Chapter Text
The worst week of Sherlock Holmes’ life began with a phone call.
He and John had just returned from breaking up a counterfeiting operation and, though he could not prove it, Sherlock was certain that Moriarty was behind the crime. The whole thing had the man’s tantalizing fingerprints all over it and Sherlock was gratified that, if he couldn't reach the consulting criminal himself, he could at least take out a large and lucrative piece of his operation. In the weeks since the pool incident, Sherlock had spent every waking moment going over cold case files, crime scene photos, and reams of notes written by incompetent police personnel; looking for patterns, sifting for clues. It was all he could do with John in hospital, recovering from burns to his torso and concussion from taking that extra second to push Sherlock into the pool. Hurt while saving Sherlock’s life and the knowledge of that was a clawing in his chest, making him want to tear and destroy the man who had forced John to do it. It was frightening to contemplate; this loss of balance, this added emotional instability that threatened the razor sharp clarity of his mind.
It was such small things that did it, too. Like now: John was sitting on the sofa beside him; legs splayed, head tilted back at an exhausted angle, his hair brushing against the bright yellow afghan Mrs. Hudson had given John as a get-well gift. His eyes were closed and his hands rubbed tiredly over his face. He looked knackered and Sherlock did a quick mental calculation—twenty-seven hours since John had last slept. Longer for him, of course, but he was used to living on nicotine patches and cold tea dregs, while John was not.
“You should go up to bed,” Sherlock said gently.
It was asinine because it was an obvious statement, something like small talk, which he never did, and because he didn’t really want John to leave. He liked having him here, having him close. It soothed Sherlock to have him near after a case, to feel the warmth of him after cold nights running through London or looking at crime scene photos, staring into the depravity of which man was capable. Before John, Sherlock had never noticed the cold. Or at least, he’d paid it little mind. People were vicious and small-minded and obscene and his purpose was to figure out how and where and with whom. He never felt the sting of it, the dirty sinking weight of disappointment. Why should he? He expected no better of humanity. He still didn’t. But now…it was different. It wasn’t like caring. He didn’t care for the victims; they were just bodies. Nor for their grieving families, who just got in the way more often than not. But he cared about John and, as if by some magic, that was enough.
This frankly terrified Sherlock. Caring made people careless. That was the reason that they covered up the faces of the cadavers used by med students, so they were just objects, not people. It was easier to live that way; simpler.
But not better. Sherlock had concluded that at the foot of a hospital bed six weeks ago and, every day since, had revisited that conclusion and testing it against new data. John, whole and finally home, smiling vaguely at his surroundings and asking Sherlock if he’d care for a cuppa. John, following him closely as they chased suspects down dark streets, breath quick but gun hand steady. John’s hand finding his in the darkness, fingers squeezing, conveying that now was the time to rush the man with the gun, now before his compatriots returned. John, innocently delighted that a girl at the pub asked him out, only to frown in annoyance at Sherlock when he’d pointed out that she’d been paid to do so. And always, winding like a thread through this new data was the old; John willing to shoot a man, barely a day after meeting him, to save Sherlock’s life. John telling him to run at the pool. John knowing exactly what Sherlock wanted him to do, waiting for the moment Sherlock pulled the trigger to spring into action and save them both. John’s ease with Sherlock’s admittedly strange habits, his calm competence, his indefatigable goodness.
Points of data coalesced into a pattern, one that pointed out the singularity of John Watson. Sherlock watched, now, as John’s hands dropped from his face and his eyes forced themselves open.
“Breakfast first. Then bed,” he said.
Sherlock rather thought that John was as likely to fall asleep with his elbow in his toast as to eat it. But then, John was already pulling himself up, his hip brushing Sherlock’s arm as he shifted forward.
“You should eat something to. And don’t say it’s boring,” He cut off Sherlock’s inevitable protest.
“I had actually been about to say that some food sounds lovely,” Sherlock said, just to annoy John, as he’d been about to say nothing of the kind.
John threw him a sour look over his shoulder, shuffling toward the kitchen. “You really are the most insufferable man alive,” he huffed. “Did you know that you are actually capable of making food for yourself? I know this new information must shock you, but—“
The shrill ring of a phone cut John off and he paused in the doorway, automatically reaching into his pocket for his mobile. Sherlock, of course, knew at once that the ringtone wasn’t John’s. In fact, it belonged to the pink phone—the one used for The Great Game, as John’s asinine blog had dubbed the bombing case—which was currently under the sofa, where he had tossed it in a fit of pique a week ago. Sherlock snaked a hand down and plucked it out, switching it on.
“Hello Jim,” Sherlock greeted calmly. He saw John tense, hands balling into fists.
“Hello there, sexy,” Jim Moriarty’s voice answered back. “Been busy?”
“Oh, I think you know,” Sherlock answered smoothly. “What is it now, sixty-four of your agents in custody and fifteen crimes averted? Tut-tut, Jim. One would think you aren’t trying.”
John had pulled out his own phone and was texting someone, most likely Lestrade. His mouth was drawn down into a grim line and the hand holding the phone was trembling.
“Sixty-three,” Moriarty corrected. “It has been fun though, hasn’t it? The drugs ring—that was a real humdinger. Recognize any of your old haunts? I did so try to make it memorable for you.”
“Yes, I enjoyed the trip down memory lane,” Sherlock drawled. Honestly, he didn’t know why people made such a big deal out of his drugs. Not like it concerned anyone but him and the fact that Jim thought that he would be ashamed of it was entirely pedestrian. “Almost as much as I enjoyed catching that actress you hired to date John. Really Jim, you’re slipping.”
John shook his head at the mention of his name, pressing ‘send’ a bit more viciously than was necessary. He drifted closer, perching next to Sherlock on the sofa, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s. There was a question there but Sherlock couldn’t answer it, not yet. He looked away, focusing his full attention on the ambient sounds he could hear from Moriarty’s end.
There was a clicking sound, fingers on a keyboard, Sherlock deduced. Moriarty’s voice was a bit distorted as well, a slight echo added, as if he were in a large or unfurnished room. Not enough to work with, not nearly enough to find him, of course. But then, Sherlock hadn’t expected that, no matter what insults he offered the consulting criminal.
“Well, I’ve been a bit stretched for resources,” Moriarty said airily. “Which is why I’ve decided to offer you a deal. A partnership, my dear. You and I. You know we’d be great together. Think of it—taking apart the world piece by piece and building it into whatever we wanted. And we could, you know. We could do anything we wanted.”
Sherlock felt the rictus of a smile pull his lips up. He did not for a moment believe that Moriarty really meant to take him into his organisation. Control, exploit, even fuck—yes. He wanted all of that from Sherlock. But partnership? The very idea was ludicrous for a man like Moriarty. He didn’t know the meaning of the word.
“And what would I have to gain from this ‘partnership’?”
“I could make it so you’d never be bored, Sherlock,” Moriarty answered smoothly. “You know I could. Look at you, surrounded by those imbeciles at the Yard, followed by your little dog. And none of them understand the game. None of them even know they’re playing. But you and I…we could play. I could fill your days with games that would light you up like a Christmas tree, Sherlock Holmes. And isn’t that what you want? What you’ve always wanted?”
“What I want, dear Jim,” Sherlock nearly purred, “Is you. Behind bars.”
He heard the indrawn breath, a huff of fake outrage. “You wound me, Sherlock.” Jim’s voice dipped down into something low and sinister. “Remember that I can wound you.” He sounded truly angry, as if he’d really thought Sherlock would consider his offer. Then his voice smoothed out into one of pained regret. “I am sorry, Sherlock. Truly I am.”
His voice sounded flat, final, with a false edge of sympathy in it that set Sherlock’s teeth on edge. The line went dead and then Sherlock put it together, the insincere apology and the threat made weeks ago that still echoed in his brain—I will burn the heart out of you--and Sherlock felt it, for just a moment, a burning in his chest like acid as his eyes flicked over to John, sitting rigidly beside him on the sofa, face drawn and lips nearly white with fury. Sherlock dropped the phone and launched himself at John, sending them both tumbling off the sofa and on to the floor. Sherlock waited, tense, arms flung over the smaller man, for a hail of bullets and a rain of glass.
To his credit, John didn’t push him away or ask stupid questions. But he did wriggle free of Sherlock’s grasp and, pulling Sherlock along, army-crawled across the floor and into the windowless hallway.
“Thank Christ Mrs. Hudson’s gone to her sister’s. You know how shirty she gets when we shoot the place up,” John told him. “Lestrade’s on his way, by the way.”
“Oh goodie, the Met makes all things better,” Sherlock drawled, mind working a mile a minute. No gunfire, which meant a possible bomb. Or that was what Moriarty wanted him to think and John would be shot as soon as they stepped into the street.
“I know the bomb squad would ease my mind,” John said lightly.
Sherlock laughed and it was all he could do to keep from reaching out and cupping the back of John’s neck in his hand. He placed his hands carefully under his knees to quell the temptation and leaned back. If the aim is to wound him then a bomb makes no sense. He told John so and John looked a bit relieved.
“Well, at least my jumpers are safe,” John said dryly.
Sherlock was sure that he was still grinning foolishly when the front door banged open and quick footsteps—much lighter than Lestrade’s and the clack of heels indicated female—mounted the staircase. Sherlock stood quickly, John just behind him, as Sally Donovan came into view.
“Inspector Lestrade sent me to fetch you. You’re to come with me to the hospital.” Her face looked drawn and she was refusing to meet Sherlock’s eyes.
“Why?”
She took a deep breath and finally looked at him, her eyes deep wells of sympathy. “Your brother’s been shot. Lestrade’s with him. Will you come?”