed a shuddering breath, pulling out his phone. "I'm phoning Greg. If something, anything is going to happen, the police need to be on high alert. The media too." He left to the kitchen, talking quietly with Greg.
I nodded faintly, still letting my gaze wash over everything we'd learned in the past months. It was quite extensive, now covering most of the wall. John came back into the room a couple minutes later, setting his phone on the coffee table.
"They'll be on high alert. He said thanks for the heads up." I didn't turn around, just nodded again, not letting him see that my eyes were burning with unshed tears. A pair of strong arms wrapped around my waist, a chin rested on my shoulder.
"I know that that day was already going to be tough, love." He turned his head, lips kissing my collarbone.
"But you'll be okay. We'll be okay. And we're going to get through this, my love." I turned around, a tear falling from my eye.
Eyes softening, he reached up to wipe it away. "Can I take that shower now?" I asked shakily. He leaned in, his lips brushing mine before he spoke.
"You can do whatever you'd like, my sweet. I can go start it for you if you'd like." I nodded and he swept away. I cleared my throat, collecting myself. I didn't want to cry right now. I knew that John would be there for me, do whatever I needed, at the drop of a hat. But I didn't want to cry. I simply didn't want to.
It was difficult to fall asleep that night. I eventually did, listening to John's heartbeat as his nose was pressed into my still damp hair.