Chapter Text
“I’m sure you are already aware that when my brother returned, he was not quite the same,” Mycroft said, sitting cosy in a stiff-backed chair in his office.
“Yeah, living in Norway as an explorer probably had something to do with it,” John said, thumbing through one of Mycroft’s books with no intent to read it. “All the herring…”
Mycroft folded his hands and turned to look at John. “My brother is a sick man,” he said.
“Tell me about it,” John mumbled.
“Over the course of these past two years, it has become necessary to keep him out of this country,” Mycroft said. “His genius has caused him to suffer. He is beginning to lose his grasp on reality.”
“What do you..?” John started.
“He thinks Moriarty is still alive,” Mycroft said. “He is, in a word, obsessed. He sees the enemy around every corner and I fear for his safety should he lose himself entirely to these delusions.”
“What’s your proof that Moriarty’s dead? A body? An autopsy? A funeral – Sherlock turned up alive.”
“Yes, but James Moriarty’s death was rather more final,” Mycroft said. “A bullet to the brain is astonishingly difficult to fake.”
“If you don’t want Sherlock up and about in London, why did you bring him back?” John said.
Mycroft sighed and folded his hands in front of himself. “He demanded details pertaining to Moriarty’s former associates. There seemed no connection amongst them, but Sherlock became engrossed in the information regarding Moran. I tried to warn him against unfounded conclusions.”
“Didn’t really work, did it?” John replied.
“Instead, Sherlock conceived the belief that Moran has continued to work under Moriarty,” Mycroft said. “My brother is chasing a dead man and that will inevitably lead to his own demise.”
John was silent.
“We’ve buried my brother once, John,” Mycroft said, his gaze sharp. “I won’t do it a second time.”
-
By the time John made it back home, it was well after one in the morning. Mary wasn’t due back until six. He tried to sleep, honestly, but his brain wasn’t having it.
At three in the morning, John gave up and made himself a pot of coffee. He got through two and a half cups before he changed into work clothes and a coat, pocketed his keys and wallet, and walked out the door.
He took a more straightforward route to Sherlock’s hotel.
Sherlock wasn’t asleep, of course. He was bright and jittery, though the bags under his eyes told another story. It was probably the dim lighting, but John was sure Sherlock had gotten skinnier since they last spoke.
“What news have you brought?” Sherlock asked. John hesitated. “About the case? Your wife?” Sherlock prompted.
John rubbed at his eyes and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “Nothing,” he said. Sherlock’s shoulders sunk. “Tonight she has dialysis. She won’t be back until six. I haven’t talked to her,” John explained.
Sherlock turned and flopped into his chair. He pushed around the papers on his desk with no real purpose.
John leaned over the desk to try to make sense of the variety of notes, scribbled by Sherlock with no desire for legibility, with words that sloped around the lines, but never along them.
“I saw your brother,” John said. He held up a piece of paper with some actual sentences on it and tried to decipher it.
“Wonderful,” Sherlock muttered, snatching the paper out of John’s hand. “Was there cake?”
“Mycroft doesn’t believe you,” John said. “That Moriarty’s alive.”
Sherlock watched him a long moment, reading his expression. Then, he looked back down to his notes. “You don’t either,” he said.
“It’s not from a lack of – listen, I really want to,” John said. “But it’s kind of hard to imagine…”
Sherlock’s gaze sharpened on him. “Your limited reasoning is holding you back,” he said. “You see without observing. It weakens your mind.”
John looked around uncomfortably and moved away from the desk. “But a bullet to the brain isn’t the same as jumping off a building…”
“And yet you were so certain I was dead,” Sherlock replied.
“Listen… with what happened on the roof – Moriarty shot himself, right? He did it in front of you? There’s no way he could fake that.”
“He’s toying with me,” Sherlock snarled.
“I don’t think…” John started.
“I know better than anyone the lengths this madman will go to destroy a person,” Sherlock said, moving to his feet like a thin wire of electricity. “He swore to burn my heart out.” Sherlock patted himself on the chest hard enough for John to wince. “My heart’s still here. He has unfinished business.” He shoved his notes off the desk and paced the room.
John watched him and the flurry of papers, feeling more tired than he ever felt during his all-nighters on Sherlock’s previous cases. “I think you’re wrong…” John said.
“You don’t know him like I do,” Sherlock snapped.
“No, but I… I think I know rather a lot about you,” John said. “Not anymore, though. He’s taken away the heart of you – what makes you a person. But you’d never notice.”
Sherlock steeled himself on the edge of the table. He glared at John with something unfamiliar lurking in his eyes. “Get out…” Sherlock growled.
John was already buttoning his coat. “I know.”
-
John was watching another round of morning news by the time Mary returned. He didn’t greet her or even raise his head to her. She unwound her coat from around herself. “Bad night?” she called, moving into the sitting room.
John sighed and rubbed his face. He took a deep breath and asked: “Why haven’t you told me about your parents?”
She stopped short and fumbled with her handbag for a moment. “Sorry,” she said like she wasn’t. “You never told me about yours. I didn’t even meet Harry until last week.”
John was quiet a moment. “My parents are dead,” he said.
“What a coincidence,” she replied.
John shook his head. “Your father isn’t, though, is he?”
“My father—“ Mary raised her voice and cut herself off. She took a deep breath. “My father was an honourable military man, like you, John.”
“Honourable men don’t shoot up villages in Afghanistan.”
“He was framed,” she insisted like she said the words so often that they tumbled without thought from her mouth. “Anyway, they found him not-guilty.” She threw her handbag onto the couch and stood, shaking, with her arms crossed. “Are we done here?”
“Why are you in London?”
She gritted her teeth and fell silent.
“You’re not here for medical coverage,” John said.
“That’s part of it,” she replied. “It’s cheaper here—“
“What’s the reason that brought you here?”
Her lips were trembling and she bit into them to make them stop. “My dad used to send me money to help with the medical bills,” she said. “He sent me e-mails too – asking how I was and where I was living. And then they stopped.”
“When did they stop?” John asked.
“Two years ago,” she said. “He immigrated before that because he couldn’t find a job in the States after that court case got to be so publicised. He found an offer in London. He may not even be here anymore – he’s probably dead for all I know.”
“Just to be clear, his name is Sebastian, isn’t it? Sebastian Morstan?”
“Colonel Sebastian Morstan.”
“He’s not a colonel anymore.” John pressed his lips in a thin line and stared at the wall. He looked up in time to see Mary disappear up the stairs. He listened for the sound of the bedroom door slamming and locking behind her.
-
John had no idea why he went to work later that day. Maybe he was seeking some comfort in normalcy. But he didn’t have the concentration to deal with patients and he found himself half-listening to symptoms.
When his phone received a text message from an unfamiliar number, it was a welcome reprieve. He knew it was Sherlock even before looking at the message – strange how it was three days since they were reunited and John hadn’t managed to get his new number until now.
You should be here right now
SH
A bit stunned, he was, to be invited back to Sherlock’s habitat so soon after an argument. John assumed Sherlock would spend days moping at best, and disappear altogether at worst.
John forgot to be ungrateful.
He told his coworkers that he was feeling ill and was taking the rest of the day off. He caught a cab to Sherlock’s hotel.
John was in better spirits when he arrived at Sherlock’s room, which was a coincidence because Sherlock seemed even more moody than usual. The former consulting detective flickered back and forth between fake smile and angry mutterings.
“What is your news?” Sherlock demanded.
John was left confused. “I thought you texted me because you had news,” he said.
Sherlock waved him off. “You spoke to your wife,” he said. “It’s been a few hours and you still haven’t reported anything to me. Either you’re protecting her, or—“
“I’m not protecting— she’s not involved in any of this,” John replied.
“Improbable.”
“She… yes, her father is Sebastian Morstan,” John said. “She came to this country to find him. She doesn’t know anything about what he’s been up to.”
“Convenient,” Sherlock snorted.
John sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and rubbed his face. Confusion and defeat intermingled and spread through the slump of his spine. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “I just don’t know anymore.”
“I suggest you stop trusting her so readily, John,” Sherlock said.
“What about you?” John said. “I don’t even know you anymore. Should I stop trusting you?”
Sherlock hesitated. “Trust me until the case is solved,” he said.
“And then, what, you’ll walk out of my life again?” John said. “Like it’s that easy? Like our friendship is that meaningless?” Sherlock didn’t look uncomfortable, so John carried on. “You were never planning on coming back, were you? You were just… going to let me think you were dead for the rest of my life.”
Sherlock seemed to consider whether or not the question was rhetorical. Finally, he answered: “Yes.”
John took a deep breath to steady himself. “Why?” he whispered.
“I’m a sociopath, John.”
“We both know… that is a load of bollocks,” John said, his voice tight in his throat.
Sherlock was silent.
“What did he say to you? What did Moriarty say to you-?”
“It wasn’t what Moriarty said,” Sherlock said.
“What then?” John raised his voice.
“It is a fact that attachments weaken people.”
“You’re saying you did this because of me? To teach me a lesson?”
“You’re becoming emotional,” Sherlock warned him.
“You twisted, loathsome…”
“It’s making you irrational,” he said. “If you’d like to be useful to me, then I need your mind as acute as it can be.”
“’Useful’?” John stopped. His situation began to fall in place around him. “Oh, my god, I’m Molly.”
“What?”
“The bank -- I do the fetching for you,” John said. “That’s what I’ve always done.”
Sherlock sat in his chair and leaned forward, his elbows pressed to his knees. In a voice that sounded so reasonable that it was staggering, he said: “You do more than that.”
“No, I don’t think I do,” John said, his voice rather the opposite.
“You’re certainly no genius,” Sherlock said. “You could never hope to solve a mystery on your own. Your lack of observance is almost humorous.” He seemed intent on continuing to list John’s flaws before he stopped. “But I’m better when you’re around.”
“You like having someone to show off to,” John muttered.
“I’m a show-off. We’ve been through this before,” Sherlock said. He watched John take a deep breath and let it slowly out.
“Fine,” John said. “What’ve you got to show off about now?”
Sherlock searched through a seemingly endless pile of papers before he pulled out his laptop. It was different from the one in their old apartment: smaller with a brighter screen. Newer.
He opened to a recent page to show Sebastian Morstan’s current bank statement.
“Withdrawals from all over the world,” Sherlock said. “Ever since this account’s inception, there has been a steady monetary build and large withdrawals starting in Istanbul and moving to Seoul, Okinawa, Nepal. They’re all within about five days to a week of one another – Morstan has been a busy man. The monetary exchange rate of the withdrawals is close to equivalent to the price of airfare, but not for a return flight.”
“But you said Ronald Adair was involved with the bank account, right?” John said. “If Morstan’s travelling all over the world like this, then are you saying he hired someone to shoot Adair?”
Sherlock made a frustrated noise and turned the laptop to face himself. “Yes, but the connection is still unclear,” Sherlock said. “Why would Adair help Morstan make a bank account? Morstan had no history of making payments for the past two years.” He scrubbed at his face. “Perhaps Adair was also involved with Moriarty,” he spoke to himself.
“No…” John murmured. “This is the same case Lestrade is working on, right?”
Sherlock watched him and gave a small nod.
“Then Adair is something like a saint, if reputations are meant to be believed,” he said.
“Hardly,” Sherlock scoffed.
“Yes, well… I feel like I’m forgetting something…” John murmured. Sherlock crouched in his seat like a cat watching a fly. “Ronald Adair… something of a saint.” John let out a slow breath. “He worked with the homeless.”
Sherlock didn’t move or change expression. Then, he sat up a little straighter. “You’re suggesting… Sebastian Morstan hasn’t paid a single bill in two years because he’s spent this time homeless?”
“Part of helping the homeless would be setting up bank accounts for them,” John said.
“And when Adair found out where Morstan’s money was coming from, he threatened to close the account,” Sherlock said, moving to his feet to pace the room. “Morstan was a soldier, and not a very creative one if he thought massacre could be discreet. If his orders were to keep the account open at all costs, then he would certainly take the easiest path, but not the smartest one.”
John nodded slowly. “The murder was a week and a half ago,” he said. “Morstan could still be in London.”
Sherlock nodded and tugged on his coat over his pyjamas. He moved towards the door, but John stopped him.
“Wait, where are you going?” John asked.
“Homeless network – Morstan will likely be hiding in their territories, like the Golem was,” Sherlock explained. “Remember, Morstan has experience working under Moriarty. He would copy ideas that are known to work. Who better to find a plant than my homeless network?”
“Okay,” John offered. “But you should probably change out of your pyjamas.”
Sherlock was befuddled. “Why, does it look bad?”
John bit back a laugh. “It’s a sight better than that sheet you wore in Buckingham Palace,” he said. Sherlock smirked and made his way out the door.
John lagged behind, his thoughts snagged on Mary.
Sherlock, who was paces ahead of him, stopped. “Are you coming?”
“No,” John said slowly as his mouth finished his decision. “I have to… Listen, your network isn’t bound to find anything immediately. So just contact me as soon as they do, yeah?”
Sherlock watched him with a certain stiffness as he took in this new information.
“If this is how it must be,” the former consulting-detective said, and went ahead.
-
On his way home, John checked his phone. He had a message from Dr. Thompson. He’d missed his therapy session for the first time in two years.
It felt refreshing.
At home, the television set buzzed with life. Mary was asleep on the couch and a welcome relief spread through John. She wasn’t Molly, come to whisk him away, or Mycroft or Lestrade or Sherlock. She was normalcy.
He turned off the television and moved to tap her on the arm. She awoke with a start and took a moment before she glared at him.
“I should probably start by apologising,” he said.
She crossed her arms and straightened where she sat. “Should I expect you to feel sorry?” she asked.
“I thought my behaviour rather insensitive,” he said. “The whole thing with your dad was your secret to keep.”
“No,” she shook her head. “I mean, he got a lot of media attention. You were bound to find out – I just didn’t think you’d know so soon.”
He slid down on the couch next to her. “Do you think he’s a good man?” he asked.
“With all my heart,” she replied. “But what else am I supposed to think? He’s my dad.”
John nodded.
“I miss him,” she said. “I was a teenager when he left for Afghanistan. I knew he cared about me and that was enough. But now…”
“Two lonely people, and in all the world we managed to find one another,” John said.
She gave a weak chuckle. “Yeah, how’d we manage that anyway?” she said. “I never realistically imagined that you’d marry me.”
“I never really pictured myself married, so that makes two of us,” he said.
Mary looked uncomfortable a long moment. “I still have bills I haven’t finished paying off,” she murmured.
John thought back to Sherlock’s deductions of her. “May I trouble you with one more insensitive question?” he asked.
“Oh, come on… this night was finally improving,” she said. “Go on…”
“Is that why the family fired you – the bills?”
She nodded and folded her hands in her lap. “I swear I’ll finish paying off my bills,” she said. “I’ve been doing some freelance work. You don’t have to divorce me…”
John blinked. “I don’t really see divorce in our future,” he said. “I want to trust you, Mary. I suppose we ought to have learned more about one another before we….”
“Yeah, this whole marriage thing is a lot of pressure,” she said.
“Pressure?”
“I don’t want you to feel like this was a big mistake,” she said. “I’ve never had to live up to someone’s expectations like this.”
“Well…. Stop it then.”
“What do you mean, ‘stop’?”
“Stop trying to impress me. That’s…. not what a marriage is built on. Well, it’s built on a lot of things we haven’t quite done right. We just, I suppose we have to learn to trust one another.”
She gave him the same sort of suspicious look that Sherlock often wore in the middle of social situations. “Are you sure?” she asked.
“Yes, I – I rather think this is the right direction for us to go, yes.”
“So… we’re good?” she asked, disbelief plain on her face.
“Unless there’s something else you’re hiding from me.”
She was silent a moment. Finally, she said: “My feet are bigger than I admitted – we nearly share a shoe size.”
He chuckled. “I thought I’d walked out in your loafers once.”
She was also laughing. “You did. I didn’t have the heart to tell you though.”
-
At four in the morning, John received a text message that jarred both him and Mary awake. Unlike Mary, who turned over and promptly fell back asleep, John watched his mind race from behind closed eyes.
Finally, after struggling a good thirty seconds to fall back asleep, he reached for his phone.
Found him
SH
“Don’t bloody care,” John muttered and dropped the phone back on the bedside table.
He began to doze when a dream of a memory struck. The vest made of bombs strapped around his chest – he could barely breathe – the voice in his ear telling him the words to say to Sherlock – helpless – telling him to say them just right or he’d get blown up the same as that little old lady and all those little people in that apartment living their boring, little lives.
Rage, horror, and, yes, indignation flooded John’s system and jolted him awake. He yanked open the drawer of the bedside table and stared down at his handgun.
As soon as he changed, he tucked the gun into his coat pocket. It felt heavier than he remembered.
Sherlock was walking towards him as John set foot outside. He motioned for John to follow.
They walked several blocks and then a few more. John craved coffee and bemoaned the fact that they could’ve called a cab and saved some time.
Finally, they arrived at a half-finished building – it was meant to be a tower before it was abandoned a decade or so ago.
“Got any change?” asked the man in Sherlock’s coat who stood by the entrance. Sherlock discreetly passed him a handful of money and John thought he saw a fifty in there.
The man led them into the building. The first floor had tents made of blankets. A garbage can sat in the middle, smelling of smoke.
The man walked past all this and up several flights of stairs, expertly avoiding broken glass and the gaps in the disintegrating staircase. Sherlock gracefully followed while John managed to trip over seemingly every hole in the floor.
They arrived on what appeared to be the fifth story. Cold wind whistled through the many openings and unfinished panels. The man in Sherlock’s coat approached a duffel bag on the ground, but didn’t touch it.
“We sent everyone away when we found this,” the man said, looking between Sherlock and John. “Don’t know who it belongs to.”
Sherlock stooped down beside the bag and unzipped it. Military-grade rifles lay in the bag, black and pristine. The man in Sherlock’s coat dashed down the stairs.
Sherlock pulled on his gloves and examined the weaponry. He was smiling.
“So he knows I’m still alive,” he said. “Almost clever to hide it where he’d need it rather than in safekeeping – not Morstan’s idea.
“But this is too far from Baker Street,” Sherlock continued. He climbed into the broken window and angled around, trying to find a clear view. “That entire block of Baker Street is obstructed by that building,” Sherlock said, pointing. “We’re too far for a clear shot, unless…” He froze. He pressed his hands together in front of his face and smiled.
“You’re being rather…” John began.
“Oh, no, it’s perfect,” he said. “Perfect.” He dashed over to the Northeast side. “Of course,” Sherlock said, perching on the window. “He knew where I was hiding the whole time.”
John came beside him and saw a clear view of Sherlock’s hotel. If he squinted, he could make out the balcony affixed to his room. John licked his lips and paled. “That’s… not far from my house,” he murmured.
“He watched me the whole time,” Sherlock murmured, practically humming. “He could have killed me at any moment – why wait? What was he waiting— oh…” Sherlock tilted his head back against the wood. “Obvious.”
John shifted uncomfortably. “Mind catching me up on this?” he asked, folding his arms in front of himself.
“This is the proof Moriarty is still alive: Morstan has been spying on me, preparing to kill me, but he was waiting,” Sherlock explained rapidly. “Waiting on what? Orders. From Moriarty.”
“Are you sure..?”
“Come now, John: you proved Morstan wasn’t the one travelling the world. That could only mean…” Sherlock moved to stand, his mouth poised for an explanation when the sound of a gunshot echoed through the chamber. Sherlock cried out and collapsed.
John’s handgun immediately came out and he fired two shots as a figure in the shadows ducked out of view. He automatically slipped the gun’s safety on before he fumbled it to the ground. Struck with panic while racing through every medical possibility, John was at Sherlock’s side within seconds.
“Shit, shit,” he whispered, trying to pull Sherlock’s hand away from where he was cupping the injury.
Sherlock’s face was tight with pain and his breathing was shallow.
“Let me see it,” John insisted. Sherlock batted his hand away. “I’m a doctor, remember?” John insisted.
“It’s just a graze,” Sherlock panted. “K-keep your eyes to the shadows, John.”
Four years after being in the military, John hadn’t lost the ability to take orders. He grabbed his gun and was glad the safety was on, because he squeezed a bit too hard. John looked all around himself before he glanced back at Sherlock.
“Just… no dying, okay?” he said.
Sherlock breathed out a chuckle. “I’d prefer you… remain intact as well,” he said.
John realised that in this moment, in this helpless little moment, Sherlock needed him. And Sherlock was probably scared – just as frightened as John. It was comforting to realise that the man bleeding beside him was another human being: not a machine or an animal.
Another gunshot fired: the bullet hit a steel beam and echoed throughout the empty building.
“That’s your first warning,” a voice with a thick American accent echoed throughout the crumbling, half-finished building.
John held his gun in front of himself as he scanned the area. Sherlock shifted shakily to his side and began to climb to his knees. John put a hand on him to stop him, and wasn’t above pushing Sherlock down to keep him from moving.
“Your daughter,” John raised his voice so it could be heard echoing throughout the building. “Your daughter still thinks you’re a good man.”
John felt the air pressure against his neck as a bullet came whizzing past, centimeters from his scarred shoulder. The sound took a few moments to catch up, and his ear started ringing.
“My daughter died two years ago,” the voice sounded furious. John heard the distinct sound of a gun being reloaded.
John was trembling, but he kept his gun steady in front of himself. He blinked against the fear, but his four years out of service were beginning to catch up with his nerves.
“That’s… not…” John struggled to put words together through gritted teeth and shaking lips.
“I have nothing left except to repay my debts,” Morstan said. His footsteps echoed throughout the area.
John looked around out of the corners of his eyes to try to get a glimpse of the man’s hiding place. It couldn’t have been far from where the last bullet travelled, but John’s fight or flight instincts were screaming loud enough to throw off his calculations.
“I won’t hesitate to shoot you in that shoulder, Doctor Watson,” Morstan said. The footsteps continued, disrupting the words. It was more and more difficult for John to tell where the source was moving to. Morstan’s voice still echoed around them. “But first, I’d like to give you a message. Typical, I know, but I don’t make the rules.”
Sherlock moved up onto his elbows and slid out behind John. The two made eye contact and Sherlock offered him a look: the same look he always wore when he said “Follow my lead.”
The footsteps stopped. “This isn’t the story where you come out the victor, Sherlock Holmes,” said Morstan.
Sherlock pointed through the enormous gap in the unfinished floor. John caught a glimpse of black and shot.
The resulting cry of alarm sounded through the building, and following that was the satisfying clatter of a gun hitting the floor. The gun discharged into a nearby steel beam.
John moved to help Sherlock up, but the taller man was already on his feet and running down the decaying remains of stairs, cupping his injury. Sherlock grabbed Morstan’s fallen gun and switched the safety on as he aimed it at Morstan.
“You said you don’t make the rules,” Sherlock said, panting and grinning. “Then you talk about a story. It’s Moriarty. Moriarty made the rules and you’re still following them because he’s still alive. Tell me I’m right.”
Morstan was gripping his injured arm and groaning against the pain.
“TELL ME I’M RIGHT,” Sherlock hollered, flipping the safety off.
“Sherlock,” John warned, moving carefully down the stairs. When Sherlock turned, something ferocious and desperate twisted his expression. John held his hands up in surrender.
Sherlock hesitated a long moment. Then he flipped the safety back on. John approached and gently pried the gun from Sherlock’s hand.
Sherlock kicked Morstan in the face and stepped on his throat. “Tell me who else has access to your bank account,” he growled.
Morstan offered a weak smile and nothing else.
-
The wail of sirens came before two police cars screeched onto the scene.
“Late as always,” Sherlock said with a wince. “Good of the police to finally show up,” he called out to Lestrade, who was running up to them.
“I don’t fucking believe this,” Lestrade snapped. “I got the call and I still don’t believe this.”
Donovan and Anderson weren’t far behind and were both struggling with their own shock at the sight of the living consulting-detective.
“Yes, well, you’ll be pleased to find that this is the very same Sebastian Moran, or Morstan if you’re getting technical, you’ve been unable to track,” Sherlock said. “The man at the center of the credit card scam and I’m sure you’ll be able to piece together that he’s the killer of Mr. Ronald Adair.”
“He’s lying, sir,” Anderson insisted, his voice rising with a mix of frustration and dread. “He’s making this up or he’s tampered with evidence.”
“You would say that, wouldn’t you?” John snapped.
“Shut up for once in your life, Anderson,” Lestrade said. “Cuff Moran.”
“You can’t let this… this monster walk away,” Donovan insisted, pointing at Sherlock, who smirked in greeting and winced.
“I’m not going to,” Lestrade ground out through gritted teeth. With a deep breath, he took out his handcuffs. “Sherlock Holmes, you are under arrest for suspected fraud and the murder of Richard Brook.”
“You can’t be serious,” John said, panic rising. “He’s injured – he needs to go to a hospital.” He attempted to push his way between them, prepared to incite the ire of the Scotland Yard once more to protect Sherlock.
“Calm down, John,” Sherlock said as Lestrade recited his Right to Silence.
“But you can’t—he solved the case!” John insisted.
“He’s a fraud,” Anderson insisted, hefting Morstan up to handcuff him. The dazed American remained silent.
John seriously contemplated giving Anderson an injury to match Sherlock’s. His gun was only a pocket’s reach away…
Lestrade looked at Sherlock and shook his head. “I have no fucking clue how you’re going to get out of this one,” he sighed.
“It’s simple enough,” Sherlock said, looking practically cosy in his handcuffs. “I recorded Moriarty’s confession moments before he died.”
Anderson balked. Donovan had her hands on her hips. “You mean Rich Brook – the man you murdered,” she said.
“He didn’t murder—“ John insisted.
“Moriarty’s confession is on my mobile, which is in my brother’s possession,” Sherlock went on, unphased. “I’ll tell him to release it into your… capable custody, Detective Inspector. My brother will help clear up the rest of the matter.”
“Such a liar-“ Donovan started
“Using connections to get yourself off the hook-“ Anderson said.
“He needs to go to the hospital,” John insisted.
There was a faint chime in the background.
Sherlock raised his head, listening for the noise. Lestrade tried, to no avail, to get everyone to quiet. Then, in the lull of argument, he heard the sound.
“Who’s mobile is that?” Lestrade demanded like an overworked babysitter. “Anderson, turn your stupid phone off.”
“It’s not mine, sir,” he said, leaning in closer to Morstan. “It’s coming from his pocket.”
“Stand up beside the fireplace. Take that look from off your face,” chimed the phone.
“What’s a homeless person doing with a mobile?” Lestrade demanded.
“You ain’t ever gonna burn my heart out…”
Sherlock’s eyes widened. He fought in his restraints. “Get the phone,” he demanded.
“You stop struggling,” Lestrade said.
“You’re going to worsen your injury,” John warned.
Sherlock was damn near thrashing. “Get the mobile out of his pocket,” he demanded. “Answer it, now!”
“You heard him,” Lestrade said.
“We don’t take orders from—“ Donovan started.
“So Sally can wait. She knows it’s too late as we’re walking on by.”
Donovan tensed. “It knows my name,” she said.
“It’s a song—how self-centered do you have to be-?” Anderson started.
“Get the mobile out and shut the hell up, all of you,” Lestrade demanded.
“My soul slides away… but don’t look back in anger, I heard you say.”
The phone passed through a series of hands before it landed in Lestrade’s possession. He pressed it to his ear.
“Who is this?” he demanded. He put a hand on his hip and stood with his legs apart like that might help intimidate the person on the other end. Silence fell over the group of them.
“I can hear you breathing,” Lestrade said. He looked unnerved a moment, then he snapped the phone closed. “The bastard giggled and hung up.” He threw it to Donovan, who caught it. “We need to run a trace on that last call. Get us back to the station.”
Anderson and Donovan had no trouble getting Morstan in the back of their car. They returned to assist Lestrade in detaining Sherlock, since he’d escaped so successfully last time. Donovan rode with Lestrade as John ran after the cars.
“Please – he’s injured,” he called, but they were already pulling away.