Sherlock Holmes in New York (pt 9)

[sunken_standard]

Title: Sherlock Holmes in New York

Rating: R for language, violence, allusions to sexuality, drug use

Pairing: Sherlock/ Irene Adler (past), Sherlock/ John bromance (or pre-slash, if you have your slash goggles on)

Warnings: Nothing extremely graphic, see rating.

Spoilers: All three episodes to be safe.

Wordcount: 24,400

Summary: When Sherlock tracks Moriarty to New York City, he's drawn in to helping an old friend. John isn't sure what to make of any of it.

Betas/ Britpickers: pantropia, herovillian, brewsternorth, marshmellowed
 

Continued from pt. 8

Sherlock pinpointed the most likely location of Moran's property and John started the car. They drove for what felt like forever, but was actually closer to ten minutes. Sherlock pointed out the dirt road he suspected was Moran's driveway, and had John stop the car. The detective jumped out and scanned the trees on either side, before circling one and fiddling with something at waist height. He got back in the car. “Motion sensor,” he explained.

John killed the headlights and crept slowly down the drive. The moon was full and it was a clear night, so he could see well enough to navigate the narrow track.

Sherlock twisted in his seat, addressing Irene. “You must stay quiet. There may be snipers, but we won't know until they've already got us in their sights. If one of us tells you to do something, do it. Moriarty doesn't care about you or your son. This was all to bring me here. When we find him, you have to keep a cool head. Can you do that?”

“Yeah. Yes.” Irene sounded lucid. John sincerely hoped she was. He would have suggested leaving her in the car, but they just didn't know what they were walking into. If he'd learned one lesson, it was that Moriarty preferred divide-and-conquer to a full-frontal assault. Leaving Irene alone in the car was another liability.

They broke the tree line after a half mile. The driveway looped into a circle in front of a massive stone and log building, styled like an alpine chalet, but more rustic. There were a few smaller outbuildings scattered around the edge of the woods. There were no other cars in sight, but they could well have been parked around the back. The lodge was dark, like no one was home. John parked the car and cut the engine. Sherlock was the first out, closing the car door with a soft click. John followed suit, then opened Irene's door and closed it just as softly after her. He pulled the Sig from the small of his back, thumbing off the safety. They all stepped as lightly as they could on the gravel drive, trying to avoid making any more noise. Odds were that someone had heard the low purr of the Volvo's engine or the crunch of the tires over the stones, but if they had any chance at the element of surprise, they needed to stay stealthy.

Sherlock stepped gingerly onto the wide wooden porch, testing each board with his weight before moving forward, wary of the noise it might make. He tried the handles of the double glass doors and found them unlocked. They crept inside. John took stock of the entryway- high ceilings, grand rough-hewn staircase in the middle of the room with a landing overlooking the foyer, hallways leading to the north and south wings, a large door on either side of the stair. To the left was a sitting area with oversized wing-back chairs arranged around a gigantic field-stone fireplace. To the right, what he assumed to be the reception area when the building had housed guests, complete with a long, curved check-in counter that now served as a display area for a stuffed bobcat. There were an alarming number of mounted animal heads, mostly deer. A full moose head hung over the grand fireplace. Various skins were draped over the armchairs.

Sherlock cast about the room, deciding which area to search first. The house was just as quiet inside as it had been outside, minus the soft night sounds of the forest. Sherlock must have have picked up on some clue, as he strode quickly across the thick carpets covering the wide-plank floors. He turned down the right-hand hallway and opened the double doors to his left.

John guessed that at one time, the space had been used as a ballroom or gathering hall of some sort. Now it was the trophy room of a big-game hunter. There was enough moonlight to make out the vague shapes of heads, antlers, horns, skins, and fish lining the walls. Irene let out a yelp. John turned his head and found she'd been scared by an eight foot grizzly bear standing on its hind legs, head back and mouth open in a roar. He had to admit that it was bloody terrifying, even if it was long dead.

Sherlock ignored her, pushing past them and back out into the hallway. He took the stairs two at a time, pausing at the top of the landing. When he got to the top, John could hear a faint, tinkling melody. They followed the sound to the left and down the hallway. At the far end, there was a faint light coming from under the last door. That room faced the driveway, and there hadn't been any light in the window when they'd come in. They crept up on the room, listening for any sounds other than the soft music. John recognized it as Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star as they drew closer. Sherlock motioned for John to get into position and opened the door.

The room was decorated like a nursery, all soft blues and yellows. Against the wall opposite the door was an antique white wooden crib. Over it a baby mobile decorated with plush yellow moons and stars rotated slowly. The boy was caged inside the crib, bound and gagged with duct tape, body contorted to fit the small space. John couldn't detect any apparent injuries on him, just fear and confusion. The boy's eyes darted to the corner of the room to John's right. A small red dot appeared on his forehead, and a breath later Moriarty himself stepped into view.

“Now look at what you've gone and done! Woken up the baby, and I just got him down!” Moriarty tsk'd. Sherlock shouldered his way next in next to John, keeping the line of fire clear. “Oh look, Daddy's home!”

Irene pushed her way between John and Sherlock and ran to the crib.

“Oh, you brought the Missus and the ex! I bet that was an awkward car ride.” Moriarty cocked the hammer on the Magnum. “I wouldn't do that, my dear.” His voice had gone from playful to deadly.

Irene froze as the dot from the laser sight migrated to her chest. “You might want to put your gun down now, doctor.”

In a split second, John weighed his odds of dropping Moriarty before the madman could shoot Irene. He had been jostled when she'd pushed him out of the way and was no longer absolutely certain that his aim was true. He had no doubt that if his eyes flickered for a split second, Moriarty would fire. He slowly unclasped his left hand from where it had been wrapped around his right and raised it, his right index finger uncurling from over the trigger. He thumbed on the safety and eased into a crouch, setting the gun on the floor. He stood slowly.

“Now go sit with Mummy, that's a good boy,” Moriarty said. John inched his way next to Irene. “Now stay.” Moriarty reached into his pocket and threw a dog biscuit at John. It bounced off his chest and landed on the floor.

“What do you want, Moriarty?” Sherlock bit out.

“I told you to back off. Since your big, bad brother has been meddling in my affairs, I've been exiled to the colonies. It's terrible for business.”

“My heart bleeds for you,” Sherlock dead-panned.

“Oh, it will. I do so love being the centre of your attention, but this really must stop.”

Moriarty focused on Sherlock then, and John saw his opportunity. If he could take him out low and off-balance him, the shot would go wide and hit the space between Irene and the crib. Time slowed down as John sprung. Moriarty caught the movement too late.

John heard the shot milliseconds before he connected with Moriarty, knocking the gun from his hand as he bore him to the ground. It felt like the air had been punched out of his lungs. The world was completely still, everything too bright and sharp as John tried to draw a breath. Moriarty scrabbled out from under him. John's eyes darted to Sherlock, who seemed rooted to the spot. Moriarty regained his footing and cast about for his gun. It had landed on the floor and skidded under the crib, resting against the far leg. He must have judged it to be too far, as he ran from the room full tilt, bowling past the stunned Sherlock.

Something inside the detective's head finally clicked over and he scooped up the gun, wildly shooting at Moriarty's retreating form. He looked stricken. His eyes shifted between John and the hallway, probably weighing the pros and cons of chasing after the madman. He dropped the gun and was next to John in an instant. “Irene, dial 999, now!” he barked.

John had managed a few shallow breaths, but everything was starting to dull from lack of oxygen. He felt no pain, just the thick trickle of blood pooling at his back. Sherlock tugged at his jumper, then pulled a jackknife from his pocket and cut through the material. John felt him press down heavily on the wound as spots started to dance in front of his eyes. Sherlock was speaking urgently, calling his name, but he couldn't focus on it, even though he was trying.

Please God, don't let me die, not now, not now, John thought, giving in to the darkness.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Lights, snatches of urgent conversation. Pain. Vibration, he was in a car. A woman, rattling off his vitals, squeaking trolley wheel. Murmured conversation, rustling fabric. A too-warm hand on his forehead, brushing through his hair.

Struggling into consciousness. John cracked his eyes. The light was dim, coming from somewhere above and behind his head. The first thing he saw was the IV taped into the crook of his arm. His eyes lazily followed the tube to the bag to the stand to the monitors to the empty chairs. He gripped the call button that had been left in his loosely curled fist. Waited. A nurse bustled in, overweight, long blonde hair. She spoke softly and took his vitals, but he didn't bother to listen. He scanned the space beyond the doorway for Sherlock. He tried to speak, but his throat was dry and raw. He managed to croak, “Sherlock?”

The nurse kept her voice even, reassuring. “He's just stepped out for bit. I'll have someone find him, but let's just make sure you're okay first.” She gave him the generic, impersonally comforting smile that only a nurse could manage. She fussed over him for a minute longer, checking the IV drip and resetting the monitors. “I'll go get you some water and find your partner, you just relax now and take it easy.”

Partner. He slid his eyes closed, suppressing the urge to laugh. It was utterly ridiculous.

“John?” Sherlock's voice was tentative. John blinked awake again as Sherlock rushed to his side. He hesitated, then gently took John's hand. He only held it for a moment, giving it one light squeeze and then withdrawing it.

John took in Sherlock's appearance automatically. His eyes were darkened from lack of sleep, a hint of stubble on his jaw. He'd changed out of his suit and into clothes John hadn't seen him in before- a looser fitting white button-down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a pair of slim-cut jeans. A tan nicotine patch stood out against his pale forearm.

“Have you slept at all? How long have I been out?”

“I slept. And it's been about thirteen hours since you were shot.” An orderly came in with a lidded foam cup. She gave Sherlock a small, tired smile and handed him the cup without a word. When she'd left the room, Sherlock held the cup to John's face, close enough for him to get the plastic straw in his mouth. John made a move to try and grab the cup to hold it for himself, but seized as pain cut through the haze of morphine.

“Careful,” Sherlock said softly.

John settled back against the bed. Sherlock moved the cup in and John sipped from the straw. When he'd had enough to wet his mouth and throat, he pulled back and asked, “Can you get me my chart?”

Sherlock plucked it from the holder beside the bed and held it up for John to read.

John wasn't a religious man. Disinterested agnostic at best. From what he read in his chart, he found it nothing short of a miracle that he was alive. The bullet entered at an angle, struck his sixth rib (breaking it) and then travelled along the bone and exited just below his scapula, between his serratus anterior and external oblique. The bullet hadn't fragmented at all. He had minimal damage (considering) to the latissimus dorsi. He'd need physical therapy and would have another scar. The odds of an injury that clean from a point blank shot to the torso were astronomical.

He looked up from the chart to Sherlock, whose face was inscrutable. “Wow. That's just... wow,” was all John could say.

Sherlock's lip twitched upward in one of his small smiles. He rehung the chart, but didn't turn back to the bed. He began to speak. “You can't... not ever. Not ever again. I-” He said, desperation and some other kind of urgency in his tone. He drew a breath and exhaled harshly. When he spoke again, it was quieter. Raw. “I froze. I saw what you were going to do and I froze. John-”

“It's alright. I'm fine. I'm still alive.” John put as much conviction into his voice as he could muster. He knew Sherlock. The man had probably fixated on what he saw as his mistakes, instead of a normal human reaction. “Sherlock.” He waited until the detective tilted his head up, only gazing at him out of the corner of his eye. “It was worth it. I'm okay.”

Sherlock looked at John then. His eyes had a suspicious shine. They didn't speak, but John could tell this was a moment for them both. He'd known Sherlock cared for him, really and truly cared, that first time at the pool. The emotion John saw in his bloodshot eyes was something deeper than friendship. It was fear and regret and admiration and love. John wasn't about to analyse the nature of Sherlock's feelings. It was overwhelming enough that they'd been for him. It was... flattering. And the surge of emotion it brought was terrifying.

Sherlock nodded and turned away, folding himself into the vinyl padded chair beside the bed. “You should rest.”

“I will. What about the boy?”

“Treated for dehydration and discharged an hour ago. He and Irene are in the family room sleeping. I told them they could leave, but she insisted on staying here until you were awake.”

“Good.” John felt himself drifting off. “Do you even own a pair of jeans?” He giggled.

Sherlock chuckled softly. “It seems so, now.”

John hummed a little and closed his eyes, feeling content. He was alive. He thought about how grateful he was to be there, and that unlike the last time he'd been shot, he had a reason other than just surviving to heal. It was lovely. Just before he succumbed to the morphine, John felt warm fingers brushing feather-light against his forehead.


Continued in pt 10