Chapter Text
Something needed to be done.
Sherlock, not prone to self-preservation or social constructs at the best of times, was tearing himself apart with boredom. Also their flat, which was enough to be going on with.
John had been toying with the idea of setting up a game for Sherlock for a while, now – a distraction, possibly the last – but the recent lack of things to focus on, of decent crimes (and he was slacking a bit, perhaps; or attending to a better, more obedient class of client, at least) had the man frayed further than he’d ever seen. So, removing his firearm from the general vicinity before more damage could be inflicted on the flat, neighborhood, or neighbors, John sent a few choice texts, and arranged himself a place to stay for the night.
The first move would be rather explosive, after all.
*
Mycroft remained, as ever, an unbearable twat. His timing was similarly atrocious, but he couldn’t have known that. Still, having the heavy handed ‘offer’ to research a lost set of military plans for his brother only seemed to make Sherlock more interested in his own game. He jumped at the first clear invitation, wholly focused when he got his hands on the little gift from his past that was left behind; his first challenge to solve. It was… very satisfying.
John couldn’t play the way he’d initially intended, running everything himself – he was too close to Sherlock to reliably do so, now – but he thought he knew the man well enough to make some fair guesses on his reactions. Messages and plans, rules and instructions, all were written and passed on to his stand-in before the game started. Jimmy deviated a bit from the basic script he was given, but he did have an aborted history in acting, so it was only to be expected, and the texts still got their point across even with embellishments. The encore production in the lab, however, was a bit painful to watch. Still, Sherlock took the bait for what it was, so it was still a useful layer to the production.
*
The pips proceeded much as he’d expected they would, with only a few snags. Although, they were easily passed snags, handled with a hint and a clue here and there, either through John’s helpful insights or Jim handing Sherlock a hint through the game. The latter seemed to put Sherlock off a bit, but it kept things interesting, kept him from noticing how much John led him in the quiet moments. He let Sherlock discover enough of it on his own to satisfy him, in any case; laid out a few false victories of his own to be corrected; the other man was truly in his element, if a bit dismissive of the pawns put into play in the process.
Jimmy continued to deviate from his script, but not enough to truly effect things. John supposed every ‘actor’ wanted to put their own flair on their part.
*
The blind woman was… unfortunate. This was not the game he had orchestrated; perhaps he should not have lashed out at Sherlock because of it, but he couldn’t exactly take his people to task from here. And he had come to expect… a bit better of him? Still, the game continued – it had to be played through, even if it gave away more of his hand than he had really intended at the start.
The fourth pip went more smoothly, even if Sherlock left it to literally the last second to solve – and after the last mishap, John was not entirely sure things would go to plan if he didn’t (an oversight he chastised himself over, variables left untended when taking himself from the active playing field, now) – but the fifth…
Well, plans changed; he knew damn well Sherlock hadn’t returned the plans as he’d said – so John waited, and the final pip was altered.
*
Getting into the rig was oddly disconcerting, but he had his role to play, and it was an important prop. The moment he stepped out into view, Sherlock froze; John could see the thoughts fighting each other, tumbling through his mind – horror, panic, doubt – was John the source? Was he the last victim? How had this become so personal…? Suddenly it wasn’t a game anymore… And then he started talking, and John could almost see the ice forming in Sherlock’s veins, the stiffness of his reactions, no longer playful...
Then Jim came out. It was an admirable performance, John had chosen the man well for his front; his own performance was – if he said so, himself – perfect, but it couldn’t be lauded as such, given Sherlock didn’t know it wasn’t true. But Jim, he hit all the right notes; unnerving in an unpredictable way, he was the perfect criminal mastermind. He would have to congratulate him, later.
But now it was time for the final phase of his game. His exit from the stage, back to the wings… but Sherlock… Sherlock didn’t take the bait. Cold, pragmatic Sherlock froze, when John – ostensibly – put himself into harm’s way for him, soldier to the brim.
He thought Sherlock would run. He really did. Sherlock would run and John would be ‘abducted’ for a while, and then he could decide if he were coming back, perhaps feigning an escape. Or not come back quite yet, and instead use himself as bait in a new round of games. Or leave it at that, close that part of his life and live in the business, entirely.
But Sherlock didn’t. He had the chance to leave John and get out safely, and didn’t take it.
John considered what to do.
He supposed he could have Sherlock shot somewhere non-lethal; wait for him to pass out, or use the confusion to get him out without noticing they weren’t being pursued. The thought didn’t sit well, however.
Shooting the bomb wouldn’t do anything, it was a dud, a prop – he wasn’t playing this game straight enough to actually wear live explosives. John figured he’d put together a good enough fake to fool Sherlock as long as he needed to. (It had worked, rather spectacularly if his frantic reaction trying to get it off were to be believed.)
No, this game was just starting to feel cruel. John recognized that he had begun to grow fond of the other man, himself; accepted that, and took it into account for the future.
So, time for a different tack.
“Right”, he said, pushing himself up slowly, “That’s enough of that, then.”
Sherlock tensed, glancing at him in concern – which was nice, really, but it wasn’t like John could be in any more danger than he already was, all things considered. Sherlock had been about to shoot the bomb, after all. Still, it was a pleasant reaction. He wondered for a moment what would have happened if he had met Sherlock first, then pushed the thought away as irrelevant; John hadn’t been a dreamer for a while, now.
“Jimmy…” Ah, and now Sherlock noticed he’s not the only one who froze. John could see the gears clicking over, wary tension ratcheting up. “Go ahead and clear out, we’re done here.” Jim hadn’t visibly moved, eyes flicking between John and Sherlock guardedly. John almost rolled his eyes; he wasn’t that bad. “It’s fine, get going.”
Jim straightened abruptly, gave a deferential nod, and exited the way he came in.
Sherlock still hadn’t moved, but for lowering the gun to his side as Jimmy left. “John?”
A touch of willful confusion to that question; he understood, he just didn’t want to. Bit of a plea, too – to tell him he was wrong, explain this away.
John could see in the tension of his frame, the creases around his eyes; he’d accept it. Make it sound good and he would accept it, ignore what he knew and go on as they were.
Or at least, he’d try.
And that would be a shame, watching this brilliant man cripple himself to believe a pretty lie.
He shook his head slightly, and Sherlock’s eyes fell closed for a long moment, blinked open, and he turned to face John fully, gun held loosely, forgotten at his side.
“Moriarty?” The deep voice was flat, beaten, already knowing the answer.
John shrugged a little, slight smile curling his lips. “Just the front. Make doubly sure no one gets to me.” His words were gentle, almost apologetic, though they clearly did little to soften the blow.
“Of course. Very clever.” Sherlock’s voice was still flat, distant, and for the first time John truly regretted starting this little distraction. He’d broken something tonight, and he… regretted it. Perhaps it would be a kindness to end the man after all, but he didn’t think he could bring himself to do it, now.
Dull, blue -green eyes caught his again, and John was proud; even now, clearly shaken, the other man chose to face this head on. “What happens now, John?” Voice still dull, he parroted back Jim’s words, “I can’t be allowed to continue, remember?”
Well that was… not kind, but fair. John sighed. “Just go home, Sherlock. I’ll let you leave. “ He shouldn’t – he really shouldn’t – but he owed the man that much.
“Ah. But will I let you?” The gun rose half-heartedly in his direction, the steady conviction he’d turned on Jim long gone, and damned if John wasn’t half certain that bloody, reckless fool was trying to force his hand.
He grimaced, briefly, shaking his head and half turning away from Sherlock. “You do what you think you need to, Sherlock.” It wasn’t a challenge. He was pretty sure the other man wouldn’t shoot, in fact he was banking on it. “And so will I.”
With that, John left, never turning back.
No noise followed him; he supposed he was right.