![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Fic: Cracks in the In-Between Places (6/21)
Title: Cracks in the In-Between Places
Author:
swissmarg
Beta readers:
ruth0007, billiethepoet
Rating: PG-13
Relationship: John/Sherlock
Word count: ca. 93,500 when complete, this chapter 3,634 words
Summary: AU set in the universe ofnox_candida's Getting Better. John and Sherlock work together to flush out Mary's killers, and Tristram has to come to terms with what his father's new friend means for him. No series 3 spoilers (or series 1 or 2, for that matter).
See chapter one for the complete header with warnings, acknowledgments, disclaimers, and notes.
Chapter Six on AO3
Chapter Six
"Is he back yet? Bloody bastard." John drops the heavy black duffel bag on the floor.
Mycroft closes the door behind him. "Good evening to you too, Doctor Watson," he says smoothly. "I assume you mean my brother, and no, he isn't here. Am I to take it you were separated?"
"Yes, you are to take it," John says testily. He takes his phone out and jabs at it. He waits for it to connect, but it jumps right to voice mail. "Answer your phone, you fucking arse!" he yells and ends the call.
"John, please." Mycroft glances toward the ceiling. "Unless you wish to hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet..."
"Yeah, how are the kids? Everything go well?"
"Of course." Mycroft leads the way into his office. "Both of them are snug as bugs. Which is more than one can say for the two of you. Have a seat." He goes to his desk and wakes his computer. "What happened?"
John lets himself collapse into an armchair. "God. He ditched me, either got himself caught or snuck in somehow, I don't know, but he ended up face down on the floor over there with a gun pointed at the back of his head."
Mycroft fixes John with a penetrating look. "I assume he got out again safely, based upon the fact that you are here, and not out playing the avenging angel."
"I took care of it in time," John says grimly. "Took two shots though."
Mycroft relaxes slightly. "Bravo, Captain."
John looks down. "No idea where the first one went. If there are any drive-by shootings reported tonight-"
Mycroft taps his computer screen. "Nothing's come in yet, but I'll keep an eye out," he assures him.
"The second one took him down. I couldn't tell if it was a kill or not, but Sherlock gave the thumbs-up through the window. "
"I'm sure he made it out, then," Mycroft says, but he still sounds strained.
"Oh yeah, he did," John says. "Sent me a text" -he spits the word out from between gritted teeth- "about ten minutes later telling me to meet him here." He lifts his phone, which he is still holding in his hand. "And of course he refuses to answer his phone!" he yells at the device.
Mycroft stands and goes to the liquor cabinet in the corner of the room. "May I suggest a drink? G and T? Scotch? Brandy?"
"Anything."
"You say he ditched you," Mycroft says as he prepares the drinks. "How did that happen?"
"We were already inside, on our way up, when he said he needed to take care of the security cameras and I should go on without him and get set up. We needed to be ready by the time the meeting started, so it seemed prudent. Once I was in the suite with everything set up and he still wasn't there, I couldn't very well go back down looking for him. So I waited, got the scope lined up and prepared the window, and all of a sudden there was Sherlock in the middle of it."
Mycroft brings John a glass and sits down opposite him. "That's typical Sherlock, of course," he says with a sigh. "Going off on his own, forming plans within plans and neglecting to share them."
"He might have been picked up by one of their men," John says.
Mycroft purses his lips doubtfully. "Maybe. But why would the Colonel have someone stationed over where you were? There's no known connection. They can't have someone in every building in the area, on the off chance."
"So you think he waltzed in there... Why? He would only endanger the mission. He'd know I couldn't shoot into that room if he was in there."
"And yet you did," Mycroft points out.
"Yes, well he was down on the floor, out of my range of sight. And if I hadn't shot, he was about to get a bullet in the back of his skull."
Mycroft makes an unhappy sound. "Quite."
John squeezes his hand around his glass, glaring at it. "If he's played me on this..."
"Welcome to the world of Sherlock Holmes, Doctor. Cheers." He takes a sip of his drink.
It's only a matter of a few minutes before the doorbell rings, and Mycroft gets up to let Sherlock in.
"You sodding bastard!" John is already standing, his fists clenched at his sides, when Sherlock enters. "Are you all right?"
Sherlock is still wearing his coat and unwinding the scarf from around his neck. "Never better," he says. "Although these will have to be cleaned. Possible spattering." He turns to Mycroft and says testily, "I assume you have people for that," as he shrugs off his coat. "I'll want it back by tomorrow, of course."
"Best give me the lot," Mycroft agrees. "Although to hear John here tell it, you might express your gratitude at his saving your life." The last few words have a definite edge to them.
Sherlock glances in John's direction without really fixing him. "Yes, thank you. Nice work. Although you did take your time about it."
"You- " John looks down and tries to regain control of himself. "Two shots, Sherlock. It took me two shots. I might have killed someone else with the first-"
"I'm sure no one will ever connect-"
"That's not the bloody point! You were supposed to be with me. You were my spotter, we had a plan, but you apparently-" He takes a calming breath. "Were you caught? Was there someone at the security desk?"
Sherlock makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. "I took care of the cameras earlier. They were on, but nothing was recording. 'Technical malfunction'."
"So you - What, you thought, 'Nice evening for a stroll, think I'll just leave John to it, he doesn't need me to hold his hand while he bloody well assassinates someone for me, no, I'll just go have a chat with the nice criminals and goad them into blowing my brains out, and for good measure why don't I put my head right in the fucking middle of the rifle scope?'"
"I was down on the floor, there was no way you could have hit me!" Sherlock protests.
"You can't possibly have known that! My aim was way off on the first shot, bullets ricochet!"
"I needed to clear the room! There were too many people in there. He had nine men called in for the meeting. Well, eight and a woman. You'd hardly have been able to identify your target, much less line up the shot. I knew you'd have qualms about shooting into a crowd. I notice no one's mentioned the fact that he was neatly framed in the window, standing nice and still for upwards of a minute. Even Mycroft could have picked him off with all the advantage I gained you."
"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft says in a disappointed voice.
"Don't 'oh Sherlock' me," Sherlock snaps at his brother. "I took every possible precaution so that it would be a clean hit."
John stares at Sherlock. "Right," he says, very quietly. "Right. If that's all then. I'll be collecting my daughter." He turns to Mycroft. "Where is she?"
"John," Mycroft says, trying to mediate.
"You can't leave," Sherlock says in a low voice, directing his words somewhere near John's shoulder. "This will either send them all into hiding, or flush them all out. Someone's going to try and take advantage of the power vacuum. And what better way to consolidate than to take care of the man who toppled the Colonel. They may not make the connection with you right away, of course. Especially as I made certain that I was the one they saw." He raises his eyes to meet John's.
John works his jaw, clenching his teeth several times. "What are we supposed to do?" he asks finally.
"We'll take the children to Llanbroc."
Mycroft inhales sharply.
"Sorry, what's-?" John asks.
"Mummy's estate," Mycroft explains. "Our mother," he adds, for John's benefit. "It's in Wales, quite isolated. Which will work both ways, of course. May be difficult to get backup in, but it will also be extremely difficult to approach without advance warning. It's not the worst idea," he says to Sherlock. "Although staying here might-"
"We are not staying here," Sherlock says flatly.
Mycroft has a sour expression as he nods. "Yes, well, I'll let them know you're on your way, shall I?"
"Can we use-"
"You can take the Bentley."
"I thought the whole point of this was that we wouldn't have to go into hiding," John says with barely suppressed temper as Mycroft moves to his computer.
"Just for a couple of days. Until I get a handle on what's going on."
"I have a job, the kids have school, we can't just-"
"Call in sick for yourself and your daughter," Sherlock says as if speaking to a very small child. "It's not difficult to figure out."
"God, you're just- You're a piece, you know that?"
"So I've been told," he returns coldly.
&&&&&&
Tristram wakes up when he feels himself being lifted from his bed. It's dark, and he has a brief moment of panic, but he smells the familiar scent of his father's cologne and hears his voice whispering that it's okay, so he puts his arms around his father's neck and allows himself to be carried like a small child, the blanket still wrapped around him. His eyes are sticky with sleep, so he doesn't open them, but he hears Emily's questioning voice and her father answering her, low and steady, beside them. Then they are moving, stopping, and he hears the lift door slide open, a couple more steps, then the gentle jolt as they start to descend. Several seconds later, cool air hits Tristram's bare feet, and the sounds around him become more hollow: they are in Uncle Mycroft's underground garage.
He opens his eyes now. His father is carrying him, and over his father's shoulder, he can see Emily in her father's arms. Doctor Watson's face is pinched and hard, and Tristram ducks his face down against his father's shoulder so he doesn't have to see him.
They bypass Uncle Mycroft's car and get into another one that's always parked there when Tristram comes, but that he's never seen anyone use. It's also black, but smaller and lower to the ground.
"You're going to have to get yourself in," his father says as he bends down to set Tristram gently onto the ground. He opens the door, and Tristram climbs onto the back seat, dragging along the blanket that's still wrapped around him. A moment later, Emily joins him, also with a blanket. She looks small and pale, and she's peering out at her father, who's standing next to the car, saying something to Tristram's father. Tristram looks away, because they don't look happy.
"Where are we going?" Emily asks them, her voice tight with anxiety. "Aren't you coming with us?"
Doctor Watson leans down, bracing one arm against the top of the door frame. "We're all going together, love," he says gently, then turns his head to speak over his shoulder in a much colder tone, "Just as soon as Sherlock here admits he's not actually in possession of a driving license."
"I was merely offering, seeing as you're coming off a potentially upsetting-"
"Yes, all right, Sherlock," Doctor Watson snaps, "I think I can handle piloting a car. I find driving relaxing, believe it or not."
"As you wish. It will leave me free to make some enquiries."
Tristram's father walks around to the other side and flops down onto the front passenger seat. Doctor Watson gets in, makes sure that Tristram and Emily are buckled in with the blankets over them, and tells them to make themselves as comfortable as they can and try to sleep. He then takes a couple of minutes adjusting the driver's seat and headrest and the mirrors.
"Don't need a booster seat, do you?" Tristram hears his father snipe.
"Shut up," Doctor Watson mutters. "At least my knees aren't jammed up against the dash." Then he turns on the engine, and they are off.
Tristram can see Emily in intermittent flashes from street lamps as they drive through the city. There's still quite a bit of traffic, so it can't be very, very late (or very, very early). She looks wide awake now, and scared. Tristram is more curious than frightened.
"Daddy?" she says in a thin, tremulous voice. It's too quiet to make it all the way to the front seat. She looks like she's considering being sick, her face pinched and pale.
Tristram sits forward and touches his father on the shoulder. He has his mobile out and is texting something. "Father?"
"Not now, Tristram," he says curtly. "Go to sleep."
Tristram takes his hand away. "Doctor Watson?" he tries.
Emily's father presses his lips together and gives Tristram's father a disparaging look, then looks back at the road and says, "What is it, Tris?" He sounds a little irritated, too, but at least he's willing to respond.
"Where are we going?"
"Your grandmother's, apparently." He sounds like he's not entirely happy about it.
Tristram smiles in relief and sits back. He likes it at Grandmother's. They usually only go once a year, in the summer, when the sea is not absolutely freezing and there are wild strawberries all over.
"It's okay," he says to Emily. "We're going to see my grandmother. You'll like it. She has a huge house and outbuildings and gardens. And a pond." Although it's too late for strawberries, and the water will be too cold for bathing.
"What about school?" Emily asks, apparently feeling brave enough to talk to her father again directly.
"We'll just make a long weekend of it," her father says. Tristram can tell he's trying to make it sound jolly, but his voice is strained. "Your teacher won't mind if you miss one day of school."
Emily settles back, but her hand sneaks out from under her blanket and seeks out Tristram's. He squeezes it and smiles at her, then looks out the window and watches the buzz of the city give way to the monotony of the motorway. After a while, he closes his eyes, still holding Emily's hand.
&&&&&&
"I think they're asleep," John says, stretching up to check the back seat in the rear view mirror.
Sherlock has stopped texting, but holds his mobile loosely in one hand. He stares absently out the side window.
"We can do the entire trip in silence if you want," John says after a while. "Only four hours to go."
Sherlock doesn't respond.
After a couple of minutes, John turns on the radio, not too loud, and flips through the stations until he finds one playing a trite, modern hit.
Sherlock's hand tightens around his mobile, but he still doesn't say anything or look at John. When the song ends and a new one starts, though, he reaches out and stabs the off button.
"I was listening to that," John protests.
"And now you're not." Sherlock raises his mobile to his face, scowling, and scrolls around.
"I need something to keep me awake for the next four hours."
"I thought you enjoyed driving."
"Doesn't mean it won't put me to sleep."
"I did offer to drive."
"No," John says firmly. "I think we've broken enough laws tonight."
Sherlock snorts. "Is that what this is about?"
"What what is about?"
"You know what I mean: this." Sherlock waves his hand toward John. "This whole... righteous indignation."
"No. Nope." John shakes his head. "No, Sherlock, you do not get to do this."
"Now we're going to hear it," Sherlock says darkly and flops his mobile down into his lap again.
"You do not get to act like I'm the unreasonable one. You're the one who went off on your own and risked your life-"
"To ensure the best possible outcome for you. To make it easier for you!"
"See, there it is again! As if this whole operation were a favour done for my benefit."
"Please tell me how exactly you did not benefit from striking a crippling blow to the organisation that killed your wife and sister-in-law."
"So, what, if I hadn't been involved, you would have left them alone?"
"I certainly don't have the skills to do what you did," Sherlock says.
John's hands squeeze and wring the steering wheel. "Right," he says uncomfortably. "But we discussed- I mean, you said that what happened with Tristram was just a warning. That next time it would be a real bomb, if you didn't back off with the investigation."
"And your daughter as well. If you want to pursue what happened to your wife-"
"I can't let it rest. I know that Claire started it, but she didn't pull the trigger. Whoever did-"
"With Moran out of the way, whoever it was will have that much less protection. Someone's bound to get scared and hopefully be willing to strike a deal."
"Best case. And the worst case is that we've slipped their lead and they'll come after us with everything they've got."
"Which is why we're being safe tonight."
John laughs humourlessly. "Now you think about being safe."
"Now I have Tristram and your daughter to worry about."
"We, Sherlock," John corrects him. "We have them."
Sherlock looks at John's profile for a while before nodding his head and agreeing. "Yes."
They are both silent for a while, then, watching the traffic, until Sherlock asks quietly, "Are you all right?"
John takes a moment to answer. "I'm working on it," he says finally, keeping his eyes looking straight ahead at the road.
Sherlock brushes his knuckles against the back of John's hand on the steering wheel, then leans back against the door on his side and concentrates on his mobile.
John looks over at him, frowning slightly. He checks over his shoulder, but both children are lying motionless under their blankets. "And you?" he asks in a low voice. "I mean, you did see a man killed right in front of you."
Sherlock shifts in his seat. "Shot, anyway."
John sits up a bit straighter. "What does that mean?"
"The bullet hit him in the neck. There was a lot of blood," Sherlock mutters.
John hits the steering wheel hard with one hand. "Jesus, you mean you didn't wait, you didn't make sure-"
"There were at least nine armed gangsters in the next room," Sherlock hisses. "The window shattering was rather loud, I couldn't exactly hang around to -"
John bangs his head back against the headrest. "Jesus Christ, Jesus!"
"They'll think I did it," Sherlock tries to argue. "There's no way to tie it to you."
"That's not the point! If he lives, he's got twice as much reason to come after us now, with the full strength of the organisation behind him!"
"I had deduced that," Sherlock snarks.
"And thank you very much for sharing that bit of vital information with the rest of us. Or did you tell Mycroft and it's only me you've left in the dark?"
"I've just told you!"
"Yes, after I happened to ask the right questions."
"I didn't tell Mycroft anything more than what you heard," Sherlock says peevishly.
"Christ, Sherlock, you can't-" John tries to look at Sherlock while keeping one eye on the road. "Let's get something straight right now. If this is going to work, and I mean any- and everything you think I mean, you cannot leave me out of the loop. I have to be able to trust you."
"It's up to you to decide whether you want to trust me or not. I can't be expected to share my every thought and move with you. You're as bad as Mycroft. Or no, I know: why don't you get me one of those mobiles like you did for the children. Then you can keep tabs on me every second of every day."
"That is not what I'm saying, and you bloody well know it. I'm talking about a major breach here."
"If I'd told you what I was doing, you would never have agreed to it!"
"That's for damn sure."
"And if I'd stayed with you, you would have refused to shoot as soon as you saw the situation. The plan, such as you knew it, was in actual fact unworkable. My way was the only way it could work."
"You're- You're so damn full of yourself, you know that?"
"It's not arrogance, it's intelligence. If you'd thought it through, you would have seen the same issues I did."
"Oh, so now I'm stupid, is that it?"
"Your words."
"No, see, I trusted you, Sherlock. Obviously my first mistake. Or maybe the last in a tragic series. I trusted that you'd thought things through, because that's your job. My job was to take out the linchpin. That's how things work in a team. Everyone has their part to play, and you trust that everyone's doing it the way they're supposed to. Because if one person suddenly goes off on their own tangent, that endangers everyone."
"You're talking about your Army experience."
"I'm talking about what you did tonight, which was unacceptable."
"And yet you went along with it."
"I shot a man to save your life! That had nothing to do with any plans any more. That wasn't about a preemptive strike, or revenge for Mary. It was to protect you, nothing else."
Sherlock is silent as the miles tick by beneath them.
&&&&&&
Chapter end note: I made up the name Llanbroc to sound pseudo-Welsh. I'm sorry if it means something unfortunate. :)
Go to chapter 7
Author:
Beta readers:
ruth0007, billiethepoetRating: PG-13
Relationship: John/Sherlock
Word count: ca. 93,500 when complete, this chapter 3,634 words
Summary: AU set in the universe of
nox_candida's Getting Better. John and Sherlock work together to flush out Mary's killers, and Tristram has to come to terms with what his father's new friend means for him. No series 3 spoilers (or series 1 or 2, for that matter).See chapter one for the complete header with warnings, acknowledgments, disclaimers, and notes.
Chapter Six on AO3
Chapter Six
"Is he back yet? Bloody bastard." John drops the heavy black duffel bag on the floor.
Mycroft closes the door behind him. "Good evening to you too, Doctor Watson," he says smoothly. "I assume you mean my brother, and no, he isn't here. Am I to take it you were separated?"
"Yes, you are to take it," John says testily. He takes his phone out and jabs at it. He waits for it to connect, but it jumps right to voice mail. "Answer your phone, you fucking arse!" he yells and ends the call.
"John, please." Mycroft glances toward the ceiling. "Unless you wish to hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet..."
"Yeah, how are the kids? Everything go well?"
"Of course." Mycroft leads the way into his office. "Both of them are snug as bugs. Which is more than one can say for the two of you. Have a seat." He goes to his desk and wakes his computer. "What happened?"
John lets himself collapse into an armchair. "God. He ditched me, either got himself caught or snuck in somehow, I don't know, but he ended up face down on the floor over there with a gun pointed at the back of his head."
Mycroft fixes John with a penetrating look. "I assume he got out again safely, based upon the fact that you are here, and not out playing the avenging angel."
"I took care of it in time," John says grimly. "Took two shots though."
Mycroft relaxes slightly. "Bravo, Captain."
John looks down. "No idea where the first one went. If there are any drive-by shootings reported tonight-"
Mycroft taps his computer screen. "Nothing's come in yet, but I'll keep an eye out," he assures him.
"The second one took him down. I couldn't tell if it was a kill or not, but Sherlock gave the thumbs-up through the window. "
"I'm sure he made it out, then," Mycroft says, but he still sounds strained.
"Oh yeah, he did," John says. "Sent me a text" -he spits the word out from between gritted teeth- "about ten minutes later telling me to meet him here." He lifts his phone, which he is still holding in his hand. "And of course he refuses to answer his phone!" he yells at the device.
Mycroft stands and goes to the liquor cabinet in the corner of the room. "May I suggest a drink? G and T? Scotch? Brandy?"
"Anything."
"You say he ditched you," Mycroft says as he prepares the drinks. "How did that happen?"
"We were already inside, on our way up, when he said he needed to take care of the security cameras and I should go on without him and get set up. We needed to be ready by the time the meeting started, so it seemed prudent. Once I was in the suite with everything set up and he still wasn't there, I couldn't very well go back down looking for him. So I waited, got the scope lined up and prepared the window, and all of a sudden there was Sherlock in the middle of it."
Mycroft brings John a glass and sits down opposite him. "That's typical Sherlock, of course," he says with a sigh. "Going off on his own, forming plans within plans and neglecting to share them."
"He might have been picked up by one of their men," John says.
Mycroft purses his lips doubtfully. "Maybe. But why would the Colonel have someone stationed over where you were? There's no known connection. They can't have someone in every building in the area, on the off chance."
"So you think he waltzed in there... Why? He would only endanger the mission. He'd know I couldn't shoot into that room if he was in there."
"And yet you did," Mycroft points out.
"Yes, well he was down on the floor, out of my range of sight. And if I hadn't shot, he was about to get a bullet in the back of his skull."
Mycroft makes an unhappy sound. "Quite."
John squeezes his hand around his glass, glaring at it. "If he's played me on this..."
"Welcome to the world of Sherlock Holmes, Doctor. Cheers." He takes a sip of his drink.
It's only a matter of a few minutes before the doorbell rings, and Mycroft gets up to let Sherlock in.
"You sodding bastard!" John is already standing, his fists clenched at his sides, when Sherlock enters. "Are you all right?"
Sherlock is still wearing his coat and unwinding the scarf from around his neck. "Never better," he says. "Although these will have to be cleaned. Possible spattering." He turns to Mycroft and says testily, "I assume you have people for that," as he shrugs off his coat. "I'll want it back by tomorrow, of course."
"Best give me the lot," Mycroft agrees. "Although to hear John here tell it, you might express your gratitude at his saving your life." The last few words have a definite edge to them.
Sherlock glances in John's direction without really fixing him. "Yes, thank you. Nice work. Although you did take your time about it."
"You- " John looks down and tries to regain control of himself. "Two shots, Sherlock. It took me two shots. I might have killed someone else with the first-"
"I'm sure no one will ever connect-"
"That's not the bloody point! You were supposed to be with me. You were my spotter, we had a plan, but you apparently-" He takes a calming breath. "Were you caught? Was there someone at the security desk?"
Sherlock makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. "I took care of the cameras earlier. They were on, but nothing was recording. 'Technical malfunction'."
"So you - What, you thought, 'Nice evening for a stroll, think I'll just leave John to it, he doesn't need me to hold his hand while he bloody well assassinates someone for me, no, I'll just go have a chat with the nice criminals and goad them into blowing my brains out, and for good measure why don't I put my head right in the fucking middle of the rifle scope?'"
"I was down on the floor, there was no way you could have hit me!" Sherlock protests.
"You can't possibly have known that! My aim was way off on the first shot, bullets ricochet!"
"I needed to clear the room! There were too many people in there. He had nine men called in for the meeting. Well, eight and a woman. You'd hardly have been able to identify your target, much less line up the shot. I knew you'd have qualms about shooting into a crowd. I notice no one's mentioned the fact that he was neatly framed in the window, standing nice and still for upwards of a minute. Even Mycroft could have picked him off with all the advantage I gained you."
"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft says in a disappointed voice.
"Don't 'oh Sherlock' me," Sherlock snaps at his brother. "I took every possible precaution so that it would be a clean hit."
John stares at Sherlock. "Right," he says, very quietly. "Right. If that's all then. I'll be collecting my daughter." He turns to Mycroft. "Where is she?"
"John," Mycroft says, trying to mediate.
"You can't leave," Sherlock says in a low voice, directing his words somewhere near John's shoulder. "This will either send them all into hiding, or flush them all out. Someone's going to try and take advantage of the power vacuum. And what better way to consolidate than to take care of the man who toppled the Colonel. They may not make the connection with you right away, of course. Especially as I made certain that I was the one they saw." He raises his eyes to meet John's.
John works his jaw, clenching his teeth several times. "What are we supposed to do?" he asks finally.
"We'll take the children to Llanbroc."
Mycroft inhales sharply.
"Sorry, what's-?" John asks.
"Mummy's estate," Mycroft explains. "Our mother," he adds, for John's benefit. "It's in Wales, quite isolated. Which will work both ways, of course. May be difficult to get backup in, but it will also be extremely difficult to approach without advance warning. It's not the worst idea," he says to Sherlock. "Although staying here might-"
"We are not staying here," Sherlock says flatly.
Mycroft has a sour expression as he nods. "Yes, well, I'll let them know you're on your way, shall I?"
"Can we use-"
"You can take the Bentley."
"I thought the whole point of this was that we wouldn't have to go into hiding," John says with barely suppressed temper as Mycroft moves to his computer.
"Just for a couple of days. Until I get a handle on what's going on."
"I have a job, the kids have school, we can't just-"
"Call in sick for yourself and your daughter," Sherlock says as if speaking to a very small child. "It's not difficult to figure out."
"God, you're just- You're a piece, you know that?"
"So I've been told," he returns coldly.
&&&&&&
Tristram wakes up when he feels himself being lifted from his bed. It's dark, and he has a brief moment of panic, but he smells the familiar scent of his father's cologne and hears his voice whispering that it's okay, so he puts his arms around his father's neck and allows himself to be carried like a small child, the blanket still wrapped around him. His eyes are sticky with sleep, so he doesn't open them, but he hears Emily's questioning voice and her father answering her, low and steady, beside them. Then they are moving, stopping, and he hears the lift door slide open, a couple more steps, then the gentle jolt as they start to descend. Several seconds later, cool air hits Tristram's bare feet, and the sounds around him become more hollow: they are in Uncle Mycroft's underground garage.
He opens his eyes now. His father is carrying him, and over his father's shoulder, he can see Emily in her father's arms. Doctor Watson's face is pinched and hard, and Tristram ducks his face down against his father's shoulder so he doesn't have to see him.
They bypass Uncle Mycroft's car and get into another one that's always parked there when Tristram comes, but that he's never seen anyone use. It's also black, but smaller and lower to the ground.
"You're going to have to get yourself in," his father says as he bends down to set Tristram gently onto the ground. He opens the door, and Tristram climbs onto the back seat, dragging along the blanket that's still wrapped around him. A moment later, Emily joins him, also with a blanket. She looks small and pale, and she's peering out at her father, who's standing next to the car, saying something to Tristram's father. Tristram looks away, because they don't look happy.
"Where are we going?" Emily asks them, her voice tight with anxiety. "Aren't you coming with us?"
Doctor Watson leans down, bracing one arm against the top of the door frame. "We're all going together, love," he says gently, then turns his head to speak over his shoulder in a much colder tone, "Just as soon as Sherlock here admits he's not actually in possession of a driving license."
"I was merely offering, seeing as you're coming off a potentially upsetting-"
"Yes, all right, Sherlock," Doctor Watson snaps, "I think I can handle piloting a car. I find driving relaxing, believe it or not."
"As you wish. It will leave me free to make some enquiries."
Tristram's father walks around to the other side and flops down onto the front passenger seat. Doctor Watson gets in, makes sure that Tristram and Emily are buckled in with the blankets over them, and tells them to make themselves as comfortable as they can and try to sleep. He then takes a couple of minutes adjusting the driver's seat and headrest and the mirrors.
"Don't need a booster seat, do you?" Tristram hears his father snipe.
"Shut up," Doctor Watson mutters. "At least my knees aren't jammed up against the dash." Then he turns on the engine, and they are off.
Tristram can see Emily in intermittent flashes from street lamps as they drive through the city. There's still quite a bit of traffic, so it can't be very, very late (or very, very early). She looks wide awake now, and scared. Tristram is more curious than frightened.
"Daddy?" she says in a thin, tremulous voice. It's too quiet to make it all the way to the front seat. She looks like she's considering being sick, her face pinched and pale.
Tristram sits forward and touches his father on the shoulder. He has his mobile out and is texting something. "Father?"
"Not now, Tristram," he says curtly. "Go to sleep."
Tristram takes his hand away. "Doctor Watson?" he tries.
Emily's father presses his lips together and gives Tristram's father a disparaging look, then looks back at the road and says, "What is it, Tris?" He sounds a little irritated, too, but at least he's willing to respond.
"Where are we going?"
"Your grandmother's, apparently." He sounds like he's not entirely happy about it.
Tristram smiles in relief and sits back. He likes it at Grandmother's. They usually only go once a year, in the summer, when the sea is not absolutely freezing and there are wild strawberries all over.
"It's okay," he says to Emily. "We're going to see my grandmother. You'll like it. She has a huge house and outbuildings and gardens. And a pond." Although it's too late for strawberries, and the water will be too cold for bathing.
"What about school?" Emily asks, apparently feeling brave enough to talk to her father again directly.
"We'll just make a long weekend of it," her father says. Tristram can tell he's trying to make it sound jolly, but his voice is strained. "Your teacher won't mind if you miss one day of school."
Emily settles back, but her hand sneaks out from under her blanket and seeks out Tristram's. He squeezes it and smiles at her, then looks out the window and watches the buzz of the city give way to the monotony of the motorway. After a while, he closes his eyes, still holding Emily's hand.
&&&&&&
"I think they're asleep," John says, stretching up to check the back seat in the rear view mirror.
Sherlock has stopped texting, but holds his mobile loosely in one hand. He stares absently out the side window.
"We can do the entire trip in silence if you want," John says after a while. "Only four hours to go."
Sherlock doesn't respond.
After a couple of minutes, John turns on the radio, not too loud, and flips through the stations until he finds one playing a trite, modern hit.
Sherlock's hand tightens around his mobile, but he still doesn't say anything or look at John. When the song ends and a new one starts, though, he reaches out and stabs the off button.
"I was listening to that," John protests.
"And now you're not." Sherlock raises his mobile to his face, scowling, and scrolls around.
"I need something to keep me awake for the next four hours."
"I thought you enjoyed driving."
"Doesn't mean it won't put me to sleep."
"I did offer to drive."
"No," John says firmly. "I think we've broken enough laws tonight."
Sherlock snorts. "Is that what this is about?"
"What what is about?"
"You know what I mean: this." Sherlock waves his hand toward John. "This whole... righteous indignation."
"No. Nope." John shakes his head. "No, Sherlock, you do not get to do this."
"Now we're going to hear it," Sherlock says darkly and flops his mobile down into his lap again.
"You do not get to act like I'm the unreasonable one. You're the one who went off on your own and risked your life-"
"To ensure the best possible outcome for you. To make it easier for you!"
"See, there it is again! As if this whole operation were a favour done for my benefit."
"Please tell me how exactly you did not benefit from striking a crippling blow to the organisation that killed your wife and sister-in-law."
"So, what, if I hadn't been involved, you would have left them alone?"
"I certainly don't have the skills to do what you did," Sherlock says.
John's hands squeeze and wring the steering wheel. "Right," he says uncomfortably. "But we discussed- I mean, you said that what happened with Tristram was just a warning. That next time it would be a real bomb, if you didn't back off with the investigation."
"And your daughter as well. If you want to pursue what happened to your wife-"
"I can't let it rest. I know that Claire started it, but she didn't pull the trigger. Whoever did-"
"With Moran out of the way, whoever it was will have that much less protection. Someone's bound to get scared and hopefully be willing to strike a deal."
"Best case. And the worst case is that we've slipped their lead and they'll come after us with everything they've got."
"Which is why we're being safe tonight."
John laughs humourlessly. "Now you think about being safe."
"Now I have Tristram and your daughter to worry about."
"We, Sherlock," John corrects him. "We have them."
Sherlock looks at John's profile for a while before nodding his head and agreeing. "Yes."
They are both silent for a while, then, watching the traffic, until Sherlock asks quietly, "Are you all right?"
John takes a moment to answer. "I'm working on it," he says finally, keeping his eyes looking straight ahead at the road.
Sherlock brushes his knuckles against the back of John's hand on the steering wheel, then leans back against the door on his side and concentrates on his mobile.
John looks over at him, frowning slightly. He checks over his shoulder, but both children are lying motionless under their blankets. "And you?" he asks in a low voice. "I mean, you did see a man killed right in front of you."
Sherlock shifts in his seat. "Shot, anyway."
John sits up a bit straighter. "What does that mean?"
"The bullet hit him in the neck. There was a lot of blood," Sherlock mutters.
John hits the steering wheel hard with one hand. "Jesus, you mean you didn't wait, you didn't make sure-"
"There were at least nine armed gangsters in the next room," Sherlock hisses. "The window shattering was rather loud, I couldn't exactly hang around to -"
John bangs his head back against the headrest. "Jesus Christ, Jesus!"
"They'll think I did it," Sherlock tries to argue. "There's no way to tie it to you."
"That's not the point! If he lives, he's got twice as much reason to come after us now, with the full strength of the organisation behind him!"
"I had deduced that," Sherlock snarks.
"And thank you very much for sharing that bit of vital information with the rest of us. Or did you tell Mycroft and it's only me you've left in the dark?"
"I've just told you!"
"Yes, after I happened to ask the right questions."
"I didn't tell Mycroft anything more than what you heard," Sherlock says peevishly.
"Christ, Sherlock, you can't-" John tries to look at Sherlock while keeping one eye on the road. "Let's get something straight right now. If this is going to work, and I mean any- and everything you think I mean, you cannot leave me out of the loop. I have to be able to trust you."
"It's up to you to decide whether you want to trust me or not. I can't be expected to share my every thought and move with you. You're as bad as Mycroft. Or no, I know: why don't you get me one of those mobiles like you did for the children. Then you can keep tabs on me every second of every day."
"That is not what I'm saying, and you bloody well know it. I'm talking about a major breach here."
"If I'd told you what I was doing, you would never have agreed to it!"
"That's for damn sure."
"And if I'd stayed with you, you would have refused to shoot as soon as you saw the situation. The plan, such as you knew it, was in actual fact unworkable. My way was the only way it could work."
"You're- You're so damn full of yourself, you know that?"
"It's not arrogance, it's intelligence. If you'd thought it through, you would have seen the same issues I did."
"Oh, so now I'm stupid, is that it?"
"Your words."
"No, see, I trusted you, Sherlock. Obviously my first mistake. Or maybe the last in a tragic series. I trusted that you'd thought things through, because that's your job. My job was to take out the linchpin. That's how things work in a team. Everyone has their part to play, and you trust that everyone's doing it the way they're supposed to. Because if one person suddenly goes off on their own tangent, that endangers everyone."
"You're talking about your Army experience."
"I'm talking about what you did tonight, which was unacceptable."
"And yet you went along with it."
"I shot a man to save your life! That had nothing to do with any plans any more. That wasn't about a preemptive strike, or revenge for Mary. It was to protect you, nothing else."
Sherlock is silent as the miles tick by beneath them.
&&&&&&
Chapter end note: I made up the name Llanbroc to sound pseudo-Welsh. I'm sorry if it means something unfortunate. :)
Go to chapter 7
no subject
John is of course totally right but eeeep, Sherlock is right, too, in a way. Arggggh.
I'm glad that Sherlock is okay and so proud of John for his excellent aim. :))) And I'm totally thrilled to see that this incarnation of John readily kills to save this incarnation of Sherlock, too. And that they then have a number of fights. :)))))
Really looking forward to finding out more about Mummy (hehehhehe, I thought Llanbroc sounded unfamiliar!)
I'm all very nervous now about how this will play out, what dangers lie ahead (and somehow I'm hoping that the children's HP knowledge will somehow come into play... :PPP). Thank you, this is so much fun to read!
no subject
no subject
Oh well, happy chapter after the next one??? *hopeful* :P
no subject
I can't wait to find out what John and Emily make of the Holmes "estate"!
no subject
As for the visit to Mummy's, I think that John in particular will learn some very relevant things. :)