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Days passed. Sherlock kept himself as busy as he could. He had not heard from Moriarty yet. It was vexing; the man had sent a clear message, unless it was someone else using his likeness to sow national panic. Sherlock had already considered and dismissed this possibility, though. He could think of no one else who could take over every network in the country, even for a few brief moments. Well, the government could, but Mycroft would have discovered the culprit by now.
Why was there no message to Sherlock yet? A text, a phone call, a package. Moriarty was playing games with him again. This wasn’t unexpected, but having to sit and wait helplessly was excruciating. He would have almost welcomed another phone call from a bomb-strapped victim, if only to have something to grasp at. But that wasn’t Moriarty’s style. It was always something new, something devastating. And Sherlock could only wait.
In the meantime, he received texts from John.
Anything yet?
Nothing, Sherlock would reply.
But a week after the video aired across the country, Sherlock finally got his own personal message. He was sliding under the covers after yet another uneventful day to attempt sleep. His text alert sounded. The sender simply read “Unknown.”
Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator.
He recognized his own words at once. Immediately, he remembered the scene: sitting across from the cabbie, biding his time until he could figure out which pill was the poisoned one. The first time he heard the name Moriarty.
Before he could reply, a photo arrived. It was Mary, sitting alone in a café. The view was from the side and back behind, obviously taken from another table.
Mrs. Watson is all alone tonight. It would be a shame if she didn’t make it home in one piece.
After a brief pause, another text arrived. Or would it? You decide.
Sherlock didn’t hesitate. Where?
Where’s the fun if I tell you?
Sherlock would have gladly strangled Moriarty if he were there. He could picture the smug grin as Moriarty lazily typed out each response. Tell me. Before he sent the text, he added, how can I play the game if you don’t give me anything to go by?
After a moment the reply came. But I am giving you a gift. Tell me, Sherls. Who would ever know? One quick pull of the trigger, and your problems are solved.
Exactly what I was thinking, Sherlock replied. Only you would be at the receiving end. He could imagine Moriarty’s laugh.
Here is what I propose. Allow me to bestow a little gesture of gratitude, for returning to England. For being such a good boy and dancing on my strings. A simple accident. And everyone else will leave unharmed.
Sherlock’s stomach felt leaden. The logical part of him (which was 99%), said this was a fair deal; one victim in return for dozens of lives saved.
Besides… Everyone would blame Moriarty. Even John. And John would grieve, but this time, Sherlock would be there, every moment, by his side. He would not leave John again. And they could be together.
No one would know except him and the madman.
Sherlock felt he might vomit. Which of them was the madman? It was getting hard to tell.
With shaking hands he texted again. Let her go. Let them all go.
Or what?
Sherlock exited the text screen to start a new text. John, where is Mary? But before he could hit send, Moriarty responded.
Now, now. Getting John Watson involved will only get them both killed.
And a few seconds later, Sherlock received a photo of John from behind, walking down the street toward his and Mary’s flat.
With shaking legs, Sherlock stood up in the dark. Please. Please don’t do this.
Your choice, Sherlock. Who do you choose?
Moments passed. Sherlock stood in the dark, fingers hovering over the screen. But there really was no choice. Not for Sherlock. Hating himself more with each passing second, he typed, Please don’t hurt John.
He left the flat at lightning speed.
Sherlock hailed a cab and waited in agonizing eternity for the driver to arrive at his destination. Finally, perhaps ten minutes later, the cabbie pulled over to the kerb. Sherlock tossed enough money for whatever the fare might be, and a generous tip besides. He flung himself out of the cab and went pounding through the crowd milling around. His eyes searched and finally found what he was looking for. With a sob, he reached down and placed a hand on the familiar grey coat.
Mary looked up, startled. “Sherlock,” she said, obviously startled. “What are you doing here?”
Sherlock could not answer. He bit the side of his hand to keep from crying out loud.
******
“My God, Sherlock,” Mary said as they took another cab back to the Watson home. She was nearly hyperventilating. “Oh my God. John.” She covered her eyes with her hands.
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said. And he was. He was sorrier than he had ever been for anything at any time in his life. If he was standing atop the roof of St. Bart’s at that moment, he would have gladly jumped to his real death.
For though every instinct in his body screamed at him to save John, I must save John. I can’t live without John, he knew what John would want. He knew, and he granted him one last wish. Sherlock knew John would give his life in a heartbeat to save that of Mary and his unborn child. John would never have forgiven him for letting them die.
The rest of the ride was silent except for Mary’s sobs. She called and called, but received no answer from John.
Sherlock would make Moriarty pay, of course. It would be the last thing he did. And he’d do it gladly. It would take much longer than a shot to the head, of course. Sherlock would make him finally understand the terror of all manner of pain.
Finally, the cab stopped. Once again Sherlock paid as Mary was the one who flung herself out and stumbled to the door. Sherlock, too numb to run anymore, had simply stepped out and walked in a daze after her.
Mary was already out of sight by the time he reached the door. His heart was being squeezed to a pulp, fully of nothing but misery and hopelessness. He heard Mary sobbing, and stepped forward.
“Sherlock!!!”
Mary’s scream startled him out of his stupor. He covered the distance between the foyer and the bedroom in moments.
He found her kneeling by the bed. Sherlock gaped.
There was John in his pajamas, looking as though he had awoken from the dead, staring at his wife as though she were a madwoman.
“Jesus, Mary, what’s gotten into you?” Then he looked up in surprise at Sherlock. “Sherlock?”
Sherlock could hold back no longer. He felt the vise let go of his heart, and with its release came a flood of tears.