Fic: The Cuckoo's Lullaby (16/17)
Aug. 24th, 2014 03:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
swissmargTitle: The Cuckoo's Lullaby
Author:
swissmarg
Beta readers:ruth0007, 
dioscureantwins
Rating: R
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Other characters: Irene Adler, OCs
Word count: ca. 85K when complete
Summary: Sequel to 'Cracks in the In-Between Places'. A Swiss holiday seems to be the perfect way for the Holmeses and the Watsons to recover from their recent troubles and deepen their attachments to each other, but when Tristram's mother and the bogeyman both turn up, loyalties are put to the ultimate test.
See Chapter One for additional notes
Read Chapter 16 on AO3
"You're going to see my father, aren't you?" Tristram watches as Irene works her fingers into a pair of tight, black gloves that go halfway up her arms. She already has a long, black overcoat on. It looks remarkably similar to Father's, but not as bulky.
"No, in fact I'm not," she says, yanking viciously at the gloves. "I'm going to put an end to this entire thing, once and for all. Kate?" she calls.
Quick footsteps sound coming down the stairs. It's Irene's friend, the woman who's going to stay with Tristram while Irene goes out. She has longish red hair, pale green eyes, and the same air of vague amusement as Uncle Mycroft's assistant, Miss Smith. Only where Miss Smith makes Tristram think of a Siamese cat, just barely deigning to interact with humans, Kate reminds Tristram more of a panther. There's something prowling and greedy behind those eyes. Tristram is fascinated, but also wary. He's not afraid of her, though, and certainly she's done nothing that could in any way be construed as threatening. She arrived about an hour ago with what Tristram assumed was an overnight bag, but Irene took it from her and disappeared into her bedroom with it alone. Maybe it had extra clothes for Irene. Irene didn't take any luggage with her from the train either. Although she's had new clothes on every day since they've been here; she must have found things left in the bedroom she's using that happened to fit her too. So Tristram's not actually sure what was in that bag that Kate brought.
"I wish you'd let me go," Kate says. There's a bit of a pout there, but also a bit of disapproval. She holds out a small red handbag once she gets to the bottom of the stairs. It matches the red dress Irene's wearing under her coat. That was probably one of the things in the suitcase Kate brought her.
Irene takes the handbag and undoes the clasp, checks the contents, and snaps it shut again. "It's not that I don't have complete confidence in your abilities, but you know, this is personal."
Kate shakes her head. She looks frustrated. "It's not that. He's not right."
"No," Irene agrees smoothly. "Which is why I can't let you go after him."
She and Kate look at each other. Tristram has the impression they're having an argument without using any words, the same way John and Father do sometimes. They both have pretty good glares going, but Tristram's not surprised when Kate's the one who ends up backing down.
"Be careful, Irene," she says, the same way Mrs Hudson does when Father dashes off chasing a lead. Fretful, but like she's said it about a hundred times before and despairs of him ever minding her.
Irene looks like she's a little disappointed. "Oh, Kate, you know me. I'm never careful." She smirks. "I'm thorough."
Then she looks down at Tristram and puts her hand against his cheek. The material of her gloves feels cool and slippery on his skin. "Now Tristram," she starts. Her features soften, and Tristram's afraid for a pretty long moment that she's actually going to start crying, the way her eyes go all shiny. But when she speaks, her voice is steady and clear. "You are my miracle," she says. "I don't know what I expected when I went to Switzerland, but you weren't it, and I'm glad. Because I could never have come up with anything as incredible as you. I am very, very proud to be your mother, even though I know I don't deserve it. And now I'm going to go and try to earn it, just a little bit." She rubs her thumb over his cheek. A shiver goes down Tristram's spine. "Wish me luck," she whispers.
Tristram's mouth has gone dry, but he manages to dutifully parrot back: "Good luck." That was kind of a big speech. No one's ever told him he was incredible before, not even John, who's fairly generous with his praise. He's told Father's he's incredible - and amazing, and lots of other nice things - lots of times. And he did say that Tristram guessing right about the phone was amazing. But given Irene's track record with the truth, he's not sure what to make of it when she says it. Does she really think that? Based on what? All she's seen him do the past few days is eat and have panic attacks.
He also doesn't know what to do with her statement that she's proud to be his mother. And why would she have to deserve it? As he understands the way the world works, a person doesn't have to do anything in particular to earn parenthood. It just kind of happens. He's apprehensive, though, about what she might be going to do to earn it, and what 'putting an end to this thing' will entail. It sounds very final.
Irene leans over Tristram's head toward Kate. Tristram can hear the soft smack, but he doesn't see where the kiss lands. He wonders if maybe Kate and Irene are special friends too. But Irene pulls back right away and leans down toward Tristram. She hesitates a moment before kissing Tristram on the cheek. Her face is really soft, even softer than Mrs Hudson's, and she smells nice. He gives her a little smile. She smiles back. She looks like she's going to say something, but all that comes out is "Don't wait up." Before Tristram can nod she’s turned her back on them and is out the door.
Kate and Tristram look each other over, both equally wary. "You want me to show you how to tie some knots?" she finally suggests.
Tristram shrugs. "Sure." Although it's more getting out of them that he needs practise with.
"Well, this is a turn-up, wouldn't you say?" the man behind the desk chirps, grinning gleefully at Sherlock and John as they enter. His face is pale and boyish even with the faint shadow above his lip. His dark hair is slicked back from his high forehead, and he's wearing a very neat, dark-grey suit.
Irene is perched on top of the desk, facing forward as if waiting for company. She has her gloved hands folded demurely in her lap and her legs dangle playfully over the edge. She inclines her head slightly in Sherlock and John's direction and gives them a cool smile.
John grinds to an abrupt halt and turns to check Sherlock's reaction, but he is fixated on Irene.
The man gets up and ambles lazily around the desk. "John Watson, it's such a pleasure," he burbles with an oily grin, holding out his hand. "Jim Moriarty."
John stares at his hand but doesn't take it. His expression is stony.
Moriarty shrugs and stuffs his hands in his pockets instead. "Sherlock's told me all about you," he says. He leans forward and lowers his voice. "I was especially interested in what he had to say about your skill with a..." He looks around as if someone might overhear him, then leans in even closer to speak directly into John's ear. "A gun," he finishes. He makes the word sound indecent, virtually caressing it on his tongue.
John remains compeletely still except for a muscle twitching under one eye.
Moriarty pulls back and continues, more casually this time. "A real one, that is. Just one look at poor, infatuated Sherlock was enough to tell me all about the way you handle that piece of equipment you hide in your pocket. Of course as a doctor, even in the army you never would have needed to use a live weapon, but we all get an itchy trigger finger now and then, don't we?"
He turns and walks back around his desk. "I used to have a former army colonel working for me," he mentions as he goes. "Knew what to do with a gun as well. Sadly, he was killed by some nasty sniper. Very unpleasant business. Pity really, I’m sure you would have made great pals. Swapping war stories, you know." Suddenly his voice is very high. " 'I’m a hero.' 'No, I’m a hero.' Oh, well." He pretends to wipe tears from his eyes, then he sits down and sighs heavily. "Some things obviously weren’t meant to be. But you know the saying," he goes on, perking up. "One door slams shut on your fingers, leaving a mangled, bloody mess, and another one opens. So imagine how excited I was when Sherlock suggested bringing you in on our little project. Having lost dear, dear Seb, I was rather desperate to find someone with a similar skill set. And now Sherly here told me you’re just the thing. Sit." He points at two armchairs set at angles in front of the desk. It's an order, not an invitation, but it's not entirely unfriendly. "I believe you all know each other?" Moriarty suggests innocently, gesturing at Irene once John and Sherlock have taken their seats. Their chairs are far enough away that they can't reach each other, but close enough that Moriarty has both of them firmly in his field of vision.
"Where's Tristram?" Sherlock demands of Irene, ignoring Moriarty.
"Safe. For now," Irene says, placing a casual emphasis on the last word. "Oh, don't look like that. Really, you don't imagine I would have left him anywhere he might get ... I don't know, poisoned or shot?"
Moriarty giggles. "He did, didn't he? Oh, Sherlock," he says, his face falling comically at Sherlock's suddenly thunderous expression. "Admit it. You were a rather negligent parent."
"That was all down to you, not Sherlock," John punches out, stabbing a finger in Moriarty's direction.
Moriarty's eyebrows shoot up in an expression of exaggerated surprise. "Ooh, look, it speaks! How fun!"
Irene chuckles, low and throaty. "Oh, he is fun. I didn't even tell you how prettily he blushes yet. Watch. John..." she coaxes, "have you had Sherlock properly yet? Ridden him hard and put him away wet?" She drops her voice even further and leans forward as if to speak to him confidentially. "Top tip: see if you can make him beg for it. He's ever so grateful afterwards."
"Aw, now you're making me blush," Moriarty croons.
John smirks, his hands grasping the armrests of his chair the only outward sign of his agitation. "Why? Does sex alarm you?"
"Oh really, sex," Sherlock drawls dismissively. "How tedious. And here I thought we were going to discuss business, not engage in some fourteen-year-old locker room talk."
"God," Moriarty groans, "it's just a bit of hazing. Can't you take a joke?" He rolls his eyes and stands. "But you're right - you see, Irene, this is why I need him," he says reasonably as he comes to the front of the desk. He leans back against it beside her. "He's going to keep me on track. All work and no play..." He puts on a gormless expression. "Makes Jim dull!" he drones, pretending to be thick. "But necessary," he continues in his normal voice. "I have so many ideas..." He wiggles his fingers around his head. "But we need to focus. Cut to the quick. Let's have it then." He holds his hand out, palm up. "Come on, homework's due," he says impatiently when Sherlock doesn't react right away.
Sherlock gives John a signal, and he reaches into one of his jacket pockets to take out a memory stick, which he drops into Moriarty's hand. Before John can pull back, however, Moriarty snatches at his hand. John tries to jerk away, but Moriarty holds on tight, catching his eye. John glares back, obviously making a concerted effort not to employ any greater physical force.
"My condolences on your wife," Moriarty says softly. "How long has it been now, almost two years? And I heard something about her sister too, just a couple of months ago. Shame. The women in your family do seem to have rather short lifespans. Have you considered having your daughter checked out? It might be something genetic."
"You ..." John looks like he's struggling for words. "Bastard," he finally spits out and yanks his hand out of Moriarty's grip. "Leave my daughter out of this. I'm doing what you want, both of us, we're playing your game. Our kids have nothing to do with it."
Moriarty shakes his head with regret. "That's the sad truth about having children, John ... I can call you John, can't I? We're all friends here, after all. John, the thing about kids is... they get into scrapes. Accidents." He shrugs. "You look away for a second, and BOOM!" He slaps his hands together to punctuate his outburst. "Boom," he repeats sadly, then immediately brightens. "Well, let's see what good ol' Sherlock's done with his assignment, shall we?" He goes back around the desk and sits down, inserts the memory stick into the laptop computer and clicks on the tracking pad a couple of times.
"Oh, Sherlock," Moriarty chuckles after a short while. "Oh, I like this. Liverpool? Really? Fifteen million?" His smile is giddy. He clicks a few more times. "This is very good. I knew you'd be a natural, given the proper incentive."
"You mean kidnapping his son," John says flatly.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Moriarty says, all injured innocence as he continues to scroll through Sherlock's document. "Sounds more like a custody issue to me. You should try a family court."
"Oh, so you wouldn't have any problem with Irene handing Tristram back then, hm?" John says. "Not worried that might reduce Sherlock's incentive to work with you?"
Moriarty leans back in his chair and giggles. "Oh, she won't do that. Not after she worked so hard to get him. Besides, if she did that, I might be tempted to release a few tidbits I've gathered on her over the years. You'd be shocked." He widens his eyes in comical alarm.
Irene slides gracefully off the table, turning casually toward Moriarty. What looks like a move to adjust her bosom inside her dress turns out to be something else altogether as she ends up with a small pistol gripped in both her hands. It is aimed, quite professionally, at the man behind the desk. She disengages the safety and adjusts her stance so her feet are a bit further apart.
Both John and Sherlock go very still.
Moriarty, on the other hand, looks delighted. He lifts his hands slowly away from the keyboard. "Oh, that's very good," he says with genuine admiration. "Truly. I'm surprised, I admit it. Look, goosebumps!" he exclaims gleefully, holding up his arm. "You see, Sherlock, never a dull moment. Who frisked you coming in, by the way?" he asks Irene. "It looks like he might be in for a bit of discipline."
Irene smirks. "Isn't it quaint how he thinks rules apply to me?" The question is directed over her shoulder at Sherlock and John, without taking her eyes from Moriarty. To him, she says, "The poor man would like that immensely. But you might want to avoid his backside. That might still be a bit tender from having my heels dug into it half an hour ago." All eyes in the room except hers are drawn down to the high, sharp heels on her shoes.
"Oh, I know you're beyond anything as boring as rules," Moriarty says. There's a thrumming excitement in his voice as he speaks. "It's why I let you do things for me. But it's the principle of the thing, you see?"
Irene chuckles. "That's very funny. Me doing things for you. We've had a mutually beneficial relationship. You know, like those little birds that keep the fleas off cattle. Tristram told me all about them at dinner last night," she offers, including Sherlock and John in the comment as well. "He's been reading all these nature books. As for the birds, it's perhaps a bit distasteful, but it's a comfortable perch, and those silly cows have no idea really what the clever little birdies are doing up on their backs. They could be bleeding them dry for all they know. And the best part is, once they've taken everything useful from the beast, they can flit off to other pastures. Well, it's time for me to flit, Jim."
Moriarty stares at her, his eyes round with pretended enchantment. "What a pretty story," he says in a high, wondering voice before his demeanour suddenly becomes something close to feral. "There's just one problem. This cow has the bird's wings clipped. All I have to do is send one little file to Children's Services and you'll be lucky to end up with supervised visitation once a month. Not that you'd be able to make much use of that from prison, which is where they put naughty little girls like you."
"Which is why I need you to delete those files," Irene says, this time with iron in her voice.
"Um..." Moriarty rolls his eyes up, pretending to think. "No. Although I agree it might be better for you to move on to other pastures at this point. I'll keep the files, though, thanks."
"Are you sure about that?" Irene asks. "What if I were to shoot you now?" Her lips are parted, shiny in the artificial light, and her eyes are wide as if in anticipation.
"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face," Moriarty retorts, sounding like he's had just about enough of her.
"Irene..." Sherlock cautions, lifting his hand as if to stay her.
"Don't worry, she's not really going to-" Moriarty tells him testily, and then there is a short, muffled pop, and then another. Moriarty slumps to the side and slides off his chair onto the floor.
"Oh," Sherlock says into the startled silence. "We could probably have coordinated that better."
Irene stares down at Moriarty's body. A spill of blood pools and spreads beneath his head. His blank eyes are fixed in an expression of mild surprise. She titters, high and nervy.
John holds out his hands, palms forward. "Irene, put the gun down," he says, very calmly, very firmly.
"Oh my God. I actually did it," she breathes out.
"Irene!" Sherlock snaps as he strides forward. John leaps to hold him back, but he can't make contact before Sherlock reaches Irene.
Sherlock snatches the gun out of Irene's hand and hands it to John. John, taken by surprise, barely manages to cup his hands around it before Sherlock lets go. Irene slowly moves her eyes from Moriarty to her empty hand.
"Look at that," she says in wonderment, spreading her still-gloved fingers. She lifts her eyes to Sherlock's, a slow smile forming. "Steady as a rock. I suppose all those sessions at the shooting range were good for something other than foreplay after all." She lets out a long breath that just barely manages not to be shaky.
John, meanwhile, has now slipped the pistol into his pocket and darted forward to check Moriarty.
"He is dead, isn't he?" Irene asks, not looking away from Sherlock.
"Yes," John confirms with a quick nod and gets to his feet. "What the hell were you thinking?" he demands, keeping his voice to a loud whisper and pointing accusingly at the dead man on the floor.
"That it was time to put an end to all your male posturing. He would have played that game forever if you'd let him." She smooths her dress. "And now it's your turn, darlings."
"I could really have done with a bit more information out of him," Sherlock grumbles. "Not that I begrudge the outcome." He glances down at the dead man.
"I have every confidence you'll handle it," Irene says. "Tristram and I will be waiting to hear from you." She hops across the floor toward the floor-to-ceiling windows covering one wall, taking off her shoes as she goes.
John dashes forward to put himself between her and the windows. "Hold on, that's it?" he practically screeches. "You're leaving us here with a..." He lowers his voice. "With a dead body to deal with... and what about Tristram?"
Irene straightens up. "I told you, he's safe. Safe as houses now that that's dealt with." She jerks her head back toward the body on the floor.
"Then we're coming to get him now," John declares. "He's already been so traumatised, I can only imagine-"
"What exactly do you think I've been doing to him?" she asks incredulously. "He's fine, John. My goodness, you'd think I was some kind of monster the way you're rattling on about it. I've made sure he eats his veg and is all tucked up in bed by eight-thirty every night. And I have one of the best hitwomen in the business watching him right now."
"You have-" John turns to Sherlock in outrage. "Do you hear this? She has a hitwoman babysitting your son and she calls that safe!"
"We don't have what we came for yet," Sherlock says quietly. He walks over and reaches behind John to open the window. John gapes a bit but moves aside to let Irene pass.
Irene pauses and rests her hand delicately on John's arm. "Tristram is fine," she reassures him. She looks up at Sherlock. "I'll bring him back over as soon as I get proof you've taken care of those files."
John stares at Sherlock, his disbelief solidifying into anger and hurt. "So this was all arranged then? The two of you- Fine." He steps out of the way entirely and raises both hands in surrender. "You know what? Fine. After last night, I thought-" He shakes his head and laughs briefly, a sour sound. "God, I really believed you this time. I fell for it again, didn't I?"
"I showed you her note!" Sherlock says indignantly.
"Yeah, but that can't have been everything!" John hisses.
Irene looks back and forth between the two men. "There wasn't any agreement between us, John."
John's face twists in an ugly way. "And I'm supposed to believe you-"
"No," Irene says simply. "You're supposed to believe him."
John swallows. He puts his hands on his hips and slowly lifts his eyes to Sherlock. Sherlock is standing there stiff and still, all colour drained from his face.
"Is it true?" John asks, guarded.
"It doesn't matter what I say, I can't make you-"
"Is it true, Sherlock?" John redoubles, speaking louder to drown out whatever Sherlock is trying to say. "Everything you told me last night, is it true? Did you leave anything out? Even if you were trying to protect me, even if you thought it was for my own good?"
A small line appears between Sherlock's eyebrows. "I can't- That's two different questions. Yes, everything I told you is true. Irene is correct, we never discussed anything after I left with you for the Falls, and we never planned any of this, here, beyond her oblique reference to me dealing with Moriarty's files. Which is unfortunate, as she's left us with a tidy little problem to deal with. And no, I didn't leave anything out last night. Not knowingly, anyway. John, I..." His voice drops, adding an extra layer of soberness. "I meant what I said." After a couple of seconds, he adds, "All of it ..."
They stand looking at each other, hope and vulnerability struggling with fear and insecurity. Finally, John unclenches the fists his hands are curled into at his sides.
"Yeah," he says, his voice low and gruff. "Yeah, okay. Me too."
Both men lean imperceptibly closer to each other, but before anything else can happen, Irene pipes up.
"Much as I would love to see where this is leading," she trills, "we're going to have to move things along. Someone's going to come check on us eventually, and I for one don't intend to be here with that lying around." She jerks her head back toward Moriarty's body.
John tears his eyes away from Sherlock, blinking around like he's just come in from the sun. Then he looks down at himself as if he's just remembered something. "Yeah, and er... not to mention this..." He plucks open his jacket pocket and tilts his body to show the gun still inside.
"Yes, we might still be needing that." Sherlock, once again composed, ushers Irene through the window, which opens onto a wide terrace overlooking a garden.
"For?" John asks.
"As soon as I land on the lawn, the floodlights are going to come on," Irene says. "It'll be about thirty seconds before the security detail comes after me. Help a girl up." This last comment is directed at Sherlock, who hoists Irene onto the railing surrounding the terrace, her skirt being so tight she can't lift her legs high enough on her own.
Irene hooks her shoes over one finger by the straps. "I can probably buy you another five minutes," she tells him, swinging her legs over to the other side.
"For what? Will someone please tell me what's going on?" John demands.
Irene wrinkles her nose. "Sherlock, really. He's cute, but don't you find him rather dense?"
"Oopsy-daisy," Sherlock sing-songs and tips her over the edge.
She lets out a short, muffled shriek. The floodlights switch on with a clack. Sherlock is already on his way back inside. John checks over the edge. Irene is picking herself up from the lawn, her shoes still delicately dangling from one finger. She tilts her head up to catch John's eye and hitches her dress up around her hips. "Remember: make him beg," she calls softly up to him, grins, and starts running.
John pushes himself back from the railing and goes back inside. "Five minutes for what? What are we still doing here?"
Sherlock is already sitting at the desk, his hands hovering over the laptop as if it contains radioactive material. "We don't have his password."
"So?" John steps carefully around the bloodstain, which has now reached the wall. "Can't Mycroft's people extract the information from the hard drive without it?"
"He doesn't have anything on here," Sherlock says. "Do you really think he'd be stupid enough to store all his blackmail material on a physical drive? One spilled cup of coffee and his entire empire collapses. No, it's in the cloud."
John leans one hand on the back of the desk chair and looks over Sherlock's shoulder at the laptop. "Sorry?"
"Virtual space," Sherlock explains quickly, his eyes flitting back and forth across the screen. "Fragmented and encrypted, hidden away behind several firewalls. That's not the problem, however. Mycroft will have people who can access it eventually, but we don't have that much time. He built in a failsafe: if he doesn't enter a password at least once every twenty-four hours, the floodgates are opened. Everything he has on anyone, all the incriminating evidence, will be released and distributed across the internet. Think Wikileaks to the power of ten. Governments will fall, John. And it might become rather difficult to get a decent WiFi connection. Terribly inconvenient."
"He told you this?"
Sherlock snorts. "Of course he told me that. He was a narcissistic megalomaniac. He couldn't get enough of telling me how clever he was."
"Not like that's familiar or anything," John mutters. Then in a more normal tone, he asks, "Well, can you stop it? Do you know the password?"
"No. But it shouldn't be too difficult to figure out."
"Easy then," John says, as if he thinks it will be anything but.
"It would be if I had more time." Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and presses his fingers against his temples.
"You have twenty-four hours, you can work on it at home."
"We don't know when the last time he entered it was. If he were at all clever, he'd have timed it so that the deadline ran out right around the time of this meeting, for exactly this reason. And we do know he was clever." Sherlock's eyes pop open and he taps something quickly on the computer keyboard.
A sad-sounding trombone swoop comes from the computer and a message appears on the screen: 'Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the smartest of them all?'
Sherlock makes a face as if someone were trying to force him to eat Brussels sprouts. "Smart? He wasn't smart, he was clever. Why smart?"
John looks suddenly toward the terrace. They left the window open, and the sound of shouts can be heard from outside. "No pressure or anything, but I think that's the least of our worries."
"Shh!" Sherlock shushes him sharply. "I need to think!"
John goes to the window and glances out. More shouts sound, accompanied by doors slamming somewhere inside the house. John hurries back to Sherlock. "Take that with you, you can keep trying while we get out of here!" he says.
"No, wait, I've almost got it," Sherlock mutters. He types something, stops, deletes most of it, then types again and hits 'Enter'.
The klaxon plays again and the same message blinks on the screen.
"All right, that's it, come on." John grabs Sherlock by the arm and tries to bodily haul him to his feet.
"Will you stop, I cannot THINK!" Sherlock shouts, shaking him off.
"In case you haven't noticed, we won't be able to apparate out of here. Is that what you wanted Irene's gun for? You expecting me to blast our way out?"
Sherlock looks up with an expression of wonder and surprise. "Oh! Yes, exactly. John, you're a genius. Apparate! Tom Marvolo Riddle! That's why he's smart, not clever. Quick, what was his middle name?" Sherlock snaps his fingers several times at John.
"What the hell? Who?"
Sherlock huffs a bit and repeats the question: "His middle name. Moriarty," he adds as if John were dense, gesturing at the body on the floor. "Get his wallet." Sherlock twirls his hand at the corpse. "It should have some form of ID with his middle name on it."
John crouches down and gingerly reaches inside Moriarty's jacket, coming out with a thin leather etui. He flips it open and starts combing through it. "J. L. Moriarty, J., James, James L... Here, his EHIC card. James Llewellen Moriarty." He hands the card to Sherlock.
Sherlock grabs a pen from the desk and starts scribbling on a scrap of paper. "Smarter... I am smarter, obvious, the J's a problem... joy, jelly, jolly..." He crosses out and rewrites. John comes over to watch, resting one hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Finally, Sherlock underscores a line of writing and turns back to the computer.
"I am jolly well e'en smarter? E'en?" John reads incredulously.
"It's a poetic form of even," Sherlock says. "Still, it probably killed him that his name wasn't Morviarty." He enters the phrase into the password prompt. His finger hesitates over the Enter key, though.
"Well go on," John says impatiently. "What are you waiting for?"
"If it's wrong, this would be the third failed attempt. It might trigger the dump."
"It's going to go off anyway, right?"
"Maybe. We might still have time to try something else." Sherlock tilts his head to look up at John. "He has something on you in there," he says soberly. "He showed me. Timestamped footage of you entering and leaving the building with the duffle the night Moran was shot. A witness who can place you at the shooting range the night before."
John holds Sherlock's gaze for several moments. They can hear raised voices now, accompanied by clattering and thumping. John nods once. "It's right. You got the right password," he says and looks at the screen.
Sherlock taps Enter.
The screen goes black. John's hand tightens on Sherlock's shoulder, but half a second later, the display comes back, this time showing a directory. Sherlock starts scrolling rapidly through it. John lets out his breath and squeezes Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock reaches up his left hand and covers John's hand with his.
A few keystrokes later, the entire directory disappears.
"Now shoot it," Sherlock says, standing and moving away from the desk.
"What? But you said there wasn't anything-"
"There's not, but there's no time to shut it down, and it will distract them, just shoot it!" Sherlock is already on his way to the terrace windows.
John takes out Irene's gun, cocks it, and blasts a hole in the laptop. After a moment's consideration, he pumps another round into it then sprints after Sherlock.
"That felt pretty good, actually," John remarks as he reaches the terrace. "Bloody things never do what I want."
Sherlock vaults over the railing. John clambers after him. When he drops to the ground, Sherlock is already halfway across the lawn. "Get the lights, John!" he yells over his shoulder.
John gets to his feet and twists around to aim for the big floodlights on the side of the house. Just as he does, a figure bursts out onto the terrace above him, a gun in his hand. He spots John, but before he can get a shot off, John blasts one of the lights and drops to the ground, rolling toward the wall for some modicum of cover. In a crouch, he takes out the only other light within range while shouts come from above and somewhere to the left. Under cover of the darkness, John takes a deep breath and runs after Sherlock.
"That..." John pants, still out of breath, "was completely insane. We must have left all kinds of evidence. Fingerprints... Hell, they saw us going in. They'll know we did it. And we didn't even do it!"
He watches Sherlock's profile in the back seat of the black car bringing them back to London.
"They're not going to go after us," Sherlock says smugly.
"No? What, you have some kind of mind tricks? You're not actually a wizard, you know."
Sherlock reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and takes out the memory stick they'd given to Moriarty. He waggles it at John.
"You..." It takes a few seconds, but then John's face expands into a slow smile. "Of course you did. And they're all on there. Moriarty would have made sure of it to keep them under his thumb. What are you going to do with it?"
"First scrub any mention of you or Irene and then hold it over Mycroft's head for favours."
John laughs, tentatively at first, but soon he's clutching his side and guffawing. "Oh God, oh Jesus. That is brilliant. Why Irene though? She still has Tristram."
Sherlock's smile falters. His fingers worry absently at the stick. "She doesn't want to keep him. She's had her bit of fun. You heard her. She sucked the cow dry. It's time for her to flit." He stuffs the memory stick back into his pocket and props his elbow on the window frame, his fist to his mouth.
John slides closer to him on the seat so he can rest his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck. "She's an idiot. She doesn't deserve him."
"Nevertheless, she is his mother, and she won't go away entirely this time."
"Couldn't you have her stripped of any parental rights? Moriarty said he had something on there that would do it-"
"And Tristram?" Sherlock asks quietly, lowering his hand to his lap.
John looks down, considering the implications. He swallows hard, his thumb rubbing the juncture between Sherlock's neck and shoulder. "Yeah, of course. You're right. It wouldn't... It wouldn't be fair to him."
"I'm afraid we're just going to have to deal with her."
"We..." John repeats, as if probing for an explanation.
"I meant... me," Sherlock says quickly. "Me and Tristram... You don't have to-"
"No, Sherlock." John smiles quietly. "It's fine. We."
John nudges with his hand on Sherlock's neck until Sherlock turns his head. John moves closer and kisses him gently. Sherlock shifts and puts his arm around John's back, returning the assurance along with several more kisses.
"Just one more question," John says when they finally separate again. "What was all that about his middle name?"
Sherlock exhales and settles back against the seat. "He had a full set of those wizard books on the bookshelves behind his desk; hardcover, no less. I don't doubt he identified closely with the main antagonist, Tom Marvolo Riddle, a.k.a. 'I am Lord Voldemort'."
John looks bemused. "That's not in the one we're reading now. That's in one of the earlier ones."
"Chamber of Secrets, yes. I may have found it expedient to do some research in order to keep abreast of Tristram's interests."
"You are amazing. And a very, very good father."
Sherlock looks pained. "John..."
"No, you are." John takes Sherlock's hand and squeezes it firmly. "And now let's go get Tristram."
Chapter note: The best lines in this chapter were written by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dioscureantwins because she's sassier than me.
I worked with the Internet Anagram Server to come up with the anagram. (Put your name in and try it, it's fun!)
The EHIC card is the European Health Insurance Card. It allows anyone covered by the NHS to receive medical care in any country belonging to the European Economic Area. Basically, someone from the UK would need it if they're travelling to Switzerland because Switzerland isn't in the EU.
I really hope this all makes sense and explains enough what's been going on. I purposely didn't include all the details of everyone's plans because it would have involved going into tangents that weren't really important for the resolution of the story. Also because Sherlock, Irene, and Moriarty are much cleverer than I am. :) If there's anything that is still really bugging you though, please ask!
Author:
swissmargBeta readers:
ruth0007, Rating: R
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Other characters: Irene Adler, OCs
Word count: ca. 85K when complete
Summary: Sequel to 'Cracks in the In-Between Places'. A Swiss holiday seems to be the perfect way for the Holmeses and the Watsons to recover from their recent troubles and deepen their attachments to each other, but when Tristram's mother and the bogeyman both turn up, loyalties are put to the ultimate test.
See Chapter One for additional notes
Read Chapter 16 on AO3
Chapter Sixteen
"You're going to see my father, aren't you?" Tristram watches as Irene works her fingers into a pair of tight, black gloves that go halfway up her arms. She already has a long, black overcoat on. It looks remarkably similar to Father's, but not as bulky.
"No, in fact I'm not," she says, yanking viciously at the gloves. "I'm going to put an end to this entire thing, once and for all. Kate?" she calls.
Quick footsteps sound coming down the stairs. It's Irene's friend, the woman who's going to stay with Tristram while Irene goes out. She has longish red hair, pale green eyes, and the same air of vague amusement as Uncle Mycroft's assistant, Miss Smith. Only where Miss Smith makes Tristram think of a Siamese cat, just barely deigning to interact with humans, Kate reminds Tristram more of a panther. There's something prowling and greedy behind those eyes. Tristram is fascinated, but also wary. He's not afraid of her, though, and certainly she's done nothing that could in any way be construed as threatening. She arrived about an hour ago with what Tristram assumed was an overnight bag, but Irene took it from her and disappeared into her bedroom with it alone. Maybe it had extra clothes for Irene. Irene didn't take any luggage with her from the train either. Although she's had new clothes on every day since they've been here; she must have found things left in the bedroom she's using that happened to fit her too. So Tristram's not actually sure what was in that bag that Kate brought.
"I wish you'd let me go," Kate says. There's a bit of a pout there, but also a bit of disapproval. She holds out a small red handbag once she gets to the bottom of the stairs. It matches the red dress Irene's wearing under her coat. That was probably one of the things in the suitcase Kate brought her.
Irene takes the handbag and undoes the clasp, checks the contents, and snaps it shut again. "It's not that I don't have complete confidence in your abilities, but you know, this is personal."
Kate shakes her head. She looks frustrated. "It's not that. He's not right."
"No," Irene agrees smoothly. "Which is why I can't let you go after him."
She and Kate look at each other. Tristram has the impression they're having an argument without using any words, the same way John and Father do sometimes. They both have pretty good glares going, but Tristram's not surprised when Kate's the one who ends up backing down.
"Be careful, Irene," she says, the same way Mrs Hudson does when Father dashes off chasing a lead. Fretful, but like she's said it about a hundred times before and despairs of him ever minding her.
Irene looks like she's a little disappointed. "Oh, Kate, you know me. I'm never careful." She smirks. "I'm thorough."
Then she looks down at Tristram and puts her hand against his cheek. The material of her gloves feels cool and slippery on his skin. "Now Tristram," she starts. Her features soften, and Tristram's afraid for a pretty long moment that she's actually going to start crying, the way her eyes go all shiny. But when she speaks, her voice is steady and clear. "You are my miracle," she says. "I don't know what I expected when I went to Switzerland, but you weren't it, and I'm glad. Because I could never have come up with anything as incredible as you. I am very, very proud to be your mother, even though I know I don't deserve it. And now I'm going to go and try to earn it, just a little bit." She rubs her thumb over his cheek. A shiver goes down Tristram's spine. "Wish me luck," she whispers.
Tristram's mouth has gone dry, but he manages to dutifully parrot back: "Good luck." That was kind of a big speech. No one's ever told him he was incredible before, not even John, who's fairly generous with his praise. He's told Father's he's incredible - and amazing, and lots of other nice things - lots of times. And he did say that Tristram guessing right about the phone was amazing. But given Irene's track record with the truth, he's not sure what to make of it when she says it. Does she really think that? Based on what? All she's seen him do the past few days is eat and have panic attacks.
He also doesn't know what to do with her statement that she's proud to be his mother. And why would she have to deserve it? As he understands the way the world works, a person doesn't have to do anything in particular to earn parenthood. It just kind of happens. He's apprehensive, though, about what she might be going to do to earn it, and what 'putting an end to this thing' will entail. It sounds very final.
Irene leans over Tristram's head toward Kate. Tristram can hear the soft smack, but he doesn't see where the kiss lands. He wonders if maybe Kate and Irene are special friends too. But Irene pulls back right away and leans down toward Tristram. She hesitates a moment before kissing Tristram on the cheek. Her face is really soft, even softer than Mrs Hudson's, and she smells nice. He gives her a little smile. She smiles back. She looks like she's going to say something, but all that comes out is "Don't wait up." Before Tristram can nod she’s turned her back on them and is out the door.
Kate and Tristram look each other over, both equally wary. "You want me to show you how to tie some knots?" she finally suggests.
Tristram shrugs. "Sure." Although it's more getting out of them that he needs practise with.
&&&&&&
"Well, this is a turn-up, wouldn't you say?" the man behind the desk chirps, grinning gleefully at Sherlock and John as they enter. His face is pale and boyish even with the faint shadow above his lip. His dark hair is slicked back from his high forehead, and he's wearing a very neat, dark-grey suit.
Irene is perched on top of the desk, facing forward as if waiting for company. She has her gloved hands folded demurely in her lap and her legs dangle playfully over the edge. She inclines her head slightly in Sherlock and John's direction and gives them a cool smile.
John grinds to an abrupt halt and turns to check Sherlock's reaction, but he is fixated on Irene.
The man gets up and ambles lazily around the desk. "John Watson, it's such a pleasure," he burbles with an oily grin, holding out his hand. "Jim Moriarty."
John stares at his hand but doesn't take it. His expression is stony.
Moriarty shrugs and stuffs his hands in his pockets instead. "Sherlock's told me all about you," he says. He leans forward and lowers his voice. "I was especially interested in what he had to say about your skill with a..." He looks around as if someone might overhear him, then leans in even closer to speak directly into John's ear. "A gun," he finishes. He makes the word sound indecent, virtually caressing it on his tongue.
John remains compeletely still except for a muscle twitching under one eye.
Moriarty pulls back and continues, more casually this time. "A real one, that is. Just one look at poor, infatuated Sherlock was enough to tell me all about the way you handle that piece of equipment you hide in your pocket. Of course as a doctor, even in the army you never would have needed to use a live weapon, but we all get an itchy trigger finger now and then, don't we?"
He turns and walks back around his desk. "I used to have a former army colonel working for me," he mentions as he goes. "Knew what to do with a gun as well. Sadly, he was killed by some nasty sniper. Very unpleasant business. Pity really, I’m sure you would have made great pals. Swapping war stories, you know." Suddenly his voice is very high. " 'I’m a hero.' 'No, I’m a hero.' Oh, well." He pretends to wipe tears from his eyes, then he sits down and sighs heavily. "Some things obviously weren’t meant to be. But you know the saying," he goes on, perking up. "One door slams shut on your fingers, leaving a mangled, bloody mess, and another one opens. So imagine how excited I was when Sherlock suggested bringing you in on our little project. Having lost dear, dear Seb, I was rather desperate to find someone with a similar skill set. And now Sherly here told me you’re just the thing. Sit." He points at two armchairs set at angles in front of the desk. It's an order, not an invitation, but it's not entirely unfriendly. "I believe you all know each other?" Moriarty suggests innocently, gesturing at Irene once John and Sherlock have taken their seats. Their chairs are far enough away that they can't reach each other, but close enough that Moriarty has both of them firmly in his field of vision.
"Where's Tristram?" Sherlock demands of Irene, ignoring Moriarty.
"Safe. For now," Irene says, placing a casual emphasis on the last word. "Oh, don't look like that. Really, you don't imagine I would have left him anywhere he might get ... I don't know, poisoned or shot?"
Moriarty giggles. "He did, didn't he? Oh, Sherlock," he says, his face falling comically at Sherlock's suddenly thunderous expression. "Admit it. You were a rather negligent parent."
"That was all down to you, not Sherlock," John punches out, stabbing a finger in Moriarty's direction.
Moriarty's eyebrows shoot up in an expression of exaggerated surprise. "Ooh, look, it speaks! How fun!"
Irene chuckles, low and throaty. "Oh, he is fun. I didn't even tell you how prettily he blushes yet. Watch. John..." she coaxes, "have you had Sherlock properly yet? Ridden him hard and put him away wet?" She drops her voice even further and leans forward as if to speak to him confidentially. "Top tip: see if you can make him beg for it. He's ever so grateful afterwards."
"Aw, now you're making me blush," Moriarty croons.
John smirks, his hands grasping the armrests of his chair the only outward sign of his agitation. "Why? Does sex alarm you?"
"Oh really, sex," Sherlock drawls dismissively. "How tedious. And here I thought we were going to discuss business, not engage in some fourteen-year-old locker room talk."
"God," Moriarty groans, "it's just a bit of hazing. Can't you take a joke?" He rolls his eyes and stands. "But you're right - you see, Irene, this is why I need him," he says reasonably as he comes to the front of the desk. He leans back against it beside her. "He's going to keep me on track. All work and no play..." He puts on a gormless expression. "Makes Jim dull!" he drones, pretending to be thick. "But necessary," he continues in his normal voice. "I have so many ideas..." He wiggles his fingers around his head. "But we need to focus. Cut to the quick. Let's have it then." He holds his hand out, palm up. "Come on, homework's due," he says impatiently when Sherlock doesn't react right away.
Sherlock gives John a signal, and he reaches into one of his jacket pockets to take out a memory stick, which he drops into Moriarty's hand. Before John can pull back, however, Moriarty snatches at his hand. John tries to jerk away, but Moriarty holds on tight, catching his eye. John glares back, obviously making a concerted effort not to employ any greater physical force.
"My condolences on your wife," Moriarty says softly. "How long has it been now, almost two years? And I heard something about her sister too, just a couple of months ago. Shame. The women in your family do seem to have rather short lifespans. Have you considered having your daughter checked out? It might be something genetic."
"You ..." John looks like he's struggling for words. "Bastard," he finally spits out and yanks his hand out of Moriarty's grip. "Leave my daughter out of this. I'm doing what you want, both of us, we're playing your game. Our kids have nothing to do with it."
Moriarty shakes his head with regret. "That's the sad truth about having children, John ... I can call you John, can't I? We're all friends here, after all. John, the thing about kids is... they get into scrapes. Accidents." He shrugs. "You look away for a second, and BOOM!" He slaps his hands together to punctuate his outburst. "Boom," he repeats sadly, then immediately brightens. "Well, let's see what good ol' Sherlock's done with his assignment, shall we?" He goes back around the desk and sits down, inserts the memory stick into the laptop computer and clicks on the tracking pad a couple of times.
"Oh, Sherlock," Moriarty chuckles after a short while. "Oh, I like this. Liverpool? Really? Fifteen million?" His smile is giddy. He clicks a few more times. "This is very good. I knew you'd be a natural, given the proper incentive."
"You mean kidnapping his son," John says flatly.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Moriarty says, all injured innocence as he continues to scroll through Sherlock's document. "Sounds more like a custody issue to me. You should try a family court."
"Oh, so you wouldn't have any problem with Irene handing Tristram back then, hm?" John says. "Not worried that might reduce Sherlock's incentive to work with you?"
Moriarty leans back in his chair and giggles. "Oh, she won't do that. Not after she worked so hard to get him. Besides, if she did that, I might be tempted to release a few tidbits I've gathered on her over the years. You'd be shocked." He widens his eyes in comical alarm.
Irene slides gracefully off the table, turning casually toward Moriarty. What looks like a move to adjust her bosom inside her dress turns out to be something else altogether as she ends up with a small pistol gripped in both her hands. It is aimed, quite professionally, at the man behind the desk. She disengages the safety and adjusts her stance so her feet are a bit further apart.
Both John and Sherlock go very still.
Moriarty, on the other hand, looks delighted. He lifts his hands slowly away from the keyboard. "Oh, that's very good," he says with genuine admiration. "Truly. I'm surprised, I admit it. Look, goosebumps!" he exclaims gleefully, holding up his arm. "You see, Sherlock, never a dull moment. Who frisked you coming in, by the way?" he asks Irene. "It looks like he might be in for a bit of discipline."
Irene smirks. "Isn't it quaint how he thinks rules apply to me?" The question is directed over her shoulder at Sherlock and John, without taking her eyes from Moriarty. To him, she says, "The poor man would like that immensely. But you might want to avoid his backside. That might still be a bit tender from having my heels dug into it half an hour ago." All eyes in the room except hers are drawn down to the high, sharp heels on her shoes.
"Oh, I know you're beyond anything as boring as rules," Moriarty says. There's a thrumming excitement in his voice as he speaks. "It's why I let you do things for me. But it's the principle of the thing, you see?"
Irene chuckles. "That's very funny. Me doing things for you. We've had a mutually beneficial relationship. You know, like those little birds that keep the fleas off cattle. Tristram told me all about them at dinner last night," she offers, including Sherlock and John in the comment as well. "He's been reading all these nature books. As for the birds, it's perhaps a bit distasteful, but it's a comfortable perch, and those silly cows have no idea really what the clever little birdies are doing up on their backs. They could be bleeding them dry for all they know. And the best part is, once they've taken everything useful from the beast, they can flit off to other pastures. Well, it's time for me to flit, Jim."
Moriarty stares at her, his eyes round with pretended enchantment. "What a pretty story," he says in a high, wondering voice before his demeanour suddenly becomes something close to feral. "There's just one problem. This cow has the bird's wings clipped. All I have to do is send one little file to Children's Services and you'll be lucky to end up with supervised visitation once a month. Not that you'd be able to make much use of that from prison, which is where they put naughty little girls like you."
"Which is why I need you to delete those files," Irene says, this time with iron in her voice.
"Um..." Moriarty rolls his eyes up, pretending to think. "No. Although I agree it might be better for you to move on to other pastures at this point. I'll keep the files, though, thanks."
"Are you sure about that?" Irene asks. "What if I were to shoot you now?" Her lips are parted, shiny in the artificial light, and her eyes are wide as if in anticipation.
"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face," Moriarty retorts, sounding like he's had just about enough of her.
"Irene..." Sherlock cautions, lifting his hand as if to stay her.
"Don't worry, she's not really going to-" Moriarty tells him testily, and then there is a short, muffled pop, and then another. Moriarty slumps to the side and slides off his chair onto the floor.
"Oh," Sherlock says into the startled silence. "We could probably have coordinated that better."
Irene stares down at Moriarty's body. A spill of blood pools and spreads beneath his head. His blank eyes are fixed in an expression of mild surprise. She titters, high and nervy.
John holds out his hands, palms forward. "Irene, put the gun down," he says, very calmly, very firmly.
"Oh my God. I actually did it," she breathes out.
"Irene!" Sherlock snaps as he strides forward. John leaps to hold him back, but he can't make contact before Sherlock reaches Irene.
Sherlock snatches the gun out of Irene's hand and hands it to John. John, taken by surprise, barely manages to cup his hands around it before Sherlock lets go. Irene slowly moves her eyes from Moriarty to her empty hand.
"Look at that," she says in wonderment, spreading her still-gloved fingers. She lifts her eyes to Sherlock's, a slow smile forming. "Steady as a rock. I suppose all those sessions at the shooting range were good for something other than foreplay after all." She lets out a long breath that just barely manages not to be shaky.
John, meanwhile, has now slipped the pistol into his pocket and darted forward to check Moriarty.
"He is dead, isn't he?" Irene asks, not looking away from Sherlock.
"Yes," John confirms with a quick nod and gets to his feet. "What the hell were you thinking?" he demands, keeping his voice to a loud whisper and pointing accusingly at the dead man on the floor.
"That it was time to put an end to all your male posturing. He would have played that game forever if you'd let him." She smooths her dress. "And now it's your turn, darlings."
"I could really have done with a bit more information out of him," Sherlock grumbles. "Not that I begrudge the outcome." He glances down at the dead man.
"I have every confidence you'll handle it," Irene says. "Tristram and I will be waiting to hear from you." She hops across the floor toward the floor-to-ceiling windows covering one wall, taking off her shoes as she goes.
John dashes forward to put himself between her and the windows. "Hold on, that's it?" he practically screeches. "You're leaving us here with a..." He lowers his voice. "With a dead body to deal with... and what about Tristram?"
Irene straightens up. "I told you, he's safe. Safe as houses now that that's dealt with." She jerks her head back toward the body on the floor.
"Then we're coming to get him now," John declares. "He's already been so traumatised, I can only imagine-"
"What exactly do you think I've been doing to him?" she asks incredulously. "He's fine, John. My goodness, you'd think I was some kind of monster the way you're rattling on about it. I've made sure he eats his veg and is all tucked up in bed by eight-thirty every night. And I have one of the best hitwomen in the business watching him right now."
"You have-" John turns to Sherlock in outrage. "Do you hear this? She has a hitwoman babysitting your son and she calls that safe!"
"We don't have what we came for yet," Sherlock says quietly. He walks over and reaches behind John to open the window. John gapes a bit but moves aside to let Irene pass.
Irene pauses and rests her hand delicately on John's arm. "Tristram is fine," she reassures him. She looks up at Sherlock. "I'll bring him back over as soon as I get proof you've taken care of those files."
John stares at Sherlock, his disbelief solidifying into anger and hurt. "So this was all arranged then? The two of you- Fine." He steps out of the way entirely and raises both hands in surrender. "You know what? Fine. After last night, I thought-" He shakes his head and laughs briefly, a sour sound. "God, I really believed you this time. I fell for it again, didn't I?"
"I showed you her note!" Sherlock says indignantly.
"Yeah, but that can't have been everything!" John hisses.
Irene looks back and forth between the two men. "There wasn't any agreement between us, John."
John's face twists in an ugly way. "And I'm supposed to believe you-"
"No," Irene says simply. "You're supposed to believe him."
John swallows. He puts his hands on his hips and slowly lifts his eyes to Sherlock. Sherlock is standing there stiff and still, all colour drained from his face.
"Is it true?" John asks, guarded.
"It doesn't matter what I say, I can't make you-"
"Is it true, Sherlock?" John redoubles, speaking louder to drown out whatever Sherlock is trying to say. "Everything you told me last night, is it true? Did you leave anything out? Even if you were trying to protect me, even if you thought it was for my own good?"
A small line appears between Sherlock's eyebrows. "I can't- That's two different questions. Yes, everything I told you is true. Irene is correct, we never discussed anything after I left with you for the Falls, and we never planned any of this, here, beyond her oblique reference to me dealing with Moriarty's files. Which is unfortunate, as she's left us with a tidy little problem to deal with. And no, I didn't leave anything out last night. Not knowingly, anyway. John, I..." His voice drops, adding an extra layer of soberness. "I meant what I said." After a couple of seconds, he adds, "All of it ..."
They stand looking at each other, hope and vulnerability struggling with fear and insecurity. Finally, John unclenches the fists his hands are curled into at his sides.
"Yeah," he says, his voice low and gruff. "Yeah, okay. Me too."
Both men lean imperceptibly closer to each other, but before anything else can happen, Irene pipes up.
"Much as I would love to see where this is leading," she trills, "we're going to have to move things along. Someone's going to come check on us eventually, and I for one don't intend to be here with that lying around." She jerks her head back toward Moriarty's body.
John tears his eyes away from Sherlock, blinking around like he's just come in from the sun. Then he looks down at himself as if he's just remembered something. "Yeah, and er... not to mention this..." He plucks open his jacket pocket and tilts his body to show the gun still inside.
"Yes, we might still be needing that." Sherlock, once again composed, ushers Irene through the window, which opens onto a wide terrace overlooking a garden.
"For?" John asks.
"As soon as I land on the lawn, the floodlights are going to come on," Irene says. "It'll be about thirty seconds before the security detail comes after me. Help a girl up." This last comment is directed at Sherlock, who hoists Irene onto the railing surrounding the terrace, her skirt being so tight she can't lift her legs high enough on her own.
Irene hooks her shoes over one finger by the straps. "I can probably buy you another five minutes," she tells him, swinging her legs over to the other side.
"For what? Will someone please tell me what's going on?" John demands.
Irene wrinkles her nose. "Sherlock, really. He's cute, but don't you find him rather dense?"
"Oopsy-daisy," Sherlock sing-songs and tips her over the edge.
She lets out a short, muffled shriek. The floodlights switch on with a clack. Sherlock is already on his way back inside. John checks over the edge. Irene is picking herself up from the lawn, her shoes still delicately dangling from one finger. She tilts her head up to catch John's eye and hitches her dress up around her hips. "Remember: make him beg," she calls softly up to him, grins, and starts running.
John pushes himself back from the railing and goes back inside. "Five minutes for what? What are we still doing here?"
Sherlock is already sitting at the desk, his hands hovering over the laptop as if it contains radioactive material. "We don't have his password."
"So?" John steps carefully around the bloodstain, which has now reached the wall. "Can't Mycroft's people extract the information from the hard drive without it?"
"He doesn't have anything on here," Sherlock says. "Do you really think he'd be stupid enough to store all his blackmail material on a physical drive? One spilled cup of coffee and his entire empire collapses. No, it's in the cloud."
John leans one hand on the back of the desk chair and looks over Sherlock's shoulder at the laptop. "Sorry?"
"Virtual space," Sherlock explains quickly, his eyes flitting back and forth across the screen. "Fragmented and encrypted, hidden away behind several firewalls. That's not the problem, however. Mycroft will have people who can access it eventually, but we don't have that much time. He built in a failsafe: if he doesn't enter a password at least once every twenty-four hours, the floodgates are opened. Everything he has on anyone, all the incriminating evidence, will be released and distributed across the internet. Think Wikileaks to the power of ten. Governments will fall, John. And it might become rather difficult to get a decent WiFi connection. Terribly inconvenient."
"He told you this?"
Sherlock snorts. "Of course he told me that. He was a narcissistic megalomaniac. He couldn't get enough of telling me how clever he was."
"Not like that's familiar or anything," John mutters. Then in a more normal tone, he asks, "Well, can you stop it? Do you know the password?"
"No. But it shouldn't be too difficult to figure out."
"Easy then," John says, as if he thinks it will be anything but.
"It would be if I had more time." Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and presses his fingers against his temples.
"You have twenty-four hours, you can work on it at home."
"We don't know when the last time he entered it was. If he were at all clever, he'd have timed it so that the deadline ran out right around the time of this meeting, for exactly this reason. And we do know he was clever." Sherlock's eyes pop open and he taps something quickly on the computer keyboard.
A sad-sounding trombone swoop comes from the computer and a message appears on the screen: 'Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the smartest of them all?'
Sherlock makes a face as if someone were trying to force him to eat Brussels sprouts. "Smart? He wasn't smart, he was clever. Why smart?"
John looks suddenly toward the terrace. They left the window open, and the sound of shouts can be heard from outside. "No pressure or anything, but I think that's the least of our worries."
"Shh!" Sherlock shushes him sharply. "I need to think!"
John goes to the window and glances out. More shouts sound, accompanied by doors slamming somewhere inside the house. John hurries back to Sherlock. "Take that with you, you can keep trying while we get out of here!" he says.
"No, wait, I've almost got it," Sherlock mutters. He types something, stops, deletes most of it, then types again and hits 'Enter'.
The klaxon plays again and the same message blinks on the screen.
"All right, that's it, come on." John grabs Sherlock by the arm and tries to bodily haul him to his feet.
"Will you stop, I cannot THINK!" Sherlock shouts, shaking him off.
"In case you haven't noticed, we won't be able to apparate out of here. Is that what you wanted Irene's gun for? You expecting me to blast our way out?"
Sherlock looks up with an expression of wonder and surprise. "Oh! Yes, exactly. John, you're a genius. Apparate! Tom Marvolo Riddle! That's why he's smart, not clever. Quick, what was his middle name?" Sherlock snaps his fingers several times at John.
"What the hell? Who?"
Sherlock huffs a bit and repeats the question: "His middle name. Moriarty," he adds as if John were dense, gesturing at the body on the floor. "Get his wallet." Sherlock twirls his hand at the corpse. "It should have some form of ID with his middle name on it."
John crouches down and gingerly reaches inside Moriarty's jacket, coming out with a thin leather etui. He flips it open and starts combing through it. "J. L. Moriarty, J., James, James L... Here, his EHIC card. James Llewellen Moriarty." He hands the card to Sherlock.
Sherlock grabs a pen from the desk and starts scribbling on a scrap of paper. "Smarter... I am smarter, obvious, the J's a problem... joy, jelly, jolly..." He crosses out and rewrites. John comes over to watch, resting one hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Finally, Sherlock underscores a line of writing and turns back to the computer.
"I am jolly well e'en smarter? E'en?" John reads incredulously.
"It's a poetic form of even," Sherlock says. "Still, it probably killed him that his name wasn't Morviarty." He enters the phrase into the password prompt. His finger hesitates over the Enter key, though.
"Well go on," John says impatiently. "What are you waiting for?"
"If it's wrong, this would be the third failed attempt. It might trigger the dump."
"It's going to go off anyway, right?"
"Maybe. We might still have time to try something else." Sherlock tilts his head to look up at John. "He has something on you in there," he says soberly. "He showed me. Timestamped footage of you entering and leaving the building with the duffle the night Moran was shot. A witness who can place you at the shooting range the night before."
John holds Sherlock's gaze for several moments. They can hear raised voices now, accompanied by clattering and thumping. John nods once. "It's right. You got the right password," he says and looks at the screen.
Sherlock taps Enter.
The screen goes black. John's hand tightens on Sherlock's shoulder, but half a second later, the display comes back, this time showing a directory. Sherlock starts scrolling rapidly through it. John lets out his breath and squeezes Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock reaches up his left hand and covers John's hand with his.
A few keystrokes later, the entire directory disappears.
"Now shoot it," Sherlock says, standing and moving away from the desk.
"What? But you said there wasn't anything-"
"There's not, but there's no time to shut it down, and it will distract them, just shoot it!" Sherlock is already on his way to the terrace windows.
John takes out Irene's gun, cocks it, and blasts a hole in the laptop. After a moment's consideration, he pumps another round into it then sprints after Sherlock.
"That felt pretty good, actually," John remarks as he reaches the terrace. "Bloody things never do what I want."
Sherlock vaults over the railing. John clambers after him. When he drops to the ground, Sherlock is already halfway across the lawn. "Get the lights, John!" he yells over his shoulder.
John gets to his feet and twists around to aim for the big floodlights on the side of the house. Just as he does, a figure bursts out onto the terrace above him, a gun in his hand. He spots John, but before he can get a shot off, John blasts one of the lights and drops to the ground, rolling toward the wall for some modicum of cover. In a crouch, he takes out the only other light within range while shouts come from above and somewhere to the left. Under cover of the darkness, John takes a deep breath and runs after Sherlock.
&&&&&&
"That..." John pants, still out of breath, "was completely insane. We must have left all kinds of evidence. Fingerprints... Hell, they saw us going in. They'll know we did it. And we didn't even do it!"
He watches Sherlock's profile in the back seat of the black car bringing them back to London.
"They're not going to go after us," Sherlock says smugly.
"No? What, you have some kind of mind tricks? You're not actually a wizard, you know."
Sherlock reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and takes out the memory stick they'd given to Moriarty. He waggles it at John.
"You..." It takes a few seconds, but then John's face expands into a slow smile. "Of course you did. And they're all on there. Moriarty would have made sure of it to keep them under his thumb. What are you going to do with it?"
"First scrub any mention of you or Irene and then hold it over Mycroft's head for favours."
John laughs, tentatively at first, but soon he's clutching his side and guffawing. "Oh God, oh Jesus. That is brilliant. Why Irene though? She still has Tristram."
Sherlock's smile falters. His fingers worry absently at the stick. "She doesn't want to keep him. She's had her bit of fun. You heard her. She sucked the cow dry. It's time for her to flit." He stuffs the memory stick back into his pocket and props his elbow on the window frame, his fist to his mouth.
John slides closer to him on the seat so he can rest his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck. "She's an idiot. She doesn't deserve him."
"Nevertheless, she is his mother, and she won't go away entirely this time."
"Couldn't you have her stripped of any parental rights? Moriarty said he had something on there that would do it-"
"And Tristram?" Sherlock asks quietly, lowering his hand to his lap.
John looks down, considering the implications. He swallows hard, his thumb rubbing the juncture between Sherlock's neck and shoulder. "Yeah, of course. You're right. It wouldn't... It wouldn't be fair to him."
"I'm afraid we're just going to have to deal with her."
"We..." John repeats, as if probing for an explanation.
"I meant... me," Sherlock says quickly. "Me and Tristram... You don't have to-"
"No, Sherlock." John smiles quietly. "It's fine. We."
John nudges with his hand on Sherlock's neck until Sherlock turns his head. John moves closer and kisses him gently. Sherlock shifts and puts his arm around John's back, returning the assurance along with several more kisses.
"Just one more question," John says when they finally separate again. "What was all that about his middle name?"
Sherlock exhales and settles back against the seat. "He had a full set of those wizard books on the bookshelves behind his desk; hardcover, no less. I don't doubt he identified closely with the main antagonist, Tom Marvolo Riddle, a.k.a. 'I am Lord Voldemort'."
John looks bemused. "That's not in the one we're reading now. That's in one of the earlier ones."
"Chamber of Secrets, yes. I may have found it expedient to do some research in order to keep abreast of Tristram's interests."
"You are amazing. And a very, very good father."
Sherlock looks pained. "John..."
"No, you are." John takes Sherlock's hand and squeezes it firmly. "And now let's go get Tristram."
Chapter note: The best lines in this chapter were written by
dioscureantwins because she's sassier than me.I worked with the Internet Anagram Server to come up with the anagram. (Put your name in and try it, it's fun!)
The EHIC card is the European Health Insurance Card. It allows anyone covered by the NHS to receive medical care in any country belonging to the European Economic Area. Basically, someone from the UK would need it if they're travelling to Switzerland because Switzerland isn't in the EU.
I really hope this all makes sense and explains enough what's been going on. I purposely didn't include all the details of everyone's plans because it would have involved going into tangents that weren't really important for the resolution of the story. Also because Sherlock, Irene, and Moriarty are much cleverer than I am. :) If there's anything that is still really bugging you though, please ask!
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no subject
Date: 2014-08-29 02:42 pm (UTC)Hee! Nothing boring like reading or playing card games here!!
I loved seeing Sherlock’s brilliant mind at work – with the middle name and the anagram, and keeping the memory stick to ”…hold it over Mycroft's head for favours."”
I agree he is a very, very good father – well they both are, in fact. And I do look forward to seeing the “family” all together again.
no subject
Date: 2014-08-29 02:45 pm (UTC)Thank you for the comment!