Fic: String of Beads IV (Sherlock BBC)
Feb. 8th, 2012 02:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
keep_countingCharacters/Pairings: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Sebastian Moran, Mrs. Hudson
Rating: R
Warnings: Spoilers for the entire first and second seasons, swearing, allusions to suicide and death (nothing worse than what's on the show). Reichenbach-spoilers
Genre: Angst/Fluff/Romance/Friendship/Angst
Word-count: 3,911
Disclaimer: I don't own anything in relation to this.
A/N: This part roughly follows The Empty House, but you don't need to have read that to understand what is going on :) our boys are finally reunited!
Summary: As soon as Moran was rid of, Sherlock could return and things would go back to normal: or as normal as things around Sherlock Holmes ever were.
Part I / Part II / Part III / Part IV / ...
There’s just one more thing, one more thing… one more miracle, Sherlock, for me.
Don’t be dead.
Would you do that, for me, just for me? Just… don’t be.
~
When he was five years old, John had crawled into the back of a closet and fallen asleep. He hadn’t heard his mother or father shouting for him, not Harry or any of the neighbours. He’d slept for hours, had only woken up when Harry finally found him. She’d been crying with relief, as had his mother.
He remembers it partly because it’s one of the surest sign that his at times hellish sister actually loves him, and partly because he feels like he understands it now.
Losing someone that you feel responsible for. Wondering what you could have done to prevent it. Wondering where they are. Thinking the worst has happened.
Knowing the worst has happened.
Discovering that you worried for nothing.
~
Mycroft leaves. John only registers this vaguely, like someone would look up and notice the colours of a wall. He is so intent and focused on Sherlock, who is in turn studying him as intently, drinking in his features greedily, as if trying to memorize them.
John’s whole world is spinning and he feels like he might keel over any moment.
He knows what he’s said and he knows what he’s dreamt. All those times he’s whispered, please come back. I will do anything.
Just please come back. Do that for me, Sherlock.
After three years of waiting, the part that believes in miracles starts to die. Surely, if Sherlock was still alive, he would have contacted him by now? John would have known by now.
“You…”
Sherlock smiles, hesitantly, slightly. “Hello John.”
It sounds like him. It’s his voice. A voice that, John realizes, he has almost completely forgotten the sound of.
“You can’t be real,” he says. His mouth is dry and his head is screaming. “You just can’t be.”
Sherlock tilts his head slightly, just like he always did when he wash humouring John, when he was actually paying attention to what was being said.
“Good on me for fooling Mycroft then.”
“No…” Is all John can say, all he can think. Sherlock looks worried now, and steps closer and John immediately takes a step backwards. Sherlock stops abruptly as if he’s been hit and it is in that moment that John notices how thin and tired his former flat-mate looks.
“John, I am real,” Sherlock says, his voice laced with fake patience. “It’s me, truly.”
“I saw… I saw Sherlock Holmes die, and you can’t…”
“Magician’s trick,” Sherlock says. “Though the fall did hurt. Molly helped.”
That is all too much information at once, and John staggers backwards, Sherlock rushing forward to lay a steadying hand on his shoulder.
The contact makes him jump, and he feels warm and cold at the same time, the point where Sherlock’s gloved hand makes contact with his jacket like a fire, roaring and spreading out in icy tendrils that touch directly where his heart is.
“I’m here John,” Sherlock says, and his voice is so soft that surely it can’t be the real Sherlock: only John has heard that tone before, in a determined confession of love and in a haunting phone-call that he won’t ever forget.
The world is still spinning, and John needs something, anything to hold onto.
Anger seems like a pretty viable option.
Sherlock’s eyes only manage to widen a fraction before John’s fist hits him in the jaw, Sherlock stumbling backwards. His hand flies up to cover his mouth and its red with blood when he lowers it again. It’s enough to snap John out of more violent behaviour, but not enough to stop the rage coursing through his blood, the pounding in his ears.
He turns around to leave, but Sherlock’s hand is on his shoulder again, stopping him.
“John, please…”
“Three years!” John shouts, spinning around and marching straight into the other man’s personal space. “Three years, Sherlock.”
“Yes, I know, but please John, you’re obviously distressed right now and we can…”
“Distressed?” he lets out a low laugh. “Sherlock…” he trails off, tears suddenly burning behind his eyes and he clenches his teeth and his hands into fists.
“You jumped. You jumped off the roof of a building, letting me watch, bloody calling me beforehand.”
“Yes, I know, but John…”
“You killed yourself, Sherlock.”
“But I didn’t!” Sherlock said, his eyes lighting up. “John, I’m…”
“Who does that?” John is shouting now, not caring who might hear them. “I thought you had killed yourself, for three years I thought I would never see you again and all the while you were alive. Who does that to a person they claim to love?”
Its Sherlock’s turn to take a step backwards and John has never seen him so pale before – a small part of him feels guilty for this, but he’s beyond caring at this moment.
“John, I am so terribly sorry for all of this, but please, you need to calm down. You’ve had a great shock; I didn’t intend to let you find out this way…”
“What, so you were just going to lurk around in the flat while Mycroft told me about Moran?” John asks, a dull thud in his chest bringing pain down to his leg. He wonders how much longer he can keep standing on it like this, and the flicker of Sherlock’s eyes tells him that he has noticed.
The guilty look in them answers his question as well.
“I can’t…” his chest is too tight and he feels dizzy, no proper air getting into his lungs, not able to breathe. It’s crushing, this weight on his chest and it feels like it’s yesterday he lost Sherlock, only it’s not, it’s three years ago and he wasn’t dead at all.
“John, please sit down,” Sherlock says and John is oddly aware of the fact that Sherlock has said ‘please’ more times in ten minutes than he probably ever has before in his life.
That should really mean something. Right in this moment, John doesn’t care at all.
“Why?” he asks, still standing straight up, too stubborn to sit at this traitor’s request. “Why did you do it?”
“It was the only way.”
“The hell it was!” John shouts and Sherlock flinches. “Why did you not tell me sooner? How long have Mycroft known? And Molly… you let Molly know, but now me?”
“I needed Molly’s help,” Sherlock says, and that statement does not make it better. At all. “And Mycroft has known… he’s always known.”
His stomach drops.
“Why?”
“John, I’m sorry.”
“How could you betray me like that!”
“Do you think these last three years have been easy on me?” Sherlock’s patience has finally run out, his breathing laboured, his hands stuffed deep in his coat-pockets and probably clenched there.
John swallows heavily. “I don’t know. Have they?”
“No,” Sherlock says and looks ten years older than he is. “It’s been hell.”
John looks away, suddenly not wanting to catch the gaze of this man. He has no idea if he wants to kiss Sherlock or pound on him some more, but he reign in his temper and sits down in the chair again. Defeated.
“I just… want to know why.”
He’s still not looking at Sherlock, but he can practically feel the man boring holes into his head.
“You’re still in shock, are you sure you want…”
“Yes goddamit!” John shouts out. “I want the truth, now.”
“We needed to root them out,” Sherlock says. “Do you think Moriarty or any of his dirty little contacts, would ever stop if they knew I was still alive? I had to jump. I didn’t want to. I couldn’t be sure I would even live despite my precautions, that’s why… that’s why I phoned you. Because I wanted to…”
“To leave a note,” John’s voice is flat. His insides are being torn out: at least it feels that way.
“No, to…” Sherlock stops. “To apologize, to… I don’t even know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No. To hear your voice. To not be alone when…” Sherlock closes his eyes for a brief moment. “Would you… could you let me do this without interruptions?” John nod’s briskly after a moment, and Sherlock continues.
“Molly helped me, as did Mycroft of course. Can hardly keep anything hidden from Mycroft and I… I needed his help. He was angry with me. He wanted me to tell you, but it was… important to our plans, that everyone be convinced that I was really gone.”
John can feel ire rise up in him from that statement, but he clamps down on his angry words, biting them back. He needs to hear this.
“I haven’t… as I said, and please do not get mad, but I had not planned for you to find out today. Soon, yes, but not today. Turned out being this close to you and having my brother almost blab was enough of a push. This also means that I hadn’t… I haven’t really thought about how this would go.”
“I’m sure you can come up with something,” John says. “I’m easy to please at the moment: I just want the truth.”
Sherlock’s eyes pierce him, something almost longing between them and John is now very aware of the fact that he has just punched the man and that he’d broken his heart and that Sherlock had been as alone as he had been these last three years.
“I hunted them down,” Sherlock says. “All over the world. Spain, Peru, China, Norway. I spent a lot of time in America and a few days ago, I returned to London.”
Something like a stone falls from John’s chest. “So you’ve only… you haven’t been here long?”
“No, John.”
For some reason, that matters.
“Alright,” he says, fiddling with his cane. “I… well… so now you’re here for Moran?”
“Yes,” Sherlock sighs. “He’s the final link, per say. When we’ve gotten rid of him, all the little insects will slowly creep away again.”
“And you were gonna come back?” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. Sherlock blinks, and John raises his head to look at him now, noticing that Sherlock is standing with his hands behind his back, his entire countenance much more relaxed.
“Yes,” the detective firmly says. “I was going to come back after that. I am going to come back.” Back to you.
John nods, slowly. “So, all this time. You didn’t tell me because… because I couldn’t act it out?”
“Yes! Well, no, it was…” Sherlock sighs in frustration. “John, I didn’t just jump so I could get to Moriarty. I hadn’t been… it was an incredible risk to take and I wasn’t happy about taking it, but I had no choice. You were going to die if I hadn’t done it.”
“What? What do you mean ‘die’?”
“I mean die,” Sherlock says, his tone sharp. “You, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade. Moriarty had assassins placed on all of you, and if they didn’t see me die, you would all have gotten a bullet embedded in your skull.”
He spits the last words out, like he knows them all too well and wants rid of them now, like this is something he’s been carrying for all too long. Something he needs to get out.
John almost smiles. Almost.
“Thank-you.”
Sherlock looks completely taken aback by that, blinking in confusion, before relief settles on his features.
“I thought you’d… you should know… I hoped some part of you knew.”
“Knew?”
“I said… I said, don’t take your eyes off of me. On the roof-top, when we were talking…”
“I know what you said,” John interrupts, because he has that conversation memorized, down to every single nuance and emotion and he doesn’t need to hear Sherlock repeat anything he said in that moment.
“Yes, well. I thought, if you just kept looking you would catch something, you’d see for yourself, you’d… catch on. You would see that I was still alive.”
“Yes, well, I was hit by a bike,” John says and Sherlock looks so confused and stunned and John realizes what he’s said and can’t help but laugh and then they both are and John thinks that he has never felt relief like this, not when he survived his wounds from Afghanistan, not when Sherlock made his limb go away. And suddenly it’s not so much laughter anymore, and he shoots out of the chair like a rocket, launching himself at Sherlock and hugging him hard, ignoring the surprised ‘ooof!’ and slight stumble backwards as John attaches himself to the taller man.
Sherlock stiffens underneath the unusual contact, but at this moment John is beyond caring, all he can think is that Sherlock’s gotten thinner and he looks even taller than he remembered and that he’s here.
Finally, Sherlock’s arms tentatively folds themselves around John’s shoulders, the lightest of embraces and when John makes no move to pull away, they tighten, first lightly and then harder until they’re pressed so much together John isn’t quite sure where he ends and Sherlock begins. The detective buries his face in John’s hair and mumbles something he can’t hear, muttered words and apologies.
Mrs Hudson’s surprised scream interrupts them exactly three minutes later
~
“I am very sorry,” Mycroft muttered, standing tall and awkwardly in the corner. “I should have thought to make myself clearer before I asked you to walk upstairs, Mrs Hudson. I had no idea that the shock would be so great for you.”
Sherlock glared. Mrs Hudson smiled. John snickered.
“No harm done,” the small woman said, the hand that wasn’t holding her tea-cup clasped firmly around Sherlock’s wrist, his hand lying on the middle of the table. “I dare say I wouldn’t have believed you anyway had you tried explaining it to me first.”
“Quite,” Mycroft said with a wry smile. “Now, I must be going. I have some… business to take care of.” He glanced meaningfully at Sherlock who only nodded, watching as Mycroft walked out the door.
John only half-listened as Mrs Hudson started talking, words of moving back into the flat and her new dog and what had Sherlock been up to all this time? He did notice the other man listening with rapt attention to the woman’s talk, even smiling as she made some silly remark or other.
It hadn’t really hit him until then. The fact that Sherlock had missed them too.
~
“You said Molly knew?”
It was night and it was raining again, and John was back in Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes sitting opposite him toying with his violin.
He wasn’t sure if his heart was beating so fast in happiness or because it was about to go out in shock.
Maybe both.
“Yes,” Sherlock said, fingers hovering over the instrument. Mycroft had brought it from John’s flat earlier, promptly ignoring John’s deadpan shouts that he couldn’t just bloody well break in every time he wanted something. Sherlock wasn’t holding it like he used to, however. Instead of being focused on it like a child with a toy, he was fiddling away with it nervously, as if he was only holding it so his hands could be doing something. Anything.
John suddenly wished he had his laptop or his cane or a bloody tea-cup to hold onto.
“So, all this time, every time I’ve talked to her… about you… she knew?”
“Yes,” Sherlock looked up at him now. “I asked her to keep quiet. I was putting her in enough risk merely by asking for help.”
“But that day…” John said. “That day… the phone-call, about Mrs Hudson. That was you, wasn’t it?”
“A quick case of getting someone from the homeless network to contact you,” Sherlock said, sounding almost proud. It quickly deflated at John’s look.
“I am sorry.”
“You’ve said that.”
Sherlock opened his mouth, but then closed it again, words failing him. John wished desperately that he would say something, anything, something to hurt him or make him heal again.
He wasn’t sure what to do with silence. It had been silent for three years now.
He couldn’t stand the quiet anymore. “What are we going to do about Moran?”
Sherlock’s head snapped up so quickly he must’ve gotten whip-lash and only then did John realize that he had said ‘we’, had implied that he was going to help.
Well, of course he was going to.
Of course.
“Moran is… have you heard of the Adair-scandal?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The family Adair,” Sherlock began. “Is one of the richest families in Britain, having part in almost every electronics-company from here to America. The youngest son, Ronald, was in prison five years ago for attempted fraud, but the case was quickly dropped and the young man bailed out.”
“So?” John said. “If the family had that kind of money…”
“Oh, but the government wasn’t happy about it,” Sherlock said, smirking slightly. “Just ask Mycroft.”
“Right, so…” John frowned. “Moriarty?”
“Yes. Moriarty,” Sherlock’s hands was now folded in that usual gesture, palms flat against each other, fingertips resting under his chin: it was so achingly familiar that it physically hurt, like the throbbing in his leg or shoulder.
“Ronald Adair met Sebastian Moran in prison: Moran was going under the name Nicholas Elliot at this time, but he was already closely affiliated with Moriarty, and with the kind of money Ronald Adair would one day hold, being the heir, of course they would want for the young man to owe them a favour.” He leaned back in his chair, eyes far away and god, but John had really, truly missed this. “Five days ago, Ronald’s father, George Adair died of a sudden heart-attack and Ronald inherited everything, including a bank vault in Switzerland, formerly owned by Professor Adam Worth.”
“Adam Worth…” John muttered, pen flying over the blank paper in front of him: he had reached for the notepad and the pen as soon as Sherlock had started talking, easily falling into the old habit of taking notes for the case. He glanced up briefly to see that Sherlock was smiling lightly at this.
“Adam Worth is one of the many aliases of Jim Moriarty.”
“And how did you figure all this out?” John asked, his tone teasing. Sherlock gave him a put-out look.
“Easy: I have tons of files on Moriarty collected over all these months: the man has had a finger in almost everything, and Moran is the final link. Everyone else is dead or behind bars. It is only a matter of time before Moran goes the same way.”
“We’re going to catch him?”
“Yes, tonight as a matter of fact,” Sherlock said, glancing down at his watch. “In approximately three hours.”
“Great, then you have time to tell me some more,” John said, daring Sherlock to avoid the subject. “First of all, did you figure this out on your own or did Ronald Adair hire you?”
Sherlock titled his head to the side. “I had an agent ensnaring Adair because I knew about his business with Moriarty: that Adair would eventually contact me on his own was a bit of a surprise, albeit I would count it as a stroke of luck on my part. It might have saved countless lives, your own included.”
“Right. And this agent was?”
“Irene Adler.”
“What?” John shouted, staring wide-eyed. “Irene Adler…”
“Oh right, didn’t I mention? She’s not dead after all,” Sherlock quickly said. “Very much alive, in fact.”
“Mentioning that earlier might’ve been nice,” John muttered, wondering if his heart would ever start beating normally again. “Next you’ll be saying…”
“Moriarty is dead.”
“Is that a promise?”
Sherlock swallowed heavily. “Yes.”
John nodded. “Okay. So, you were with Irene…”
“I wasn’t with her…”
“I wasn’t trying to insinuate…”
“You weren’t?”
“No, I don’t think… I mean, unless you…?”
“We didn’t, I just said.”
“Right,” John mumbled, staring at the carpet. “That’s… good.”
Sherlock was studying him intently. “Are you jealous?” he asked, something unrecognised flickering in his eyes.
“No,” John firmly said. “Go on: So, Adler seduced Ronald Adair and…”
“And won his trust, even came with him to Poker Night where one Sebastian Moran showed up,” the violin gave a low sound as his fingers moved over the strings. “Moran unfortunately recognized her, but after some… negotiation, he was convinced to let the subject drop and he left her alone. He does however know she’s alive now, which puts her under threat as well.”
“And what about you? Does he know that you’re alive?”
Sherlock’s lips thinned. “He has his suspicions.”
“But has he actually seen you?”
“… Yes.”
“Oh. Dammit, Sherlock!”
“Quite.”
John sighed. “So, what’s the plan for tonight?”
“Moran is going to assassinate Adair,” Sherlock said. “And we are going to stop him.”
For the first time in three years, John outright grinned. “Brilliant!”
~
John Watson was many things, among one of them brave. However, having seen Sherlock for the first time in three years after believing him dead, and now waiting out here, so close to a murderous lunatic who would love to get his hands on Sherlock, wasn’t exactly making him first in line to run around there, guns blazing.
“Are you sure about this?” John muttered. They were crouched in an empty flat, the window giving a clear view to the building opposite where Ronald Adair was currently fiddling about, playing the easy target for any madman. “I mean, you said yourself that he was clever…”
“Not as clever as me,” Sherlock said, and John wondered if he had offended him. “I know exactly where he’s going to be and Lestrade’s men will be ready.”
“And we are here because…?” John muttered, because the bad feeling in his chest wouldn’t go away. It might just be the fact that there was a dead man standing in front of him, but something felt wrong.
“Because I want to see it,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth and John felt his heart thud in his chest. Of course. The final link, the last one. As soon as Moran was rid of, Sherlock could return, could properly return and things would go back to normal.
Or as close to normal as things around Sherlock ever was.
Tense silence settled over them, John focused on every single intake of breath that Sherlock took, the way his curls fell over his forehead, the coats dark colour almost making him disappear completely in the darkness.
I love you, John thought, and just like that, it was very, very simple.
God, but he’d been such an idiot, throwing everything they could’ve had away. And how many people were ever offered a second chance like this? He looked closer at the slight swelling on Sherlock’s jaw where he’d hit him and had to resist the urge to lean up and press a kiss against it: he was very much aware that all Sherlock had to do was stand up straight, and John would be unable to reach the taller man at all. Damn their height-difference.
“Sherlock…” he muttered, his voice low, and Sherlock turned to look at him, moving slightly out of the shadows, his face pale and now lit up by the street-lamps outside.
Now completely in view from the outside.
It hit John like a ton of bricks, the sureness of what was going to happen, even before he saw the small flicker in one of the windows in the opposite building, the trigger ready to be pulled.
Sort of ironic that Sherlock’s own arrogance would be the death of him.
“Move!” was all John remembered shouting, pushing the other man away as the glass splintered and the bullet dug into his own chest.
John hit the floor, warmth trickling over him and Sherlock shouting his name, and the world went black.
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no subject
Date: 2012-02-08 02:32 pm (UTC)I read all 4 chapters in one go and your story is fantastic!
II) omg! Are you serious? You can't just stop there!!!
That's more than a cliffhanger, that's pure torture!
Can't wait to read the next chapter!
no subject
Date: 2012-02-09 01:24 pm (UTC)II) Hehe, sorry. I cannot resist a cliff-hanger when there is one staring me in the face and this... well, it was necessary for the plot and a lot of fun for me ;) the next part will be up at the longest in a week, but most likely less than!
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Date: 2012-02-08 05:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-09 01:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-08 06:32 pm (UTC)desperatelyeagerly awaiting the next part.no subject
Date: 2012-02-09 01:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-08 06:51 pm (UTC)Great cliffhanger.
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Date: 2012-02-09 01:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-08 08:17 pm (UTC)You can't leave John bleeding on the floor like that!!
(Um - brilliant story. Did I say that? Now back to the ohnoevilcliffhangerangstyangst)
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Date: 2012-02-09 01:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-08 09:03 pm (UTC)God, this story is so freaking good! I just love the characterization and the way you describe the flood of emotions and you have them both down pat! AND IT'S JUST SO AMAZING OH MY GOD!
no subject
Date: 2012-02-09 01:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-08 09:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-09 01:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-08 10:08 pm (UTC)Okay, now that's out of my system, any chance you know when the next part may be up? Pretty please?
no subject
Date: 2012-02-09 01:29 pm (UTC)I haven't written the next part yet, but I know what I'll be writing, and since I'm on a holiday now, it's going to be very soon, I promise :) at the most, it will be up Wednesday or Thursday but it is more likely that it will be ready this weekend as I'll start writing tomorrow.
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Date: 2012-02-09 01:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-09 01:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-09 01:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-09 01:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-09 05:15 pm (UTC)I'm glad you didn't go that way, though. I like being surprised and I'm enjoyng the fic immensely.
I'll just sit here, waiting for the next part xD
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Date: 2012-02-10 07:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-10 03:54 am (UTC)Your version strikes a perfect harmony between satisfying and emotional and believable. A+
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Date: 2012-02-10 07:28 am (UTC)I am very glad that you liked it :) and good luck with your story!
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Date: 2012-02-10 08:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-10 04:51 pm (UTC)Evil! Fanfic writer <<< Understatement!
Date: 2012-02-10 07:55 pm (UTC)You're writing the next chapter now, right? Not eating or sleeping till you're done, right?? Cancelled all social plans?? Typing like a person posessed?? Good. LOL.
Brilliant chapter. Love the sentiment and I think everything stayed true to character. Can. Not. Wait to read the next.
PaleoM
xx
Re: Evil! Fanfic writer <<< Understatement!
Date: 2012-02-11 09:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-11 11:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-12 08:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-02-12 07:13 pm (UTC):-D
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Date: 2012-02-12 07:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-06 04:56 am (UTC)Did John just die for Sherlock? Did that just happen?
I wasn't going to comment because the amazingness of this fic makes me feel as though you are a higher caliber of person, the type that I should not annoy with my trifling comments.
But that last line just made me stop and I had to comment.
This is all beautiful and the emotions are so strong and it's brilliant and flawless.
DID THAT LAST LINE REALLY JUST HAPPEN??
jojwpihrouroh. Kay. Done. Going to read the last chapter.
no subject
Date: 2012-05-07 02:30 pm (UTC)Hope you enjoy the rest :)