![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
swissmargTitle: 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 3,983 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).
Chapter note: Thanks once again to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ladyprydian and thissalsify for invaluable medical advice. This chapter should be less traumatic than the preceding ones, but does contain some description of injuries and medical procedures.
See chapter one for the complete header with warnings, acknowledgments, disclaimers, and notes.
Chapter 18 on AO3
Chapter Eighteen
The door opens. John looks up from where he's been watching Tristram's sleeping form on the far side of the bed. It's Sherlock. The arm of the guard outside the door is visible in the gap before the door falls shut again. One of Mycroft's, at least according to the message that arrived on John's phone about an hour ago. And if Sherlock's walking calmly past him, it must be the case. The room is left in the dim half-light cast by the small reading light mounted on the wall over the bed. John has tilted it so it's shining on him rather than Tristram.
Sherlock looks overcaffeinated and hyperaware, his cheeks bright with colour. Not at all like a man should look at four a.m., especially one whose son was almost killed just a few hours earlier.
John returns his gaze to Tristram. The boy is lying on his stomach, his head turned away, but his breathing is slow and even.
Sherlock picks up another chair from the small table by the window and sets it down parallel to John's, careful not to make any noise. He sits down and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He hasn't taken his coat off.
They both sit and watch Tristram for a while, not saying anything. He has a drip attached to his left hand. The other one is heavily bandaged. Bandages are also visible on his back, just above the cover that's pulled up around his shoulders.
Finally, Sherlock drops his head and speaks down at his hands. "Didn't find him," he says in a low voice.
John grunts a little, acknowledging he's heard.
"Must have missed him by seconds," Sherlock hisses, his frustration evident in his tone. "The floor in front of the window was still warm where he'd been kneeling. He'd been smoking just minutes before as well. Tristram was spot on. He was waiting there. Waiting for the perfect - "
"It took two hours to pick the glass out," John speaks over him. His voice is low, but clipped and almost painful to hear. "They were able to glue most of the lacerations but three went deep enough to need sutures. None of them came near his spinal cord, thank God, but there's probably going to be some scarring. Still waiting on cultures but they have him on prophylactic antibiotics along with the morphine." He nods at the plastic bag and pump with ampule on the IV pole. "He kept quiet through it all, but when they had to do the lavage on his hand-" John pauses to take an audible breath through his nose. "The pain killers were wearing off, and they couldn't give him any more. He was apologising. For crying." He spits out the words like an accusation. "X-ray showed the fourth and fifth metacarpals were shattered. They're going to do an MRI first thing tomorrow to get a better look before going in. Surgery's tentatively scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. The release form's there on the table." John hasn't moved a millimitre since Sherlock came in. His hands are clenching the arms of his chair.
"Why didn't Mycroft-" Sherlock begins, but John breaks in again.
"Sod. Mycroft," John grits out between clenched teeth. "He dropped by and gave them the medical history, but I told him I'd give him a fat lip if he signed anything. You are his father. Not Mycroft."
Sherlock propels himself out his chair and takes a couple of steps away from the bed, hovering between there and the table with his hands on his hips. "It was exactly for situations like this that we set up the guardianship," he growls. "Which you'd realise if you were able to drag yourself away from your self-righteous condemnation of my actions that were, incidentally, solely for the purpose of ensuring that any additional, very acute threats to either of you were neutralised."
"What situations?" John hisses. "You mean ones where you leave your son in the hands of strangers after he's nearly been killed not once, but twice in the same evening, while you go sniffing cigarette smoke and inserting yourself into police investigations?"
"Tristram," Sherlock says in a heavy, dark voice, as he slowly swivels back toward John, "is the only thing of any value to result from my life thus far. I do not deserve him, as I am reminded daily by everyone who comes in contact with me. I know this. I have lived every day since he was born in permanent terror that I will do something that damages him, either physically or emotionally, and yet since the moment I set eyes on him, the moment I held his fragile head in my hands and saw his pulse beating in the soft spot in his skull, I have known that I would likewise always be too selfish to do the right thing and give him to someone else, someone who would actually be able to nurture him and give him everything he needs and deserves. Knowing that, John, I did not leave him in the hands of strangers. I left him with you. What does that say?"
John stares up at him, his eyes wide. There is silence for the space of several seconds. Finally, John whispers, "I'm sorry."
"I don't need your pity!" Sherlock's face twists in displeasure.
"It's not pity, it's... Jesus." John wipes his hand over his face. "Of course, you're right. Just because I don't see- I know you love him, I do. And you've done an excellent job, despite what you may think. I mean, look at him." John gestures at the sleeping boy. "He's bright, and curious, and generous, and much tougher than I'd ever have thought possible. He's... Well, he's you." John looks up at Sherlock with a tentative smile.
Sherlock doesn't appear entirely pleased by the speech. He looks away. "I'd hoped he wouldn't be."
John points at Sherlock. "Stop that right there. I don't know what happened to you-"
Sherlock cuts him off with a glare. "Nothing happened to me."
"Fine," John acquiesces easily - perhaps too easily. "But your son, lying in that bed right there, has so much to give, and doesn't know what to do with it all. If you don't want him …" John stops and looks down at his hands, now clasped between his knees. Finally, he turns back to Sherlock, continuing more gently, "If you want him to have things that you didn't, you're going to have to give him something to work with. He has no idea..." John shakes his head and presses his lips together, looking away again, as if stopping himself from saying more. "He needs to know you love him," he finally says, softly.
"He knows it," Sherlock scoffs.
"Does he?" John asks quietly, catching Sherlock's eye and holding it. Sherlock doesn't answer. After a moment, John shifts and sits back. "Anyway. Thank you. For trusting me. Again, I'm..." He exhales heavily. "I'm sorry for inserting myself where I have no business."
Sherlock flutters his fingers dismissively and takes a step away. "It's my fault. It was an imposition on my part. I shouldn't have assumed you would go with him. You told me quite plainly you wanted to go home to your daughter, and I all but forced you-"
"You didn't force me. I was happy to go. To be there for him."
Sherlock looks away again, rubbing a thumb across his eyebrow. "Yes, well you can leave now. Although you may not be able to go home just yet," he adds somewhat reluctantly, as if he's anticipating a negative reaction.
"What do you mean?"
Sherlock gives John an assessing look, as if trying to gauge how much he is going to be able to handle. "All right, think," he says, finally, raising a hand and tapping invisible points in the air for emphasis. "An eye for an eye. Tit for tat. Precise. A sniper bullet through a window. No, stop, back up." Sherlock wipes his invisible points away and begins again. "The organisation didn't fall apart as expected with the loss of Moran. I said we'd have a week. We had less than two days. Why?" Sherlock holds John's eyes, won't let him look away.
"Someone made a power grab sooner than expected?" John guesses.
"Yes, very good," Sherlock agrees, "but it turns out there was no power to grab. Or, better: the power was already grabbed before Moran died."
John's eyebrows twitch toward each other. "You've lost me."
"Moran - was not - the head," Sherlock says slowly and triumphantly. "Whoever it is, he's given himself away with the attack tonight. Although he may have wanted to. Everything's been meticulously planned, that much is clear. I can't believe he'd have let his hand be forced already." He turns to brace his hands on the guardrail along the side of Tristram's bed, his fingers drumming rapidly.
"Sorry, what?" John asks. "How could Moran give himself away? He's dead."
Sherlock tilts his head to fix John once again with his pinpoint focus. "Moran was not the head, John! Don't you see? The attack tonight, they were replicating our attack on Moran. Tit for tat!" He pushes off Tristram's bed and paces in the small space.
"All right, fine, yes," John agrees. "I can see that. But why say it was me they were after? Tris was their target the first time too. And it would certainly hurt you more if he were killed."
Sherlock flaps his hand. "Immaterial. They haven't been trying to hurt me, or to make me back off. In fact, if anything I'd say they're trying to gain my attention."
"Well, it certainly seems to have succeeded."
"Yes, isn't it fantastic?" Sherlock clenches his fists in excitement, then tuts when he sees John's face. "Oh, not like that. Of course I'm infuriated that Tristram was hurt, and that you were targeted in the first place."
"You keep saying that, but I still don't see-"
"The right-hand man," Sherlock says, slapping the back of his right hand against the palm of his left for emphasis. "Moran was the right-hand man. Or second-in-command, deputy, front man, what have you." He wiggles his fingers to demonstrate that the distinction isn't important. "Certainly in a position of some authority, perhaps important to the real leader in some personal way. But not the one in charge. In order to achieve a perfect retaliatory strike for killing Moran-"
"They have to kill me," John finishes the sentence, breathless with the impact of the implication. "Brilliant." John's eyes glitter at Sherlock in the semi-darkness. "Although I'm not sure any of those titles really fit me," he adds self-deprecatingly.
"Close enough. Close enough for the message to get across, anyway."
"So Tris-" John begins, glancing at the sleeping boy.
"Unfortunate casualty," Sherlock says shortly, falling once again into the chair beside John.
John shakes his head. "He fell against me. I don't even know what happened, why he moved. He would have been safe if he'd stayed against the wall like I told him to."
"And you'd likely be dead."
John stares at Sherlock for a moment as that knowledge sinks in, then looks away. "My God... If I hadn't come over..." he whispers.
Sherlock shakes his head. "It was my fault," he says quietly. "I should have realised it from the first message."
"And the pies? How could they have known you'd call me, rather than taking Tris directly to hospital?" John wonders.
"I don't think they ever intended anyone to eat those. Certainly no one would have if I'd seen them first. Ergo, I don't believe they contained any poison. I wasn't able to discover anything in the initial testing I did in the kitchen. I've sent some samples to a contact of mine who'll run them through the mass spectrometre in the morning, but I expect they'll come back clean. I couldn't take the chance, though."
"Yeah, no. I wouldn't have either. It sounds like they were expecting me, though, with the sniper set up across the street. How'd they know I'd be there if not for a medical emergency?"
Sherlock hesitates a moment before answering: "It's not really a leap. We haven't been apart since last Wednesday. You and Emily all but moved in this week-end."
"God, when you put it like that..." John winces and shoots Sherlock a quick, embarrassed smile. Sherlock ducks his head, but he's smiling too.
John lifts his hand and carefully places it on top of Sherlock's where it's resting on the arm of his chair. "I can't go back home," he says soberly, his eyes resting on their hands.
Sherlock spreads his fingers to allow John's to slot down in between them. "I would advise against it. At least until this is dealt with."
"The guard outside-" John glances toward the door.
"-is for you, yes."
"I presume you and Mycroft have a plan."
"Mycroft, mostly," Sherlock says sourly. He flips his hand over to grasp John's. "There's a safe house. He wants you secured before sunrise. I would prefer to keep you in circulation."
"Use me as bait, you mean," John corrects him, but he's smiling gently.
"Make the best use of your skills," Sherlock corrects him back.
John squeezes Sherlock's hand. "I don't want to run away. But I have to think of Emily. I'd endanger anyone around me, even if they aren't a direct target. We saw that tonight. I don't want to leave her behind, though. They'd try to take her in order to draw me out."
Sherlock nods slowly, his eyes caught by the sight of their joined hands. "Possible."
"No, I..." John exhales heavily. "I think I'd better go, take her with me."
"You could send her alone with Mycroft..." Sherlock suggests. "With you out in the open, there would be no reason to go looking for her."
John makes a negative sound in his throat. "She's been through enough. I'm not going to do that to her. She stays with me."
"We could-" Sherlock begins, but John cuts him off.
"No. I'll go. Just for a day or two. Maybe they'll change their game plan in the meantime, make all of this moot. Or you'll figure out what the hell they're after in the first place." John rubs his thumb slowly back and forth over the side of Sherlock's hand.
For a while, the silence is broken only by faint laughter wafting in from the nurse's station down the hall. Then, as if he's suddenly awakened from a trance, John inhales sharply. He withdraws his hand from Sherlock's and stands up. "I'll erm..." he says in a low voice, standing with his back to Sherlock. "I'd better be going."
Sherlock stands too. "Yes."
John nods, once, then walks around the bed to the door. Sherlock stays where he is, his arms hanging at his sides, as if he's not sure what to do with them.
Just as John reaches for the door handle, Sherlock says, "John-"
He pauses and turns halfway around.
"I never meant for you to be dragged into this so far," Sherlock says.
John shakes his head and looks away, but when he raises his eyes to Sherlock's again, it's with a wry smile. "It's one hell of a mating dance, I'll give you that."
Sherlock huffs out a laugh. He starts to move, his body turned to walk around the bed, but John's already turned away and opened the door.
"All right, let's go," he says to the bodyguard. The door falls shut behind him.
Sherlock stands there for a few more seconds, then lowers himself to the chair John was sitting in before. He takes out his phone and taps out a message. Once he's sent it, he says quietly, "I know you're awake."
&&&&&&
Tristram considers attempting to continue the ruse that he's asleep, but he knows his father would rather be out following leads and tracking down clues. Plus, the conversation has given him quite a lot to think about, and he'd rather do so without his father in the same room, listening in. He knows his father can't really hear what he's thinking, but sometimes it's so eerily close that it makes Tristram feel self-conscious about thinking anything at all.
He turns his head carefully. His neck is stiff, his back feels hot, and everything throbs in a strange, dull way. He blinks his eyes open, only to see his father's glittering pale eyes staring down at him.
"You don't have to stay," Tristram says in the hushed tone people use when it's the middle of the night, even though everyone in the room is wide awake.
Father slouches down more firmly in his chair, frowning at his phone, which he's holding up in front of his face. "No, I don't."
Tristram waits, but his father doesn't move, other than to occasionally tap his finger against the screen. Tristram expects he'll leave once he's done looking through his messages or whatever it is he's doing, but instead, after a while, he says, "What did you see?"
Tristram isn't sure what he means. Just now, when Doctor Watson was here? "Nothing," Tristram tells him. He had his eyes closed and his head turned the other way, trying to keep his breathing slow and even like Father taught him. Apparently he needs to practise feigning sleep more, or to ask for some additional pointers. Why does Father want to know what he saw? Were they kissing at the end, when they were both quiet?
Father lowers his phone and turns to Tristram. "At the flat," he clarifies. "You saw something that made you move away from the wall."
"There was a light on his back. Like a laser pointer." Father has one - or had one at some point, anyway - that he uses to help him figure out trajectories and angles of sight.
"You were trying to push him out of the way." It's a moment of realisation, but Father doesn't seem very surprised. Perhaps he suspected it.
Tristram starts to nod, discovers it hurts to do so, and whispers instead, "Yeah." Did he mess up? Doctor Watson did tell him to stay by the wall. He forgot about that in his panic. If he hadn't moved, he almost certainly wouldn't have been hurt. But maybe Doctor Watson would have been.
This is one of those times when Tristram suspects his father may well be able to read his mind, because he says, sombrely, "You very likely saved his life."
Tristram is relieved his father doesn't say anything about not doing what he was told (again!). In fact, he goes on to add, "Thank you." There's something in his voice, something deep and thick, that imbues the simple phrase with much more meaning than the words alone. Tristram feels something swelling in his chest, something equally deep and thick, but it's good. Very good.
"You're welcome."
Father crinkles his eyes. It's the special almost-smile that he only uses on Tristram. Not even Mrs Hudson has ever been on the receiving end of it. That Tristram's seen, anyway. "Next time," Father says, "try not to get shot."
Tristram's smile isn't nearly as guarded. "Okay."
Father slides his phone into his pocket and settles back in the chair. Perhaps he really means to stay. Tension that Tristram wasn't even aware of drops out of his body. "Was it the bodyguard?" he ventures to ask.
"You mean the same person you saw under your window? I don't know. Yet," Father says, as if it's only a matter of time before his suspicion is confirmed. "I picked up some hairs and an ash sample from the room across the street. I'll need to compare the ash to what I found on the path at Llanbroc. Either way, however, he wasn't one of Mycroft's men."
That gives Tristram a very unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Who was he?"
"I don't know yet. One of Moran's."
There's that Moran again. The one whose killer Father is trying to find. But what does Doctor Watson have to do with it? Why would they want to hurt him? Especially if, as Father said, they're not trying to get Father to do anything or stop investigating. It was something about a right-hand man, but Tristram didn't quite follow that part. No matter, he knows what he needs to do now, even if he's afraid he's about to draw his father's displeasure.
"I saw him," Tristram confesses. "The man who was under my window. I saw him another time too, before tonight."
Father's attention instantly leaps to Tristram's face. "Where?"
"In the stable at Grandmother's."
Father appears to take a moment turning that bit of information over, but the connection comes to him quickly: "That morning when you went out..."
"He was nice!" Tristram says defensively, even though he knows it won't help much. "He told me he was there to protect us."
Father's eyebrows draw together. "Why didn't you tell me this before? I could have prevented this entire thing from happening!"
That's exactly what Tristram was afraid he would say. "I didn't want him to get in trouble!" he tries to explain. "You said Uncle Mycroft would draw and quarter him for smoking on duty."
"He wasn't one of Mycroft's men!" Father snaps.
"I didn't know!" Tristram almost wails. There's a treacherous tightness in his throat that he tries to swallow past.
Father tips his head back and closes his eyes. His nostrils are flaring and his mouth is thin and hard. Tristram feels awful. All because he went out on his own without permission. And Father had told him to report back anything that was out of the ordinary. A strange man hunkered down in Grandmother's stable at dawn certainly counts, Tristram sees now. He knew it then, too, to be honest, but he was trying to do the right thing and be helpful.
Finally, Father opens his eyes and faces Tristram again. "Tell me everything," he says. "Every detail. Every word."
Tristram tries to recall the scene in the stable from that morning. He tells about seeing the light in the window and smelling the cigarette. About the hat and the mice and the plastic bag with the cake, and about the man keeping the stub end of his cigarette. He has a harder time remembering the man's exact words, but he does know that he asked which room Doctor Watson was in - an obvious red flag now in retrospect - and what their plans were for the day, and he's absolutely sure that the man said he'd watch out and make sure nothing happened to Tristram. Maybe it's not the same man. Lots of people smoke.
Just then there is a knock at the door. Tristram's heart leaps into his throat. Father is out of his chair and around the end of the bed in an instant, but it's just a nurse, coming in to check Tristram's vitals and replace the nearly-empty IV bag. Father hovers and watches her every move with an eagle eye while Tristram tries to hold still and cooperate. He can't do much more than hold still anyway.
She also asks about permission for the surgery on Tristram's hand (something else he doesn't want to think about right now). The papers are still on the table, unsigned. Father elbows her aside and scribbles his name down in a very put-upon way, then stalks back over to the chair beside Tristram's bed. She gives him an odd look, but gathers everything up and says the doctor will be in later in case Father has any questions. Tristram wishes Doctor Watson were still here. He rather thinks Father wishes the same thing, if perhaps for different reasons.
&&&&&&
Go to chapter 19
Author:
Beta readers:
ruth0007, billiethepoetRating: PG-13
Relationship: John/Sherlock
Word count: ca. 93,500 when complete, this chapter 3,983 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).Chapter note: Thanks once again to
ladyprydian and thissalsify for invaluable medical advice. This chapter should be less traumatic than the preceding ones, but does contain some description of injuries and medical procedures.See chapter one for the complete header with warnings, acknowledgments, disclaimers, and notes.
Chapter 18 on AO3
Chapter Eighteen
The door opens. John looks up from where he's been watching Tristram's sleeping form on the far side of the bed. It's Sherlock. The arm of the guard outside the door is visible in the gap before the door falls shut again. One of Mycroft's, at least according to the message that arrived on John's phone about an hour ago. And if Sherlock's walking calmly past him, it must be the case. The room is left in the dim half-light cast by the small reading light mounted on the wall over the bed. John has tilted it so it's shining on him rather than Tristram.
Sherlock looks overcaffeinated and hyperaware, his cheeks bright with colour. Not at all like a man should look at four a.m., especially one whose son was almost killed just a few hours earlier.
John returns his gaze to Tristram. The boy is lying on his stomach, his head turned away, but his breathing is slow and even.
Sherlock picks up another chair from the small table by the window and sets it down parallel to John's, careful not to make any noise. He sits down and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He hasn't taken his coat off.
They both sit and watch Tristram for a while, not saying anything. He has a drip attached to his left hand. The other one is heavily bandaged. Bandages are also visible on his back, just above the cover that's pulled up around his shoulders.
Finally, Sherlock drops his head and speaks down at his hands. "Didn't find him," he says in a low voice.
John grunts a little, acknowledging he's heard.
"Must have missed him by seconds," Sherlock hisses, his frustration evident in his tone. "The floor in front of the window was still warm where he'd been kneeling. He'd been smoking just minutes before as well. Tristram was spot on. He was waiting there. Waiting for the perfect - "
"It took two hours to pick the glass out," John speaks over him. His voice is low, but clipped and almost painful to hear. "They were able to glue most of the lacerations but three went deep enough to need sutures. None of them came near his spinal cord, thank God, but there's probably going to be some scarring. Still waiting on cultures but they have him on prophylactic antibiotics along with the morphine." He nods at the plastic bag and pump with ampule on the IV pole. "He kept quiet through it all, but when they had to do the lavage on his hand-" John pauses to take an audible breath through his nose. "The pain killers were wearing off, and they couldn't give him any more. He was apologising. For crying." He spits out the words like an accusation. "X-ray showed the fourth and fifth metacarpals were shattered. They're going to do an MRI first thing tomorrow to get a better look before going in. Surgery's tentatively scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. The release form's there on the table." John hasn't moved a millimitre since Sherlock came in. His hands are clenching the arms of his chair.
"Why didn't Mycroft-" Sherlock begins, but John breaks in again.
"Sod. Mycroft," John grits out between clenched teeth. "He dropped by and gave them the medical history, but I told him I'd give him a fat lip if he signed anything. You are his father. Not Mycroft."
Sherlock propels himself out his chair and takes a couple of steps away from the bed, hovering between there and the table with his hands on his hips. "It was exactly for situations like this that we set up the guardianship," he growls. "Which you'd realise if you were able to drag yourself away from your self-righteous condemnation of my actions that were, incidentally, solely for the purpose of ensuring that any additional, very acute threats to either of you were neutralised."
"What situations?" John hisses. "You mean ones where you leave your son in the hands of strangers after he's nearly been killed not once, but twice in the same evening, while you go sniffing cigarette smoke and inserting yourself into police investigations?"
"Tristram," Sherlock says in a heavy, dark voice, as he slowly swivels back toward John, "is the only thing of any value to result from my life thus far. I do not deserve him, as I am reminded daily by everyone who comes in contact with me. I know this. I have lived every day since he was born in permanent terror that I will do something that damages him, either physically or emotionally, and yet since the moment I set eyes on him, the moment I held his fragile head in my hands and saw his pulse beating in the soft spot in his skull, I have known that I would likewise always be too selfish to do the right thing and give him to someone else, someone who would actually be able to nurture him and give him everything he needs and deserves. Knowing that, John, I did not leave him in the hands of strangers. I left him with you. What does that say?"
John stares up at him, his eyes wide. There is silence for the space of several seconds. Finally, John whispers, "I'm sorry."
"I don't need your pity!" Sherlock's face twists in displeasure.
"It's not pity, it's... Jesus." John wipes his hand over his face. "Of course, you're right. Just because I don't see- I know you love him, I do. And you've done an excellent job, despite what you may think. I mean, look at him." John gestures at the sleeping boy. "He's bright, and curious, and generous, and much tougher than I'd ever have thought possible. He's... Well, he's you." John looks up at Sherlock with a tentative smile.
Sherlock doesn't appear entirely pleased by the speech. He looks away. "I'd hoped he wouldn't be."
John points at Sherlock. "Stop that right there. I don't know what happened to you-"
Sherlock cuts him off with a glare. "Nothing happened to me."
"Fine," John acquiesces easily - perhaps too easily. "But your son, lying in that bed right there, has so much to give, and doesn't know what to do with it all. If you don't want him …" John stops and looks down at his hands, now clasped between his knees. Finally, he turns back to Sherlock, continuing more gently, "If you want him to have things that you didn't, you're going to have to give him something to work with. He has no idea..." John shakes his head and presses his lips together, looking away again, as if stopping himself from saying more. "He needs to know you love him," he finally says, softly.
"He knows it," Sherlock scoffs.
"Does he?" John asks quietly, catching Sherlock's eye and holding it. Sherlock doesn't answer. After a moment, John shifts and sits back. "Anyway. Thank you. For trusting me. Again, I'm..." He exhales heavily. "I'm sorry for inserting myself where I have no business."
Sherlock flutters his fingers dismissively and takes a step away. "It's my fault. It was an imposition on my part. I shouldn't have assumed you would go with him. You told me quite plainly you wanted to go home to your daughter, and I all but forced you-"
"You didn't force me. I was happy to go. To be there for him."
Sherlock looks away again, rubbing a thumb across his eyebrow. "Yes, well you can leave now. Although you may not be able to go home just yet," he adds somewhat reluctantly, as if he's anticipating a negative reaction.
"What do you mean?"
Sherlock gives John an assessing look, as if trying to gauge how much he is going to be able to handle. "All right, think," he says, finally, raising a hand and tapping invisible points in the air for emphasis. "An eye for an eye. Tit for tat. Precise. A sniper bullet through a window. No, stop, back up." Sherlock wipes his invisible points away and begins again. "The organisation didn't fall apart as expected with the loss of Moran. I said we'd have a week. We had less than two days. Why?" Sherlock holds John's eyes, won't let him look away.
"Someone made a power grab sooner than expected?" John guesses.
"Yes, very good," Sherlock agrees, "but it turns out there was no power to grab. Or, better: the power was already grabbed before Moran died."
John's eyebrows twitch toward each other. "You've lost me."
"Moran - was not - the head," Sherlock says slowly and triumphantly. "Whoever it is, he's given himself away with the attack tonight. Although he may have wanted to. Everything's been meticulously planned, that much is clear. I can't believe he'd have let his hand be forced already." He turns to brace his hands on the guardrail along the side of Tristram's bed, his fingers drumming rapidly.
"Sorry, what?" John asks. "How could Moran give himself away? He's dead."
Sherlock tilts his head to fix John once again with his pinpoint focus. "Moran was not the head, John! Don't you see? The attack tonight, they were replicating our attack on Moran. Tit for tat!" He pushes off Tristram's bed and paces in the small space.
"All right, fine, yes," John agrees. "I can see that. But why say it was me they were after? Tris was their target the first time too. And it would certainly hurt you more if he were killed."
Sherlock flaps his hand. "Immaterial. They haven't been trying to hurt me, or to make me back off. In fact, if anything I'd say they're trying to gain my attention."
"Well, it certainly seems to have succeeded."
"Yes, isn't it fantastic?" Sherlock clenches his fists in excitement, then tuts when he sees John's face. "Oh, not like that. Of course I'm infuriated that Tristram was hurt, and that you were targeted in the first place."
"You keep saying that, but I still don't see-"
"The right-hand man," Sherlock says, slapping the back of his right hand against the palm of his left for emphasis. "Moran was the right-hand man. Or second-in-command, deputy, front man, what have you." He wiggles his fingers to demonstrate that the distinction isn't important. "Certainly in a position of some authority, perhaps important to the real leader in some personal way. But not the one in charge. In order to achieve a perfect retaliatory strike for killing Moran-"
"They have to kill me," John finishes the sentence, breathless with the impact of the implication. "Brilliant." John's eyes glitter at Sherlock in the semi-darkness. "Although I'm not sure any of those titles really fit me," he adds self-deprecatingly.
"Close enough. Close enough for the message to get across, anyway."
"So Tris-" John begins, glancing at the sleeping boy.
"Unfortunate casualty," Sherlock says shortly, falling once again into the chair beside John.
John shakes his head. "He fell against me. I don't even know what happened, why he moved. He would have been safe if he'd stayed against the wall like I told him to."
"And you'd likely be dead."
John stares at Sherlock for a moment as that knowledge sinks in, then looks away. "My God... If I hadn't come over..." he whispers.
Sherlock shakes his head. "It was my fault," he says quietly. "I should have realised it from the first message."
"And the pies? How could they have known you'd call me, rather than taking Tris directly to hospital?" John wonders.
"I don't think they ever intended anyone to eat those. Certainly no one would have if I'd seen them first. Ergo, I don't believe they contained any poison. I wasn't able to discover anything in the initial testing I did in the kitchen. I've sent some samples to a contact of mine who'll run them through the mass spectrometre in the morning, but I expect they'll come back clean. I couldn't take the chance, though."
"Yeah, no. I wouldn't have either. It sounds like they were expecting me, though, with the sniper set up across the street. How'd they know I'd be there if not for a medical emergency?"
Sherlock hesitates a moment before answering: "It's not really a leap. We haven't been apart since last Wednesday. You and Emily all but moved in this week-end."
"God, when you put it like that..." John winces and shoots Sherlock a quick, embarrassed smile. Sherlock ducks his head, but he's smiling too.
John lifts his hand and carefully places it on top of Sherlock's where it's resting on the arm of his chair. "I can't go back home," he says soberly, his eyes resting on their hands.
Sherlock spreads his fingers to allow John's to slot down in between them. "I would advise against it. At least until this is dealt with."
"The guard outside-" John glances toward the door.
"-is for you, yes."
"I presume you and Mycroft have a plan."
"Mycroft, mostly," Sherlock says sourly. He flips his hand over to grasp John's. "There's a safe house. He wants you secured before sunrise. I would prefer to keep you in circulation."
"Use me as bait, you mean," John corrects him, but he's smiling gently.
"Make the best use of your skills," Sherlock corrects him back.
John squeezes Sherlock's hand. "I don't want to run away. But I have to think of Emily. I'd endanger anyone around me, even if they aren't a direct target. We saw that tonight. I don't want to leave her behind, though. They'd try to take her in order to draw me out."
Sherlock nods slowly, his eyes caught by the sight of their joined hands. "Possible."
"No, I..." John exhales heavily. "I think I'd better go, take her with me."
"You could send her alone with Mycroft..." Sherlock suggests. "With you out in the open, there would be no reason to go looking for her."
John makes a negative sound in his throat. "She's been through enough. I'm not going to do that to her. She stays with me."
"We could-" Sherlock begins, but John cuts him off.
"No. I'll go. Just for a day or two. Maybe they'll change their game plan in the meantime, make all of this moot. Or you'll figure out what the hell they're after in the first place." John rubs his thumb slowly back and forth over the side of Sherlock's hand.
For a while, the silence is broken only by faint laughter wafting in from the nurse's station down the hall. Then, as if he's suddenly awakened from a trance, John inhales sharply. He withdraws his hand from Sherlock's and stands up. "I'll erm..." he says in a low voice, standing with his back to Sherlock. "I'd better be going."
Sherlock stands too. "Yes."
John nods, once, then walks around the bed to the door. Sherlock stays where he is, his arms hanging at his sides, as if he's not sure what to do with them.
Just as John reaches for the door handle, Sherlock says, "John-"
He pauses and turns halfway around.
"I never meant for you to be dragged into this so far," Sherlock says.
John shakes his head and looks away, but when he raises his eyes to Sherlock's again, it's with a wry smile. "It's one hell of a mating dance, I'll give you that."
Sherlock huffs out a laugh. He starts to move, his body turned to walk around the bed, but John's already turned away and opened the door.
"All right, let's go," he says to the bodyguard. The door falls shut behind him.
Sherlock stands there for a few more seconds, then lowers himself to the chair John was sitting in before. He takes out his phone and taps out a message. Once he's sent it, he says quietly, "I know you're awake."
&&&&&&
Tristram considers attempting to continue the ruse that he's asleep, but he knows his father would rather be out following leads and tracking down clues. Plus, the conversation has given him quite a lot to think about, and he'd rather do so without his father in the same room, listening in. He knows his father can't really hear what he's thinking, but sometimes it's so eerily close that it makes Tristram feel self-conscious about thinking anything at all.
He turns his head carefully. His neck is stiff, his back feels hot, and everything throbs in a strange, dull way. He blinks his eyes open, only to see his father's glittering pale eyes staring down at him.
"You don't have to stay," Tristram says in the hushed tone people use when it's the middle of the night, even though everyone in the room is wide awake.
Father slouches down more firmly in his chair, frowning at his phone, which he's holding up in front of his face. "No, I don't."
Tristram waits, but his father doesn't move, other than to occasionally tap his finger against the screen. Tristram expects he'll leave once he's done looking through his messages or whatever it is he's doing, but instead, after a while, he says, "What did you see?"
Tristram isn't sure what he means. Just now, when Doctor Watson was here? "Nothing," Tristram tells him. He had his eyes closed and his head turned the other way, trying to keep his breathing slow and even like Father taught him. Apparently he needs to practise feigning sleep more, or to ask for some additional pointers. Why does Father want to know what he saw? Were they kissing at the end, when they were both quiet?
Father lowers his phone and turns to Tristram. "At the flat," he clarifies. "You saw something that made you move away from the wall."
"There was a light on his back. Like a laser pointer." Father has one - or had one at some point, anyway - that he uses to help him figure out trajectories and angles of sight.
"You were trying to push him out of the way." It's a moment of realisation, but Father doesn't seem very surprised. Perhaps he suspected it.
Tristram starts to nod, discovers it hurts to do so, and whispers instead, "Yeah." Did he mess up? Doctor Watson did tell him to stay by the wall. He forgot about that in his panic. If he hadn't moved, he almost certainly wouldn't have been hurt. But maybe Doctor Watson would have been.
This is one of those times when Tristram suspects his father may well be able to read his mind, because he says, sombrely, "You very likely saved his life."
Tristram is relieved his father doesn't say anything about not doing what he was told (again!). In fact, he goes on to add, "Thank you." There's something in his voice, something deep and thick, that imbues the simple phrase with much more meaning than the words alone. Tristram feels something swelling in his chest, something equally deep and thick, but it's good. Very good.
"You're welcome."
Father crinkles his eyes. It's the special almost-smile that he only uses on Tristram. Not even Mrs Hudson has ever been on the receiving end of it. That Tristram's seen, anyway. "Next time," Father says, "try not to get shot."
Tristram's smile isn't nearly as guarded. "Okay."
Father slides his phone into his pocket and settles back in the chair. Perhaps he really means to stay. Tension that Tristram wasn't even aware of drops out of his body. "Was it the bodyguard?" he ventures to ask.
"You mean the same person you saw under your window? I don't know. Yet," Father says, as if it's only a matter of time before his suspicion is confirmed. "I picked up some hairs and an ash sample from the room across the street. I'll need to compare the ash to what I found on the path at Llanbroc. Either way, however, he wasn't one of Mycroft's men."
That gives Tristram a very unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Who was he?"
"I don't know yet. One of Moran's."
There's that Moran again. The one whose killer Father is trying to find. But what does Doctor Watson have to do with it? Why would they want to hurt him? Especially if, as Father said, they're not trying to get Father to do anything or stop investigating. It was something about a right-hand man, but Tristram didn't quite follow that part. No matter, he knows what he needs to do now, even if he's afraid he's about to draw his father's displeasure.
"I saw him," Tristram confesses. "The man who was under my window. I saw him another time too, before tonight."
Father's attention instantly leaps to Tristram's face. "Where?"
"In the stable at Grandmother's."
Father appears to take a moment turning that bit of information over, but the connection comes to him quickly: "That morning when you went out..."
"He was nice!" Tristram says defensively, even though he knows it won't help much. "He told me he was there to protect us."
Father's eyebrows draw together. "Why didn't you tell me this before? I could have prevented this entire thing from happening!"
That's exactly what Tristram was afraid he would say. "I didn't want him to get in trouble!" he tries to explain. "You said Uncle Mycroft would draw and quarter him for smoking on duty."
"He wasn't one of Mycroft's men!" Father snaps.
"I didn't know!" Tristram almost wails. There's a treacherous tightness in his throat that he tries to swallow past.
Father tips his head back and closes his eyes. His nostrils are flaring and his mouth is thin and hard. Tristram feels awful. All because he went out on his own without permission. And Father had told him to report back anything that was out of the ordinary. A strange man hunkered down in Grandmother's stable at dawn certainly counts, Tristram sees now. He knew it then, too, to be honest, but he was trying to do the right thing and be helpful.
Finally, Father opens his eyes and faces Tristram again. "Tell me everything," he says. "Every detail. Every word."
Tristram tries to recall the scene in the stable from that morning. He tells about seeing the light in the window and smelling the cigarette. About the hat and the mice and the plastic bag with the cake, and about the man keeping the stub end of his cigarette. He has a harder time remembering the man's exact words, but he does know that he asked which room Doctor Watson was in - an obvious red flag now in retrospect - and what their plans were for the day, and he's absolutely sure that the man said he'd watch out and make sure nothing happened to Tristram. Maybe it's not the same man. Lots of people smoke.
Just then there is a knock at the door. Tristram's heart leaps into his throat. Father is out of his chair and around the end of the bed in an instant, but it's just a nurse, coming in to check Tristram's vitals and replace the nearly-empty IV bag. Father hovers and watches her every move with an eagle eye while Tristram tries to hold still and cooperate. He can't do much more than hold still anyway.
She also asks about permission for the surgery on Tristram's hand (something else he doesn't want to think about right now). The papers are still on the table, unsigned. Father elbows her aside and scribbles his name down in a very put-upon way, then stalks back over to the chair beside Tristram's bed. She gives him an odd look, but gathers everything up and says the doctor will be in later in case Father has any questions. Tristram wishes Doctor Watson were still here. He rather thinks Father wishes the same thing, if perhaps for different reasons.
&&&&&&
Go to chapter 19
