![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Sherlock (BBC) - Infatuation
Title: Infatuation
Genre: One-sided Moriarty/Watson, hint of Holmes/Watson
Rating: R
Length: ~6,800 words
Spoilers: Through 1.3, The Great Game.
Synopsis: John has a not-so-secret admirer. To say he finds this perplexing would be an understatement.
Author’s Notes: This was written as a response to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fearless_jones’ request on ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sherlockbbc’s Make Me a Monday. The prompt was for Moriarty becoming obsessed with John to the point of sending him twisted love letters and possibly even a human heart in a box. Needless to say, this is not exactly fluffy.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
~~~~~~~~~~
“Is this some kind of a joke?” John asked as he stormed back into the study.
Sherlock looked up from his laptop in confusion. John had come in no more than five minutes prior, hung up his coat, and gathered the mail from the armchair where Sherlock had tossed it upon his own return to the flat an hour before. John now held a single letter by just the tips of his forefinger and thumb, as if to touch such a thing would physically sully himself.
John stalked closer, the piece of paper fluttering in the draught caused by his movement. “I will ask you once and only once,” John warned. “Is this your idea of a joke?”
Sherlock wished to point out that it was technically the second time he had asked that question, but John’s expression precluded such a comment. Instead, Sherlock took the letter and shook it out to look at it properly. He decided to treat it as evidence, and voiced his findings as he came across them.
“This is not my penmanship,” he declared as such a thing should be obvious. “My own is slanted at an angle greater by fifteen degrees and never includes such obnoxious curls and near decorative additives.” He pointed to the whorls that could have only been added to “beautify” such and object in disgust, and John seemed slightly mollified.
“You did not decide to experiment with calligraphy?” John asked, tone still bitter.
Sherlock did not even justify that with a response. Instead, he moved on to the text itself. He blinked as he reread it, head cocked slightly to the side. “I must say this is certainly descriptive, if not perhaps a bit unrealistic,” he commented with a smirk. John raised his eyebrows at the understatement of that observation and Sherlock continued, “I trust the attentions of this admirer are unwanted and the identity remains unknown?”
“The envelope has no return address and no post mark. It would have had to been hand delivered,” John told him, handing him the item in question. Sherlock glowered at a piece of the evidence being withheld, but supposed he now knew why John suspected it had come from him.
As John had indicated, the envelope was blank save for more of the whorled ink. “Do you wish to notify Detective Inspector Lestrade?” Sherlock asked, though he suspected the likely answer.
“God, no,” John shook his head. “The last thing I need is for it to get around the Yard that I have a kinky admirer. They think I’m peculiar enough already for agreeing to live with you. Let’s just hope this is a one off and whoever it is moves on to more interesting persons. We have enough on our plates with a criminal mastermind with a panache for explosives on the loose; we shouldn’t have to deal with this on top of that.”
John exited the room to return to his own and Sherlock noted both the letter and envelope were left behind, likely to aid in the forgetting of the matter though one never truly forgot anything they actually actively attempted to disregard. Sherlock carefully folded the missive and placed both it and the envelope it came in into a blank file folder to deal with later. Should this be a “one off” as John hoped, it could be disposed of at a future date. Should it be something more than that, he had already begun a trail of evidence to follow.
That, as the saying went, appeared to be that. They had another case come Saturday and solved it come Monday, John begrudging the lack of a restful weekend as he returned to his work at the surgery that morning. Everything seemed fine until Thursday, exactly one week after the anonymous letter had arrived, and Sherlock returned to the flat to find a rather large package atop the kitchen table.
“I thought you might want to be here when I opened it,” John advised from the side of the stove where he was pouring hot water for tea. He had apparently arrived home early for a change, and found the package first.
Sherlock peered around it, finding it approximately eighty centimetres in height and twenty-two centimetres in width with a corresponding depth. It was wrapped in simple brown post wrap and had a card attached with the requisite obnoxious handwriting. “I trust you found no explosives when you moved it from the step?” he asked with a roll of his eyes. Really, John should have known better and kept it there to examine.
“You’d have to ask Mrs. Hudson, as she placed it in our doorway,” John told him. He dunked the tea bag with a little too much force, a clear sign of his agitation.
Sherlock produced a small blade from his pocket and tried not to think of their landlady meeting an unpleasant end simply from attempting to do them a favour. He sliced through the cello tape holding the envelope in place and lifted it to the light to discover nothing aside from another piece of paper with scrawled writing within. He handed that to John to deal with while he carefully sliced around the package to remove the paper on the off chance it was wired beneath the simple brown wrap.
The paper fell away to reveal a florist’s box with a clear lid that showed there were no wires or hidden devices, only a bouquet of two dozen red roses in a clear crystal vase.
“Roses?” John asked in disbelief.
“They are a typical sign of one’s affections,” Sherlock offered. John reached for the lot but Sherlock stopped him. “Let me run a test on the liquid to ensure there are no toxins,” he explained patiently, as though to a small child. John was quite agitated and Sherlock had learned over the years that speaking calmly to those upset usually had a placating effect. He dug out a pipette from the drawer while John huffed in annoyance.
“I was going to toss it in the bin,” John huffed. “No need to test for anything.”
Sherlock frowned. He did not approve of the destruction of evidence prior to proper examination. A look and John relented and Sherlock began his experiment, figuring he best test for simple water first as it was the most likely, and then move on to standard clear contaminants. “What does the letter say this time?” he asked, partially out of curiosity and partially to keep John’s attention.
“It is poetry,” John sighed. “Piss poor poetry, but poetry nonetheless.” He flipped open the card and dutifully read, “’Roses are red, bruises are blue, that’s what will be given to those who adore you.’ There’s then a series of X’s and O’s, but no signature.”
“That appears to be a warning to any other paramours you may have,” Sherlock said without looking up from his findings. So far, it was only water, filtered with a pH level of accounting for the contaminant of the stems.
“You think?” John asked hotly. He dumped his tea and rinsed the cup in the sink. There was a slight banging and Sherlock finally glanced up to find him digging a nearly untouched whiskey bottle from the back of a cupboard. He had been wondering where that had gone off to; it had been a while since either had imbibed. John poured a fair bit into his cup and capped the bottle before taking a swig.
“Does alcohol make it better?” Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow. Given John’s sister’s addiction, he felt it warranted to warn of the dangers of curing one state of mind with another.
John shook his head and downed the lot in one go. “No,” he admitted, only slightly sheepishly. “It does not make the problem go away, but it does make me feel better.” He placed his cup in the sink to deal with later and stomped off up the stairs to his room, leaving Sherlock with his studies and a counter empty of a bottle.
In the end, Sherlock found no contaminates in the water or on the flowers themselves. Something niggled at the back of his mind though, and he found himself staring at the vase and stems where they still stood upon the table. On what he would never call a hunch, he dug through a set of books John had brought down months before to try to fit into the bookcases, only to give up and leave them in a box on the floor. Third from the bottom, he found what he was looking for and upon the fifth page he confirmed his suspicions. The vase on the kitchen table was nearly identical to one holding roughly one dozen roses upon the mantle in the background of a tidy study, while a young John and Harry stood in the foreground making faces at each other.
Sherlock did not believe in coincidences. Not like this. Not with someone with an apparently unhealthy obsession with his flatmate and friend.
He did not feel the need to wake John from his no doubt drunken slumber only to disturb his sleep for more than a single evening with his revelation. He did, however, feel the need to concede to John’s wishes and toss the doubtlessly expensive bouquet into the bin. The vase he tucked away in his room in a small box he emptied to hold the crystal and the folder with the letters. Somehow, he felt there would be additions in the near future.
He was not disappointed when, again one week to the day, he and John arrived home to the flat to find the now familiar parchment envelope with a single red rose atop it. Sherlock had stopped by the surgery after meeting Lestrade at the Yard to solve something even Anderson should have been able to figure out. He thought they could visit the Thai restaurant John had been wanting to try, but John begged off wanting take away from Angelo’s instead.
John grabbed at the flower roughly, cursing when a thorn punctured his thumb and another scraped along his palm. “Bloody hell!” he shouted, flinching when Sherlock grabbed his wrist to stop him from flinging the thing to the side.
“John,” Sherlock warned, motioning to the stem now tainted with his blood. Along the deep green were the expected thorns. Not so expectedly, the thorns were a dark blue, glistening with something most definitely not naturally occurring.
“Sherlock?” John asked, a near imperceptible waver to his voice. His hand began to shake and, seeing how it was his right and not his left, it was likely not due to his wartime injuries.
Sherlock kept hold of the wrist, tight enough to slow circulation though not cut it off completely as he would not risk a physician’s hands thusly. With his free hand, he dug out his mobile and dialled Lestrade.
Hours later, while John lay in a drugged sleep deep within a secure ward of the hospital and Lestrade searched for evidence and Mycroft for surveillance footage and Harry likely drank heavily under watch of Mycroft’s cameras, Sherlock opened the letter he had pocketed from the scene. It was simple parchment with ridiculous penmanship again. The envelope bore John’s name and the letter the following: “Need: a requirement, duty, or obligation.” It was closed with the row of X’s and O’s once more, though no actual signature.
“Anything good?” John asked, surprising Sherlock with his consciousness. His voice was strong, if a little stressed, though it likely would not be for long given what they were discovering with the toxin.
Sherlock showed him the parchment and John grunted his opinion of it. Knowing what was coming next, Sherlock promised, “I plan to trade the letter for access to the toxin. I trust Mycroft will obtain a sample through his own means, but I value my own work over anyone else’s.” He did not feel the need to elaborate as to why.
“Of course,” John nodded and did not even seem to be false with that statement. “Any clues yet?”
Sherlock tucked the letter away and replied, “There are plenty of clues, John. It’s a matter of determining the perpetrator and restraining him or her at this point.”
John sucked in a breath. “You said ‘him or her’ which implies doubt which implies the search is far from over,” he explained at Sherlock’s raised eyebrows. “I do hope you find whoever it is sooner rather than later though. I’m not sure how much of this I can take.”
Sherlock wanted to argue the point as he had a fair idea of both the age and gender of the secret admirer, but John’s eyes were already drifting close, a sign of how much fighting the drugs in his system was costing him. Sherlock settled back and awaited Mrs. Hudson’s arrival to allow him to meet with Lestrade. It was not for security that he would not leave the room, but comfort. Lestrade and Mycroft would make certain no one unwanted entered the ward. Mrs. Hudson would make certain John did not awake alone.
Sherlock had the less than joyful experience of watching John grow progressively worse while no laboratory – his, Mycroft’s, or the Yard’s – came any closer to obtaining an antidote to what was proving to be a very perplexing and complex poison. One week later and John was seemingly alive due to the copious amounts of chemicals and artificial nutrients being pumped into his body while the doctors debated the need for possible intubation due to his decreased respiration.
And then Mrs. Hudson called to say another package had arrived. She had called Sherlock and not Lestrade and the younger Holmes brother was not surprised to find the elder awaiting him at the door to the flat. “And?” Sherlock prompted when his brother did not even bother to greet him.
“It is being analyzed but is marketed as the antidote to what ails Dr. Watson,” Mycroft advised. “My people are verifying its effects prior to distributing it, though I am certain you will wish to do the same.”
Sherlock nodded and was escorted to the waiting sedan. Once inside, Mycroft handed him the now hated parchment envelope. Sherlock opened it, read it, and then resisted the urge to throw it out the window. “'I told you that I cannot live without you, and now you cannot live without me,'” he read. Only this time, it was signed with a single letter “M”.
“Moriarty,” Sherlock spat. It was not a question.
“It would seem your nemesis is infatuated with your ally,” Mycroft hummed in thought. “There is no guarantee, of course, but the likelihood is extraordinary, do you not admit?”
“I admit nothing but my desire to see that man come to an excruciating end,” Sherlock ground out. Mycroft was silent but, then again, he really did not need to say anything else on the matter.
The antidote was, of course, effective. John was extremely angered by the whole thing, not that Sherlock blamed him. He had contemplated keeping the suspected identity to himeself, but could not bring himself to do so. “You must be cautious, John,” he bade. “Moriarty’s network is proving immense, and we have yet to find a pattern to any of this.”
“A pattern to his network, or a pattern to his little gifts?” John asked, voice tight with both fury and lingering pain. He was still shaky if he stood still for too long, relying on his hated cane for walking even around the flat. He was to rest, and demanded he did so at home instead of some medical fortress. Of course this meant that the flat was now under even more surveillance than usual and Sherlock was fairly certain his brother had put a tracking device inside the cane itself, which was not as good as putting one inside John himself, but it would have to do for now.
“The pattern to his gifting is obvious,” Sherlock told him from his place perched upon one of the armchairs. He had been leaving the couch open in hopes John would sit and possibly even lay down for a moment, but no such luck. He was debating resorting to drugging the tea if the other man did not get the sleep his body so desperately needed at this point.
“Enlighten me then,” John sighed, shifting his weight slightly on the cane. His left leg had a near imperceptible twitch to it. He was tiring and would need to sit soon or risk falling, possibly on the steps, cane or no.
Sherlock pressed his hands together before him, let the force of his fingertips against each other distract him from the emotions tied to what he was about to say. “Moriarty has found a new obsession, and that obsession is you,” he declared, eyes darting up to take in John’s reaction. John seemed to be at a loss, so he added, “In the romantic sense of the word.”
John finally sat, legs nearly giving way before he found the seat of the couch, cane scraping along the carpet as he did so. “Romantic?” John spat. “You call poisoning someone and letting them suffer for a week, slowly dying day by day, hour by hour, ‘romantic’?”
“I did not claim that the man was sane,” Sherlock pointed out.
John chuffed out a laugh at that, but it sounded to be a painful experience. He threw his head back to rest against the back of the couch and asked the ceiling, “Why me?”
Sherlock was fairly certain he was asking the world in general and not him specifically, but he felt the need to answer nonetheless. “You did not cower,” he explained. When John gave him a look of doubt, he continued, “You were not afraid of him, at least outwardly. You showed strength and resolve and a distinct lack of fear even when it was clear he had the upper hand. I would assume that he finds this desirable, something to study if not to obtain outright.”
“So I am just a thing to him?” John asked dryly raising his head to meet Sherlock’s gaze.
“Not ‘just’ a thing, but ‘the’ thing to him,” Sherlock clarified. “That is the problem with obsessions: they consume you until nothing else matters.” He knew he gave away too much of himself with that comment, but that John needed to hear it to fully understand the scope of things.
“If he wants me so badly, why doesn’t he just grab me off the street like your brother does all the time?” John questioned.
Sherlock could not fully hide the shudder at that thought, and was happy John appeared to be studying the fireplace behind him and not him himself at the moment. He had an answer for that, but was not sure John would want to hear it. When that gaze finally shifted to meet his own, he knew it would accept only the truth. “He wants you to want him back.”
John threw his head back again, this time with a hint of maniacal laughter tingeing his words. “You’re right,” he finally said. “Completely off his rocker.”
John made a few more less than charitable comments under his breath before Sherlock offered, “Tea?”
“You would burn down the flat if you tried to make it on your own,” John protested.
“I am perfectly capable of heating water and adding a little bag of herbs and chopped leaves,” Sherlock told him. “I did somehow manage to survive before your arrival, after all.”
John rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he conceded. “You would use it as an opportunity to drug me into finally getting some sleep,” he said instead.
Sherlock did not protest that truth. He did not need to. As if summoned, Mrs. Hudson arrived at the doorway holding a tray laden with tea and biscuits, babbling on about how good it was to have John home again. As she set it down, she very pointedly placed one cup in front of the recuperating man and one of a different colour in front of Sherlock. It would appear he would not be doing the drugging after all.
John slept well that day, and continued to recover over the course of the next week. Mycroft’s men intercepted the next package before either one of them could see it. John was not a dim man though, and insisted on knowing what it was. He did not think a kitten was such a bad thing, especially one that looked like the furball from his youth. That was, of course, until Sherlock had to explain the creature had made a visit to the taxidermist prior to making the visit to 221B Baker Street.
John was a little more than horrified about that, to say the least. He was also a little more than tired of being cooped up in the flat for the past week. It was to the point Sherlock had offered to go out to get the groceries on the condition the nice man in the black sedan out front stay and watch the door. Mrs. Hudson approved and John and had lashed out in frustration, several medical journals taking the brunt of his ire.
Sherlock was called to consult on a case the following Tuesday. He was hesitant to leave, but was told in no uncertain terms to “get the hell out” before John did something dire.
It was an interesting, if somewhat simplistic case. He found himself distracted by worry and, as such, it took several hours longer than he anticipated before he returned to the flat. Mycroft’s assistant was there and was extremely apologetic as she explained John had decided to go off on his own about an hour after Sherlock had left. They followed him, of course, but he disappeared into the Tube line only to be found a short time later via CCTV. This time he had a bag of purchases from the Tesco on the other side of town and was sitting in a huff at the station after having missed his train. They offered him a ride and he eventually conceded, though seemed quite upset about the whole thing.
Sherlock did not bother thanking her as he knew she did not expect as much, especially from him. He entered the flat to find John waiting for him, looking far more tired and worn down than he should. He would not coddle him though, not in this, and so he demanded, “Did we truly need milk and tissue enough to risk your life for it?”
“And what kind of life is it if I am locked up here all the time?” John countered. He crossed his arms in front of him and Sherlock was pleased to see he was no longer using the cane.
“A safe one,” Sherlock replied. John’s brow furrowed even more than before, so he explained, “It is only until Moriarty is caught and this ridiculous game of his can come to an end.”
“So, it’s only until a virtually invisible mad man is tracked down and found? Why not say forever and be done with it?” John sighed, a harsh sound that spoke of a level of frustration beyond what he had revealed thus far. He walked over to the kitchen counter, only a slight limp to his gait, and rested his elbows upon it and his head upon his hands. “Even I can see there’s a pattern: all his little presents have come on Thursdays. It’s Tuesday. Nothing happened and I highly doubt anything will for another two days.”
“And if he changes his routine, what then?” Sherlock challenged. “Would you have us let you walk about the streets with a target on your back, waiting for the day he decides to do something far worse than poison you and give you the antidote?”
John pushed himself up against the counter and glared in his friend’s direction. “I would have you allow me to do my job, to help others, up to and until the day I no longer can. The surgery is short staffed and Sarah is at her wits end. I am going insane trapped away in here when I could help, when I could do my bloody job!”
He reached up into a cupboard and Sherlock discovered it was not just milk and tissue he had purchased as he produced a bottle of something he likely should not be drinking during his recovery. He shuffled over to the door and called, “I will be in my room. Let me know when your brother and his minions decide I am allowed to eat or go to the loo, will you?” And with that, he was gone, heavy footsteps echoing up the stairs followed by the slamming on an old wooden door and the turning of much newer lock that would likely take Sherlock at least five minutes to pick.
Sherlock decided it was perhaps best to contact Mycroft about possible arrangements to be made.
Which is how two days later, allowing for a day for him to become fully sober and security details to be put in place, Doctor John Watson found himself back at the tiny little surgery to which he was employed. Sarah hugged him and wished him well, and more than one of his usual near-weekly cases greeted him in kind. It should have felt like old times, save for the black sedan parked out front and the new “intern” that assisted Sarah with check-in.
Sherlock texted him constantly, reassured by the occasional “Sod off” he received in reply. Until a package came, somehow making it past the sentry still posted to the door of the flat. Mycroft was reviewing the footage personally, but claimed it appeared with the rest of the post and the worker had already been fully vetted but would be examined with prejudice shortly.
Sherlock insisted on opening the package himself, checking for the usual wires and switches, knowing Moriarty’s panache for explosives. Inside, wrapped in ice, he found a hand. It was thankfully far too youthful and not nearly enough callused or scarred to be John’s, though it was clearly that of a male. Clutched in its grip was an Oyster card. One quick call to Mycroft confirmed its last use was at the station where his men found John two days’ prior.
He opened the letter as carefully as the package, to discover the note within: “He shall never lay hands on you again. Pleasant journeys.”
Another call to Mycroft and the footage from the station was his and extra security was John’s. He watched as John waited for his train and stepped forward with the initial rush to enter. He then watched as a young man in a hooded sweatshirt pushed him out of the way, making him stumble and nearly drop his packages, the recovery of which caused him to miss his departure.
Sherlock was fairly certain to whom the hand belonged to, regardless of not yet verifying this knowledge via fingerprints. When he received the text from Lestrade only an hour and a half later regarding a mysterious body found on the tracks just outside the station, he text back to verify the missing appendage. His phone rang nearly instantly with Lestrade demanding to know how he knew this without even seeing the body. He simply responded, “Because it is currently in front of me.”
John confirmed the identity of the man, and confirmed Anderson’s analysis that he had bled out and likely gone into shock from the injury. He then stepped off to the side, vomited, and requested a ride back to the flat.
John had more than a single alcoholic drink again that night, and Sherlock grew upset that Mycroft saw fit to restock the bottle. Given John’s usual frustration with Harry and her habits, John’s new enthusiasm for the vice was quite worrisome, or so Sherlock thought. Lestrade, however, shared a glass with the man and told him he could not imagine what he was going through, both things Sherlock saw no need for, but John seemed somewhat comforted.
John proved to be stubborn once again, and insisted on returning to his work at the surgery, pointing out that no one had been harmed there, he was productive there, and that, once again, it was no longer Thursday, so he should be safe. Sherlock argued that by that logic John should not leave the flat on Thursdays, but was advised, “Fat chance of that happening,” as the good doctor did just that.
Sherlock kept his texting down to no more than two every quarter hour, not wishing to fully disturb his friend’s work but still wishing to keep advised in a fashion more reliable than Mycroft’s man stationed at the door. He was surprised, however, when at half past noon, his mobile rang with John’s number listed on this display. John was not keen on calling when he could text and rarely initiated the contact, only replying when Sherlock’s own contact grew too tiresome to ignore.
Sherlock made to answer the phone with the usual niceties he had been assured were proper and expected, but never even got out a single word before John’s frantic voice demanded, “Is the post there yet?”
It was slightly early for any packages to arrive, if they could even make it through the gambit to their doorway, and Sherlock advised him as such.
“I don’t bloody care!” John shouted at him. “Go check. Go check now!” Then, as if to someone in the background, he directed, “Keep pressure on it. God. He’s looking. I’m so sorry.”
That mobilized Sherlock more than anything. He took the stairs two at a time and opened the door to find Mycroft’s assistant reaching for a small box wrapped in brown paper. He grabbed it from her and advised John, “I have it now. Let me open it to ensure it is safe.”
“No time,” John insisted. “Bring it here now and have that brother of yours have an ambulance and a specialist standing by.”
“A specialist for what?” Sherlock asked in exasperation. He needed details, not vague insinuations of trouble if he was to deal with the situation properly and John should know better by now. He took the offered blade and carefully sliced around the paper, leaving the card for later.
“Reattachment,” John breathed, voice full of anger and worry and frustration all at once.
Sherlock was about to ask him to clarify, but he opened the package instead, lifting the lid to find a single finger nestled in a pad of cotton, the blood still seeping from it staining the white material crimson. It was not John’s, he was certain of that. It was too long, too slender, and too feminine, and not just due to the hint of pearlescent pink polish still visible on the nail. He wished to ask who it could belong to, but feared he knew the answer already.
Confirming his suspicions, he heard John on the other end of the line explain in not much more than a rushed gasp, “She’s in shock. Keep it elevated. Sarah, you have to keep that hand up!”
Sherlock turned to the now two waiting aides and directed, “Get this to the surgery immediately.” He handed his phone to the large man who he knew was far more intelligent than he first appeared based on the fact he worked for his brother and ordered, “Get him whatever he needs. Time is of the essence.” Based upon the coagulation of the blood thus far, they may well be able to save the finger, and the hand it was formerly attached to, but it would be a close thing.
He handed the box to the other aide and tore open the requisite parchment envelope. “She will never wear your ring,” it read. He threw it to the floor in disgust, and stormed out after the others, taking the offered Blackberry to provide Lestrade with an update.
Many hours later, long enough for Thursday to become Friday to become the faintest hint of Saturday, Sherlock led John back into the flat. The operation had been moderately successful. They would not know if Dr. Sawyer would regain full mobility of the digit for quite some time. She was currently sedated and under watch in the same ward John had been in only a few scant weeks before, everyone going in or out of the room verified and vetted by security agents that put Mycroft’s bulk to shame.
Similar agents were now stationed inside their flat. Mrs. Hudson had opened up 221C to provide sleeping quarters, but there would be at the bare minimum one stationed in the study and another at the main entrance until Moriarty was brought down once and for all.
He had gotten too close this time, chosen a target too dear to his precious Dr. Watson, and attacked far too near his place of employment. John was resigned to the flat now, only leaving in the conspicuous black sedans to visit his recovering friend, someone he had broken up with months before and yet still paid the price for Moriarty’s insanity.
Sherlock was not certain if he should be reassured that Moriarty’s intelligence was incorrect or not. It was possible that he had known about the breakup and chosen to ignore it when choosing his target. It was possible that he knew of some yet unvoiced longing of Sarah’s to re-establish a relationship and was playing upon that. It was also possible that the man had simply been in error. That he had not been able to get close enough to verify his information before the attack. That he had watched with cameras and spies and reached the erroneous conclusion based upon conjecture. That he simply had been wrong.
Not that it helped Sarah much at the moment, or John for that matter. The man sat upstairs in his room, only coming down to make a pot of tea or eat takeaway when coaxed to do so. The onset of depression was clear, and likely only lightened by the knowledge that several noted physicians had volunteered their time at the surgery to prevent it from being closed during the duration of Doctor Sawyer’s recovery and John’s only partially self-imposed imprisonment. Had more people suffered, be it only with the sniffles or some tiny scratch from a stray, John would likely be inconsolable at this point.
It happened to be a Wednesday when Lestrade phoned Sherlock for assistance. There was a maiming incident far too similar to Sarah’s not to raise suspicions. They chased the suspect through the rooftops and alleyways of London for most of the evening, finding themselves cornered and outnumbered in an abandoned warehouse and saved by Sally Donovan’s quite impressive marksmanship. She hit her targets and avoided the bomb strapped to the support beam, though that may have been through ignorance if its existence and pure dumb luck more than anything else.
They had been clearing out of the structure when the secondary timer caused a sizable explosion, one of Moriarty’s own men caught in the blast and two others near enough to suffer injuries sufficient enough to be called severe. It was a right mess sorting out who was who and, due to Lestrade’s usual vehicle being damaged by debris, Lestrade, Donovan, and Sherlock were forced to ride back with members of the bomb squad instead.
It was not until they were back at the station with cheap coffee brewing and paperwork strewn about that Sherlock realized Wednesday had passed into Thursday once more. This realization was, in part, due to the Detective Inspector’s phone ringing and the receiver barely lifted from the cradle before a familiar voice, tinny through the line, demanded, “Tell me he’s with you.”
Sherlock’s head shot up at that. He patted his pockets to find his mobile only to discover he must have lost it during the chase. That explained why John was calling Lestrade, but not the frantic tone he was using to do so.
Gregory was pushing the phone in his direction, a shrugged, “He’s insisting,” the only explanation offered.
“John?” Sherlock asked as he held the outdated receiver to his ear.
“Oh, thank God,” John sighed in a rush.
“What was delivered?” Sherlock asked, deducing the reason for his anxiety.
There was the sound of footsteps on linoleum, a chair scraping across the floor as John paced by. “There was a box, it arrived first thing this morning,” John explained. Sherlock was impatient for specifics, but knew he needed to give his friend time. “In it w-was... There was a heart inside. A human heart. Freshly removed given the blood, though singed as if someone did a piss poor job of cauterizing the wound.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Moriarty had said, within John’s presence, that he wished to burn the heart out of him. He could easily see why John thought it was his. “Mine is still safely within my chest,” he said unnecessarily.
“Sherlock, he...” John started, but did not appear capable of finishing the thought.
Sherlock had a thought of his own. “Which number are you calling from?” he asked.
“The one Michael just gave me,” John replied, confusion evident in his tone.
Michael was one of Mycroft’s men, which meant a higher possibility of a secure line. The phones at the Yard were also checked regularly, especially the one in Lestrade’s office ever since the whole business with Moriarty began. “I have an idea you will likely not approve of,” Sherlock announced.
“If it brings this bastard down, I am all for it,” John replied with a conviction Sherlock knew not to question.
Which is how, one week to the day later, Sherlock came to find John sitting on the front stoop to their flat, gun being removed from his lax hands, looking exhausted beyond all belief. Emergency personnel ran to and fro, putting out the smouldering wreck of one of Mycroft’s sedans, his people thankfully only slightly scorched and not utterly decimated as originally intended.
Lestrade and his team were attempting to take statements, Mycroft and his team obfuscating as usual, and Sherlock simply crouched near his friend, giving him the time he needed to cope with everything that had happened.
The plan had gone completely as anticipated. Mycroft had appeared at the flat to announce Sherlock’s demise, the fool that had covered for his failure to Moriarty safely in custody and Mycroft’s men making enough of a show for Sherlock to slip in during the chaos they created. John had screamed and shouted and generally made a scene attempting to throw out Mycroft’s men and the various people from the Yard that had come to alternately console him and offer him further protection. He had supposedly succeeded the night before, though one stubborn sedan had remained; the same sedan that was now not much more than a mess of metal and flames.
And now John sat on the stoop, the same as he had done since sunrise that morning, save for the brief period of time in which he stood, greeted an over-enthusiastic Moriarty, listened to him ramble, and then calmly shot him with the pistol that had been tucked into his waistband beneath the heavy jacket the mad man had not even though to check in his arrogance.
“He’ll escape,” John announced. He glared at the medic that approached with the dread orange blanket and the man wisely backed away.
“That is a very likely conclusion,” Sherlock agreed.
He had seen the medics that had gathered the cursing and bleeding form of James Moriarty. One was a veteran to his profession, a grizzled man who came into the healing occupation after an unfortunate sporting event approximately twenty-five years prior. The other a veteran for another reason, his more militarized movements speaking of a life as a field medic devoted to his cause. Given the slight nod to the man he was supposed to be rendering unconscious with chemicals, his current cause was supported by Moriarty’s regime. Two armed men followed them into the ambulance, but three non-descript vehicles followed the ones Lestrade’s team had accompany the ambulance and had likely already released their leader to renew his reign of terror.
“It will be a right sight harder to do so with no kneecap and a hole in his hand,” John mused.
Sherlock felt his lips quirk at the understatement. “I would imagine it shall,” he agreed.
John finally stood, stretching muscles and tendons that had remained still for far too long before he turned to Sherlock and offered, “Tea?”
“That would be lovely,” he agreed. He stood as well and opened the door to gesture John back into their flat, past the milling agents and a tutting Mrs. Hudson, up the stairs and to the kitchen where a kettle awaited.
~~~~~~~~~~
Feedback is always welcomed.
Genre: One-sided Moriarty/Watson, hint of Holmes/Watson
Rating: R
Length: ~6,800 words
Spoilers: Through 1.3, The Great Game.
Synopsis: John has a not-so-secret admirer. To say he finds this perplexing would be an understatement.
Author’s Notes: This was written as a response to
fearless_jones’ request on sherlockbbc’s Make Me a Monday. The prompt was for Moriarty becoming obsessed with John to the point of sending him twisted love letters and possibly even a human heart in a box. Needless to say, this is not exactly fluffy.Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
~~~~~~~~~~
“Is this some kind of a joke?” John asked as he stormed back into the study.
Sherlock looked up from his laptop in confusion. John had come in no more than five minutes prior, hung up his coat, and gathered the mail from the armchair where Sherlock had tossed it upon his own return to the flat an hour before. John now held a single letter by just the tips of his forefinger and thumb, as if to touch such a thing would physically sully himself.
John stalked closer, the piece of paper fluttering in the draught caused by his movement. “I will ask you once and only once,” John warned. “Is this your idea of a joke?”
Sherlock wished to point out that it was technically the second time he had asked that question, but John’s expression precluded such a comment. Instead, Sherlock took the letter and shook it out to look at it properly. He decided to treat it as evidence, and voiced his findings as he came across them.
“This is not my penmanship,” he declared as such a thing should be obvious. “My own is slanted at an angle greater by fifteen degrees and never includes such obnoxious curls and near decorative additives.” He pointed to the whorls that could have only been added to “beautify” such and object in disgust, and John seemed slightly mollified.
“You did not decide to experiment with calligraphy?” John asked, tone still bitter.
Sherlock did not even justify that with a response. Instead, he moved on to the text itself. He blinked as he reread it, head cocked slightly to the side. “I must say this is certainly descriptive, if not perhaps a bit unrealistic,” he commented with a smirk. John raised his eyebrows at the understatement of that observation and Sherlock continued, “I trust the attentions of this admirer are unwanted and the identity remains unknown?”
“The envelope has no return address and no post mark. It would have had to been hand delivered,” John told him, handing him the item in question. Sherlock glowered at a piece of the evidence being withheld, but supposed he now knew why John suspected it had come from him.
As John had indicated, the envelope was blank save for more of the whorled ink. “Do you wish to notify Detective Inspector Lestrade?” Sherlock asked, though he suspected the likely answer.
“God, no,” John shook his head. “The last thing I need is for it to get around the Yard that I have a kinky admirer. They think I’m peculiar enough already for agreeing to live with you. Let’s just hope this is a one off and whoever it is moves on to more interesting persons. We have enough on our plates with a criminal mastermind with a panache for explosives on the loose; we shouldn’t have to deal with this on top of that.”
John exited the room to return to his own and Sherlock noted both the letter and envelope were left behind, likely to aid in the forgetting of the matter though one never truly forgot anything they actually actively attempted to disregard. Sherlock carefully folded the missive and placed both it and the envelope it came in into a blank file folder to deal with later. Should this be a “one off” as John hoped, it could be disposed of at a future date. Should it be something more than that, he had already begun a trail of evidence to follow.
That, as the saying went, appeared to be that. They had another case come Saturday and solved it come Monday, John begrudging the lack of a restful weekend as he returned to his work at the surgery that morning. Everything seemed fine until Thursday, exactly one week after the anonymous letter had arrived, and Sherlock returned to the flat to find a rather large package atop the kitchen table.
“I thought you might want to be here when I opened it,” John advised from the side of the stove where he was pouring hot water for tea. He had apparently arrived home early for a change, and found the package first.
Sherlock peered around it, finding it approximately eighty centimetres in height and twenty-two centimetres in width with a corresponding depth. It was wrapped in simple brown post wrap and had a card attached with the requisite obnoxious handwriting. “I trust you found no explosives when you moved it from the step?” he asked with a roll of his eyes. Really, John should have known better and kept it there to examine.
“You’d have to ask Mrs. Hudson, as she placed it in our doorway,” John told him. He dunked the tea bag with a little too much force, a clear sign of his agitation.
Sherlock produced a small blade from his pocket and tried not to think of their landlady meeting an unpleasant end simply from attempting to do them a favour. He sliced through the cello tape holding the envelope in place and lifted it to the light to discover nothing aside from another piece of paper with scrawled writing within. He handed that to John to deal with while he carefully sliced around the package to remove the paper on the off chance it was wired beneath the simple brown wrap.
The paper fell away to reveal a florist’s box with a clear lid that showed there were no wires or hidden devices, only a bouquet of two dozen red roses in a clear crystal vase.
“Roses?” John asked in disbelief.
“They are a typical sign of one’s affections,” Sherlock offered. John reached for the lot but Sherlock stopped him. “Let me run a test on the liquid to ensure there are no toxins,” he explained patiently, as though to a small child. John was quite agitated and Sherlock had learned over the years that speaking calmly to those upset usually had a placating effect. He dug out a pipette from the drawer while John huffed in annoyance.
“I was going to toss it in the bin,” John huffed. “No need to test for anything.”
Sherlock frowned. He did not approve of the destruction of evidence prior to proper examination. A look and John relented and Sherlock began his experiment, figuring he best test for simple water first as it was the most likely, and then move on to standard clear contaminants. “What does the letter say this time?” he asked, partially out of curiosity and partially to keep John’s attention.
“It is poetry,” John sighed. “Piss poor poetry, but poetry nonetheless.” He flipped open the card and dutifully read, “’Roses are red, bruises are blue, that’s what will be given to those who adore you.’ There’s then a series of X’s and O’s, but no signature.”
“That appears to be a warning to any other paramours you may have,” Sherlock said without looking up from his findings. So far, it was only water, filtered with a pH level of accounting for the contaminant of the stems.
“You think?” John asked hotly. He dumped his tea and rinsed the cup in the sink. There was a slight banging and Sherlock finally glanced up to find him digging a nearly untouched whiskey bottle from the back of a cupboard. He had been wondering where that had gone off to; it had been a while since either had imbibed. John poured a fair bit into his cup and capped the bottle before taking a swig.
“Does alcohol make it better?” Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow. Given John’s sister’s addiction, he felt it warranted to warn of the dangers of curing one state of mind with another.
John shook his head and downed the lot in one go. “No,” he admitted, only slightly sheepishly. “It does not make the problem go away, but it does make me feel better.” He placed his cup in the sink to deal with later and stomped off up the stairs to his room, leaving Sherlock with his studies and a counter empty of a bottle.
In the end, Sherlock found no contaminates in the water or on the flowers themselves. Something niggled at the back of his mind though, and he found himself staring at the vase and stems where they still stood upon the table. On what he would never call a hunch, he dug through a set of books John had brought down months before to try to fit into the bookcases, only to give up and leave them in a box on the floor. Third from the bottom, he found what he was looking for and upon the fifth page he confirmed his suspicions. The vase on the kitchen table was nearly identical to one holding roughly one dozen roses upon the mantle in the background of a tidy study, while a young John and Harry stood in the foreground making faces at each other.
Sherlock did not believe in coincidences. Not like this. Not with someone with an apparently unhealthy obsession with his flatmate and friend.
He did not feel the need to wake John from his no doubt drunken slumber only to disturb his sleep for more than a single evening with his revelation. He did, however, feel the need to concede to John’s wishes and toss the doubtlessly expensive bouquet into the bin. The vase he tucked away in his room in a small box he emptied to hold the crystal and the folder with the letters. Somehow, he felt there would be additions in the near future.
He was not disappointed when, again one week to the day, he and John arrived home to the flat to find the now familiar parchment envelope with a single red rose atop it. Sherlock had stopped by the surgery after meeting Lestrade at the Yard to solve something even Anderson should have been able to figure out. He thought they could visit the Thai restaurant John had been wanting to try, but John begged off wanting take away from Angelo’s instead.
John grabbed at the flower roughly, cursing when a thorn punctured his thumb and another scraped along his palm. “Bloody hell!” he shouted, flinching when Sherlock grabbed his wrist to stop him from flinging the thing to the side.
“John,” Sherlock warned, motioning to the stem now tainted with his blood. Along the deep green were the expected thorns. Not so expectedly, the thorns were a dark blue, glistening with something most definitely not naturally occurring.
“Sherlock?” John asked, a near imperceptible waver to his voice. His hand began to shake and, seeing how it was his right and not his left, it was likely not due to his wartime injuries.
Sherlock kept hold of the wrist, tight enough to slow circulation though not cut it off completely as he would not risk a physician’s hands thusly. With his free hand, he dug out his mobile and dialled Lestrade.
Hours later, while John lay in a drugged sleep deep within a secure ward of the hospital and Lestrade searched for evidence and Mycroft for surveillance footage and Harry likely drank heavily under watch of Mycroft’s cameras, Sherlock opened the letter he had pocketed from the scene. It was simple parchment with ridiculous penmanship again. The envelope bore John’s name and the letter the following: “Need: a requirement, duty, or obligation.” It was closed with the row of X’s and O’s once more, though no actual signature.
“Anything good?” John asked, surprising Sherlock with his consciousness. His voice was strong, if a little stressed, though it likely would not be for long given what they were discovering with the toxin.
Sherlock showed him the parchment and John grunted his opinion of it. Knowing what was coming next, Sherlock promised, “I plan to trade the letter for access to the toxin. I trust Mycroft will obtain a sample through his own means, but I value my own work over anyone else’s.” He did not feel the need to elaborate as to why.
“Of course,” John nodded and did not even seem to be false with that statement. “Any clues yet?”
Sherlock tucked the letter away and replied, “There are plenty of clues, John. It’s a matter of determining the perpetrator and restraining him or her at this point.”
John sucked in a breath. “You said ‘him or her’ which implies doubt which implies the search is far from over,” he explained at Sherlock’s raised eyebrows. “I do hope you find whoever it is sooner rather than later though. I’m not sure how much of this I can take.”
Sherlock wanted to argue the point as he had a fair idea of both the age and gender of the secret admirer, but John’s eyes were already drifting close, a sign of how much fighting the drugs in his system was costing him. Sherlock settled back and awaited Mrs. Hudson’s arrival to allow him to meet with Lestrade. It was not for security that he would not leave the room, but comfort. Lestrade and Mycroft would make certain no one unwanted entered the ward. Mrs. Hudson would make certain John did not awake alone.
Sherlock had the less than joyful experience of watching John grow progressively worse while no laboratory – his, Mycroft’s, or the Yard’s – came any closer to obtaining an antidote to what was proving to be a very perplexing and complex poison. One week later and John was seemingly alive due to the copious amounts of chemicals and artificial nutrients being pumped into his body while the doctors debated the need for possible intubation due to his decreased respiration.
And then Mrs. Hudson called to say another package had arrived. She had called Sherlock and not Lestrade and the younger Holmes brother was not surprised to find the elder awaiting him at the door to the flat. “And?” Sherlock prompted when his brother did not even bother to greet him.
“It is being analyzed but is marketed as the antidote to what ails Dr. Watson,” Mycroft advised. “My people are verifying its effects prior to distributing it, though I am certain you will wish to do the same.”
Sherlock nodded and was escorted to the waiting sedan. Once inside, Mycroft handed him the now hated parchment envelope. Sherlock opened it, read it, and then resisted the urge to throw it out the window. “'I told you that I cannot live without you, and now you cannot live without me,'” he read. Only this time, it was signed with a single letter “M”.
“Moriarty,” Sherlock spat. It was not a question.
“It would seem your nemesis is infatuated with your ally,” Mycroft hummed in thought. “There is no guarantee, of course, but the likelihood is extraordinary, do you not admit?”
“I admit nothing but my desire to see that man come to an excruciating end,” Sherlock ground out. Mycroft was silent but, then again, he really did not need to say anything else on the matter.
The antidote was, of course, effective. John was extremely angered by the whole thing, not that Sherlock blamed him. He had contemplated keeping the suspected identity to himeself, but could not bring himself to do so. “You must be cautious, John,” he bade. “Moriarty’s network is proving immense, and we have yet to find a pattern to any of this.”
“A pattern to his network, or a pattern to his little gifts?” John asked, voice tight with both fury and lingering pain. He was still shaky if he stood still for too long, relying on his hated cane for walking even around the flat. He was to rest, and demanded he did so at home instead of some medical fortress. Of course this meant that the flat was now under even more surveillance than usual and Sherlock was fairly certain his brother had put a tracking device inside the cane itself, which was not as good as putting one inside John himself, but it would have to do for now.
“The pattern to his gifting is obvious,” Sherlock told him from his place perched upon one of the armchairs. He had been leaving the couch open in hopes John would sit and possibly even lay down for a moment, but no such luck. He was debating resorting to drugging the tea if the other man did not get the sleep his body so desperately needed at this point.
“Enlighten me then,” John sighed, shifting his weight slightly on the cane. His left leg had a near imperceptible twitch to it. He was tiring and would need to sit soon or risk falling, possibly on the steps, cane or no.
Sherlock pressed his hands together before him, let the force of his fingertips against each other distract him from the emotions tied to what he was about to say. “Moriarty has found a new obsession, and that obsession is you,” he declared, eyes darting up to take in John’s reaction. John seemed to be at a loss, so he added, “In the romantic sense of the word.”
John finally sat, legs nearly giving way before he found the seat of the couch, cane scraping along the carpet as he did so. “Romantic?” John spat. “You call poisoning someone and letting them suffer for a week, slowly dying day by day, hour by hour, ‘romantic’?”
“I did not claim that the man was sane,” Sherlock pointed out.
John chuffed out a laugh at that, but it sounded to be a painful experience. He threw his head back to rest against the back of the couch and asked the ceiling, “Why me?”
Sherlock was fairly certain he was asking the world in general and not him specifically, but he felt the need to answer nonetheless. “You did not cower,” he explained. When John gave him a look of doubt, he continued, “You were not afraid of him, at least outwardly. You showed strength and resolve and a distinct lack of fear even when it was clear he had the upper hand. I would assume that he finds this desirable, something to study if not to obtain outright.”
“So I am just a thing to him?” John asked dryly raising his head to meet Sherlock’s gaze.
“Not ‘just’ a thing, but ‘the’ thing to him,” Sherlock clarified. “That is the problem with obsessions: they consume you until nothing else matters.” He knew he gave away too much of himself with that comment, but that John needed to hear it to fully understand the scope of things.
“If he wants me so badly, why doesn’t he just grab me off the street like your brother does all the time?” John questioned.
Sherlock could not fully hide the shudder at that thought, and was happy John appeared to be studying the fireplace behind him and not him himself at the moment. He had an answer for that, but was not sure John would want to hear it. When that gaze finally shifted to meet his own, he knew it would accept only the truth. “He wants you to want him back.”
John threw his head back again, this time with a hint of maniacal laughter tingeing his words. “You’re right,” he finally said. “Completely off his rocker.”
John made a few more less than charitable comments under his breath before Sherlock offered, “Tea?”
“You would burn down the flat if you tried to make it on your own,” John protested.
“I am perfectly capable of heating water and adding a little bag of herbs and chopped leaves,” Sherlock told him. “I did somehow manage to survive before your arrival, after all.”
John rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he conceded. “You would use it as an opportunity to drug me into finally getting some sleep,” he said instead.
Sherlock did not protest that truth. He did not need to. As if summoned, Mrs. Hudson arrived at the doorway holding a tray laden with tea and biscuits, babbling on about how good it was to have John home again. As she set it down, she very pointedly placed one cup in front of the recuperating man and one of a different colour in front of Sherlock. It would appear he would not be doing the drugging after all.
John slept well that day, and continued to recover over the course of the next week. Mycroft’s men intercepted the next package before either one of them could see it. John was not a dim man though, and insisted on knowing what it was. He did not think a kitten was such a bad thing, especially one that looked like the furball from his youth. That was, of course, until Sherlock had to explain the creature had made a visit to the taxidermist prior to making the visit to 221B Baker Street.
John was a little more than horrified about that, to say the least. He was also a little more than tired of being cooped up in the flat for the past week. It was to the point Sherlock had offered to go out to get the groceries on the condition the nice man in the black sedan out front stay and watch the door. Mrs. Hudson approved and John and had lashed out in frustration, several medical journals taking the brunt of his ire.
Sherlock was called to consult on a case the following Tuesday. He was hesitant to leave, but was told in no uncertain terms to “get the hell out” before John did something dire.
It was an interesting, if somewhat simplistic case. He found himself distracted by worry and, as such, it took several hours longer than he anticipated before he returned to the flat. Mycroft’s assistant was there and was extremely apologetic as she explained John had decided to go off on his own about an hour after Sherlock had left. They followed him, of course, but he disappeared into the Tube line only to be found a short time later via CCTV. This time he had a bag of purchases from the Tesco on the other side of town and was sitting in a huff at the station after having missed his train. They offered him a ride and he eventually conceded, though seemed quite upset about the whole thing.
Sherlock did not bother thanking her as he knew she did not expect as much, especially from him. He entered the flat to find John waiting for him, looking far more tired and worn down than he should. He would not coddle him though, not in this, and so he demanded, “Did we truly need milk and tissue enough to risk your life for it?”
“And what kind of life is it if I am locked up here all the time?” John countered. He crossed his arms in front of him and Sherlock was pleased to see he was no longer using the cane.
“A safe one,” Sherlock replied. John’s brow furrowed even more than before, so he explained, “It is only until Moriarty is caught and this ridiculous game of his can come to an end.”
“So, it’s only until a virtually invisible mad man is tracked down and found? Why not say forever and be done with it?” John sighed, a harsh sound that spoke of a level of frustration beyond what he had revealed thus far. He walked over to the kitchen counter, only a slight limp to his gait, and rested his elbows upon it and his head upon his hands. “Even I can see there’s a pattern: all his little presents have come on Thursdays. It’s Tuesday. Nothing happened and I highly doubt anything will for another two days.”
“And if he changes his routine, what then?” Sherlock challenged. “Would you have us let you walk about the streets with a target on your back, waiting for the day he decides to do something far worse than poison you and give you the antidote?”
John pushed himself up against the counter and glared in his friend’s direction. “I would have you allow me to do my job, to help others, up to and until the day I no longer can. The surgery is short staffed and Sarah is at her wits end. I am going insane trapped away in here when I could help, when I could do my bloody job!”
He reached up into a cupboard and Sherlock discovered it was not just milk and tissue he had purchased as he produced a bottle of something he likely should not be drinking during his recovery. He shuffled over to the door and called, “I will be in my room. Let me know when your brother and his minions decide I am allowed to eat or go to the loo, will you?” And with that, he was gone, heavy footsteps echoing up the stairs followed by the slamming on an old wooden door and the turning of much newer lock that would likely take Sherlock at least five minutes to pick.
Sherlock decided it was perhaps best to contact Mycroft about possible arrangements to be made.
Which is how two days later, allowing for a day for him to become fully sober and security details to be put in place, Doctor John Watson found himself back at the tiny little surgery to which he was employed. Sarah hugged him and wished him well, and more than one of his usual near-weekly cases greeted him in kind. It should have felt like old times, save for the black sedan parked out front and the new “intern” that assisted Sarah with check-in.
Sherlock texted him constantly, reassured by the occasional “Sod off” he received in reply. Until a package came, somehow making it past the sentry still posted to the door of the flat. Mycroft was reviewing the footage personally, but claimed it appeared with the rest of the post and the worker had already been fully vetted but would be examined with prejudice shortly.
Sherlock insisted on opening the package himself, checking for the usual wires and switches, knowing Moriarty’s panache for explosives. Inside, wrapped in ice, he found a hand. It was thankfully far too youthful and not nearly enough callused or scarred to be John’s, though it was clearly that of a male. Clutched in its grip was an Oyster card. One quick call to Mycroft confirmed its last use was at the station where his men found John two days’ prior.
He opened the letter as carefully as the package, to discover the note within: “He shall never lay hands on you again. Pleasant journeys.”
Another call to Mycroft and the footage from the station was his and extra security was John’s. He watched as John waited for his train and stepped forward with the initial rush to enter. He then watched as a young man in a hooded sweatshirt pushed him out of the way, making him stumble and nearly drop his packages, the recovery of which caused him to miss his departure.
Sherlock was fairly certain to whom the hand belonged to, regardless of not yet verifying this knowledge via fingerprints. When he received the text from Lestrade only an hour and a half later regarding a mysterious body found on the tracks just outside the station, he text back to verify the missing appendage. His phone rang nearly instantly with Lestrade demanding to know how he knew this without even seeing the body. He simply responded, “Because it is currently in front of me.”
John confirmed the identity of the man, and confirmed Anderson’s analysis that he had bled out and likely gone into shock from the injury. He then stepped off to the side, vomited, and requested a ride back to the flat.
John had more than a single alcoholic drink again that night, and Sherlock grew upset that Mycroft saw fit to restock the bottle. Given John’s usual frustration with Harry and her habits, John’s new enthusiasm for the vice was quite worrisome, or so Sherlock thought. Lestrade, however, shared a glass with the man and told him he could not imagine what he was going through, both things Sherlock saw no need for, but John seemed somewhat comforted.
John proved to be stubborn once again, and insisted on returning to his work at the surgery, pointing out that no one had been harmed there, he was productive there, and that, once again, it was no longer Thursday, so he should be safe. Sherlock argued that by that logic John should not leave the flat on Thursdays, but was advised, “Fat chance of that happening,” as the good doctor did just that.
Sherlock kept his texting down to no more than two every quarter hour, not wishing to fully disturb his friend’s work but still wishing to keep advised in a fashion more reliable than Mycroft’s man stationed at the door. He was surprised, however, when at half past noon, his mobile rang with John’s number listed on this display. John was not keen on calling when he could text and rarely initiated the contact, only replying when Sherlock’s own contact grew too tiresome to ignore.
Sherlock made to answer the phone with the usual niceties he had been assured were proper and expected, but never even got out a single word before John’s frantic voice demanded, “Is the post there yet?”
It was slightly early for any packages to arrive, if they could even make it through the gambit to their doorway, and Sherlock advised him as such.
“I don’t bloody care!” John shouted at him. “Go check. Go check now!” Then, as if to someone in the background, he directed, “Keep pressure on it. God. He’s looking. I’m so sorry.”
That mobilized Sherlock more than anything. He took the stairs two at a time and opened the door to find Mycroft’s assistant reaching for a small box wrapped in brown paper. He grabbed it from her and advised John, “I have it now. Let me open it to ensure it is safe.”
“No time,” John insisted. “Bring it here now and have that brother of yours have an ambulance and a specialist standing by.”
“A specialist for what?” Sherlock asked in exasperation. He needed details, not vague insinuations of trouble if he was to deal with the situation properly and John should know better by now. He took the offered blade and carefully sliced around the paper, leaving the card for later.
“Reattachment,” John breathed, voice full of anger and worry and frustration all at once.
Sherlock was about to ask him to clarify, but he opened the package instead, lifting the lid to find a single finger nestled in a pad of cotton, the blood still seeping from it staining the white material crimson. It was not John’s, he was certain of that. It was too long, too slender, and too feminine, and not just due to the hint of pearlescent pink polish still visible on the nail. He wished to ask who it could belong to, but feared he knew the answer already.
Confirming his suspicions, he heard John on the other end of the line explain in not much more than a rushed gasp, “She’s in shock. Keep it elevated. Sarah, you have to keep that hand up!”
Sherlock turned to the now two waiting aides and directed, “Get this to the surgery immediately.” He handed his phone to the large man who he knew was far more intelligent than he first appeared based on the fact he worked for his brother and ordered, “Get him whatever he needs. Time is of the essence.” Based upon the coagulation of the blood thus far, they may well be able to save the finger, and the hand it was formerly attached to, but it would be a close thing.
He handed the box to the other aide and tore open the requisite parchment envelope. “She will never wear your ring,” it read. He threw it to the floor in disgust, and stormed out after the others, taking the offered Blackberry to provide Lestrade with an update.
Many hours later, long enough for Thursday to become Friday to become the faintest hint of Saturday, Sherlock led John back into the flat. The operation had been moderately successful. They would not know if Dr. Sawyer would regain full mobility of the digit for quite some time. She was currently sedated and under watch in the same ward John had been in only a few scant weeks before, everyone going in or out of the room verified and vetted by security agents that put Mycroft’s bulk to shame.
Similar agents were now stationed inside their flat. Mrs. Hudson had opened up 221C to provide sleeping quarters, but there would be at the bare minimum one stationed in the study and another at the main entrance until Moriarty was brought down once and for all.
He had gotten too close this time, chosen a target too dear to his precious Dr. Watson, and attacked far too near his place of employment. John was resigned to the flat now, only leaving in the conspicuous black sedans to visit his recovering friend, someone he had broken up with months before and yet still paid the price for Moriarty’s insanity.
Sherlock was not certain if he should be reassured that Moriarty’s intelligence was incorrect or not. It was possible that he had known about the breakup and chosen to ignore it when choosing his target. It was possible that he knew of some yet unvoiced longing of Sarah’s to re-establish a relationship and was playing upon that. It was also possible that the man had simply been in error. That he had not been able to get close enough to verify his information before the attack. That he had watched with cameras and spies and reached the erroneous conclusion based upon conjecture. That he simply had been wrong.
Not that it helped Sarah much at the moment, or John for that matter. The man sat upstairs in his room, only coming down to make a pot of tea or eat takeaway when coaxed to do so. The onset of depression was clear, and likely only lightened by the knowledge that several noted physicians had volunteered their time at the surgery to prevent it from being closed during the duration of Doctor Sawyer’s recovery and John’s only partially self-imposed imprisonment. Had more people suffered, be it only with the sniffles or some tiny scratch from a stray, John would likely be inconsolable at this point.
It happened to be a Wednesday when Lestrade phoned Sherlock for assistance. There was a maiming incident far too similar to Sarah’s not to raise suspicions. They chased the suspect through the rooftops and alleyways of London for most of the evening, finding themselves cornered and outnumbered in an abandoned warehouse and saved by Sally Donovan’s quite impressive marksmanship. She hit her targets and avoided the bomb strapped to the support beam, though that may have been through ignorance if its existence and pure dumb luck more than anything else.
They had been clearing out of the structure when the secondary timer caused a sizable explosion, one of Moriarty’s own men caught in the blast and two others near enough to suffer injuries sufficient enough to be called severe. It was a right mess sorting out who was who and, due to Lestrade’s usual vehicle being damaged by debris, Lestrade, Donovan, and Sherlock were forced to ride back with members of the bomb squad instead.
It was not until they were back at the station with cheap coffee brewing and paperwork strewn about that Sherlock realized Wednesday had passed into Thursday once more. This realization was, in part, due to the Detective Inspector’s phone ringing and the receiver barely lifted from the cradle before a familiar voice, tinny through the line, demanded, “Tell me he’s with you.”
Sherlock’s head shot up at that. He patted his pockets to find his mobile only to discover he must have lost it during the chase. That explained why John was calling Lestrade, but not the frantic tone he was using to do so.
Gregory was pushing the phone in his direction, a shrugged, “He’s insisting,” the only explanation offered.
“John?” Sherlock asked as he held the outdated receiver to his ear.
“Oh, thank God,” John sighed in a rush.
“What was delivered?” Sherlock asked, deducing the reason for his anxiety.
There was the sound of footsteps on linoleum, a chair scraping across the floor as John paced by. “There was a box, it arrived first thing this morning,” John explained. Sherlock was impatient for specifics, but knew he needed to give his friend time. “In it w-was... There was a heart inside. A human heart. Freshly removed given the blood, though singed as if someone did a piss poor job of cauterizing the wound.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Moriarty had said, within John’s presence, that he wished to burn the heart out of him. He could easily see why John thought it was his. “Mine is still safely within my chest,” he said unnecessarily.
“Sherlock, he...” John started, but did not appear capable of finishing the thought.
Sherlock had a thought of his own. “Which number are you calling from?” he asked.
“The one Michael just gave me,” John replied, confusion evident in his tone.
Michael was one of Mycroft’s men, which meant a higher possibility of a secure line. The phones at the Yard were also checked regularly, especially the one in Lestrade’s office ever since the whole business with Moriarty began. “I have an idea you will likely not approve of,” Sherlock announced.
“If it brings this bastard down, I am all for it,” John replied with a conviction Sherlock knew not to question.
Which is how, one week to the day later, Sherlock came to find John sitting on the front stoop to their flat, gun being removed from his lax hands, looking exhausted beyond all belief. Emergency personnel ran to and fro, putting out the smouldering wreck of one of Mycroft’s sedans, his people thankfully only slightly scorched and not utterly decimated as originally intended.
Lestrade and his team were attempting to take statements, Mycroft and his team obfuscating as usual, and Sherlock simply crouched near his friend, giving him the time he needed to cope with everything that had happened.
The plan had gone completely as anticipated. Mycroft had appeared at the flat to announce Sherlock’s demise, the fool that had covered for his failure to Moriarty safely in custody and Mycroft’s men making enough of a show for Sherlock to slip in during the chaos they created. John had screamed and shouted and generally made a scene attempting to throw out Mycroft’s men and the various people from the Yard that had come to alternately console him and offer him further protection. He had supposedly succeeded the night before, though one stubborn sedan had remained; the same sedan that was now not much more than a mess of metal and flames.
And now John sat on the stoop, the same as he had done since sunrise that morning, save for the brief period of time in which he stood, greeted an over-enthusiastic Moriarty, listened to him ramble, and then calmly shot him with the pistol that had been tucked into his waistband beneath the heavy jacket the mad man had not even though to check in his arrogance.
“He’ll escape,” John announced. He glared at the medic that approached with the dread orange blanket and the man wisely backed away.
“That is a very likely conclusion,” Sherlock agreed.
He had seen the medics that had gathered the cursing and bleeding form of James Moriarty. One was a veteran to his profession, a grizzled man who came into the healing occupation after an unfortunate sporting event approximately twenty-five years prior. The other a veteran for another reason, his more militarized movements speaking of a life as a field medic devoted to his cause. Given the slight nod to the man he was supposed to be rendering unconscious with chemicals, his current cause was supported by Moriarty’s regime. Two armed men followed them into the ambulance, but three non-descript vehicles followed the ones Lestrade’s team had accompany the ambulance and had likely already released their leader to renew his reign of terror.
“It will be a right sight harder to do so with no kneecap and a hole in his hand,” John mused.
Sherlock felt his lips quirk at the understatement. “I would imagine it shall,” he agreed.
John finally stood, stretching muscles and tendons that had remained still for far too long before he turned to Sherlock and offered, “Tea?”
“That would be lovely,” he agreed. He stood as well and opened the door to gesture John back into their flat, past the milling agents and a tutting Mrs. Hudson, up the stairs and to the kitchen where a kettle awaited.
~~~~~~~~~~
Feedback is always welcomed.