Chapter Text
Mrs. Hudson is blasting Iron Maiden while hoovering again. It won’t last long; she never cleans as much as she pretends to do.
Greg showed up half an hour ago and dragged Sherlock to the Yard. Apparently Gregson needs help with a very boring case, as the consulting detective put it, and he called out “Be back soon” in a slightly panicked manner.
Oh well. He really does deserve a break. They’ve spent almost every single minute of the last two weeks together. He can’t play with his toys all the time, they would break too easily. And Sherlock seems to have reached a critical point.
Yes, much better to let him run around with Greg for a bit. Blow off steam, so to speak.
Just as he’s sat down on the sofa, wondering if he should perhaps check in with the latest drug cartel that’s slowly trying to build up a client base in London, Mrs. Hudson comes in and offeres him tea. He gratefully accepts.
She is all but skipping up and down these stairs. Must have taken her herbal soothers again.
Sherlock looks much better when he returns, he has to admit. Letting him out was a good idea.
“So? What did Gregson want?”
“Suicide in a locked room. They didn’t realize it was suicide”.
“Of course they didn’t. No one thinks properly anymore, really. Anything else we could look into?”
“No. Things have been remarkably quiet” Sherlock comments as he strolls over to his violin.
“A shame” John says, but he doesn’t seem to hear him since he starts playing.
Huh. He hasn’t played like that in a while.
It’s one of his own pieces – when was the last time he composed? It must be months – and there’s a passion in his expression he thought all but lost.
At moments like this, he remembers why he loves playing their game so much. This is the Sherlock Holmes he found years ago, the Sherlock Holmes who doesn’t give up, the Sherlock Holmes who will never surrender.
And it’s absolutely and completely delicious.
It’s too bad Mycroft has to show up and ruin the mood.
He didn’t hear the door bell. Mrs. Hudson must have let him in.
“John, Sherlock” he greets them.
“Quite a beautiful piece, brother mine. Why f major, though? I think I would prefer e major”.
“You always preferred e major” Sherlock answers carelessly, throwing his violin down on the desk.
“What brings you here? I don’t imagine this is a social call”.
“As much as you love to flatter yourself, I think everyone in this room could have come to the same conclusion.”
He sits down.
“Lady Smallwood has requested your help. There is a girl who could shed light on some... private matters between herself and Lady Smallwood’s late husband”.
“Is that so?”
“Yes. Naturally, for the longest time, the girl had no idea who he was. She just thought he was this nice, helpful man she’d stumbled across. And then, she saw the truth.”
“Picture in the newspaper?” Sherlock guesses.
“Oh, it was one of these programs on television ordinary people love so much. His face was plastered on screens all over the UK”.
“That will do the trick” Sherlock says, folding his hands. “Does she have any proof?”
“More than enough.”
“Give me the file, I’ll look into it”.
It’s how he deals with Mycroft if he wants him gone soon. Big Brother takes the hint.
The next few days are quiet. Sherlock composes several new pieces, losing himself in his music.
Sometimes, John has the curious feeling that there’s a pattern behind his compositions, but he can’t pick it up. And why should there be? Sherlock has never been particular about his music, unless he wants to make a point or chase someone away.
Still, it’s a welcome interruption when Lestrade calls them in for a strange case indeed.
A drowned woman was found in a cemetery. Her clothes are dry, but there is plenty of water in her lungs, and she has the skin of someone who was emerged as well.
Interesting.
Sherlock, of course, is at it immediately, analyzing the water, coming to a conclusion rather quickly once he does so.
“The water she swallowed... there are certain components... She must have fallen into the river somewhere around Tower Bridge”.
“The Tower Bridge?” John hums. “Some people do have a flair for the dramatic”.
“You would know” Sherlock spits, uncharacteristically, and for a moment, John hesitates to put his jacket on, but then he dismisses his worries.
He’s probably just impatient to get to the bridge and see how someone could either jump from or be thrown down there.
He’s jumpy in the cab too, although he tries not to show it. John begins to wonder if there’s something more behind this. Has Big Brother told him there’s another matter of national urgency? That lives are in danger? Sherlock is awfully sentimental when it comes to those.
Then again, he seems to calm down considerably as the time passes, especially when he gets a text from Gregson promising an interesting case tomorrow.
“Must have been forced to go over cold case files again” John remarks after Sherlock wordlessly hands him his phone. Now and then, he likes to indicate he wants to read a message to the detective. It keeps both of them on their toes. Sometimes, John tends to... get a little too comfortable with his role of the trusted sidekick and almost forgets that Sherlock hates him for what he’s doing.
Still a pity. They could do so much, if Sherlock would just admit that it’s so much more entertaining to be bad than try to be good.
Because no one ever succeeds at truly being good. It’s the joke he’s laughed at since he was a child and his father’s fists beat the truth into him.
It’s the joke that inspired him to play his game, his beloved, endless game.
But he forgot one thing.
Nothing lasts forever.
He should know. He’s ended enough lives.
And yet he didn’t see this coming.
Sherlock Holmes surprised him.
But not Sherlock Holmes alone.
Greg is waiting for them at the bridge.
Sherlock didn’t mention he was coming, yet he doesn’t suspect then.
Maybe he should have wondered why the surrounding streets were so empty. True, it is almost three pm, but this is Tower Bridge.
But he was too focused on the case, because for once it seemed original and new and fresh –
And then Sherlock is standing beside Greg and the DI is pointing a gun at him.
“Don’t. Move” he says slowly, carefully.
“Greg” he answers, blinking confusedly, raising his hands, “what is wrong – “
“Don’t speak. Don’t say a word. Just stand there you – you monster” he breathes.
The hand holding the gun isn’t shaking, not even a bit, John realizes. That’s not the first thing that comes to his mind, though.
No. The first thing is the hatred that is plainly to read in Greg’s eyes.
It surprises him. He didn’t think the DI could hate anyone. He wasn’t that disgusted with Moriarty – with Richie, that’s for sure.
But let’s not jump to wrong conclusions. Sherlock would hate that.
“I have no idea what you mean –“
“I was carrying a recorder”.
And just like that, he knows this is it. Unless he can pull another trick out of nowhere.
“You – “
“I taped your confession” Greg hastens to explains, word stumbling over word, but the gun still pointed straight at John’s heart.
“I can’t explain it, I just felt like something was off between you two, but you never said anything and naturally I didn’t think to ask Sherlock, and I thought if I could listen again to what was going on in the flat while I was there, it would make sense.”
A pause.
“And it did” he adds, bitterly.
He doesn’t think much will come of it as he plays the recording. He’s done that for weeks now, so why should anything change today? All that happened was he fainted, and all he will hear is John looking after him as only his friend could.
But what he hears is not the voice of a friend. It’s a monster, a thing without a soul, or even one human emotion; and he thought he was good for Sherlock, all these years, he was happy that someone was looking after the consulting detective, that he was safe, that he was –
It’s almost too much to bear.
He has to speak to Sherlock. And John can’t know, John can’t realize –
He will never know how he manages to get Sherlock away from him.
But once he does, there are no secrets left between them.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t notice. I should have seen – “
It takes John a moment to realize Greg’s talking to Sherlock while never taking his eyes off him.
“It’s quite alright, Greg” Sherlock assures him. “Even if you made a mistake, which you didn’t, you are more than making up for it”.
“Not enough” he replies softly, “not enough.”
John thinks. Sure, Greg has a weapon, but he isn’t a soldier, and he’s only two feet away.
He could overpower him. The question is whether Sherlock would do anything.
Oh, not like that; John is perfectly sure he will move eventually – but when, that is the question. Is there enough nostalgia left to make him hesitate long enough? Once Lestrade is dead and one of his fears has become true, Sherlock will certainly agree to get back to their flat with minimal fussing.
He won’t risk the lives of his other friends.
He’s certain he’s fast enough.
John is about to move – and he sees the knowledge in Sherlock’s eyes, as well as the panic when he realizes he really has to force himself to act – when a smooth voice rings out.
“I wouldn’t risk it, Dr. Watson. Or should I say Mister Moriarty?”
Mycroft is standing behind him.
So there was a gun hidden in that umbrella all this time. Good to know.
He looks from Sherlock to Mycroft and back again.
“I see”.
E major instead of F major. Enemy instead of friend. The case of the mistress who didn’t know who her lover was until his face appeared on every TV in Britain...
“Rather clever” he admits. Sherlock’s compositions must have had some clues in them as well.
“Anthea?”
“According to the music, Doctor Hooper has acquired a body that fits, sir.”
“Good. I want this to be dealt with as quickly as possible.”
“Of course, sir.”
There’s the same disgust in Anthea’s voice he feels himself. How he could overlook that his brother was living with someone who – someone who –
Thank God for Greg Lestrade and his honest, if conservative, way of thinking.
“Sir, may I ask if you have decided how to –“
“We’ll let Sherlock decide.”
It’s what he tells his brother after he’s snuck out of 221B and into his office that night.
“You must be aware that I have enough agents at my disposal, John. Resistance, as they say, is futile.”
He is indeed aware.
“So what happens now?” he asks with honest curiosity.
“It’s not my place to say. Nor is it DI Lestrade’s place to shoot”.
“Sadly” Greg pipes in.
Sherlock speaks.
“Let him jump”.
His voice is calm, relaxed, but his shoulders betray him. He’s tense.
“Jump from the bridge”.
“Or?”
“Or Greg shoots you. Or Mycroft. Or someone else kills you. No matter what happens, this ends tonight.”
He really means.
And yet...
There’s regret there, too.
John can feel it.
Yes. The Game is over.
But Sherlock will always remember he played it, and a small part of him will always regret it ended.
No matter what happens, he has won.
John’s life never mattered much to him. But this does.
Anything he could say has already crossed Sherlock’s mind.
He locks eyes with him once more before he climbs up the balustrade.
John Watson closes his eyes, jumps, and welcomes the waves.