Chapter Text
As the sniper’s bullet hit the couch, Sherlock flung himself to the floor, and made sure the window was covered again, made sure John was safe. This was exactly why he had left John behind—to keep him from being a target.
John looked shaken, betrayed, and Sherlock felt a twinge at how lost he looked. He had known their separation would be hard on his friend, but it had obviously taken more of a toll than he’d thought. Why hadn’t Mycroft told him? He was still reeling from the knowledge that John had considered suicide. He had only stopped because he learned that Sherlock was alive, and now the ‘friend’ who had supposedly helped him was trying to kill him. How much could one good man take?
He tried to reassure John, to remind him that Moran had used him, but his friend still sat sprawled on the floor in shock at what he saw as his failure. Sherlock looked away long enough to send a quick text.
—JW with me. We’re under fire by Moran. Trapped. My flat. Taking steps.
Putting the phone away, Sherlock reached for his gun. He had just picked it up when John’s phone rang. It was Moran, calling to gloat. He rolled his eyes. You would think that only comic book villains would monologue, but it seemed to be an irresistible temptation for all of them.
Fine. It bought them time. It wasn’t like Sherlock hadn’t been prepared for a potential assassin, even if he hadn’t been expecting a sniper. While talking with Moran, he carefully stood up.
“Sherlock, what are you doing?”
He held a finger in front of his lips and then said for Moran to hear, “What I’ve been doing for the last year, John. Trying to save your life.”
With a gesture, he led John silently into the bedroom as they carried on their conversation. He grinned when John saw the setup—his own sniper’s rifle lying next to a chink in the wall next to the window. He reached out to take the phone from John as he gestured to the gun with a tiny bow. He smiled as John’s eyebrows rose, but he was realistic. He was a good shot, but John was a great one. They would only have one chance.
Sherlock bargained with Moran while John set up the rifle, complimenting himself on installing one-way glass in this window when he’d arrived. They could see out just fine, but the sniper couldn’t see them.
Moran was in a window across the street, only one hand on his rifle as he held his phone to his ear. He almost looked human as he talked about missing Jim, and Sherlock flinched at the sympathy he saw in John’s face. Didn’t he know how many innocent people this man had killed?
Well, no, he probably didn’t, and that sympathy was what made the difference between John Watson and Sebastian Moran. John embodied the best of humanity. Even at this moment, with both their lives in jeopardy, John could feel for the other man’s grief.
It didn’t stop him, though. Sherlock practically beamed with pride as John said, “Friends don’t make you weak. They give you something to fight for,” and fired.
A tiny circle appeared in the window across the street, a sound of a grunt over the phone, and then utter silence.
“You’ve said that before,” Sherlock said, suddenly breathless.
“Yes, I have. It’s about time you paid attention, you idiot.” John was breathing heavily, too. “Obviously you need me.”
“I always have.” They stared at each other, until Sherlock heard sirens in the distance. “We should probably leave. Quickly.” John nodded and looked at the rifle.
“There’s no time.” Sherlock led the way into the sitting room and grabbed his laptop bag and then opened the door, checking the hallway. “Follow me. There’s always a chance Moran wasn’t alone.”
“Unlikely. He preferred to work alone,” John told him. “For some reason, he rubbed people the wrong way.”
Sherlock grinned, feeling unexpectedly giddy. “I can’t imagine why. Come on. This way.” He led John up to the roof, fighting a sense of déjà vu. Was it really less than an hour ago that he’d been up here?
Except this time, he had the bravest, best man he’d ever known at his back, and he wasn’t alone any more.
He couldn’t help but smile as the two of them fled the police.
#
Before long, the two of them were on a train heading north.
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done,” John said once he had caught his breath. “Even counting Afghanistan and chasing serial murder cabbies.”
“What?’ asked Sherlock, lips twitching in response to John’s laugh.
“Out-sniping a sniper. Why on earth did you even have that rifle set up? And how didn’t Moran see it?”
Sherlock stretched out his legs with a sigh. “It’s the ultimate irony, John. I was in that flat because I’d learned the room across the way was being used by Moriarty’s old network. I’d heard Moran was in the area, but didn’t expect him there. It is lucky he didn’t spot the rifle, though, or we would have been in trouble.”
“Just a bit, yeah,” John said. “So how did you miss him setting up his rifle?”
“Luck works both ways, John. He probably waited until you were in position, and I hadn’t had a chance to look out the window on my arrival. You were too close behind me.” He smiled at his friend, warmly this time. “Well done on that, by the way. Except that one glimpse, I didn’t spot you trailing me at all.”
John smiled back, just as tired, just as content. “Years of experience with your methods, Sherlock. I’m not an idiot, you know.” His face froze, as he remembered. “Or maybe I am. I can’t believe he played me.”
“He knew that watching you die in front of me would be excruciating, and he wanted me to suffer.”
John tried to shrug it off, but Sherlock saw his shoulders curl forward, his eyes narrow and realized what he had just said. He had made John watch him die.
Sherlock stayed silent for a beat then added quietly, “I am truly sorry for that, John, that day, when I … jumped. I didn’t have time. I tried to get you out of the way, but you were back too soon, and I needed to make sure you didn’t see what was happening on the ground. The only way to do that was to have you watch me. I am so, so sorry, John. I knew it would hurt, but I had no idea how much.”
Eyes on his hands, John nodded, the barest tilt of the chin. Sherlock searched his mind for the right words to say, but nothing came. “I can’t apologize for saving your life, John,” he said finally.
“And I can’t be sorry you faked your death, Sherlock, because that means that you’re still alive.” John’s fingers twisted in his lap, then he looked up. “But it hurt. I mean, really hurt. Like nothing … not even losing my parents … I couldn’t bear it, Sherlock. Why couldn’t you tell me? I mean, okay, you didn’t have time right then, but … after?”
Sherlock flinched at the raw pain in John’s eyes and leaned forward, intent. It was imperative John understand. “You heard Moran. The deal was that I die and you live. You, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. All of you were targeted if I didn’t jump. I couldn’t risk anything tipping him off that I was still alive.” He leaned back again and quirked an eyebrow. “You’re not exactly the best actor, John.”
A sigh. “No, probably not, but still ... it’s disconcerting to learn I was being watched by both Mycroft’s and Moriarty’s people. That’s quite an audience.”
“All watching, waiting for you to show any sign, any hint that I was alive.” Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t know when he learned I was alive, but he must have expected you would know and crack eventually.”
He nodded. “And when it quickly became obvious that I didn’t know anything, he watched anyway.”
A pause, and then John’s eyes widened and he pulled in a sharp breath in a hard inhale. “You know, it’s probably lucky that Moran was watching me. He must have seen how close to the edge I was, and since he wanted me alive to help torture you, stepped in to make sure I didn’t take myself out of the equation.”
Sherlock blinked. He hadn’t thought of that at all. “How close were you?” he asked quietly, not sure he could bear to know the answer.
“Honestly? Really close. A day or so. I couldn’t handle…” John broke off and glanced at him, a quick flicker of shame and embarrassment. “I’m not kidding when I tell you to NEVER leave me behind again.”
Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to shut out the mental image of John dead at his own hand—at Sherlock’s hand. “All things considered, maybe we should send flowers to Moran’s funeral,” Sherlock said thoughtfully after a bit.
“We do know for sure he’s dead, right?”
Sherlock nodded. “I got a text from Mycroft confirming it while we were waiting for the train. He said to compliment you on your marksmanship and your stealth skills, and that he expects an explanation on how you eluded him when we get back.”
“Like being called before the headmaster,” John mumbled. Then he looked up, face brightening. “Get back? So … was that it, then? You’re done?”
“Moran was the biggest danger,” he said slowly. “The other assassins are already gone, and I’ve eliminated most of the threats. I think Mycroft’s people could take it from here.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when he realized.
He was done.
He could go home.
He felt a smile stretching across his face, growing even broader when he saw the look on John’s face. “John, it’s done.”
“About bloody time,” John told him. “You stretched it out long enough.”
Sherlock laughed, glee and relief bubbling up in his chest. He couldn’t believe how wonderful he felt. “Well, I figured, while I was gone, I might as well mix in some sight-seeing, have a bit of a holiday. Why rush back?”
“Why, indeed. It’s not like there was anything to do, after all. Moriarty slandered your name pretty thoroughly, so it’s not like anyone was going to hire you.”
“True, my reputation is officially dead, whether I’m breathing or not. Maybe we should just go somewhere else. What do you fancy, John? America? The Mediterranean? Mountains? Sand and sun?”
John tilted his head, pretending to consider. “Well, I had enough sand in Afghanistan, thanks, and I’m not really much for hiking, but I’ll go wherever you want, Sherlock.” His face was casual, joking, but his eyes were serious.
“There’s really only one place I want to go, John.” Sherlock said. “221B Baker Street. Will you come with me?”
Now John was chuckling. “You have to ask?”