The Heart (2/2)
Oct. 7th, 2011 02:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
solrosanNotes: I finally got this done; the idea has been there since I finished the very first story about Sherlock’s son Daniel. It was three parts when I started it, but after some hard work with copy-paste (and the suggestion from ![[info]](../../img/userinfo.gif?v=3)
mygoldenbuttons) it became two.
Summary: In a world where he has a son, there is no doubt in Sherlock’s mind what Moriarty means when he says he will burn the heart out of him.
Acknowledgement: Many thanks tomygoldenbuttons for her beta-work and structural suggestion; I appreciate it a lot!
Not familiar with this AU? Master fic list.
***
“That sounds worse than a dental drill,” Sherlock grimaced when John turned on the cast saw.
“Yeah,” John agreed and shifted slightly on the tip of chair to make sure he was completely stable before he started to remove Sherlock’s cast. “Be still, alright?”
Sherlock didn’t answer but John trusted him to make this as smooth as possible; he had been complaining that the cast obstructed his work over the last couple of weeks. John had trouble seeing just how a cast could complicate brainwork, but he hadn’t argued.
They had been rough weeks since Daniel and Joyce disappear in one of Mycroft cars; especially the weekends Daniel had been supposed to be in London. At one point, Sherlock had collapsed due to dehydration and sleep deprivation in front of the non-pinboard-pinboard on the wall behind the sofa, where he had everything gathered about Moriarty. To John’s surprise, he had been able to convince Sherlock to take better care of himself after that; even Sherlock could see how much better he did when his body functioned properly.
“That was that,” John muttered and turned off the saw. He tried to bend up the cast by hand but ended up using a tool to open it wide enough to be able to cut the gauze bandage underneath. A short while later was he able to completely free Sherlock’s arm from the cast.
“How does it feel?” he wondered as he disposed of the cast while Sherlock repeatedly made a fist and slowly tried to bend his wrist. He was quiet, but his face was twisted in pain.
“Stop doing that if it hurts,” John ordered and hurried back to stop Sherlock from hurting himself by gripping his wrist. “A little bit of patience. Okay?”
“I don’t have time for patience,” Sherlock mumbled and met John’s eyes, dead serious. John had nothing to say to that, he understood. Or he thought he did. Instead he took a washcloth and carefully wiped Sherlock’s arm clean from the cast dust and dead cells that had gathered during the weeks. The skin was so dry, John wondered if they had anything at home or if he’d better just “borrow” some cream from the surgery.
“I can be your heart Sherlock,” John offered when he was done with the cleaning; the confused look he got told him Sherlock didn’t understand, “Think about it, if he had known about Daniel, would he have kidnapped me? It would have been just as easy for him to put Daniel in that vest as it was for him to put me in it.”
A shiver went through Sherlock’s body and John frowned, maybe he shouldn’t have placed that image in Sherlock’s head. Well, he probably already had it.
“We’ll make sure he doesn’t have to look for anyone else – stop bending your wrist like that – and when he takes me again, we’ll be ready.”
John had been thinking about this, a lot. Most likely just as much as Sherlock had been thinking about where Moriarty could be right now. It was not an optimal solution, John had to admit that, but he couldn’t see a better one right now.
“I won’t have that,” Sherlock shook his head, “He might kill you.”
“He still might,” John pointed out, “and I’m not helpless. I’ll gladly play bait while you figure out where he is or where he’s going to strike again.”
Sherlock met his eyes for the longest time (or maybe five-ten seconds?) and John held his gaze, he had the distinct feeling Sherlock tried to read his intentions; deduce his thoughts. God, the detective looked so incredibly worn out.
“You’re not the only one who wants to get him; you’re far from alone in this.”
Sherlock cleared his throat “John….”
“Yeah, let’s go home,” John agreed and got up even though he guessed that wasn’t what Sherlock was about to say, “I’ll just going to find you some skin cream and a compression sleeve.”
“John.”
“Yes?”
“I’m not going to let him kill you.”
There was such reassurance in Sherlock’s voice and in his eyes that John had to smile. John knew all too well the sentiment behind that kind of promise; he had promised many men that they’d live in Afghanistan. Some had made it, some hadn’t, and he had always known what a stupid promise it was to give, but he had always given it because making the men survive had always been his intention.
As soon as they got home from the surgery they sat down to plan their charade, both eager to do something – something seemingly productive – instead of just waiting for Moriarty to make his next move. John insisted they do it in the kitchen to make it impossible for Sherlock’s eyes to wander off to the Moriarty-wall.
“How do you want to do this?” Sherlock wondered as he did his best to examine the green compression sleeve John had forced onto his arm.
“Stop doing that,” John smacked Sherlock’s hand with a pen, “It’s supposed to stay on. Reduces swelling…and pain. And stop flexing your wrist like that.”
“You’re like a nagging wife already,” Sherlock frowned.
“Yes dear.”
“Let’s start there,” Sherlock decided, “No cute nicknames.”
“Sure,” John smiled and sat down on the other side of the table, “So what then?”
“We’re probably not having anal sex yet,” Sherlock said in a very matter-of-fact tone.
“The logical jump from ‘no nicknames’ is ‘no anal’?” John didn’t quite know if he should be amused, disturbed or uncomfortable right now.
“It’s not an illogical one,” Sherlock claimed and finally stopped messing with the sleeve, “We should establish what we do and don’t do as a couple if we’re going to pretend to be one.”
“Right. Sure. No anal sex,” John sighed.
“But we do have sex,” Sherlock continued on, “Handjobs, blowjobs, that sort of thing….I personally prefer a lot of creative tongue, how about you?”
“Sher- I- I’m not going to discuss that with you,” John could feel himself blush, not to mention that he had an image of a tongue worthy of a giraffe unbuttoning Sherlock’s trousers. Sherlock, of course, looked at him as if he didn’t understand the reason for John’s reluctance. “If you talk about our pretend sex life again, I’ll call you Buttercup the next time Sally Donovan is in earshot.”
“Fine.”
“We just had our first little fight as a couple,” John said with a smile but the look Sherlock gave him made him serious again, “Well, yes. I’ve thought a lot about this these last couple of weeks-“
“I imagined you had.”
“-so I’ll just tell you?”
It was hard to say if Sherlock was displeased with this or not, but he finally nodded. Maybe it was a misinterpretation, but John saw it as a sign of genuine trust on Sherlock’s part, being willing to let go of control. Sure, nothing was set in stone and John was more than open for discussion – as long as nothing concerned his penis.
“Start talking, I’ll make some tea,” Sherlock said and got up from the table. John stared at him; Sherlock had done nothing of that sort since the night at the pool. Hadn’t even drunk the tea John occasionally had made for him.
“Ehm….Great. Thanks. So….I thought that, eh, this started after what happened at the pool, since I think he could find it amusing to, I don’t know, break up what he helped create or something like that.”
“How?” Sherlock wondered and placed the teabags in the mugs.
“What how?”
“How did this start?”
“Oh….heh…ehm….I actually thought that I might have comforted you after a nightmare or something like that,” John had not intended to verbalise that, rather letting Sherlock make up his own version of how this had started. “We can have it the other way around if you like….”
“No it makes sense,” Sherlock nodded, “Not like I’ve done anything to comfort you during your nightmares before, have I?”
Was that guilt in his voice? John hadn’t known Sherlock was aware of the nightmares, but he was grateful for his flatmate’s discretion.
“No, but that’s okay. Really.” John assured him and reached for the mug Sherlock handed him. Getting tea from Sherlock….He still remembered the complete shock he’d experienced the first time that had happened. God. They had to get Daniel back.
“Good.” Sherlock mumbled before straightening his back and John could almost see him going back into professional mood when he sat down again, “Speaking of sleeping, and I have to point out that this is not a sex question, but are we going to share a bed?”
John suppressed a smile; his threat had been more efficient than he thought it would be.
“Yes I think we should, at least a room” John said, “We need to convince Mrs Hudson to be able to convince Lestrade and his lot and I think we need to convince them to even have a chance of convincing Moriarty.”
Sherlock nodded his agreement.
“Mrs Hudson already believes we’re more or less an item,” John shrugged, he had got used to that by now, “And for the others, if we managed to convince Donovan, she’ll place the thought into Lestrade’s head and then I’ll think we’ll just have to keep it up.”
Sherlock nodded again, “I’m almost impressed by your planning.”
“Almost?”
“Yes. What are you going to do about Sarah?”
John shrugged. Obviously he had to do something about Sarah, he still had some months left on his locum and he liked her. A lot. Telling her the truth didn’t feel like an option though.
“I’ll handle it somehow,” John said and looked down into the tea. It would be about the right temperature to drink shortly.
“John.”
“If she’s worth it, she’ll understand when I explain it to her. When this is all over.”
“So you’re not going to tell her?”
“The fewer that know the better,” John rubbed his face, “but we should tell Mycroft.”
“Why?”
It was something childishly whining in Sherlock’s voice.
“You want him to be disapproving of your alternative lifestyle and cut you out of the family?” John said with a semi-amused smile.
“Unfortunately there is nothing I could do to make him to do that,” Sherlock muttered.
“Does it bother you that he was able to help?”
Sherlock jaw tensed and his lips twisted as he seemed to struggle with the answer. It was almost amusing. Just almost. John hated that nothing could be really amusing, really funny, in the light of what had happened.
“Sherlock?”
“I’m so grateful he could do the things he did,” Sherlock admitted, looking past John, “but it bothers me he had to do it…and that I couldn’t.”
John reached out and took Sherlock’s hand. Instinctively, Sherlock withdrew, but John reached out again and this time he held on so tight that Sherlock had no chance of taking it back.
“What are you doing?” Sherlock frowned.
“Practising,” John told him and tried to give him a tender look; it was very hard to fake romance when the recipient looked like he had swallowed something sour. Again, John really, really wished he could find this as amusing as he knew it actually was.
“Sweetheart-“
“I thought we said no cute nicknames?” Sherlock interrupted with an even deeper frown.
“-I want to tell Mycroft about this, because I want both of us to wear one of those clever little GPS-thingies I’m sure he has hidden in some military storage somewhere.”
“I see your point,” Sherlock admitted and John let go of his hand, “but you’ll have to call him.”
“Yes dear.”
“No nicknames!”
Mycroft showed a vague interest, at most, when John called him, but supplied the “GPS-thingies” the same day. John got one placed in a rather neat watch while Sherlock agreed on having a transmitter in his cufflinks. It was, probably, a false sense of security, but it did calm John down.
*
Daniel Green was dead.
His Facebook account was closed; he didn’t even know it was possible to do that! His Fantasy Premier League team was deleted! He had spent 8 months building that team! It was a good team! Had been a good team…. Even the videos of him on Youtube were removed; especially the one where he managed 15 heel juggles! Maybe not “especially” that one, but it was the one he cared the most about.
Daniel Green was officially stone dead.
The idea of Internet never forgets or Once on the internet, always on the internet was just complete and utter bull! Sure, if he put in some effort – which he did – and typed in his name along with school and/or his football team then he could still find Daniel Green. But if you typed Mozart into Google you’d get numerous hits…and he had been dead for years and years and years. Yes, he did compare himself to Mozart and there was nothing anyone could do about it!
Daniel Green was dead, he did not exist anymore.
It was so absurdly strange that he couldn’t even start to comprehend. Every morning when he met his eyes in the bathroom mirror he saw the very proof of Daniel Green’s existence. It was the same face, the same blond hair, the same blue eyes. The same scar on his upper lip from when he had – unauthorised and unsupervised – played with one of dad’s experiments at age seven. It was exactly the same. Still it was not.
Samuel Mitchell.
Every day when he saw the face of Daniel Green in the mirror he had to say this stranger’s name out loud. Just to make the name fit the image.
Samuel Mitchell.
Who came up with these names? His mother was supposed to be Emma Mitchell, but he could still call her mum so he didn’t really bother with that. Not when he had all the trouble in the world adjusting to the fact that when someone called “Sam” they were actually talking to him.
They had been placed in a rather nice house – smaller than the one they’d had in Ipswich – just outside Sheffield and two days later Daniel had started school and mum had, without questions, got employment at a nearby nursing home. To say that life was surreal was an understatement.
Uncle Mycroft – both Daniel and Joyce had decided on hating him for the time being – had arrived late on the first day to present them with the wonderful lives of Emma and Samuel Mitchell, widow and son of Robert Mitchell who apparently had died in a car accident shortly before they moved to Sheffield. Daniel was glad Samuel’s father was dead. He couldn’t understand why, but it was quite satisfying knowing that even though Daniel Green was dead as far as the world knew, at least he still had a father.
Or no. No he didn’t. Somehow uncle Mycroft had erased that too, just as easily as he had produced new names (and new passports!) and eradicated Daniel Green from the internet. Dad had asserted (over and over again) that it didn’t matter what that piece of paper said, he was still his father and, of course, Daniel knew that. He did. Still he felt oddly empty and betrayed by the fact that dad had asked for it to happen.
Uncle Mycroft had also told them that they, under no circumstances, were allowed to make any contact with dad or John or anyone else. It would not have been necessary to tell either of them that since dad had been very clear on this particular point already, but it was all the more reason to hate uncle Mycroft right now. Sure, it was possible to blame dad as well – and Daniel did, a lot – but it was impossible to take out all the rage on him. Uncle Mycroft was a good substitute.
“It’s similar to what Hermione did to her parents in the beginning of The Deadly Hallows,” uncle Mycroft had tried to explain, “She knew she needed to do something that was going to be dangerous, therefore she sent away her parents so they would be safe.”
At that point Daniel had just been angry at his uncle for dragging the Wizarding world into this because it belonged to him and his friends and not the adults. The magical world of Harry Potter had followed him throughout his entire life, his mother reading the first book to him when he’d only been five years old (his father telling him magic didn’t exist as soon as he heard about it). Overly dramatic classmates of his had said that the release of the last film was “the end of their childhood”. Daniel didn’t know about that, but uncle Mycroft had no right to impose on it.
As the weeks went by though, he found a strange comfort in thinking about his dad – and John – in a tent somewhere in the countryside, trying to catch a villain. In Daniel’s mind this Moriarty looked like a mixture of Lex Luthor (the Smallville version, in other words a bald Michael Rosenbaum) and Orochimaru. Dad wasn’t Superman though. Nor was he a ninja. At times, Daniel had suspected that his father was a spy though, or an undercover agent, with the one purpose to meddle in his life.
Daniel had no idea what to think about his father now. Judging by recent events, the agent thing actually sounded pretty close to the truth. And what would that make uncle Mycroft? M?
After almost two months living as Samuel Mitchell, Daniel couldn’t help himself and typed Sherlock Holmes into Google. He had no idea what he would find or what he was looking for really, but for the first time since being pulled from his life in Ipswich Daniel hadn’t felt the need to introduce himself to the mirror in the morning and it had just made him miss dad.
The webpage he found – who’d thought his dad would have a website? – was plain and simple and nothing more than a forum really. It was uncomplicated enough for him to trust his father had set it up himself, which by definition made it rather unimpressive, but something about it just made Daniel’s throat clench up.
The page felt like dad. Short and with the complete lack of nonsense; Daniel could almost hear his dad say everything written on the page. Not that he ever spoke to Daniel like that, but he had heard him speak to other people (mostly other parents that had annoyed him in some way) in that way far more times than he wanted to.
Daniel spent the entire evening reading through everything on the website. Every case file and ever last comment, and if he’d thought the front page had sounded like dad, it had nothing on the forum posts. Sure, the cases were impressive (and some of them really improbable) but the comments were…well, they were brilliant! They were rude and mean and with a touch of superiority. It actually looked a lot like Daniel’s own Facebook comments…. That was, until it all got deleted. Samuel Mitchell wasn’t quite as cocky.
And dad smoked? Hypocrite! And John had made him watch James Bond? Daniel laughed at the mere thought of his father watching a Bond film.
It didn’t take him much time to figure out that the anonymous poster had been the man dad tried to hide him from. It bothered Daniel a lot that this Moriarty had been in contact with dad for months before all of this unravelled and that dad hadn’t taken it seriously.
Not to mention that dad’s life seemed to continue as if nothing had changed. The comments at the forum were still as sassy, the arguments with John and the person called G Lestrade (a cop according to Google) still as provocative and degrading. Nothing on the website (or on John’s blog which he also read through) indicated that something was missing in dad’s life. It was like if he didn’t notice that Daniel was gone.
Maybe he didn’t.
It was an unsettling thought that Daniel wished he could forget, but it was impossible to erase when it had entered. Admittedly, Daniel knew dad and John couldn’t write about him and he pretended that he understood, but it still hurt. What if dad didn’t miss him? What if he was happy to have nothing to do with him anymore? He had, after all, given up his rights to him. Who was he really protecting by doing that?
Daniel tried hard to convince himself that he was wrong and that dad did all of this for his sake. He needed to believe it was the truth and he continued to read both the forum at dad’s site and John’s blog (regardless if it concerned cases or the day to day life at Baker Street), hoping to see some hints or some mentioning of him.
There was never anything concrete, no names, no mentioning in the blog that he was missed or wonders of where he was. As the months progressed though and his birthday grew closer (Daniel Green’s birthday that was, Samuel Mitchell’s birthday was still months away) he noticed that dad’s activity on in the forum and the interaction with people there grew thinner and more irregular. The only cases he seemed to take on (if you believed John’s blog) were the ones that came from Scotland Yard. Daniel couldn’t really tell how he knew, but he did know it was because of him. Like the façade slowly was breaking down.
For days after this realisation Daniel just went through his new life in a bubble. All of a sudden the threat felt real and scary again, like when uncle Mycroft had left them after handing them their new passports and life stories.
Then, after six days, he sat down at his computer and wrote a comment in dad’s forum under the name The Fiddler. It took him almost two hours to write the very short message he finally posted, but seeing how this very forum had been where Moriarty had found dad in the first place Daniel felt like caution was essential. At least that was the reason he admitted to himself, in reality it was more because he contacted his dad for the first time in half a year.
The final message he posted read:
Some time ago, I lost my violin. It’s a Scott Cao Kreisler and it’s very important to me. I got the violin from my uncle and I used to play together with my father. (None of them are in my life anymore.) I manage and have a good life, but I miss my father and my violin. Please Mr Holmes, can you help me find my violin?
He regretted almost everything he had written as soon as he saw the white letters on the grey forum background. That sounded so, so cheesy. Would dad understand who had written it? Would anyone else understand? Had he messed everything up now, all the things everyone had fought for? No way to take it back now, just wait and see what would happen.
Just a couple of hours later, there was a reply.
Your uncle seems to have an acceptable taste when it comes to violins.
Daniel’s heart was beating so hard when he saw how the signature SH had answered. Dad had answered. A semi-polite answer, asking for no additional information, not accepting nor declining the case. Case and case for that matter, Daniel knew exactly where the violin was; it was at 221b Baker Street. It had just been the first thing that had come to mind when he started to think about what to write, not to mention that was something they shared and would hopefully make it easier for dad to understand that it was him.
What did this mean? How should he reply? What did dad want? The few times Daniel had heard dad say anything positive about uncle Mycroft it had often been in connection to his eye for instruments and/or wine. Maybe this was a way to confirm that it really was Daniel? If it was, how was he supposed to answer?
With trembling fingers he wrote:
My dad always said that my uncle has good taste in violins but that he can’t play one to save his life.
That didn’t get any reply. Not for hours, not for days and not for weeks. Daniel’s heart sank. He had failed. Either dad hadn’t understood that it was he or he had figured it out and was angry with him for making contact even though he was told not to. He found himself checking and refreshing the Science of Deduction so often he almost felt ashamed every time he did it. If nothing else, he felt utterly and completely tragic.
***
To keep up appearances of (221b Baker Street’s version of) normality, John made sure to move everything from the Moriarty-wall in the sitting room to his old bedroom (since he now slept on Daniel’s bed in Sherlock’s room). Sherlock wanted it in his bedroom, but John did find it unhealthy to have a constant reminder of Moriarty being on the loose as the first and last thing Sherlock saw every day. After a while he realised it was rather naive of him to believe something as simple as this would avoid that and more often than not they actually spent their nights together in John’s bed.
Their little charade proceeded rather smoothly; John stayed off the nicknames and Sherlock got into the habit of always reaching out to touch John – seemingly casually – every time he addressed him. It convinced Donovan something was going on in just a couple of weeks. It felt like a victory in a time of constant losses.
But nothing more happened.
The complete lack of activity from Moriarty made it hard to make any kind of progress. When they were at home, Sherlock spent most of his time on the floor and stared at all the strings on the wall. John had no idea what to do, but the days became weeks became months and no one approached him. He wished there was something, anything, he could do to help, but other than taking care of Sherlock – whenever it was allowed – he felt useless.
Sadly, he had the feeling Sherlock felt just as useless and every day that passed made him more and more tense. It became a struggle just to keep up appearances when they left the flat and sure enough, at the end of September Sherlock got an ”obvious” detail wrong that delayed an investigation three weeks. Deeply disturbed – and humbled – by this, Sherlock returned to the floor in John’s bedroom with his laptop for days.
It did nothing to improve his mood.
“Listen to these idiots John!” Sherlock ordered when John came in with a tray of food, “’I think my daughter is stealing my money out of my purse….’ Well, don’t have money lying around! You have a card right? Or this one ‘A friend said that she saw a person who looked just like me, can it be possible that I have a twin I never knew about? I’ve always felt so estranged from my family.’ Isn’t ‘interesting cases only’ simple enough for people to understand?”
John said nothing, but seated himself on the floor too. It had almost become second nature now to sit on the floor rather than in the chairs in the sitting room. How sad.
“Or listen to this!” Sherlock continued on, his voice more and more annoyed for every entry he read, “’Some time ago, I lost my violin. It’s a Scott Cao Kreisler and it’s very important to me. I got the violin from my uncle and I used to play together with my father.’” – Sherlock’s voice slowed down and became lower and lower for every word – “’(None of them are in my life anymore.) I manage and have a good life, but I miss my father and my violin. Please Mr Holmes, can you help me find my violin?’”
“What?” John looked at him with mixed suspicion and worry.
“Daniel wrote this.” It was not much more than a whisper and Sherlock stared blankly at the screen.
“Are you sure?” John gasped turning his attention from Sherlock to the screen.
“Positive,” Sherlock nodded pointing at the forum post, “That’s his violin…and he got it from Mycroft. He gets all his violins from Mycroft.”
Before John had processed this properly Sherlock had pressed ‘reply’ and answered:
Your uncle seems to have an acceptable taste when it comes to violins.
John knew they didn’t, but it felt like they both held their breaths in anticipation of a reply. More than once Sherlock muttered ‘Stupid boy’, but every time John looked at him, he looked closer to happy than John had seen him in months.
“Do you have to refresh the-“ John tried, but Sherlock shook his head – and then he updated the page anyway. Seven forced updates, and 82 minutes later, a reply finally showed on the screen.
My dad always said that my uncle has good taste in violins but that he can’t play one to save his life.
Even John had heard Sherlock say that about Mycroft and he turned his eyes from the computer to Sherlock. The detective had his palms pressed together in front of his face and his jaw trembled as his whole body fought to remain calm.
It didn’t work and a single sob was enough to ruin everything; month after month of self-control came crumbling down. Finally, John thought somewhere back in his mind and pulled Sherlock into his arms. There was no protest, as if their pretend relationship had made this the most natural thing to do, and John held Sherlock when he cried for almost half an hour.
“Excuse me….” Sherlock whispered when there was nothing more than sobbing left and he dried his eyes and left the room.
John rubbed his face and dried his own eyes on his t-shirt – it was wet all through due to Sherlock’s tears. He removed it and went to find a dry one as he intently tried to listen for sounds that could tell him what Sherlock did. No matter how much he liked to follow, he had the distinct feeling Sherlock needed some time to rebuild himself; to calm down and prepare the façade he wanted to present.
When Sherlock didn’t come back up and John couldn’t figure out what he was doing downstairs, John convinced himself that he had to go down and make sure something terrible wasn’t going on.
“This is not working,” Sherlock declared upset when John came down to the sitting room, where Sherlock had placed Daniel’s violin on the coffee table.
“What isn’t?” John felt just as slow as Sherlock used to accuse him of being.
“Us!” Sherlock stated pointing between them but looking down at the violin, “I might as well shag you against Nelson’s column and still we’d be no closer to catching him.”
“Sherlock….”
“No!” Sherlock yelled, “No! He knows about Daniel! He knows about Daniel and he’s not going to do a single thing, making it impossible for me to ever find him…and that means I’d never get to….”
John walked across the room and hugged Sherlock again. Sherlock did not respond, but at least he calmed down.
“I’m not going to let you give up,” John whispered, “He doesn’t know about Daniel, but even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stay way. He’s probably just planning something….”
He let go and looked up into Sherlock’s tired face; wonder if his parents had had this kind of worry over their heads when he’d been in Afghanistan?
“Repeat after me,” John said after making eye-contact, “Daniel is safe.”
“’Daniel is safe.’”
“Moriarty doesn’t know.”
“’Moriarty doesn’t know.’”
“He’ll get bored and contact us again.”
“’He’ll get bored and contact us again.’”
“And if you feel it necessary, I guess I can let you fuck me up Nelson’s column.”
“’And if-‘ what?” a small smile creped over Sherlock’s face, a brief one, but to John it was huge.
“What are you going to do with the violin?” John changed the subject, he had a feeling not even Sherlock needed to be told that statement had just been an attempt to make him smile.
“I’m going to call Mycroft, see if he can get it to him somehow,” Sherlock said, picking up the violin. Judging by the natural tone of voice he used, John would easily have been fooled that Sherlock often asked his brother for favours. “It’s his birthday on the 21st. He got this violin when he turned 14….It’s his third.”
“Do you want me to call Mycroft?”
“No. I haven’t talked to him since he came with the ‘GPS-thingies’” – John had feeling Sherlock was never going to let go of the ‘thingies’ – “And I need….I….”
“I’ll heat up the dinner,” John nodded and patted Sherlock on the arm.
“Not hungry.” Sherlock said as he started the search for his (or maybe John’s?) phone.
“Don’t care.”
“John?”
“Yes?”
“Do you really want us to have sex in public?”
John couldn’t help it, the expression of utter concern and confusion on Sherlock’s face made him burst out laughing. The last hours, since discovering Daniel’s message in the forum, had been so intense with emotions that he just couldn’t help himself. It boiled over, and thankfully it was with laughter and not with tears. They knew Daniel (and Joyce) was okay and no matter the sorrow it caused Sherlock to not be able to see his son, it was good news. It deserved laughter. Genuine laughter.
“No,” John shook his head, drying tears of laughter from his eyes, “I don’t want to have sex in public. A friendly snogg at the Yard’s Christmas party will do.”
“We have to go to the Christmas party?” Sherlock looked horrified.
“Call Mycroft,” John ordered, trying hard not to smile as much as he did, “And Sherlock, we’re going to find him. I promise.”
***
The day after Daniel’s 16th birthday a woman dressed as a FedEx uniform delivered a package addressed to Samuel Mitchell. It was odd, Daniel hadn’t got any post since he had left Ipswich (not that he had got a lot before either). Mum was suspicious – both of them nurturing a healthy dose of paranoia these days – and Daniel noticed that the woman’s finger nails were too well manicured for her to be lifting and moving packages for a living.
The woman – blond hair, blue eyes; just one cup size away from having Hollywood type cast her as Inga, the masseuse from Sweden – handed Daniel the package and mum a clipboard to sign for the delivery since Samuel was only 15.
“Who’s the sender?” mum wondered eyeing the package in her son’s hands. Daniel tried to estimate the weight of it and – knowing how silly it must seem – listen if there was something ticking inside.
“The DMAC,” the woman answered as if it was something they should understand, but their confusion must have been obvious because she added – directed to Daniel – “The DMAC at the M.o.M. in London. The phone number is 6-2-4-4-2 if you like to confirm.”
Daniel stared at her. All of that just sounded insane. The DMAC at the M.o.M.? 6-2-4-4-2? That wasn’t even a phone number.
“Or you can just text them,” the woman offered, wiggling her phone out of her pocket and handing it to him. “I know, it’s old…but it does work best with T9.”
Suspicious, but still a bit too curious for his own good, Daniel took the phone and typed 6-2-4-4-2 into the text window since she had said it worked better with T9. There, on the screen, the word MAGIC was spelled out in capital letters. 6-2-4-4-2. He should have recognised it.
“Look!” Daniel showed mum, who seemed to be completely lost.
“’Magic’?”
“Yes,” Daniel felt excited for the first time in months. He knew who had sent him the packaged! “Sign for it.”
“Are you-“
“Mum! It’s from-“
“The M.o.M.” the woman interrupted him with a smile, “I assure you madam, you have nothing to worry about.”
Suddenly even that made sense to Daniel and he was pretty sure he could find out what DMAC stood for as well. He just needed his computer; more than anything though he needed his mother to sign (even though he was quite sure that was just for keeping up appearances) so the he could open the packages.
Reluctantly, mum signed and the woman left with a cheerful smile and the wishes of a good day for the both of them.
“It’s from uncle Mycroft!” Daniel said as soon as the door closed behind them. His mother didn’t seem quite as convinced as he was, but it didn’t matter, she’d understand when he opened the packages.
“How do you know that?”
“The woman, she clearly wasn’t a FedEx employee, but I think even you know that.” Daniel started as he went to the kitchen to search for a pair of scissors or something to help him get the package open. Mum sighed in her you-sound-exactly-like-your-father-please-stop kind of way, but Daniel didn’t bother. “And then she said it was from the DMAC at the M.o.M.. I don’t know what DMAC is, but 6-2-4-4-2 is the code to let visitors in to the Ministry of Magic; M.o.M.!”
“But-“ Mum tried but Daniel had managed to open the packages safely without anything exploding or something dangerous flying out. Still there was something wrong, as he opened it, Daniel had gone pale. “What is it?”
“It’s not from uncle Mycroft,” he said as he reached down to pick up the content of the package, “It’s from dad….”
“Are you sure?”
Yes, he was sure. It was his uncle who had made sure the package had been delivered, without a doubt, but the package was from dad. It was his violin, the Scott Cao Kreisler he had asked the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes to find. The latest of the violins that uncle Mycroft had provided him with.
“Oh sweetie,” Mum whispered and put a hand between his shoulder blades. If Daniel hadn’t been so moved himself he would have noticed how mum discreetly wiped a tear from her eye.
There was a note in the bottom of the package.
The Government didn’t allow me to send the bow. Buy a ridiculously expensive one and tell your mother I’ll make sure the taxpayers get the bill. The same goes for a proper case.
Happy Birthday.
That was more articulate than any birthday card Daniel had ever got from his father and by far the best present. He guessed “The Government” was uncle Mycroft and wondered if it was a play on the Ministry of Magic-thing. As a continuation of that guess he assumed the taxpayers were dad and John. Strange that dad freely placed himself under uncle Mycroft though.
“Should we go into town and see if we could find a bow?”
Mum’s voice broke through the sudden numbness that surrounded Daniel. He nodded and felt mum take the violin from his trembling hands before she pulled him into a tight hug. For a long time he tried hard not to cry; but if you couldn’t cry in your mother’s arms when you had received a birthday gift from your father who you thought didn’t love you anymore, then when could you?
Later that night he went back to The Science of Deduction and ended his thread with:
I’m sorry to have bothered you Mr Holmes, I’ve found the violin. And a bow. And a case. Thank you for your time.
***
It turned out John would get it partly right; they didn’t find Moriarty, but in May, Moriarty eventually found John. So when presented with the very classy ‘does this rag smell like chloroform’-routine, John let himself be taken by Moriarty for the second time.
John woke up on something cool and hard, to a slight nausea and a smooth voice whispering into his ears:
“Hello Pet.”
A chill went down John’s spine. The sound of Moriarty’s voice in his ear, the left-over from the chloroform mist and a strap over his chest was very familiar. Too familiar even. No way would Moriarty do the same thing twice! True to that, John recognised his hand and feet being tied down this time. Well, that wasn’t really novel either.
“You didn’t think I’d forgotten about you now, did you?”
There wasn’t an earpiece; he could feel Moriarty’s breath on his ear and the smell of his cologne. It was the same scent as the last time, almost as chilling as the voice. John tried to focus, tried to feel if he still had the watch on. He did. Good. Sherlock would find him this time.
“Wakey wakey little pet….” Moriarty’s voice was almost singing as he caressed John’s forehead.
John opened his eyes and yes, there was Moriarty. A very pleasant feeling settled in John’s chest when he saw the scars from a third degree burn on the grinning psychopath’s face. There was some justice in the cosmos.
“Yes I know,” Moriarty sighed when he saw where John was looking, “but you love me still, don’t you?”
“I can honestly say that my feelings for you have only become deeper and more intense since our last little meeting.”
“Oh!” Moriarty put one hand on his chest and flickered with his eyelashes, “You always know what to say.” Then he turned serious again and nailed John down with his eyes, keeping his voice just as calm and smooth as ever, “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner, but that little stunt you and your darling Sherlock pulled last time set me back some. Naughty, naughty you.”
John wondered what time it was and how long it had taken from when he had been taken to when Sherlock had noticed that he was gone. He had been on his way out, so Sherlock would probably not miss him for a couple of hours. Damn.
“Of course, I can’t give you all the credit,” Moriarty twittered on, walking out of John’s sight, “The business has just been wonderful these last months. God, I’m just so grateful people are too moronic to plan their own crimes! Doesn’t your Sherlock feel the same Pet dearest?”
“No, it rather frustrates him,” John had no idea why he indulged Moriarty in conversation; it would either just make him excited or mad.
“Oh Sherlock, Sherlock….Why do you let it get to you?”
John heard something getting ripped off; probably duct tape.
“John?”
John went cold. Sherlock was also there. Well, maybe it would have been a bit beneath Moriarty to just snatch him of the street, seeing the grand spectacle he made last time. Still, shit. That was the end of that terrific plan of his.
“Answer him!” Moriarty yelled.
“It’s okay Sherlock,” John said but had no idea what he was talking about.
“Precious.” Moriarty said sarcastically.
John could hear a chair being moved over the floor towards him and soon enough a very beaten up Sherlock came into his view. He tried to sit up, but, of course, the straps prevented that. Marvellous.
“Sherlock?”
“It’s okay,” Sherlock muttered through a split lip and, John wasn’t sure he was right but he thought Sherlock tried to smirk, “I have more than one archenemy.”
“Ah!” Moriarty sounded horrified, “Are you unfaithful Sherlock? I thought what we had was real! Special! Tell me Sherlock, does he play with you the way I do?”
“I can’t remember him ever playing with me,” Sherlock admitted. John found it sad that Mycroft had never played with his younger brother; but he was quite glad Mycroft was informed about this though.
“Good thing I found you then,” Moriarty said joyful, caressing Sherlock’s hair as he made his way over to John. “Unfortunately, I think we might have to say our good byes to Little John tonight. I am so, so sorry Sherlock.”
“No you’re not,” Sherlock shook his head. Moriarty shrugged and made a face like he didn’t care before he started hum. “But you will be.”
“Is that a threat or a promise Sherlock?” Moriarty said, dragging his finger over John’s face, “Please don’t get my hopes up for nothing.”
“I didn’t the last time, did I?”
“No, that was quite amusing I must say. Don’t you agree Johnny Boy?”
Moriarty’s finger had paused on John’s lips and John stared straight into his eyes; if he hadn’t thought Moriarty would enjoy it, he’d bite his finger off!
“I think he agrees,” Moriarty told Sherlock with a smile, “Do you still think he will after I give him a little manicure?”
“Leave him alone,” Sherlock growled.
“’t’s okay Sherlock,” John promised, knowing perfectly well that it wasn’t and that Sherlock didn’t believe him.
“See!” Moriarty sounded far too perky, “He wants to! Don’t be a party pooper Sherlock.”
“Leave him alone,” Sherlock repeated, very coolly, but Moriarty just started to hum again:
“I’ve got five fingers in my pocket…. Five fingers hidden away…. Five fingers in my pocket…. Look! Aw, one went away!”
When Moriarty reached the last word John felt an indescribable pain in his left hand and lower arm. He screamed on the top of his lungs, his body twisting under the straps holding him down. Somewhere behind his own screaming he heard Moriarty giggling and Sherlock throwing profanities in their direction, but that could just as well have been made up by his brain. By the preparation made during the song, John might have been able to guess that the nail on his index finger had been pulled off. The pain made it hard to focus on that kind of technicalities though.
“So Sherlock,” Moriarty said when John had managed to muffle his scream to a sobbing behind clenched teeth, “Where are you hiding your son?”
“Sherlock has…no…son,” John forced out.
“Sch, sch, sch Pet,” Moriarty whispered in his ear, “I AM NOT STUPID!”
“Sherlock has no son,” John said again.
“I’m not asking you!” Moriarty slapped his face, “Not to mention how unnecessary your lies are….You should see Sherlock’s face right now.”
John was pretty sure he didn’t want to see that and shortly afterwards – after a second verse of that terrible children’s song – he felt the same pain again. Screaming, twisting and just trying to get away from his own hand he heard Moriarty repeat his question.
“You know, he has 20 of these,” Moriarty said serenely, “And I’ve seen bodies just give up by the sheer pain of it all, long before I reach number 20.”
At those words the pain came from the other hand. All nerve endings in John’s body seemed to explode and when the scream died out in his throat and in his ears, there was instead an intense ringing in his head and he hyperventilated.
“No…. Son….” He thought he managed to say before yet another nail was pulled and the world went black.
When he came back it was to the sound of his own scream, but after that, he couldn’t recall what happened. Probably, he got shocked in and out of consciousness a couple of times more, but the only thing he was really sure about was that once, he was woken by having water dropped in his face. Another time he could have sworn there was a woman standing over him instead of Moriarty, but by then he was not in a condition to make any memories.
Then he finally woke up and was able to take in where he was again. Well, not exactly where he was; because, from the inside, most hospital rooms looked the same, but that it was a hospital was clear.
The white ceiling and the hideous framed poster at the opposite wall was not the only evidence leading to this deduction – God! He had been living with Sherlock for too long. He could feel the characteristic smell of clean, it was almost dizzying; in addition there was the drip attached to his arm and the tubes going into his nostrils and the numbness he recognised from painkillers and anaesthesia.
He was, undoubtedly, at a hospital and that meant he was alive.
This was so different from the evac-hospital. It was cool here for starters and sterile, from bacteria, sand and people. Like it should be at a hospital. The people-part might be debatable, but it always was pretty sterile on that front as well.
John’s brain tried to make sense of where he could be, on a more global level than just “in a hospital”. They used to ship the British soldiers to…. No…. He was not in Afghanistan anymore, he had not been shot. That was the other time. He had come back to London after that.
So why…. What…. His hands were pulsating with a numb pain and he attempted to sit up, to get out of bed. He managed to do nothing. If this was a British hospital there must be a button somewhere that he could press, but his hands were not able to search for it.
“You’re awake….” a voice suddenly whispered, its owner also newly awoken judging by the sound.
John turned his head and saw Sherlock sitting in a sofa against the wall, with the head of a blond boy sleeping in his lap. A wave of warmth flooded John, the plan had failed but they had succeeded.
Sherlock carefully removed Daniel’s head from his lap and placed a pillow underneath instead before walking up to John in the bed.
“He’s been in Sheffield,” Sherlock whispered, “Mycroft had a car there, offering to pick them up as soon as we reached the hospital. Joyce stayed, but he came…. He came.”
Behind the bruises, the swelling and the stitches, Sherlock was practically beaming with calm and joy and affection, all mixed up in a perfect representation of happiness.
“Ar-a-re….” John throat was too sore to allow anything to come out.
“Don’t do that,” Sherlock shook his head and poured water in a plastic cup, decorated with a straw and placed it to John’s lips. The room temperature water felt really good on its way down and Sherlock’s happiness spread to him.
“I shouldn’t have followed,” Sherlock said, looking painfully guilty, “He wouldn’t have started without me.”
“Not very clever, no.” John admitted in a hoarse voice.
“When I noticed, I couldn’t sit and just…just wait. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay Sherlock….” John found it easier to smile now than it had been for months; there was no need for Sherlock to feel guilty, “We won. I don’t care how.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered; the two words expressing an unspeakable gratitude and the bliss seeping into him again.
John looked over at the sofa, at Daniel. The finger pain he could live with and the prospect of maybe not getting his nails back was no real concern. Not when Sherlock looked the way he did and Daniel slept no more than a meter away. It made everything this last year worth it.
***
Thank you for reading!
Author goes HP-crazy:
M.o.M. is, indeed, short for Ministry of Magic, the main governing body of the magical community in the UK.
DMAC is the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. They take care of accidental magical accidents (is there any other kind?), often caused by underage witches and wizards (like when Harry blew up his aunt) but also in more severe cases (like when Peter killed twelve Muggles on the street to escape Sirius). In other words, they keep the secret about the magical world and I see it as the perfect place for Mycroft to work, had he been a wizard.
6-2-4-4-2 is the code to enter the Ministry of Magic if you’re a guest.
Lastly, I was one of those who felt my childhood was officially over when the last HP movie came out…I should have known it sooner.
***
Epilouge
mygoldenbuttons) it became two.Summary: In a world where he has a son, there is no doubt in Sherlock’s mind what Moriarty means when he says he will burn the heart out of him.
Acknowledgement: Many thanks to
mygoldenbuttons for her beta-work and structural suggestion; I appreciate it a lot!Not familiar with this AU? Master fic list.
***
“That sounds worse than a dental drill,” Sherlock grimaced when John turned on the cast saw.
“Yeah,” John agreed and shifted slightly on the tip of chair to make sure he was completely stable before he started to remove Sherlock’s cast. “Be still, alright?”
Sherlock didn’t answer but John trusted him to make this as smooth as possible; he had been complaining that the cast obstructed his work over the last couple of weeks. John had trouble seeing just how a cast could complicate brainwork, but he hadn’t argued.
They had been rough weeks since Daniel and Joyce disappear in one of Mycroft cars; especially the weekends Daniel had been supposed to be in London. At one point, Sherlock had collapsed due to dehydration and sleep deprivation in front of the non-pinboard-pinboard on the wall behind the sofa, where he had everything gathered about Moriarty. To John’s surprise, he had been able to convince Sherlock to take better care of himself after that; even Sherlock could see how much better he did when his body functioned properly.
“That was that,” John muttered and turned off the saw. He tried to bend up the cast by hand but ended up using a tool to open it wide enough to be able to cut the gauze bandage underneath. A short while later was he able to completely free Sherlock’s arm from the cast.
“How does it feel?” he wondered as he disposed of the cast while Sherlock repeatedly made a fist and slowly tried to bend his wrist. He was quiet, but his face was twisted in pain.
“Stop doing that if it hurts,” John ordered and hurried back to stop Sherlock from hurting himself by gripping his wrist. “A little bit of patience. Okay?”
“I don’t have time for patience,” Sherlock mumbled and met John’s eyes, dead serious. John had nothing to say to that, he understood. Or he thought he did. Instead he took a washcloth and carefully wiped Sherlock’s arm clean from the cast dust and dead cells that had gathered during the weeks. The skin was so dry, John wondered if they had anything at home or if he’d better just “borrow” some cream from the surgery.
“I can be your heart Sherlock,” John offered when he was done with the cleaning; the confused look he got told him Sherlock didn’t understand, “Think about it, if he had known about Daniel, would he have kidnapped me? It would have been just as easy for him to put Daniel in that vest as it was for him to put me in it.”
A shiver went through Sherlock’s body and John frowned, maybe he shouldn’t have placed that image in Sherlock’s head. Well, he probably already had it.
“We’ll make sure he doesn’t have to look for anyone else – stop bending your wrist like that – and when he takes me again, we’ll be ready.”
John had been thinking about this, a lot. Most likely just as much as Sherlock had been thinking about where Moriarty could be right now. It was not an optimal solution, John had to admit that, but he couldn’t see a better one right now.
“I won’t have that,” Sherlock shook his head, “He might kill you.”
“He still might,” John pointed out, “and I’m not helpless. I’ll gladly play bait while you figure out where he is or where he’s going to strike again.”
Sherlock met his eyes for the longest time (or maybe five-ten seconds?) and John held his gaze, he had the distinct feeling Sherlock tried to read his intentions; deduce his thoughts. God, the detective looked so incredibly worn out.
“You’re not the only one who wants to get him; you’re far from alone in this.”
Sherlock cleared his throat “John….”
“Yeah, let’s go home,” John agreed and got up even though he guessed that wasn’t what Sherlock was about to say, “I’ll just going to find you some skin cream and a compression sleeve.”
“John.”
“Yes?”
“I’m not going to let him kill you.”
There was such reassurance in Sherlock’s voice and in his eyes that John had to smile. John knew all too well the sentiment behind that kind of promise; he had promised many men that they’d live in Afghanistan. Some had made it, some hadn’t, and he had always known what a stupid promise it was to give, but he had always given it because making the men survive had always been his intention.
As soon as they got home from the surgery they sat down to plan their charade, both eager to do something – something seemingly productive – instead of just waiting for Moriarty to make his next move. John insisted they do it in the kitchen to make it impossible for Sherlock’s eyes to wander off to the Moriarty-wall.
“How do you want to do this?” Sherlock wondered as he did his best to examine the green compression sleeve John had forced onto his arm.
“Stop doing that,” John smacked Sherlock’s hand with a pen, “It’s supposed to stay on. Reduces swelling…and pain. And stop flexing your wrist like that.”
“You’re like a nagging wife already,” Sherlock frowned.
“Yes dear.”
“Let’s start there,” Sherlock decided, “No cute nicknames.”
“Sure,” John smiled and sat down on the other side of the table, “So what then?”
“We’re probably not having anal sex yet,” Sherlock said in a very matter-of-fact tone.
“The logical jump from ‘no nicknames’ is ‘no anal’?” John didn’t quite know if he should be amused, disturbed or uncomfortable right now.
“It’s not an illogical one,” Sherlock claimed and finally stopped messing with the sleeve, “We should establish what we do and don’t do as a couple if we’re going to pretend to be one.”
“Right. Sure. No anal sex,” John sighed.
“But we do have sex,” Sherlock continued on, “Handjobs, blowjobs, that sort of thing….I personally prefer a lot of creative tongue, how about you?”
“Sher- I- I’m not going to discuss that with you,” John could feel himself blush, not to mention that he had an image of a tongue worthy of a giraffe unbuttoning Sherlock’s trousers. Sherlock, of course, looked at him as if he didn’t understand the reason for John’s reluctance. “If you talk about our pretend sex life again, I’ll call you Buttercup the next time Sally Donovan is in earshot.”
“Fine.”
“We just had our first little fight as a couple,” John said with a smile but the look Sherlock gave him made him serious again, “Well, yes. I’ve thought a lot about this these last couple of weeks-“
“I imagined you had.”
“-so I’ll just tell you?”
It was hard to say if Sherlock was displeased with this or not, but he finally nodded. Maybe it was a misinterpretation, but John saw it as a sign of genuine trust on Sherlock’s part, being willing to let go of control. Sure, nothing was set in stone and John was more than open for discussion – as long as nothing concerned his penis.
“Start talking, I’ll make some tea,” Sherlock said and got up from the table. John stared at him; Sherlock had done nothing of that sort since the night at the pool. Hadn’t even drunk the tea John occasionally had made for him.
“Ehm….Great. Thanks. So….I thought that, eh, this started after what happened at the pool, since I think he could find it amusing to, I don’t know, break up what he helped create or something like that.”
“How?” Sherlock wondered and placed the teabags in the mugs.
“What how?”
“How did this start?”
“Oh….heh…ehm….I actually thought that I might have comforted you after a nightmare or something like that,” John had not intended to verbalise that, rather letting Sherlock make up his own version of how this had started. “We can have it the other way around if you like….”
“No it makes sense,” Sherlock nodded, “Not like I’ve done anything to comfort you during your nightmares before, have I?”
Was that guilt in his voice? John hadn’t known Sherlock was aware of the nightmares, but he was grateful for his flatmate’s discretion.
“No, but that’s okay. Really.” John assured him and reached for the mug Sherlock handed him. Getting tea from Sherlock….He still remembered the complete shock he’d experienced the first time that had happened. God. They had to get Daniel back.
“Good.” Sherlock mumbled before straightening his back and John could almost see him going back into professional mood when he sat down again, “Speaking of sleeping, and I have to point out that this is not a sex question, but are we going to share a bed?”
John suppressed a smile; his threat had been more efficient than he thought it would be.
“Yes I think we should, at least a room” John said, “We need to convince Mrs Hudson to be able to convince Lestrade and his lot and I think we need to convince them to even have a chance of convincing Moriarty.”
Sherlock nodded his agreement.
“Mrs Hudson already believes we’re more or less an item,” John shrugged, he had got used to that by now, “And for the others, if we managed to convince Donovan, she’ll place the thought into Lestrade’s head and then I’ll think we’ll just have to keep it up.”
Sherlock nodded again, “I’m almost impressed by your planning.”
“Almost?”
“Yes. What are you going to do about Sarah?”
John shrugged. Obviously he had to do something about Sarah, he still had some months left on his locum and he liked her. A lot. Telling her the truth didn’t feel like an option though.
“I’ll handle it somehow,” John said and looked down into the tea. It would be about the right temperature to drink shortly.
“John.”
“If she’s worth it, she’ll understand when I explain it to her. When this is all over.”
“So you’re not going to tell her?”
“The fewer that know the better,” John rubbed his face, “but we should tell Mycroft.”
“Why?”
It was something childishly whining in Sherlock’s voice.
“You want him to be disapproving of your alternative lifestyle and cut you out of the family?” John said with a semi-amused smile.
“Unfortunately there is nothing I could do to make him to do that,” Sherlock muttered.
“Does it bother you that he was able to help?”
Sherlock jaw tensed and his lips twisted as he seemed to struggle with the answer. It was almost amusing. Just almost. John hated that nothing could be really amusing, really funny, in the light of what had happened.
“Sherlock?”
“I’m so grateful he could do the things he did,” Sherlock admitted, looking past John, “but it bothers me he had to do it…and that I couldn’t.”
John reached out and took Sherlock’s hand. Instinctively, Sherlock withdrew, but John reached out again and this time he held on so tight that Sherlock had no chance of taking it back.
“What are you doing?” Sherlock frowned.
“Practising,” John told him and tried to give him a tender look; it was very hard to fake romance when the recipient looked like he had swallowed something sour. Again, John really, really wished he could find this as amusing as he knew it actually was.
“Sweetheart-“
“I thought we said no cute nicknames?” Sherlock interrupted with an even deeper frown.
“-I want to tell Mycroft about this, because I want both of us to wear one of those clever little GPS-thingies I’m sure he has hidden in some military storage somewhere.”
“I see your point,” Sherlock admitted and John let go of his hand, “but you’ll have to call him.”
“Yes dear.”
“No nicknames!”
Mycroft showed a vague interest, at most, when John called him, but supplied the “GPS-thingies” the same day. John got one placed in a rather neat watch while Sherlock agreed on having a transmitter in his cufflinks. It was, probably, a false sense of security, but it did calm John down.
*
Daniel Green was dead.
His Facebook account was closed; he didn’t even know it was possible to do that! His Fantasy Premier League team was deleted! He had spent 8 months building that team! It was a good team! Had been a good team…. Even the videos of him on Youtube were removed; especially the one where he managed 15 heel juggles! Maybe not “especially” that one, but it was the one he cared the most about.
Daniel Green was officially stone dead.
The idea of Internet never forgets or Once on the internet, always on the internet was just complete and utter bull! Sure, if he put in some effort – which he did – and typed in his name along with school and/or his football team then he could still find Daniel Green. But if you typed Mozart into Google you’d get numerous hits…and he had been dead for years and years and years. Yes, he did compare himself to Mozart and there was nothing anyone could do about it!
Daniel Green was dead, he did not exist anymore.
It was so absurdly strange that he couldn’t even start to comprehend. Every morning when he met his eyes in the bathroom mirror he saw the very proof of Daniel Green’s existence. It was the same face, the same blond hair, the same blue eyes. The same scar on his upper lip from when he had – unauthorised and unsupervised – played with one of dad’s experiments at age seven. It was exactly the same. Still it was not.
Samuel Mitchell.
Every day when he saw the face of Daniel Green in the mirror he had to say this stranger’s name out loud. Just to make the name fit the image.
Samuel Mitchell.
Who came up with these names? His mother was supposed to be Emma Mitchell, but he could still call her mum so he didn’t really bother with that. Not when he had all the trouble in the world adjusting to the fact that when someone called “Sam” they were actually talking to him.
They had been placed in a rather nice house – smaller than the one they’d had in Ipswich – just outside Sheffield and two days later Daniel had started school and mum had, without questions, got employment at a nearby nursing home. To say that life was surreal was an understatement.
Uncle Mycroft – both Daniel and Joyce had decided on hating him for the time being – had arrived late on the first day to present them with the wonderful lives of Emma and Samuel Mitchell, widow and son of Robert Mitchell who apparently had died in a car accident shortly before they moved to Sheffield. Daniel was glad Samuel’s father was dead. He couldn’t understand why, but it was quite satisfying knowing that even though Daniel Green was dead as far as the world knew, at least he still had a father.
Or no. No he didn’t. Somehow uncle Mycroft had erased that too, just as easily as he had produced new names (and new passports!) and eradicated Daniel Green from the internet. Dad had asserted (over and over again) that it didn’t matter what that piece of paper said, he was still his father and, of course, Daniel knew that. He did. Still he felt oddly empty and betrayed by the fact that dad had asked for it to happen.
Uncle Mycroft had also told them that they, under no circumstances, were allowed to make any contact with dad or John or anyone else. It would not have been necessary to tell either of them that since dad had been very clear on this particular point already, but it was all the more reason to hate uncle Mycroft right now. Sure, it was possible to blame dad as well – and Daniel did, a lot – but it was impossible to take out all the rage on him. Uncle Mycroft was a good substitute.
“It’s similar to what Hermione did to her parents in the beginning of The Deadly Hallows,” uncle Mycroft had tried to explain, “She knew she needed to do something that was going to be dangerous, therefore she sent away her parents so they would be safe.”
At that point Daniel had just been angry at his uncle for dragging the Wizarding world into this because it belonged to him and his friends and not the adults. The magical world of Harry Potter had followed him throughout his entire life, his mother reading the first book to him when he’d only been five years old (his father telling him magic didn’t exist as soon as he heard about it). Overly dramatic classmates of his had said that the release of the last film was “the end of their childhood”. Daniel didn’t know about that, but uncle Mycroft had no right to impose on it.
As the weeks went by though, he found a strange comfort in thinking about his dad – and John – in a tent somewhere in the countryside, trying to catch a villain. In Daniel’s mind this Moriarty looked like a mixture of Lex Luthor (the Smallville version, in other words a bald Michael Rosenbaum) and Orochimaru. Dad wasn’t Superman though. Nor was he a ninja. At times, Daniel had suspected that his father was a spy though, or an undercover agent, with the one purpose to meddle in his life.
Daniel had no idea what to think about his father now. Judging by recent events, the agent thing actually sounded pretty close to the truth. And what would that make uncle Mycroft? M?
After almost two months living as Samuel Mitchell, Daniel couldn’t help himself and typed Sherlock Holmes into Google. He had no idea what he would find or what he was looking for really, but for the first time since being pulled from his life in Ipswich Daniel hadn’t felt the need to introduce himself to the mirror in the morning and it had just made him miss dad.
The webpage he found – who’d thought his dad would have a website? – was plain and simple and nothing more than a forum really. It was uncomplicated enough for him to trust his father had set it up himself, which by definition made it rather unimpressive, but something about it just made Daniel’s throat clench up.
The page felt like dad. Short and with the complete lack of nonsense; Daniel could almost hear his dad say everything written on the page. Not that he ever spoke to Daniel like that, but he had heard him speak to other people (mostly other parents that had annoyed him in some way) in that way far more times than he wanted to.
Daniel spent the entire evening reading through everything on the website. Every case file and ever last comment, and if he’d thought the front page had sounded like dad, it had nothing on the forum posts. Sure, the cases were impressive (and some of them really improbable) but the comments were…well, they were brilliant! They were rude and mean and with a touch of superiority. It actually looked a lot like Daniel’s own Facebook comments…. That was, until it all got deleted. Samuel Mitchell wasn’t quite as cocky.
And dad smoked? Hypocrite! And John had made him watch James Bond? Daniel laughed at the mere thought of his father watching a Bond film.
It didn’t take him much time to figure out that the anonymous poster had been the man dad tried to hide him from. It bothered Daniel a lot that this Moriarty had been in contact with dad for months before all of this unravelled and that dad hadn’t taken it seriously.
Not to mention that dad’s life seemed to continue as if nothing had changed. The comments at the forum were still as sassy, the arguments with John and the person called G Lestrade (a cop according to Google) still as provocative and degrading. Nothing on the website (or on John’s blog which he also read through) indicated that something was missing in dad’s life. It was like if he didn’t notice that Daniel was gone.
Maybe he didn’t.
It was an unsettling thought that Daniel wished he could forget, but it was impossible to erase when it had entered. Admittedly, Daniel knew dad and John couldn’t write about him and he pretended that he understood, but it still hurt. What if dad didn’t miss him? What if he was happy to have nothing to do with him anymore? He had, after all, given up his rights to him. Who was he really protecting by doing that?
Daniel tried hard to convince himself that he was wrong and that dad did all of this for his sake. He needed to believe it was the truth and he continued to read both the forum at dad’s site and John’s blog (regardless if it concerned cases or the day to day life at Baker Street), hoping to see some hints or some mentioning of him.
There was never anything concrete, no names, no mentioning in the blog that he was missed or wonders of where he was. As the months progressed though and his birthday grew closer (Daniel Green’s birthday that was, Samuel Mitchell’s birthday was still months away) he noticed that dad’s activity on in the forum and the interaction with people there grew thinner and more irregular. The only cases he seemed to take on (if you believed John’s blog) were the ones that came from Scotland Yard. Daniel couldn’t really tell how he knew, but he did know it was because of him. Like the façade slowly was breaking down.
For days after this realisation Daniel just went through his new life in a bubble. All of a sudden the threat felt real and scary again, like when uncle Mycroft had left them after handing them their new passports and life stories.
Then, after six days, he sat down at his computer and wrote a comment in dad’s forum under the name The Fiddler. It took him almost two hours to write the very short message he finally posted, but seeing how this very forum had been where Moriarty had found dad in the first place Daniel felt like caution was essential. At least that was the reason he admitted to himself, in reality it was more because he contacted his dad for the first time in half a year.
The final message he posted read:
Some time ago, I lost my violin. It’s a Scott Cao Kreisler and it’s very important to me. I got the violin from my uncle and I used to play together with my father. (None of them are in my life anymore.) I manage and have a good life, but I miss my father and my violin. Please Mr Holmes, can you help me find my violin?
He regretted almost everything he had written as soon as he saw the white letters on the grey forum background. That sounded so, so cheesy. Would dad understand who had written it? Would anyone else understand? Had he messed everything up now, all the things everyone had fought for? No way to take it back now, just wait and see what would happen.
Just a couple of hours later, there was a reply.
Your uncle seems to have an acceptable taste when it comes to violins.
Daniel’s heart was beating so hard when he saw how the signature SH had answered. Dad had answered. A semi-polite answer, asking for no additional information, not accepting nor declining the case. Case and case for that matter, Daniel knew exactly where the violin was; it was at 221b Baker Street. It had just been the first thing that had come to mind when he started to think about what to write, not to mention that was something they shared and would hopefully make it easier for dad to understand that it was him.
What did this mean? How should he reply? What did dad want? The few times Daniel had heard dad say anything positive about uncle Mycroft it had often been in connection to his eye for instruments and/or wine. Maybe this was a way to confirm that it really was Daniel? If it was, how was he supposed to answer?
With trembling fingers he wrote:
My dad always said that my uncle has good taste in violins but that he can’t play one to save his life.
That didn’t get any reply. Not for hours, not for days and not for weeks. Daniel’s heart sank. He had failed. Either dad hadn’t understood that it was he or he had figured it out and was angry with him for making contact even though he was told not to. He found himself checking and refreshing the Science of Deduction so often he almost felt ashamed every time he did it. If nothing else, he felt utterly and completely tragic.
***
To keep up appearances of (221b Baker Street’s version of) normality, John made sure to move everything from the Moriarty-wall in the sitting room to his old bedroom (since he now slept on Daniel’s bed in Sherlock’s room). Sherlock wanted it in his bedroom, but John did find it unhealthy to have a constant reminder of Moriarty being on the loose as the first and last thing Sherlock saw every day. After a while he realised it was rather naive of him to believe something as simple as this would avoid that and more often than not they actually spent their nights together in John’s bed.
Their little charade proceeded rather smoothly; John stayed off the nicknames and Sherlock got into the habit of always reaching out to touch John – seemingly casually – every time he addressed him. It convinced Donovan something was going on in just a couple of weeks. It felt like a victory in a time of constant losses.
But nothing more happened.
The complete lack of activity from Moriarty made it hard to make any kind of progress. When they were at home, Sherlock spent most of his time on the floor and stared at all the strings on the wall. John had no idea what to do, but the days became weeks became months and no one approached him. He wished there was something, anything, he could do to help, but other than taking care of Sherlock – whenever it was allowed – he felt useless.
Sadly, he had the feeling Sherlock felt just as useless and every day that passed made him more and more tense. It became a struggle just to keep up appearances when they left the flat and sure enough, at the end of September Sherlock got an ”obvious” detail wrong that delayed an investigation three weeks. Deeply disturbed – and humbled – by this, Sherlock returned to the floor in John’s bedroom with his laptop for days.
It did nothing to improve his mood.
“Listen to these idiots John!” Sherlock ordered when John came in with a tray of food, “’I think my daughter is stealing my money out of my purse….’ Well, don’t have money lying around! You have a card right? Or this one ‘A friend said that she saw a person who looked just like me, can it be possible that I have a twin I never knew about? I’ve always felt so estranged from my family.’ Isn’t ‘interesting cases only’ simple enough for people to understand?”
John said nothing, but seated himself on the floor too. It had almost become second nature now to sit on the floor rather than in the chairs in the sitting room. How sad.
“Or listen to this!” Sherlock continued on, his voice more and more annoyed for every entry he read, “’Some time ago, I lost my violin. It’s a Scott Cao Kreisler and it’s very important to me. I got the violin from my uncle and I used to play together with my father.’” – Sherlock’s voice slowed down and became lower and lower for every word – “’(None of them are in my life anymore.) I manage and have a good life, but I miss my father and my violin. Please Mr Holmes, can you help me find my violin?’”
“What?” John looked at him with mixed suspicion and worry.
“Daniel wrote this.” It was not much more than a whisper and Sherlock stared blankly at the screen.
“Are you sure?” John gasped turning his attention from Sherlock to the screen.
“Positive,” Sherlock nodded pointing at the forum post, “That’s his violin…and he got it from Mycroft. He gets all his violins from Mycroft.”
Before John had processed this properly Sherlock had pressed ‘reply’ and answered:
Your uncle seems to have an acceptable taste when it comes to violins.
John knew they didn’t, but it felt like they both held their breaths in anticipation of a reply. More than once Sherlock muttered ‘Stupid boy’, but every time John looked at him, he looked closer to happy than John had seen him in months.
“Do you have to refresh the-“ John tried, but Sherlock shook his head – and then he updated the page anyway. Seven forced updates, and 82 minutes later, a reply finally showed on the screen.
My dad always said that my uncle has good taste in violins but that he can’t play one to save his life.
Even John had heard Sherlock say that about Mycroft and he turned his eyes from the computer to Sherlock. The detective had his palms pressed together in front of his face and his jaw trembled as his whole body fought to remain calm.
It didn’t work and a single sob was enough to ruin everything; month after month of self-control came crumbling down. Finally, John thought somewhere back in his mind and pulled Sherlock into his arms. There was no protest, as if their pretend relationship had made this the most natural thing to do, and John held Sherlock when he cried for almost half an hour.
“Excuse me….” Sherlock whispered when there was nothing more than sobbing left and he dried his eyes and left the room.
John rubbed his face and dried his own eyes on his t-shirt – it was wet all through due to Sherlock’s tears. He removed it and went to find a dry one as he intently tried to listen for sounds that could tell him what Sherlock did. No matter how much he liked to follow, he had the distinct feeling Sherlock needed some time to rebuild himself; to calm down and prepare the façade he wanted to present.
When Sherlock didn’t come back up and John couldn’t figure out what he was doing downstairs, John convinced himself that he had to go down and make sure something terrible wasn’t going on.
“This is not working,” Sherlock declared upset when John came down to the sitting room, where Sherlock had placed Daniel’s violin on the coffee table.
“What isn’t?” John felt just as slow as Sherlock used to accuse him of being.
“Us!” Sherlock stated pointing between them but looking down at the violin, “I might as well shag you against Nelson’s column and still we’d be no closer to catching him.”
“Sherlock….”
“No!” Sherlock yelled, “No! He knows about Daniel! He knows about Daniel and he’s not going to do a single thing, making it impossible for me to ever find him…and that means I’d never get to….”
John walked across the room and hugged Sherlock again. Sherlock did not respond, but at least he calmed down.
“I’m not going to let you give up,” John whispered, “He doesn’t know about Daniel, but even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stay way. He’s probably just planning something….”
He let go and looked up into Sherlock’s tired face; wonder if his parents had had this kind of worry over their heads when he’d been in Afghanistan?
“Repeat after me,” John said after making eye-contact, “Daniel is safe.”
“’Daniel is safe.’”
“Moriarty doesn’t know.”
“’Moriarty doesn’t know.’”
“He’ll get bored and contact us again.”
“’He’ll get bored and contact us again.’”
“And if you feel it necessary, I guess I can let you fuck me up Nelson’s column.”
“’And if-‘ what?” a small smile creped over Sherlock’s face, a brief one, but to John it was huge.
“What are you going to do with the violin?” John changed the subject, he had a feeling not even Sherlock needed to be told that statement had just been an attempt to make him smile.
“I’m going to call Mycroft, see if he can get it to him somehow,” Sherlock said, picking up the violin. Judging by the natural tone of voice he used, John would easily have been fooled that Sherlock often asked his brother for favours. “It’s his birthday on the 21st. He got this violin when he turned 14….It’s his third.”
“Do you want me to call Mycroft?”
“No. I haven’t talked to him since he came with the ‘GPS-thingies’” – John had feeling Sherlock was never going to let go of the ‘thingies’ – “And I need….I….”
“I’ll heat up the dinner,” John nodded and patted Sherlock on the arm.
“Not hungry.” Sherlock said as he started the search for his (or maybe John’s?) phone.
“Don’t care.”
“John?”
“Yes?”
“Do you really want us to have sex in public?”
John couldn’t help it, the expression of utter concern and confusion on Sherlock’s face made him burst out laughing. The last hours, since discovering Daniel’s message in the forum, had been so intense with emotions that he just couldn’t help himself. It boiled over, and thankfully it was with laughter and not with tears. They knew Daniel (and Joyce) was okay and no matter the sorrow it caused Sherlock to not be able to see his son, it was good news. It deserved laughter. Genuine laughter.
“No,” John shook his head, drying tears of laughter from his eyes, “I don’t want to have sex in public. A friendly snogg at the Yard’s Christmas party will do.”
“We have to go to the Christmas party?” Sherlock looked horrified.
“Call Mycroft,” John ordered, trying hard not to smile as much as he did, “And Sherlock, we’re going to find him. I promise.”
***
The day after Daniel’s 16th birthday a woman dressed as a FedEx uniform delivered a package addressed to Samuel Mitchell. It was odd, Daniel hadn’t got any post since he had left Ipswich (not that he had got a lot before either). Mum was suspicious – both of them nurturing a healthy dose of paranoia these days – and Daniel noticed that the woman’s finger nails were too well manicured for her to be lifting and moving packages for a living.
The woman – blond hair, blue eyes; just one cup size away from having Hollywood type cast her as Inga, the masseuse from Sweden – handed Daniel the package and mum a clipboard to sign for the delivery since Samuel was only 15.
“Who’s the sender?” mum wondered eyeing the package in her son’s hands. Daniel tried to estimate the weight of it and – knowing how silly it must seem – listen if there was something ticking inside.
“The DMAC,” the woman answered as if it was something they should understand, but their confusion must have been obvious because she added – directed to Daniel – “The DMAC at the M.o.M. in London. The phone number is 6-2-4-4-2 if you like to confirm.”
Daniel stared at her. All of that just sounded insane. The DMAC at the M.o.M.? 6-2-4-4-2? That wasn’t even a phone number.
“Or you can just text them,” the woman offered, wiggling her phone out of her pocket and handing it to him. “I know, it’s old…but it does work best with T9.”
Suspicious, but still a bit too curious for his own good, Daniel took the phone and typed 6-2-4-4-2 into the text window since she had said it worked better with T9. There, on the screen, the word MAGIC was spelled out in capital letters. 6-2-4-4-2. He should have recognised it.
“Look!” Daniel showed mum, who seemed to be completely lost.
“’Magic’?”
“Yes,” Daniel felt excited for the first time in months. He knew who had sent him the packaged! “Sign for it.”
“Are you-“
“Mum! It’s from-“
“The M.o.M.” the woman interrupted him with a smile, “I assure you madam, you have nothing to worry about.”
Suddenly even that made sense to Daniel and he was pretty sure he could find out what DMAC stood for as well. He just needed his computer; more than anything though he needed his mother to sign (even though he was quite sure that was just for keeping up appearances) so the he could open the packages.
Reluctantly, mum signed and the woman left with a cheerful smile and the wishes of a good day for the both of them.
“It’s from uncle Mycroft!” Daniel said as soon as the door closed behind them. His mother didn’t seem quite as convinced as he was, but it didn’t matter, she’d understand when he opened the packages.
“How do you know that?”
“The woman, she clearly wasn’t a FedEx employee, but I think even you know that.” Daniel started as he went to the kitchen to search for a pair of scissors or something to help him get the package open. Mum sighed in her you-sound-exactly-like-your-father-please-stop kind of way, but Daniel didn’t bother. “And then she said it was from the DMAC at the M.o.M.. I don’t know what DMAC is, but 6-2-4-4-2 is the code to let visitors in to the Ministry of Magic; M.o.M.!”
“But-“ Mum tried but Daniel had managed to open the packages safely without anything exploding or something dangerous flying out. Still there was something wrong, as he opened it, Daniel had gone pale. “What is it?”
“It’s not from uncle Mycroft,” he said as he reached down to pick up the content of the package, “It’s from dad….”
“Are you sure?”
Yes, he was sure. It was his uncle who had made sure the package had been delivered, without a doubt, but the package was from dad. It was his violin, the Scott Cao Kreisler he had asked the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes to find. The latest of the violins that uncle Mycroft had provided him with.
“Oh sweetie,” Mum whispered and put a hand between his shoulder blades. If Daniel hadn’t been so moved himself he would have noticed how mum discreetly wiped a tear from her eye.
There was a note in the bottom of the package.
The Government didn’t allow me to send the bow. Buy a ridiculously expensive one and tell your mother I’ll make sure the taxpayers get the bill. The same goes for a proper case.
Happy Birthday.
That was more articulate than any birthday card Daniel had ever got from his father and by far the best present. He guessed “The Government” was uncle Mycroft and wondered if it was a play on the Ministry of Magic-thing. As a continuation of that guess he assumed the taxpayers were dad and John. Strange that dad freely placed himself under uncle Mycroft though.
“Should we go into town and see if we could find a bow?”
Mum’s voice broke through the sudden numbness that surrounded Daniel. He nodded and felt mum take the violin from his trembling hands before she pulled him into a tight hug. For a long time he tried hard not to cry; but if you couldn’t cry in your mother’s arms when you had received a birthday gift from your father who you thought didn’t love you anymore, then when could you?
Later that night he went back to The Science of Deduction and ended his thread with:
I’m sorry to have bothered you Mr Holmes, I’ve found the violin. And a bow. And a case. Thank you for your time.
***
It turned out John would get it partly right; they didn’t find Moriarty, but in May, Moriarty eventually found John. So when presented with the very classy ‘does this rag smell like chloroform’-routine, John let himself be taken by Moriarty for the second time.
John woke up on something cool and hard, to a slight nausea and a smooth voice whispering into his ears:
“Hello Pet.”
A chill went down John’s spine. The sound of Moriarty’s voice in his ear, the left-over from the chloroform mist and a strap over his chest was very familiar. Too familiar even. No way would Moriarty do the same thing twice! True to that, John recognised his hand and feet being tied down this time. Well, that wasn’t really novel either.
“You didn’t think I’d forgotten about you now, did you?”
There wasn’t an earpiece; he could feel Moriarty’s breath on his ear and the smell of his cologne. It was the same scent as the last time, almost as chilling as the voice. John tried to focus, tried to feel if he still had the watch on. He did. Good. Sherlock would find him this time.
“Wakey wakey little pet….” Moriarty’s voice was almost singing as he caressed John’s forehead.
John opened his eyes and yes, there was Moriarty. A very pleasant feeling settled in John’s chest when he saw the scars from a third degree burn on the grinning psychopath’s face. There was some justice in the cosmos.
“Yes I know,” Moriarty sighed when he saw where John was looking, “but you love me still, don’t you?”
“I can honestly say that my feelings for you have only become deeper and more intense since our last little meeting.”
“Oh!” Moriarty put one hand on his chest and flickered with his eyelashes, “You always know what to say.” Then he turned serious again and nailed John down with his eyes, keeping his voice just as calm and smooth as ever, “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner, but that little stunt you and your darling Sherlock pulled last time set me back some. Naughty, naughty you.”
John wondered what time it was and how long it had taken from when he had been taken to when Sherlock had noticed that he was gone. He had been on his way out, so Sherlock would probably not miss him for a couple of hours. Damn.
“Of course, I can’t give you all the credit,” Moriarty twittered on, walking out of John’s sight, “The business has just been wonderful these last months. God, I’m just so grateful people are too moronic to plan their own crimes! Doesn’t your Sherlock feel the same Pet dearest?”
“No, it rather frustrates him,” John had no idea why he indulged Moriarty in conversation; it would either just make him excited or mad.
“Oh Sherlock, Sherlock….Why do you let it get to you?”
John heard something getting ripped off; probably duct tape.
“John?”
John went cold. Sherlock was also there. Well, maybe it would have been a bit beneath Moriarty to just snatch him of the street, seeing the grand spectacle he made last time. Still, shit. That was the end of that terrific plan of his.
“Answer him!” Moriarty yelled.
“It’s okay Sherlock,” John said but had no idea what he was talking about.
“Precious.” Moriarty said sarcastically.
John could hear a chair being moved over the floor towards him and soon enough a very beaten up Sherlock came into his view. He tried to sit up, but, of course, the straps prevented that. Marvellous.
“Sherlock?”
“It’s okay,” Sherlock muttered through a split lip and, John wasn’t sure he was right but he thought Sherlock tried to smirk, “I have more than one archenemy.”
“Ah!” Moriarty sounded horrified, “Are you unfaithful Sherlock? I thought what we had was real! Special! Tell me Sherlock, does he play with you the way I do?”
“I can’t remember him ever playing with me,” Sherlock admitted. John found it sad that Mycroft had never played with his younger brother; but he was quite glad Mycroft was informed about this though.
“Good thing I found you then,” Moriarty said joyful, caressing Sherlock’s hair as he made his way over to John. “Unfortunately, I think we might have to say our good byes to Little John tonight. I am so, so sorry Sherlock.”
“No you’re not,” Sherlock shook his head. Moriarty shrugged and made a face like he didn’t care before he started hum. “But you will be.”
“Is that a threat or a promise Sherlock?” Moriarty said, dragging his finger over John’s face, “Please don’t get my hopes up for nothing.”
“I didn’t the last time, did I?”
“No, that was quite amusing I must say. Don’t you agree Johnny Boy?”
Moriarty’s finger had paused on John’s lips and John stared straight into his eyes; if he hadn’t thought Moriarty would enjoy it, he’d bite his finger off!
“I think he agrees,” Moriarty told Sherlock with a smile, “Do you still think he will after I give him a little manicure?”
“Leave him alone,” Sherlock growled.
“’t’s okay Sherlock,” John promised, knowing perfectly well that it wasn’t and that Sherlock didn’t believe him.
“See!” Moriarty sounded far too perky, “He wants to! Don’t be a party pooper Sherlock.”
“Leave him alone,” Sherlock repeated, very coolly, but Moriarty just started to hum again:
“I’ve got five fingers in my pocket…. Five fingers hidden away…. Five fingers in my pocket…. Look! Aw, one went away!”
When Moriarty reached the last word John felt an indescribable pain in his left hand and lower arm. He screamed on the top of his lungs, his body twisting under the straps holding him down. Somewhere behind his own screaming he heard Moriarty giggling and Sherlock throwing profanities in their direction, but that could just as well have been made up by his brain. By the preparation made during the song, John might have been able to guess that the nail on his index finger had been pulled off. The pain made it hard to focus on that kind of technicalities though.
“So Sherlock,” Moriarty said when John had managed to muffle his scream to a sobbing behind clenched teeth, “Where are you hiding your son?”
“Sherlock has…no…son,” John forced out.
“Sch, sch, sch Pet,” Moriarty whispered in his ear, “I AM NOT STUPID!”
“Sherlock has no son,” John said again.
“I’m not asking you!” Moriarty slapped his face, “Not to mention how unnecessary your lies are….You should see Sherlock’s face right now.”
John was pretty sure he didn’t want to see that and shortly afterwards – after a second verse of that terrible children’s song – he felt the same pain again. Screaming, twisting and just trying to get away from his own hand he heard Moriarty repeat his question.
“You know, he has 20 of these,” Moriarty said serenely, “And I’ve seen bodies just give up by the sheer pain of it all, long before I reach number 20.”
At those words the pain came from the other hand. All nerve endings in John’s body seemed to explode and when the scream died out in his throat and in his ears, there was instead an intense ringing in his head and he hyperventilated.
“No…. Son….” He thought he managed to say before yet another nail was pulled and the world went black.
When he came back it was to the sound of his own scream, but after that, he couldn’t recall what happened. Probably, he got shocked in and out of consciousness a couple of times more, but the only thing he was really sure about was that once, he was woken by having water dropped in his face. Another time he could have sworn there was a woman standing over him instead of Moriarty, but by then he was not in a condition to make any memories.
Then he finally woke up and was able to take in where he was again. Well, not exactly where he was; because, from the inside, most hospital rooms looked the same, but that it was a hospital was clear.
The white ceiling and the hideous framed poster at the opposite wall was not the only evidence leading to this deduction – God! He had been living with Sherlock for too long. He could feel the characteristic smell of clean, it was almost dizzying; in addition there was the drip attached to his arm and the tubes going into his nostrils and the numbness he recognised from painkillers and anaesthesia.
He was, undoubtedly, at a hospital and that meant he was alive.
This was so different from the evac-hospital. It was cool here for starters and sterile, from bacteria, sand and people. Like it should be at a hospital. The people-part might be debatable, but it always was pretty sterile on that front as well.
John’s brain tried to make sense of where he could be, on a more global level than just “in a hospital”. They used to ship the British soldiers to…. No…. He was not in Afghanistan anymore, he had not been shot. That was the other time. He had come back to London after that.
So why…. What…. His hands were pulsating with a numb pain and he attempted to sit up, to get out of bed. He managed to do nothing. If this was a British hospital there must be a button somewhere that he could press, but his hands were not able to search for it.
“You’re awake….” a voice suddenly whispered, its owner also newly awoken judging by the sound.
John turned his head and saw Sherlock sitting in a sofa against the wall, with the head of a blond boy sleeping in his lap. A wave of warmth flooded John, the plan had failed but they had succeeded.
Sherlock carefully removed Daniel’s head from his lap and placed a pillow underneath instead before walking up to John in the bed.
“He’s been in Sheffield,” Sherlock whispered, “Mycroft had a car there, offering to pick them up as soon as we reached the hospital. Joyce stayed, but he came…. He came.”
Behind the bruises, the swelling and the stitches, Sherlock was practically beaming with calm and joy and affection, all mixed up in a perfect representation of happiness.
“Ar-a-re….” John throat was too sore to allow anything to come out.
“Don’t do that,” Sherlock shook his head and poured water in a plastic cup, decorated with a straw and placed it to John’s lips. The room temperature water felt really good on its way down and Sherlock’s happiness spread to him.
“I shouldn’t have followed,” Sherlock said, looking painfully guilty, “He wouldn’t have started without me.”
“Not very clever, no.” John admitted in a hoarse voice.
“When I noticed, I couldn’t sit and just…just wait. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay Sherlock….” John found it easier to smile now than it had been for months; there was no need for Sherlock to feel guilty, “We won. I don’t care how.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered; the two words expressing an unspeakable gratitude and the bliss seeping into him again.
John looked over at the sofa, at Daniel. The finger pain he could live with and the prospect of maybe not getting his nails back was no real concern. Not when Sherlock looked the way he did and Daniel slept no more than a meter away. It made everything this last year worth it.
***
Thank you for reading!
Author goes HP-crazy:
M.o.M. is, indeed, short for Ministry of Magic, the main governing body of the magical community in the UK.
DMAC is the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. They take care of accidental magical accidents (is there any other kind?), often caused by underage witches and wizards (like when Harry blew up his aunt) but also in more severe cases (like when Peter killed twelve Muggles on the street to escape Sirius). In other words, they keep the secret about the magical world and I see it as the perfect place for Mycroft to work, had he been a wizard.
6-2-4-4-2 is the code to enter the Ministry of Magic if you’re a guest.
Lastly, I was one of those who felt my childhood was officially over when the last HP movie came out…I should have known it sooner.
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Epilouge
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Date: 2011-10-07 05:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-07 06:27 pm (UTC)Thank you for reading, and even more for commenting :)
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Date: 2011-10-07 06:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-07 07:17 pm (UTC)Thank you so much for reading an commenting!
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Date: 2011-10-07 08:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-07 09:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-07 09:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-07 10:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-07 10:05 pm (UTC)och john och sherlock borde verkligen bli ihop på riktigtno subject
Date: 2011-10-07 10:16 pm (UTC)Blir så glad över dina snälla kommentarer :D och visserligen ska man aldrig säga aldrig, men jag tror J/S är väldigt långt borta för mig. Vi får se vad som händer efter S2 ;)
On HP
Date: 2011-10-07 11:24 pm (UTC)Re: On HP
Date: 2011-10-08 07:00 am (UTC)Thank you for reading and always taking your time to comment :) It's what makes me going :)
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Date: 2011-10-07 11:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-09 03:53 am (UTC)You do a tale so well, there were parts here where I could feel the tears in Joyce's eyes and the sobs caught in Sherlock's throat. Yes, Daniel and Joyce had to be moved to safety, and who else but Mycroft could do it. That rang so true in both the voices and the actions of Mycroft and his assistant. It was good to have the very end, the confrontation with Moriarty, from John's point of view. I think that if had been Sherlock it would not have have had the same impact. We all know that Sherlock would not have broken, but then John didn't either.
Although it gave me absolute chills to think of having my fingernails pulled out...had a window shut on my fingers once, and two of them came out from the bruising. Talk about being in pain! And then waiting for them to grow in, it took forever. That was graphic writing for me to read and even then I was trying not to hyperventilate.
Thank you for this universe, for Daniel and Joyce and for a view of Sherlock, John and Mycroft that is not seen often enough. You do good work.
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Date: 2011-10-09 08:40 am (UTC)The nails thing…. Nails creeps me out, or rather having someone touch them creeps me out – even cutting and filing makes me squirm. So it was easily my torture method of choice and to me it makes John’s ability to withstand it even more heroic. That whole scene had to be told from John’s POV since I can’t even imagine what Sherlock must have felt when Moriarty asked about Daniel. Really the whole story, having to send your kid away because you have done something to put him in danger? Realise now that Sherlock has to send Mycroft a thank you-card (or five).
Again, thank you so, so much!
(…and no, I’m not done with Daniel yet, way too attached to let him go. We haven’t even started to look at Sherlock as a football-dad ;) )