Chapter Text
John left the tube at Embankment and for lack of any other option shadowed another person out of the barriers. Someone shouted and he didn’t wait to see if it was directed at him: he ran, dodging through the crowds. He was still jogging as he reached his destination and saw the woman, one of Sherlock’s homeless network, sitting exactly where he’d last seen her.
She looked up when John approached, clearly recognising him. As he opened his mouth to speak he realised that he didn’t know her name, and that while he knew she’d work for Sherlock he had no idea if the same went for him now too. She waited in pokerfaced silence as he paused, feeling foolish.
“I need to know where Sherlock is,” John said, shifting uncomfortably on the spot. His back felt unpleasantly exposed. “Do you know – could you tell me?”
“Sorry,” the woman replied, casually, but John could see the defiance in her tone. She knew, obviously, clearly, and John wanted to shake her by the shoulders.
“Please,” he said instead, voice getting desperate. He was right out in the open, in full view for Mycroft or Moriarty, or anyone else who might take advantage, to see. “Look, you have his phone number. If you could just let me call him.”
“He said no calling,” the woman said, still unmoving and still with the unwelcoming edge.
The frustration was tempered by sudden fear. What was Sherlock doing that he didn’t want to receive calls? John clenched his hands into loose, nervous fists.
“Please,” he said again, and got only silence in return. At the very least she was loyal to Sherlock, John thought. This was going to be funny in hindsight. This had to be at least a little funny in hindsight.
“Listen, you’ve seen him with me, you know he trusts me. He could be in danger, doing something stupid, or, I don’t know –“ John said, then cut himself off. He turned away. She wasn’t going to tell him, that was fine. He could find Sherlock some other way. There were others in Sherlock’s network that wouldn’t have the same reserve, surely.
Who, though? There was no one else he could think of that stayed in one place and Sherlock always contacted them via text.
John didn’t know Sherlock’s number, not after he kept changing it. Didn’t want people to know who was calling them, he’d said. John doubted anyone else knew it, not Mrs Hudson nor Lestrade, and the whole point had been to keep them out of this mess anyway. Bloody Sherlock. Bloody Sherlock and his stupid inability to keep out of trouble.
It was too loud, the crowds and the seagulls. John stepped back towards the railings, trying to look inconspicuous. It was too crowded for him to get kidnapped right off the street, or at least he hoped so. He wouldn’t put it past either Mycroft or Moriarty to use the police to arrest him. The tension wound his muscles up tight and looking at the dark water of the Thames he wondered how likely he would jump in rather than go quietly.
John let his head fall forward, chin to chest, as he leant against the rails. He shouldn’t have left wherever Mycroft had put him. He was the liability here, not anyone else. But what could he do? Why the hell had he left anyway, if Mycroft was in fact keeping him alive and undamaged?
“Yeah. Where is he?” John turned and blinked at the sight of the woman on her phone. Had she changed her mind? Or was this just to get him out of her hair, knowing that he couldn’t not take her word?
“Thanks.” The woman tucked her phone into her pocket then looked up at John. “He’s at Barts,” she said shortly, with something like apprehension in her face.
John nodded, turned and ran. He wasn’t so far away from Barts. He’d go straight to Molly and if Sherlock wasn’t with her then no doubt she’d be able to point him in the right direction. The air was choppy in his mouth, cold in his raw throat. He desperately hoped that he wasn’t doing something stupid.
By the time he reached Barts his breath was heavy and his legs weak. His skin prickled with sweat. He’d get fit sometime, he told himself, as he was stopped short by a locked door. Sometime after this whole mess was over.
The door needed an ID card. John stood, still trying to even his breathing, then closed his eyes for a long moment. It was okay, Sherlock was undoubtedly fine, there was no need to rush. John scrubbed his face with the back of his hand and backtracked, wandering the corridors and trying not to feel as though malicious eyes were watching him.
Eventually he found someone – a student, from the looks of her, and John put on a weak smile. “Hi, sorry to bother you – you’re not busy? It’s just I managed to leave my wallet in the mortuary, doctor Hooper’s office I think. Could you let me in?”
She didn’t seem so sure but followed John back to the mortuary and swiped the door open all the same. John didn’t look back as he went from Molly’s office – it was empty – to the labs.
Molly was sitting there, filling in paperwork, face pinched in anxiety. Then she looked up, saw John and her expression fell open in shock.
“John!” she said, at the same time as John said: “Sherlock?”
“You’re alive! Oh, god, Sherlock thinks –“ Molly stood and knocked over her chair, and she dithered before leaving it where it fell. “You’re okay? Sherlock wasn’t –“ she stopped abruptly and looked John up and down as if he were hiding some fatal wound.
“No I’m fine. Is Sherlock? Not about to do something stupid?” John tried to joke and the stricken expression Molly failed to hide was like a punch to the gut. “Where is he?”
“The roof,” she started, and even as she spoke John was turning back to the corridor. “No but John, wait!”
John didn’t wait. The guilt on Molly’s face haunted him as he ran, darting down corridors and taking steps three at a time. The door to the roof was unlocked and he burst through.
“Oh,” Moriarty said, breathed, his mouth curving from slack surprise into a smile, wide and toothed. “Oh.”
The world seemed to fall from John’s feet. He stopped short, frozen as horror gripped his body whole. In the corner of his vision Sherlock made a jerky movement forward but stopped abruptly. John couldn’t tear his eyes away from Moriarty, who had now turned to face John fully, whose dark eyes were crinkling in childish delight.
It was only distantly that John noticed how Moriarty’s hair was messy and flecked with grit from the rooftop, and one ear scraped and bloodied. His suit, too, was rumpled and out of place.
The moment was broken with a laugh. John turned his head to see because it was Sherlock who was laughing, low and honest, breathless in relief. “Mycroft, of course,” he said, and smiled through the black eye and grazed cheek John only just noticed. Sherlock’s eyes were raking over John, taking every small detail. The sight of him, standing on the other side of the roof, was grounding and John managed a shaky smile in return. He took a step towards Sherlock, needing to be closer.
“Stop,” Moriarty said. John didn’t. Moriarty’s surprise was gone, replaced by an ugly gash of a smile. “John, dearest,” he said slowly, “do stop. And Sherlock, shhh. You stay there – let’s not forget who we’re playing with now.”
“What?” John paused then, uncertain, looking to Sherlock for answers. “What’s he mean?” Sherlock’s eyes were narrowed and he didn’t say anything.
“Come here,” Moriarty said, “and I’ll whisper it to you.” His hands were in his pockets and his pose should have been slouched but for his whole body seeming alight, tense with anticipation.
Sherlock was being held back with some kind of threat, only what? John’s mouth was dry as he looked at Moriarty, who watched him with eagerness. As they caught eyes Moriarty dragged his hands out of his pockets and crooked his fingers. Come closer, he gestured. When John didn’t Moriarty walked forward, cornering him against the rooftop edge; John took a step away from it but didn’t go further as Moriarty sidled up close enough to touch. Over his shoulder John could see the easy drop down to the road.
Moriarty reached out for him with open arms and Sherlock made a noise of angry disbelief.
“Don’t you dare,” he hissed, but didn’t move from his spot. “John, move. Now. Don’t touch him.” There was a voice screaming in the back of John’s head – it went silent as Moriarty’s arms swept around him and pulled him close. John stiffened, heart pounding, feeling sick and hyper aware of every inch they pressed together, thighs, crotch, stomach and chest. Moriarty’s arms were curled around him, hands on his waist.
“Mrs Hudson,” Moriarty whispered, lips against John’s neck. “Greg Lestrade. Harry Watson.” John swallowed; he couldn’t take his eyes off the road below, now visible from where they stood so close to the rooftop edge. He didn’t hear the rest of the explanation, not when Sherlock started to shout.
“Shut up, get off him, I’ll do it, fine – just get off. John, get back now –“
John pushed Moriarty away violently, gripping his arms as they fell on top the hard concrete lip edging the roof. Moriarty was grinning wildly. In the bright light his black eyes were hazel brown. Then in one quick motion John stood and hooked his foot under Moriarty’s thigh, kicking up and away. Moriarty scrabbled, tipped and fell.
Sherlock’s hand on John's shoulder, pulling him away from the edge, was strong enough that it nearly knocked him off his feet. John kept his balance, barely, and watched as Sherlock peered over the edge of the building. He looked ragged, lips parted as he turned back and away. John just stood there, feeling nothing more than a blank pressure in his head and the realisation of what he’d done try to sink in and fail. He let Sherlock grab his lower arms and hold him tight, scrutinising his face. He didn’t move as Sherlock reached out and with the sleeve of his coat wipe where Moriarty’s lips had touched.
They stood there for another few seconds before John pushed him away, turning and leaning over the edge of the roof to look down on the pavement below. Moriarty lay there, body splayed, surrounded by a small crowd. John didn’t manage to see whether the body was motionless or not before Sherlock yanked him back again, pulling him towards the door and the stairs downwards.
“John, listen to me. Go find Molly. Find her and stay there, do you understand?” Sherlock’s voice was strained. John could barely understand him.
“I just – I just killed Harry, right?” he said. Numb – that was it, that was what he was feeling. “And Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade. Oh, god.”
“No! Listen, I don’t have the time to explain, you just have to trust me. Go downstairs. Now.” Sherlock glanced over his shoulder as he manhandled the door open and John through it. He pressed something into John’s hand – his security ID card – then turned.
The door slammed shut behind him and John stood at the top of the staircase. He drew in a long breath, holding it in his lungs, and didn’t move. Moriarty was dead then. What could Sherlock do to prevent the inevitable retribution that required John out of the way and fast? Or did he just say that to stop John doing something stupid?
John turned around and went back out onto the roof.
Sherlock wasn’t there. For a long moment John stood still, uncomprehending. Then he went to the edge and looked over. He didn’t know why. He was being stupid, why would Sherlock do that –
Moriarty was still there. Sherlock’s body painted the pavement black several metres away. It lay still, lax as it was surrounded, picked up and wheeled away. It disappeared out of sight and John took a faltering step back.
It felt like he’d stepped into a nightmare, like his ribs were crushed and opened and wrong. What was happening?
Go find Molly. That’s what Sherlock had said. John went downstairs.
Molly was still in the lab, though she’d given up her paperwork and was tapping the chewed end of her pen on the desk. She looked up as John entered, quickly standing and hurrying over to him.
“Are you okay? Did Sherlock...? I’m so sorry, I would have you about Jim, but.” She trailed off, searching John’s face.
She was beautiful and young, eyes wide in honest distress, and in that second John felt unbelievably old and useless. He was shaking, he realised.
“Sherlock – jumped,” John managed. Then his throat seemed to close up and he couldn’t speak.
Molly laughed in one shocked breath and shook her head. “Oh! Oh, no, that was just a trick. He’s alive, I promise. I can’t believe he didn’t tell you.”
The world tilted on its axis. “But he fell, and I saw him,” John said, forcing the memory of diluted blood out of his mind’s eye. Molly was still looking at him expectantly, an anxious smile playing in the corners of her mouth. He stood still and squashed down the hope welling in his chest; he didn’t think he could bear it if she were wrong.
Molly blinked rapidly. “Well, I mean – we planned it. Him jumping. So, of course, unless it went wrong – not that it has. Well I don’t know but it shouldn’t have.” She laughed nervously and glanced at the clock, then sobered quickly. “Jim’s dead. Moriarty, that is. And Sherlock said he’d give me a call by this evening so I’d know everything went to plan, and since he’s playing dead he can’t really show up in person. I guess he’ll call sooner than that, you know. Since you’re here.”
John wasn’t listening. He could barely think. He sat down heavily on the nearest chair, trying to hold back the shaky, relentless hope – Sherlock was alive. “Jesus,” he said, absently and not caring that it came out with a tremor. “The bastard. I’m actually going to kill him this time.”
Molly didn’t reply. She hesitated, going back to her paperwork to shuffle it, then returned to John. “I’m glad, you know, you’re alive. Not because of Sherlock, and how he’d be without you. But, I mean – you’re too good for Jim and his, well, whatever it is. I’m sorry, this isn’t coming out right. I’m just glad you’re okay. Did you want my phone? When Sherlock calls, he’s going to want you.”
John hesitated. Molly put her phone on the bench next to him and John stared at it as she left hastily.
Twenty minutes later it rang. Sherlock Holmes, the caller ID said. John picked it up, he couldn’t not, and at Sherlock’s voice, tinny and demanding, he might have wept.
“Molly, where’s John? He’s safe?”
“Sherlock, you bastard,” John said. Then he tried to say some more but ended up babbling and Sherlock was speaking over him. They stopped, both together.
“I’ll send you the address,” Sherlock said in the silence. “You should leave now.”
“Okay,” John said, and hung up before remembering that he still didn’t have his wallet. Molly ended up paying for a cab, hanging back as John rang the bell of the crumbling terrace house.
Sherlock’s face was still scraped, one eye swollen nearly shut, but otherwise unharmed; he had never looked quite so perfect before. John laughed, then choked on the sound. He grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his coat and pushed him into the wall. He shook him back and forth, hard, even as Sherlock’s hands clutched his head and pulled him close.
“You utter bastard. What were you thinking?” John said. His arms had somehow lost their anger; they clung around Sherlock’s thin body instead.
“You were dead,” Sherlock retorted. His own long arms encircled John neatly.
“I wasn’t the one to jump off a building.”
“Two days. You just had a few minutes.”
“I didn’t splash blood about everywhere.”
Sherlock barked a laugh and John buried his giggle in Sherlock’s shoulder. They broke apart slowly.
“He was so angry,” Sherlock said, quieter.
“What?” John looked up at him but Sherlock didn’t reply. Instead they went into the kitchen where Molly was sitting at the table, pretending that she hadn’t heard everything through the thin wall, and sat down next to her. “Thank you,” Sherlock said, almost cautious.
Molly just smiled a little tremulously, extracted a promise that they stay alive at least, then left.
“I gave Moriarty your notebook,” John blurted as soon as the door was closed. He dared a glance at Sherlock and was inordinately glad for the lack of surprise. “And –“ I told him where we were hiding. Even if it hadn’t been Moriarty I still thought it was.
John’s voice faltered and couldn’t finish; he looked away as Sherlock held on to his wrist. He couldn’t ignore the fact that he’d betrayed Sherlock. Couldn’t forget the fear that made him do it. The sight of blood on the pavement was something that he would not forget either.
“I need to stay hidden,” Sherlock said after a while, when it became obvious that John was not going to continue. “Moriarty’s empire. They think I’m dead – no better chance at taking it apart.”
“Right.” John thought back to dark, round eyes and roaming hands, twisted promises. Bodies on the pavement. He would tell Sherlock everything he’d done eventually. “Right. Good thing I’m dead too, then.”
John left the house first that morning, the streets still dark and empty of even the earliest commuters. Sherlock hung back out of sight in the corridor for just long enough to unfold the soft sheet of paper he’d pickpocketed from John’s trousers – paper Moriarty had tucked there on Barts' rooftop – and read what was written there. Then Sherlock crumpled the note, tossed it in the bin, and walked out after John.