![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: If You Can't Move Heaven, Raise Hell
Author: Alex
Fandom: Sherlock [BBC]
Rating: Varies
Pairing: Sherlock/John; Sherlock/Ian Adler; John Watson/Ian Adler; Jim Moriarty/Sebastian Moran
Disclaimer: A.C. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss.
Summary: All John Watson wants is a peaceful fortnight's holiday in Cornwall. Fate has other plans.
Warnings: Violence, explicit sex, dubious consent.
Notes: I don't genderswap as a rule, but I saw this marvelous gif of Tom Hiddleston and Sherlock and couldn't resist. The rest is shameless self-indulgence.
Plot happily magpied from everywhere, with especial apologies to Umberto Eco.
Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite for the sharp-eyed beta.
This fic is a gift for sithdragn, with affection.
Can also be read on AO3
*
*
Sherlock's senses re-established themselves one at a time, in disorderly fashion. He tasted something unpleasant, then felt something digging into his lower abdominal muscles, something hard that nevertheless flexed and jolted and made him feel slightly ill. He opened his eyes, but saw only darkness, so he closed them again. As he struggled to orient himself, he realised that the blood was pounding in his skull and giving him a terrible headache, then slowly, far too slowly, discovered that he was hanging upside down, and that he was being carried, that the pain in his stomach was owed to somebody's shoulder. It was like being hauled over a stone shelf. He felt an arm wrapped round his knees, holding him firmly in place.
His shoulders hurt because – he shifted experimentally – his wrists were still bound and gravity was dragging his hands between his shoulder blades. He was gagged, too, not with silk, but with rubber, horrible-tasting and stretching his jaws uncomfortably. The phallic thing that had plugged his mouth earlier: he felt the straps digging into the back of his head, and the wide strip of leather over his lips.
Damn it to hell. Ian….
The man who carried him (unmistakably a man, judging by the flat planes of the body against which his legs were tightly pressed, not to mention the width of the stone-hard shoulders) had a heavy tread, his footsteps thumping solidly on stone. Ian? The weight of another human being might make him graceless. Sherlock took a breath through his nose, the only sort he could manage, (and even that was effortful, slung over someone's shoulder like a sack of meal) and inhaled the fragrances of damp air and early-spring greenery and heard the faint, hesitant call of some nocturnal bird. He was naked, but something scratchy covered his body, keeping out the worst of the chill. His captor's gait, whilst clumsy because Sherlock's weight was unevenly distributed, was nonetheless fairly steady. Sherlock wasn't an overwhelming burden, not because his weight was exceptionally slight, but because whoever carried him was exceptionally strong. And the length of his stride was long. Very long. With a sinking heart, Sherlock suddenly understood who was transporting him with such ease.
Ian Adler had turned him over to Oscar Dzundza.
Panic seized him, and very unfamiliar and unwelcome fear. Then, a sliver of rationality punctured his hazy cogitation. Relax. If he'd wanted to kill you, you'd be dead already.
True enough, but any length of time spent in the Golem's presence was a bit too much. And since the man's principal raison d'etre was killing, best to be as far away as possible.
Sherlock opened his eyes again and now discerned a feeble illumination of moonlight shimmering off wet cobblestones. Dzundza wasn't aware that Sherlock had regained consciousness, or didn't care. Possible advantage. He forced his body to remain utterly limp
Another advantage: Sherlock's ankles were unbound. He could run. He tempered a cautious jubilation by envisioning the abbey layout and estimating the best hiding places, as well as the location of the monks' cells. Since he was likely being carried away from the guest quarters (uphill, toward the church), there was little or no chance of alerting John to his predicament, so the monks it would have to be. He'd kick the door, slam his head against a window, something, anything. He made an instant's calculation, and then heaved himself sideways.
Dzundza grunted in surprise as Sherlock flung his body off his shoulder. Sherlock landed on the ground, stifling a yell and biting hard on the rubber in his mouth as his bare knees collided with stone, one of them giving a stomach-heaving pop. He rolled sideways, kicking off the blanket that was draped over his body and, unable to use his hands for support, got unsteadily to his feet. Dzundza loomed over Sherlock, his features invisible in the cloudy moonlight. Sherlock stumbled backward, then turned to flee, but he'd miscalculated the distance between them; the Golem reached out and grasped Sherlock's hair, dragging him backward and pressing him close. Sherlock kicked frantically, but he might as well have kicked an Easter Island statue for all Dzundza seemed to feel it.
The Golem stilled Sherlock's struggles simply by pinching his nose shut. He put his mouth close to Sherlock's ear. "Shhh."
Sherlock got the message at once and forced himself to stop thrashing. Dzundza released his grasp, but held on to Sherlock's arm with one huge hand as he scooped up the fallen blanket, draped it over Sherlock's shoulders with ludicrous solicitude, and yanked Sherlock toward the dark church.
Sherlock dragged his feet against the wet cobble, but the Golem's grasp was inexorable, not to mention painful, and Sherlock had no choice but to walk – or limp, since his knee hurt like hell. The sky was beginning to lighten from black to deep violet, and morning birds began to stir in the trees, letting out a few sweetly liquid trills. His gaze darted back and forth, seeking some means of escape, some early-rising monk out and about who'd be startled at the sight of a more-than-two-meters-tall man towing one naked, bound, and gagged consulting detective in his wake. Wherever Dzundza was taking him, it probably wasn't to sit him down to a nice breakfast. And it wasn't to kill him, as Sherlock reminded himself – he could have strangled Sherlock as he lay unconscious – why all the effort to take him away from his room?
Probably so he can smother you slowly, in complete privacy, and enjoy watching you die.
The prospect of that made Sherlock fight with renewed frenzy. His heart twisted with frantic refusal as Dzundza tightened the grip on his arm and propelled him effortlessly toward the church. Sherlock tried one last violent wrench to free himself, but it did him no good at all. Dzundza looped an arm through his as he fitted a large key into the church door's lock and silently swung it open. He pulled Sherlock inside, then locked the door behind them and steered Sherlock to the altar, illuminated by a single red-glassed lamp.
Despite his steadily encroaching fear, Sherlock watched in fascination as Dzundza worked the mechanism to open the space beneath the altar. He stumbled down the narrow stone steps, losing his blanket in the process. Dzundza picked it up, retrieved an electric lantern that had been secreted beside the staircase, and then pushed down a lever set into the wall. The altar moved slowly back into place, and Dzundza activated the lantern seconds before the altar extinguished the dim light altogether.
Dzundza bent almost double as he hustled Sherlock through the narrow passageways. Sherlock noted their direction, the turns and forks they took, moving deeper and deeper until they came to a low door. Dzundza had a key for that, too – obtained from the faithless Brother Marcelo, most likely – and he pushed Sherlock inside and entered the room himself, closing the door with a thud.
Sherlock's eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness slowly. He stood still, gazing round, and realised that they'd come to the famous San Stefano well, cause of Father Bernard's death and studded liberally with the uraninite that Jim Moriarty coveted so deeply.
Dzundza spread the blanket on the ground and grasped Sherlock by the arm, forcing him to lie on the blanket. He pulled a cord from his pocket and tied Sherlock's ankles together, finishing them with a strong knot. Sherlock watched without protest and kept his muscles taut as the Golem bound him, on the slim chance that there would be an opportunity to escape. He hoped it wasn't simply a prelude to Dzundza dropping him down the well – its throat was fairly narrow, but it would probably accommodate Sherlock's body.
But Dzundza turned away from him after a gentle pat on his bare hip and a thoroughly unconvincing grimace that Sherlock supposed was a smile and took his lantern to the far corner of the room. Sherlock shifted to his side and propped himself up on one elbow to watch as Dzundza rummaged through a mélange of objects on the stony ground. Sherlock saw what looked like small-scale mining equipment – a hand-held drill, an air compressor, a chemical analysis set, and a Geiger counter. He also noted a bedroll, some tinned food, and a large inlaid wooden box. The codex. I knew it. Finally the Golem located the object of his search – a book – and flung himself on the bedroll and began to read, after a brief glance at Sherlock to ensure that his captive wasn't trying to escape.
Stealthily, Sherlock began to ply the ropes binding his wrists with tiny circular movements. Repetitive motion, applied patiently and persistently, might weaken the tough fibres, and it seemed he had time. Why had Dzundza brought him here? What were they waiting for? Why was he reading, for God's sake?
Sorry about John.
Sherlock's head snapped up as he remembered Ian's words. Had they already harmed John? If not, what were they planning? Would they bring him here as well, a place to carry out a couple of murders in relative silence? Unconsciously, he pulled harder at his bonds and then chided himself. Hurrying will get you nowhere fast, idiot. Sucking in air through his nose, he forced himself to move slowly, and sank down so that he was lying on his side.
Mistake. He'd made a mistake letting John Watson into his life; he should have paid attention to Mycroft, however galling it was to admit.
---I had a telephone call from Detective Inspector Lestrade today.
--- Really? Sherlock played a slow arpeggio in E flat; he'd observed that particular key was offensive to Mycroft's ear, judging from the frowns that he knew were quite unconscious. Mycroft himself didn't realise it.
---I wonder, Sherlock – do you intend to continue aiding New Scotland Yard in their…inquiries?
--- What do you care?
--- It's a matter of minor interest.
--- If it's so minor, then why ask? Sherlock drew an especially dissonant noise from the strings.
A narrow smile congealed on Mycroft's face.
--- I simply wanted to caution you, Sherlock. This is…what, the third? Fourth, perhaps…? The fourth criminal you've helped to place behind bars. I am no expert in determining how rogue meets rogue so inevitably, but the fact is that these people have associates who have thus far managed to remain out of prison. You may be in danger. And in order to strike at you, they may instead choose to strike at those close to you.
--- Ah, I see. Afraid for your own skin?
--- Certainly not.
Sherlock snorted in disbelief.
--- You're thinking of Mummy, then.
--- Mummy is quite safe, I assure you. She has been for years. No, I'm merely advising you to continue on your present trajectory, brother. Friends, lovers – Mycroft made a small moue to indicate his contempt – spouses: they're all vulnerable. Fortunately, you needn't worry over any of that.
Sherlock was silent a moment, then he smiled disdainfully, twisting a tuning peg.
---This from a man who belongs to a club composed entirely of misanthropes.
--- As I said, it's merely advice; do with it what you will. Of course, if by some truly remote chance you manage to find someone who doesn't mind the threat of danger, then so much the better, I suppose. Are you going to offer me tea, or must I go home hungry?
--- You can live a month off your fat, Mycroft.
And so on. But Mycroft had been right. If Sherlock hadn't made the colossally stupid mistake of befriending John, John wouldn't be in danger now. If the Golem decided to snatch John away and bring him here, and if Sherlock couldn't manage to free himself in time, then –
Sherlock froze. Suddenly he knew. He knew why he was being held down here, why Dzundza was whiling away his time with a book.
He was waiting for Jim Moriarty. Jim, who wouldn't be able to resist showing up and cawing with delight. Jim, whose plans Sherlock was about to spoil yet again. Jim, who had an axe to grind.
I'll burn you. I will burn the heart out of you.
Despite his nakedness and the chill of the underground room, Sherlock's body began to sweat. His heartbeat thudded in his ears as he lay on his side, staring at the short well cylinder in growing despair.
John. For the love of God, get out of here.
*
Sherlock slept, his body succumbing to exhaustion though he'd tried to stay alert and to continue working at the ropes encircling his wrists. He woke once to see Dzundza asleep too, his body splayed out on the bedroll. He looked like a corpse in the muted lamplight, and had Sherlock been free, he would have gladly strangled Dzundza himself. He sighed and kept making little circles with both wrists. He couldn't tell if his efforts were fruitful – his arms and hands were nearly numb and the ropes didn't feel slack at all, but it was something to do, better than simply lying still and helpless and waiting for whatever Jim had in store for them.
Time slowed to an agonising crawl. Sherlock distracted himself as much as possible, passing the time by imagining himself constructing a nuclear weapon in Baker Street before NSY found out. Would there be enough time? Natural uranium contained only 0.7% U-235, so he would need highly enriched uranium containing 90% U-235. Now where might he obtain that, were he at home now? Surely one or two of Mycroft's contacts would have some inside information on how one could get his hands on some of the highly enriched stuff. Americium oxide was a slightly greater problem, but not insurmountable, thanks to dear big brother and his access to military labs. The next move was to get John out of the house for the appropriate length of time. Some ruse involving Harry, most likely; she wasn't keen on Sherlock, but she was keen on attention, so it wouldn't be difficult to persuade her to treat John to some family dramatics for a week or two. It couldn't be a false gas leak or structural problem; John had to be distracted, or he'd follow Sherlock –
Sherlock winced. He doubted, if indeed they were to somehow escape from here, that John would be following him anywhere for some time. Without saying a word, he'd presented John with a fait accompli in Ian Adler, and John had told Sherlock in no uncertain terms what he thought about that. And whether or not John harboured any…romantic (oh, God, he hated that word. Meaningless sentiment) – or strong feelings for Sherlock, Sherlock suspected that this matter couldn't be undone by an offhand 'Sorry, John' or an offer to pick up groceries two or even three weeks running.
Bloody stupid emotions. Needless complications and boring besides, a bunch of sheep who didn't have the brain cells to realise –
I’ll burn you. I will burn the heart out of you.
I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.
But we both know that’s not quite true.
Sherlock clenched his teeth on the foul rubber in his mouth and jerked hard at his bonds. He stared up at the low ceiling hopelessly, and then heard a rattling at the door.
Dzundza had heard it too; he sat up and looked over at Sherlock.
Three, perhaps four seconds of hesitation passed before Sherlock flung his body toward the door and let out a cry that seemed quite loud in his own ears, but was likely no more than a pathetic little whimper. And before he could cry out again, the Golem was atop him, wrapped round him like an octopus, one huge hand pressing on the leather strapped to Sherlock's face and shoving the rubber even further down Sherlock's throat.
"Is anyone there?"
John. JOHN! Sherlock writhed in the Golem's grip, but he couldn't dislodge the hand over his face, nor make a sound loud enough to attract John's attention. The rubber phallus in his mouth pushed against the back of his throat, and he gagged and implored his gorge to stay down so he wouldn't throw up. He forced his limbs to cease thrashing, and looked toward the door, praying that John had gone to get some sort of implement to pry the door open. Perhaps he was with another monk, who had a key. He waited, torn between a desperate hope that John would storm in and another hope, just as desperate, that he would leave. Eventually, it seemed the latter had won out. John didn't return. There were no more noises from the corridor.
Dzundza waited in silence, his limbs still locked around Sherlock's body. At last, when it seemed clear that John had gone for good, he loosened his grasp and bore Sherlock back to the blanket. He gazed down at Sherlock's supine form for a moment, and then his teeth showed in a menacing grin. Deliberately, he reached out and caressed Sherlock's naked chest, then moved his hand down, resting for a moment on Sherlock's belly, then drifting between his legs.
Sherlock stiffened in utter revulsion and glared at what he could see of the Golem's face. He kept still and ordered his body not to respond, not to struggle away, afraid that Dzundza was going to apply more pressure and arouse Sherlock against his will. For one endless moment both men were motionless, then Dzundza's hand began to move.
With a speed borne of mingled instinct and calculation, Sherlock lashed out with both feet, catching Dzundza squarely in the kidney. Dzundza let out a muffled snarl and struck Sherlock across the face, knocking him to the ground. Dzundza was atop Sherlock instantly, pressing the gag down again and covering his nose.
Sherlock's heels beat a muffled tattoo against the stone floor as he fought fruitlessly for air. No John this time. This time he's just going to kill me.
"What are you doing?"
The familiar voice scarcely pierced Sherlock's fading consciousness, but he saw hands descending on Dzundza's shoulders, pushing at him.
"Let him go! Arrêter, imbécile!"
The massive hands came away from Sherlock's face, and he sucked an uneven breath through his nose. Swimming in and out of his blurry vision, he saw a tall, slender figure silhouetted in the lamplight. Ordering himself not to pass out, he focused through his good eye (Dzundza's blow had swelled his left eye shut) and recognised Ian Adler.
Ian was talking in rapid French, and Dzundza answered in what sounded like grunts. Sherlock was woozy, but he discerned, eventually, that Ian was upbraiding him for assaulting Sherlock (Ian didn't know the half of it) and that per Jim's orders, Sherlock wasn't to be harmed.
Saving you for something particularly nasty, no doubt.
Dzundza muttered something unintelligible and showed Ian a blood-stained hand. Sherlock felt an instant of wild exultation. Reopened the wound that John made. Good. Good. He watched as Ian pointed to the bedroll and ordered Dzundza to lie down so he could look at the wound. Ian busied himself tending the wound for a few moments, using what looked like Dzundza's last clean shirt to bind it, and then moved to crouch beside Sherlock. He set a folded bundle on the ground – Sherlock's clothes and shoes. With gentle hands, he reached behind Sherlock's head and unbuckled the gag, carefully easing it from Sherlock's mouth. "I'm sorry about that. You did provoke him, though – you can't expect him to be happy with you. You're lucky I showed up when I did."
"Lucky," Sherlock rasped. "Yes, awfully lucky. Thank God you showed up. If it weren't for you I might be dead now. Oh, wait – you're the one who engineered all this. Thanks for nothing, Ian. Come see me next time you need a favour."
"Sherlock," Ian said, a chiding note in his voice, "come on now. I wouldn't have chosen this for you, but I'm afraid Jim is very exacting. When he found out you were involved in all this, he was…well, I wouldn't quite say he was happy, but he wasn't displeased, either. Delivering you to him means an extra bonus for me."
"Short on bondage gear, are you?"
Ian gingerly touched Sherlock's swollen eye. Sherlock jerked his head away. "Don't be so recalcitrant." He sighed. "I did try to help you. I told John to leave. He's proving to be just as stubborn as you are, though. Perhaps even more so."
A surge of pride swelled warmly in Sherlock's chest along with a brief piercing stab of fear. "What is Jim planning to do with him?"
"I don't know, but I suspect it won't be pretty, knowing Jim. I will try to warn him again, but I can't force him to leave."
Sherlock wet his lips. He was unbearably thirsty. He'd die before he asked for a drink, but for John….
For John, he'd beg. "Ian…please. Get him out. Tell him anything. Tell him…tell him that I'm going away with you for a while. That I've already left. Tell him I don't want to see him any longer, that I'm leaving Baker Street for good."
"He'd never believe that."
"He might, if you made it convincing enough. Untie me and I'll write him a note. Or text him. My phone's in my coat pocket." Sherlock listened to the words tumbling from his mouth and pressed his lips together tightly. "Please."
Ian, his face shadowed, gazed at Sherlock for a long, thoughtful moment. Finally, he shook his head. "I can't. You're not the only one who's got himself in over his head."
"You thought you could handle Jim Moriarty. You didn't know that he would wring you dry of every drop of usefulness before he tossed you aside like yesterday's rubbish. What's he got on you, Ian? How does one blackmail a blackmailer? If anyone knows, it's Jim." Sherlock lowered his voice. "Help me, and I'll help you. I promise."
A long, low sigh escaped Ian's chest. "I can't." He picked up the gag. "Sorry, Sherlock."
Sherlock compressed his lips and turned his head to one side, refusing to cooperate.
"If you don't open your mouth I'll call Oscar and ask him to help me. I don't think it would take much to persuade him, do you?" Ian grasped Sherlock's chin and turned his face upward.
"No, don't –" But Ian prised Sherlock's mouth open and shoved the thick phallus back inside his mouth, then fastened it behind Sherlock's head once more. Sherlock settled for a smouldering glare that communicated his anger and contempt.
Ian gave him a tilted smile, then bent close to Sherlock's ear. "For what it's worth, I don't regret a moment of time that we spent together. I'll do what I can to see that we're allowed to continue."
Allowed? Unless it courted James Moriarty's whims, it seemed highly unlikely, not that he would ever willingly touch Ian Adler again. It wasn't the first time his impulsivity had steered him wrong; he fervently hoped it wouldn't be the last.
Though the odds didn't seem to favour survival.
*
Things were quiet for some time after Ian left. Ignoring the chill that had seeped into his naked body, Sherlock persisted in working at the ropes, and they did seem to be loosening the slightest bit, to his gratification. Dzundza stayed on his bedroll beside the lantern. The kick Sherlock had administered seemed to have dampened his amorous proclivities, for which Sherlock was profoundly grateful.
As Sherlock toiled, he couldn't help but feel a small dart of jubilation and pride in John's stubbornness and courage. True, John owed him nothing (although, Sherlock acknowledged, he owed John a great deal, and if they both made it through this ordeal alive he'd…he'd try to pay John back, somehow), and it was heartening to know that John hadn't simply abandoned him – though he had no idea where Sherlock was, most likely. Sherlock had been careful, just lately, to be a bit more prompt about keeping John abreast of things. If he'd had his phone to hand, he'd have sent a text.
Dzundza's prisoner in well. Moriarty on his way. Obtain reinforcements. Hurry please.
He'd have smiled but for the rubber contraption in his mouth and the sudden scraping of the lock. Dzundza rose to his feet – slowly, Sherlock noted, as if he were in pain – and moved to the door as it swung open.
"Honey, I'm home!" Jim Moriarty stood silhouetted in the doorway. A man, much taller than Jim, stood behind him, and as both men entered the room, the tall man coolly sized up Dzundza, then gave him a brief nod. Moriarty strolled over to where Sherlock lay and crouched down, his hands dangling between his knees. "Aw, look at you, all wrapped up. And quiet, too! Bet that's a rarity – a silent Sherlock." Jim grinned and patted Sherlock's cheek.
Sherlock didn't blink as he returned Jim's steady stare. How had Jim and the other man got into the abbey without being noticed? Surely they hadn't taken a taxicab. Sherlock narrowed his gaze and inspected Jim's suit, difficult as it was in the dim light of the lantern: soil and moisture on one sleeve and trouser cuff, as if he'd brushed against something damp and dirty; mud on the soles of his shoes. Unless there's a tunnel entrance at the gatepost, outside the abbey. It wasn't completely impossible; John had said the tunnels seemed to go on for miles. Certain he was right, he glared triumphantly into Jim's face again.
"Ooh, look at him, Seb. He's furious. He'd throttle me if he could." Jim straightened up and sighed. "I admit he's not as much fun when he can't speak, but let's leave that in for the moment. One of Ian's little toys, am I right, Sherlock?" He turned away without waiting for a reply, not that Sherlock was in a position to give one, and spoke to the tall man again. "Sebastian Moran, meet Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, Seb. I'm a little disappointed that you got caught so easily, Sherlock. And with Ian, of all people. It's all so unexpected!" Jim clapped his hands together. The sound reverberated sharply off the walls. "But it's not altogether unpleasant. Now all we have to do is wait for the good doctor. You do think he'll come, don't you? I got all dressed up."
Sherlock turned away as if the topic held no interest for him. A few seconds later agony exploded in his right thigh.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you, sweetheart." Jim's voice was a low growl.
His eyes swimming with tears of pain, the sartorius muscle of his thigh throbbing where Jim had kicked him, Sherlock screwed his eyes shut to stop the tears and forced himself to meet Jim's gaze once more.
"Oh, that's better. Good boy. Anyway, if Ian can't get him here, I'll have to dispatch Oscar, although…." He gave Dzundza a dubious once-over. "Oscar doesn't look very well, does he? Is that your doing, Sherlock? Or Johnny-boy's?"
The man Jim had introduced as Sebastian Moran walked quietly to Dzundza and murmured a question. Dzundza answered in an equally low tone, too soft for Sherlock to make out. Sherlock saw the bulge of a shoulder holster under Moran's jacket and an irregular shape beneath the narrow cuff of his immaculately cut suit. Knife. Accessible at ground level.
"Well done, whoever it was." Jim sounded positively jovial now; jovial and utterly, utterly mad. "That's twice you've tangled with him and lived, and I expect he'll want to pay you back somehow. I'm a little surprised he hasn't been smothering you at intervals – that's his thing, you know," Jim said confidingly. "Personally, I think it's a little –" Jim twirled his finger next to his ear, "—but who am I to judge, right? I guess it's just nice that he enjoys his work so much. I think I'll let him take another crack at darling John. What do you say?"
Sherlock gave Jim a look that promised murder. If I get my hands on you – A sharp series of raps on the door startled his attention away from Moriarty. He strained to hear a voice, then recognised Ian Adler's. Perhaps he persuaded John to leave. Perhaps –
Jim Moriarty put a finger to his lips, his eyes dancing, and sank back into the shadows near the door. Dzundza rose to his feet with effort. Moran strode to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it slightly ajar, then stepped into the darkness as well.
Ian stepped over the threshold awkwardly, and John was directly behind him, glancing this way and that, but failed to notice Moriarty or Moran. He saw Sherlock, and his mouth dropped open, concern and apprehension etched in every line on his face.
Sherlock shook his head and jerked his chin toward Moran's hiding place. He tried to speak and knew full well that his words were completely unintelligible.
John kept a tight grip on Ian Adler's arm, and Sherlock saw that Ian's wrists were bound behind his back. Well done, John. He can't be trusted. "Untie him, Dzundza. Now." John's voice was steady, clear, and carried the weight of finality.
John, use your torch. Look behind you, for God's sake! Sherlock shook his head again and raised his voice, trying to warn John as best he could, but it was too late; John frowned and began to turn his head toward the spot where Moriarty concealed himself, but Moran detached himself from the darkness, his arm raised, and brought the butt of a gun down against the back of John's skull. John took two unsteady steps and crashed to his knees.
"Surprise!" Moriarty cried, and Moran brought the weapon down again. John slumped unconscious to the floor.
God damn it! Sherlock cried out in protest and struggled against his bonds.
"Shut up," Moran ordered, "or you'll get the same treatment."
"Now, Seb," Jim chided. "Let's not, shall we? Pick Dr. Watson up and put him next to his pal."
Moran didn't pick John up; instead he replaced his weapon, then grasped John's ankles and dragged him over the rough ground to lie beside Sherlock. He smiled at Sherlock, a smile full of even white teeth but lacking even the smallest bit of sympathy. "He's tough. Most people would have been knocked out instantly. Look, he's stirring already."
Sherlock moved closer to John, anxiously inspecting his face. John groaned, shifted, and was silent once more.
Ian's voice broke into Sherlock's scrutiny. "Can someone please untie me?"
"Honestly," Jim sighed. "Can't you slip a little knot? Thought that was your occupation. Seb, if you wouldn't mind?" He moved past Ian and placed his hands on his knees, leaning forward as if he were addressing a small child. "Now that the gang's all here, what shall we do?"
*
Sherlock dared to ignore Jim in favour of continuing to look John over, watching him shift like a man in the grip of a bad dream. Apropos. This can't get much worse. Sherlock glanced up as Jim, Moran, Ian (rubbing his wrists and looking indignant), and Dzundza gathered round, all looking down at John with interest. He would have loved to tell them to piss off; this muteness was beyond frustrating.
"It was Watson who injured Oscar," Moran said. He drew his weapon, a blunt, sensible semi-automatic Tokarev, and pointed it at John.
Sherlock smirked inwardly. Taking no chances, are we?
"Tiens!" Jim said, lifting his neat, dark brows. "Well done, Johnny. Search him, please, Seb."
"He's not armed," Ian said. "I'm fairly certain of that."
"Honey, it wouldn't take a weapon to subdue you." As Moran quickly checked John's pockets, Jim prodded John with his foot. "Up and at 'em, Johnny-boy! Rise and shine!"
John groaned and opened his eyes. He blinked, then looked at the four men gathered round him, one with weapon drawn, and tried to sit up. Moran pushed on John's shoulder with his foot, pressing him to the stone floor, and John raised his hands uncertainly. "What the hell?" he murmured.
"Hi again," Moriarty said, his voice spiraling upward.
"Moriarty," John whispered, then put a hand to the back of his head. "Ow."
"Sorry about that. Seb can get carried away. You feeling all right?" Jim smiled, all melting sympathy.
"Fuck you," John retorted, then realised Sherlock was lying next to him. He sat up, then regarded Sherlock anxiously. "Are you okay?" As Sherlock nodded, John brushed the tip of his finger over Sherlock's bruised eye, now swelled almost completely shut. "Who did that to you?" He glared up at Jim. "Did you do that, you fucking lunatic?"
"Shut up," snarled Moran.
"It's okay, Seb. You know, for a soldier, you have a really remarkable talent for getting yourself ambushed. How'd you ever make it out of Afghanistan?"
To his credit (and Sherlock admitted to himself that he wouldn't be able to resist a smart-arse remark) John turned away and directed his attention to Sherlock once more. "You sure you're okay?"
Sherlock held John's gaze with his one working eye and nodded again.
"Nothing broken?"
"You can take the gag out, Johnny," Moriarty offered. "Nobody's going to bother us down here. And Sherlock's boring when he's not talking."
John gave Moriarty a quick, chill glance, and reached behind Sherlock's head to unfasten the gag. "Second time," he muttered, and now his hostility fixed itself on Sherlock for a second. He succeeded in unbuckling the gag and pulling it out of Sherlock's mouth, tossing it aside with disgust.
Sherlock's cheeks felt warm. He worked his jaw to loosen it, and moistened his dry lips. "Thank you," he croaked.
"Yeah, don't mention it." John compressed his lips, then patted Sherlock briefly on his naked thigh before snatching his hand back. He turned to Moriarty again. "You couldn't give him his clothes, for Christ's sake?"
"Oh, come on, John," Jim sighed. "Don't you like looking at him naked? Even I think he's kind of pretty." He leant down. "Though not exactly…impressive. Still, not everyone is a size queen." He straightened again. "So. Down to business."
"It's over, Jim," Sherlock said. "You've overstepped, and there's no way you won't be caught. Too many people have been killed."
"But there's nothing to pin them on me." Jim strolled to the well, looked down into its depths, and turned back to Sherlock, his face an innocent boy's. "Nothing except for the mighty Sherlock Holmes, oh dear, oh me." His voice dropped into perfect RP. "Isn't he clever? Isn't he just the limit, that man? Except I can't have the dots connected. So that means I have to bottle up the source. Eenie, meenie, minie, you." He waggled a finger at Sherlock.
Sherlock snorted in pure disdain. He rotated his raw wrists and felt the rope give a little. He kept his movements almost imperceptible. If one of them saw, they'd make certain he couldn't move at all. "You're going to kill me?"
"Nah. What did I tell you last time? You remember, Sherlock?"
Sherlock lifted his chin. "You said you'd burn the heart out of me."
"What a good memory you have." Jim went to the folded pile of Sherlock's clothing and lifted his coat. He dug in the pockets until he found Sherlock's phone, held it triumphantly aloft, and then began thumbing through it. Sherlock watched in silent outrage as Jim tapped easily, as if Sherlock's mobile was his own. "Let's see now. If I wanted to tear you apart, what would I – oh, look at this. Some new messages." He began to read. "'Phone me at once. M.'" Jim pulled a face. "Big brother? My, he's bossy. What's this one…'All right. Where the hell are you?' That one's from John. Oh, another one from John. ' Stop sulking. Are you okay?' He's getting anxious. And one more. From John, of course. 'Not funny anymore. Where the hell are you?'" Jim shook his head, smiling. "Gosh, isn't that devotion for you. Not even your own brother is as concerned for you as Dr. Watson."
Sherlock felt the rope on his right wrist loosen enough to slip his hand free. "You wouldn't know genuine concern if you tripped over it." He kept his hands behind his back.
"Even without these messages, I can tell how much he cares about you," Jim replied, sounding disgusted. "He stares, Sherlock, with big cow eyes. He put his own life on the line to protect you – remember that, Johnny? He puts up with you day in and day out, and that, my dear Sherlock, has got to be a miracle on par with the loaves and fishes. But something tells me that you haven't…done the deed. Have you?"
Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and refused to look at John. He knew now what Moriarty intended to do; the key was to delay him somehow. Overpower…God. Two against four, and at least one of them was armed. Dzundza was wounded, but still powerful. Ian…Ian was an unknown variable. Sherlock peered at him, but Ian was studying the toes of his boots and looked oddly abashed.
Jim, of course, intercepted Sherlock's glance. "Oh, Ian." Ian's head jerked up. "Yeah, he told me. Sent me a little home movie, even. But it's not Ian you really care about. He can't be trusted."
"For once," Sherlock replied coldly, "we're in complete accord." Slowly, stealthily, he shifted, making sure his feet were in the shadows. Dzundza had done a sloppy job. He moved one foot back and forth, and found himself free. Free.
"So you'll bump uglies with Ian, but your love for Dr. Watson is chaste and pure," Jim purred. "That's so sweet. It would really hurt you if John died, wouldn't it? And right in front of you, as you lie tied up and helpless, maybe screaming his name."
Sherlock suppressed a shiver. "I'd kill you. You know that, don't you?"
"And not feel a shred of remorse." Jim laughed. "Oh, Sherlock. It's going to happen, but not here. We're going to take a little trip, the four of us, somewhere quite safe. And then I'll burn you, oh, so slowly. And when I come back, I'll give Johnny – or what's left of him, anyway – a special burial, in one of the crypts. Won't that be nice?"
John reached out and rested one hand on Sherlock's shoulder for a moment and, absurdly, Sherlock felt calmer. John rarely touched him except to tend to his injuries, and this unsolicited bit of affection was…lovely.
Jim noticed, too. "Aww." He mimed playing a violin.
Surreptitiously, Sherlock flexed his hands and feet. The sensation was back; pins and needles tingled in his extremities, but it meant he would be able to move when the time came.
"Four?" John said. "Which four?"
"Durrr," Jim mocked, pulling his mouth down into a parody of slack-jawed stupidity. "Who do you think? Me, Seb, you, and Sherlock. God."
"What about Ian?" John asked. "He –"
Jim blinked. "Oh. Yes. Oscar?"
Dzundza lurched forward and grabbed Ian's wrists, pinning them behind his back.
Ian cried out. "What – what the hell are you doing?" He struggled in the Golem's grip, but he was caught as surely as an ant in sap.
"Whoops!" Jim slipped Sherlock's phone into his pocket. "I lied. I decided to let Oscar have you after all. Don't worry, it'll be pretty fast, or so I understand. Good job none of the monks will be here for long. I don't think Eau de Adler is going to taste very nice."
Ian's eyes darted to the well, then back to Jim. "Jim, look – please, I can –"
"Oscar?" Jim nodded and perched on the edge of the well.
Dzundza reached up and clamped a massive hand over Ian's face. Ian let out a muffled cry and started to thrash madly in the Golem's arms.
Jim and Moran turned to watch Ian struggling in Dzundza's arms. Sherlock reached out and touched John's arm. John gave him a questioning frown, and Sherlock held up one hand, free of its fetters. "Moran," he whispered. "Ankle knife."
John glanced at Moran's legs and nodded slowly. He looked back at Sherlock, let his mouth turn up a bit, then disengaged his eyes and took a deep breath.
Sherlock ignored the struggle and watched Jim coolly. Head. Arms. Knees.
Above them, Ian fought frantically for air. Small, helpless whimpers filtered from behind Dzundza's hand, and he kicked out, but Dzundza only grinned and dragged Ian backward, forcing him off his feet.
"Go," Sherlock whispered. He crouched, sprang, and rugby-tackled Moriarty, slamming his head against the stone lip of the well. Only dimly registering that John had thrown himself at Moran's knees and brought him down with astonishing speed, Sherlock acted almost mechanically. He dragged a dazed Jim up by his collar, and reached for the long loop of rope hanging beside the well. He secured Jim's arms with one well-chosen jerk of the cord, and quickly wrapped more rope around Jim's knees.
He shoved Jim halfway into the mouth of the well. "Stop!" He looked at John, who had wrenched the knife from Moran's ankle sheath and was sitting on Moran's back, twisting his arm and holding the knife to his throat, one foot crushing the hand that held the Tokarev.
Dzundza, startled out of his murderous reverie, released Ian and charged at Sherlock. Sherlock moved with deft rapidity, putting Jim between them.
"Stop. I'll shove him down the well, Dzundza." Sherlock's breath came in rapid gasps, but he controlled his voice, lowering it to a threatening rumble.
Ian tore the Tokarev from Moran's hand and pointed it at the Golem. "Get against the fucking wall, or I'll shoot you," he rasped. His hands shook as he moved backward and picked up the hand-held drill. "Now, you bastard." Dzundza let out a snarl and charged, and Ian shot. Dzundza collapsed into a large, untidy heap, groaning in pain. Ian took a deep, shuddering breath, then fixed his attention on Sherlock. "Dump him."
Sherlock hesitated. He might be doing the world a favour. Jim Moriarty was a human missile, dangerous and certain to destroy those unlucky enough to fall beneath his deadly aim. All Sherlock had to do was push. How deep was the well, he wondered – fifty meters? More? Would the fall kill him?
Trapped and dangling halfway over the rim of the well, Jim giggled. "Go on, Sherlock. Dare you."
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock turned to John. John moved his head in a simple gesture of negation: Don't.
"You'd have done it for me," Sherlock said softly. You have done it for me. And he wants to kill you, John, in case that minute, unimportant detail had slipped your mind.
John smiled. "I know, you idiot."
Sherlock pulled the rest of the rope from the rock pillar and bound Jim tightly, then pulled him out of the well and shoved him to the floor. John yanked down Moran's jacket, flipped up his shirt collar, and wrenched at Moran's tie, nearly choking him. He pulled it off with some difficulty, and tied his wrists together. Then he removed Moran's belt and bound his ankles.
"You're making a mistake," Ian said. "I should kill him myself." He set the drill on the lip of the well and pointed the Tokarev at Moriarty.
"Don't," John said sharply. "He'll get life in prison for this. Let him rot."
Ian hesitated, then moved toward the door. "I'm not going down with him."
"Go," Sherlock said wearily. "We won't stop you."
"Sherlock!" John gaped at him, outraged. Then he sighed and shook his head. "Go." He picked up the drill. "Before I change my mind."
Ian looked from Sherlock to John, then pivoted on his heel and vanished into the corridor.
Sherlock limped toward his clothes and began to dress. His knee was killing him, and his eye throbbed. He'd be lucky to see out of it at all for the next week or so. He moved back to where Jim and Moran were propped against the well cylinder. Moran glared silently; Jim's mouth was curled in an enigmatic little smile. A scrape from the side of the well decorated his face like a streak of dried crimson watercolour.
Sherlock crouched, ignoring the pop in his knee, and slid his hand into Jim's trouser pocket.
"Getting saucy, aren't you, Sherlock?"
"Just retrieving a bit of stolen property," Sherlock said, waving his phone in Jim's face. "All that untapped uraninite," he taunted. "Pity."
"This isn't over," Jim replied softly. "Not by far."
"Oh, I'd be disappointed if it were," Sherlock said, and stood up. His knee felt as if it were on fire. "Tell me – how did you find out about this place, anyhow? Who told you about it?"
Jim grinned. "Oh, come on, Sherlock. I'm not that easy."
Sherlock paused and calculated the possibility of Jim revealing his source under duress. A broken nose, perhaps, or cracked fingers.
"Horst."
Sherlock turned to John. "Say again?"
"Horst. Victoria Trevor's husband. Busman's holiday," John said. He stood with the drill in his hand, looking rather sweetly compact…and murderously efficient. "Ms. Trevor said her husband loved coming down here. Simon said the same thing. The codex was just a red herring."
Sherlock looked at Jim, who shrugged. "Trevor," he said softly. "She doesn't know, does she?"
Jim smiled. "Don't know who you're talking about."
Dzundza stirred and groaned quietly, and Sherlock's concentration wavered. "John," he said, "come on. Let's get above ground and call the police. And Interpol, too. And I think I'll return Mycroft's call as well."
John scooped up the ropes that had bound Sherlock and tied Dzundza up, this time securing his hands to his feet so he couldn't move. Dzundza groaned. Sherlock peered down at him, registering the bloody, torn hole in one thigh. Maybe we should kill them all and have done with it.
Meanwhile, John had scooped up the box that held the codex. "Let's go, Sherlock."
Taking the drill and the lantern, Sherlock and John left, carefully locking the door and securing the prisoners inside. They hurried through the dark corridors until they came to the crypt, and finally, to the stairwell leading to the altar. Without speaking, they made their way outside into waning daylight, and as Sherlock pulled out his phone, a quartet of police cars drove into the rain-washed central courtyard, lights flashing.
Sherlock traded a puzzled glance with John.
"Ian?" John ventured.
Sherlock shrugged. "I suppose so." He strode forward to meet the police, John close on his heels.
*
The good-byes were brief; Sherlock and John were to catch the early train. Brother Edward drove them to the station and shook their hands. "Father Simon asked me to thank you for him. He'll contact you later in the week."
"Not necessary," Sherlock replied. "I hope you can keep the abbey, Brother Edward. Once the word on the uraninite deposits gets out, you'll have a queue at the door."
"We'll do our best. Father Simon and his sister have a few tricks up their sleeve, I think. Maybe you'll come back to visit."
Sherlock smiled politely. "I rather doubt it."
"Well," John said, "there's our train. Thanks for everything, Brother Edward."
They exchanged farewells and Sherlock and John boarded, finding seats easily. The train moved sluggishly out of the station, then picked up speed. The mountainous landscape whizzed past their windows, stark snow-capped peaks jutting into a porcelain-perfect blue sky. Sherlock sent a few texts; John read a paperback spy novel. Two hours passed. Sherlock purchased coffee for them both from the trolley service, and they sipped in silence.
After another hour, Sherlock said, "I don't suppose you'd…want to discuss anything."
John didn't look up from his book. "No."
Sherlock nodded. "All right." He looked out the window at the passing scenery.
For a few moments he saw a reflection of John's face in the window, staring at Sherlock with an unreadable expression, but he elected to say nothing.
*
Author: Alex
Fandom: Sherlock [BBC]
Rating: Varies
Pairing: Sherlock/John; Sherlock/Ian Adler; John Watson/Ian Adler; Jim Moriarty/Sebastian Moran
Disclaimer: A.C. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss.
Summary: All John Watson wants is a peaceful fortnight's holiday in Cornwall. Fate has other plans.
Warnings: Violence, explicit sex, dubious consent.
Notes: I don't genderswap as a rule, but I saw this marvelous gif of Tom Hiddleston and Sherlock and couldn't resist. The rest is shameless self-indulgence.
Plot happily magpied from everywhere, with especial apologies to Umberto Eco.
Thanks to
kimberlite for the sharp-eyed beta.This fic is a gift for sithdragn, with affection.
Can also be read on AO3
*
*
Sherlock's senses re-established themselves one at a time, in disorderly fashion. He tasted something unpleasant, then felt something digging into his lower abdominal muscles, something hard that nevertheless flexed and jolted and made him feel slightly ill. He opened his eyes, but saw only darkness, so he closed them again. As he struggled to orient himself, he realised that the blood was pounding in his skull and giving him a terrible headache, then slowly, far too slowly, discovered that he was hanging upside down, and that he was being carried, that the pain in his stomach was owed to somebody's shoulder. It was like being hauled over a stone shelf. He felt an arm wrapped round his knees, holding him firmly in place.
His shoulders hurt because – he shifted experimentally – his wrists were still bound and gravity was dragging his hands between his shoulder blades. He was gagged, too, not with silk, but with rubber, horrible-tasting and stretching his jaws uncomfortably. The phallic thing that had plugged his mouth earlier: he felt the straps digging into the back of his head, and the wide strip of leather over his lips.
Damn it to hell. Ian….
The man who carried him (unmistakably a man, judging by the flat planes of the body against which his legs were tightly pressed, not to mention the width of the stone-hard shoulders) had a heavy tread, his footsteps thumping solidly on stone. Ian? The weight of another human being might make him graceless. Sherlock took a breath through his nose, the only sort he could manage, (and even that was effortful, slung over someone's shoulder like a sack of meal) and inhaled the fragrances of damp air and early-spring greenery and heard the faint, hesitant call of some nocturnal bird. He was naked, but something scratchy covered his body, keeping out the worst of the chill. His captor's gait, whilst clumsy because Sherlock's weight was unevenly distributed, was nonetheless fairly steady. Sherlock wasn't an overwhelming burden, not because his weight was exceptionally slight, but because whoever carried him was exceptionally strong. And the length of his stride was long. Very long. With a sinking heart, Sherlock suddenly understood who was transporting him with such ease.
Ian Adler had turned him over to Oscar Dzundza.
Panic seized him, and very unfamiliar and unwelcome fear. Then, a sliver of rationality punctured his hazy cogitation. Relax. If he'd wanted to kill you, you'd be dead already.
True enough, but any length of time spent in the Golem's presence was a bit too much. And since the man's principal raison d'etre was killing, best to be as far away as possible.
Sherlock opened his eyes again and now discerned a feeble illumination of moonlight shimmering off wet cobblestones. Dzundza wasn't aware that Sherlock had regained consciousness, or didn't care. Possible advantage. He forced his body to remain utterly limp
Another advantage: Sherlock's ankles were unbound. He could run. He tempered a cautious jubilation by envisioning the abbey layout and estimating the best hiding places, as well as the location of the monks' cells. Since he was likely being carried away from the guest quarters (uphill, toward the church), there was little or no chance of alerting John to his predicament, so the monks it would have to be. He'd kick the door, slam his head against a window, something, anything. He made an instant's calculation, and then heaved himself sideways.
Dzundza grunted in surprise as Sherlock flung his body off his shoulder. Sherlock landed on the ground, stifling a yell and biting hard on the rubber in his mouth as his bare knees collided with stone, one of them giving a stomach-heaving pop. He rolled sideways, kicking off the blanket that was draped over his body and, unable to use his hands for support, got unsteadily to his feet. Dzundza loomed over Sherlock, his features invisible in the cloudy moonlight. Sherlock stumbled backward, then turned to flee, but he'd miscalculated the distance between them; the Golem reached out and grasped Sherlock's hair, dragging him backward and pressing him close. Sherlock kicked frantically, but he might as well have kicked an Easter Island statue for all Dzundza seemed to feel it.
The Golem stilled Sherlock's struggles simply by pinching his nose shut. He put his mouth close to Sherlock's ear. "Shhh."
Sherlock got the message at once and forced himself to stop thrashing. Dzundza released his grasp, but held on to Sherlock's arm with one huge hand as he scooped up the fallen blanket, draped it over Sherlock's shoulders with ludicrous solicitude, and yanked Sherlock toward the dark church.
Sherlock dragged his feet against the wet cobble, but the Golem's grasp was inexorable, not to mention painful, and Sherlock had no choice but to walk – or limp, since his knee hurt like hell. The sky was beginning to lighten from black to deep violet, and morning birds began to stir in the trees, letting out a few sweetly liquid trills. His gaze darted back and forth, seeking some means of escape, some early-rising monk out and about who'd be startled at the sight of a more-than-two-meters-tall man towing one naked, bound, and gagged consulting detective in his wake. Wherever Dzundza was taking him, it probably wasn't to sit him down to a nice breakfast. And it wasn't to kill him, as Sherlock reminded himself – he could have strangled Sherlock as he lay unconscious – why all the effort to take him away from his room?
Probably so he can smother you slowly, in complete privacy, and enjoy watching you die.
The prospect of that made Sherlock fight with renewed frenzy. His heart twisted with frantic refusal as Dzundza tightened the grip on his arm and propelled him effortlessly toward the church. Sherlock tried one last violent wrench to free himself, but it did him no good at all. Dzundza looped an arm through his as he fitted a large key into the church door's lock and silently swung it open. He pulled Sherlock inside, then locked the door behind them and steered Sherlock to the altar, illuminated by a single red-glassed lamp.
Despite his steadily encroaching fear, Sherlock watched in fascination as Dzundza worked the mechanism to open the space beneath the altar. He stumbled down the narrow stone steps, losing his blanket in the process. Dzundza picked it up, retrieved an electric lantern that had been secreted beside the staircase, and then pushed down a lever set into the wall. The altar moved slowly back into place, and Dzundza activated the lantern seconds before the altar extinguished the dim light altogether.
Dzundza bent almost double as he hustled Sherlock through the narrow passageways. Sherlock noted their direction, the turns and forks they took, moving deeper and deeper until they came to a low door. Dzundza had a key for that, too – obtained from the faithless Brother Marcelo, most likely – and he pushed Sherlock inside and entered the room himself, closing the door with a thud.
Sherlock's eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness slowly. He stood still, gazing round, and realised that they'd come to the famous San Stefano well, cause of Father Bernard's death and studded liberally with the uraninite that Jim Moriarty coveted so deeply.
Dzundza spread the blanket on the ground and grasped Sherlock by the arm, forcing him to lie on the blanket. He pulled a cord from his pocket and tied Sherlock's ankles together, finishing them with a strong knot. Sherlock watched without protest and kept his muscles taut as the Golem bound him, on the slim chance that there would be an opportunity to escape. He hoped it wasn't simply a prelude to Dzundza dropping him down the well – its throat was fairly narrow, but it would probably accommodate Sherlock's body.
But Dzundza turned away from him after a gentle pat on his bare hip and a thoroughly unconvincing grimace that Sherlock supposed was a smile and took his lantern to the far corner of the room. Sherlock shifted to his side and propped himself up on one elbow to watch as Dzundza rummaged through a mélange of objects on the stony ground. Sherlock saw what looked like small-scale mining equipment – a hand-held drill, an air compressor, a chemical analysis set, and a Geiger counter. He also noted a bedroll, some tinned food, and a large inlaid wooden box. The codex. I knew it. Finally the Golem located the object of his search – a book – and flung himself on the bedroll and began to read, after a brief glance at Sherlock to ensure that his captive wasn't trying to escape.
Stealthily, Sherlock began to ply the ropes binding his wrists with tiny circular movements. Repetitive motion, applied patiently and persistently, might weaken the tough fibres, and it seemed he had time. Why had Dzundza brought him here? What were they waiting for? Why was he reading, for God's sake?
Sorry about John.
Sherlock's head snapped up as he remembered Ian's words. Had they already harmed John? If not, what were they planning? Would they bring him here as well, a place to carry out a couple of murders in relative silence? Unconsciously, he pulled harder at his bonds and then chided himself. Hurrying will get you nowhere fast, idiot. Sucking in air through his nose, he forced himself to move slowly, and sank down so that he was lying on his side.
Mistake. He'd made a mistake letting John Watson into his life; he should have paid attention to Mycroft, however galling it was to admit.
---I had a telephone call from Detective Inspector Lestrade today.
--- Really? Sherlock played a slow arpeggio in E flat; he'd observed that particular key was offensive to Mycroft's ear, judging from the frowns that he knew were quite unconscious. Mycroft himself didn't realise it.
---I wonder, Sherlock – do you intend to continue aiding New Scotland Yard in their…inquiries?
--- What do you care?
--- It's a matter of minor interest.
--- If it's so minor, then why ask? Sherlock drew an especially dissonant noise from the strings.
A narrow smile congealed on Mycroft's face.
--- I simply wanted to caution you, Sherlock. This is…what, the third? Fourth, perhaps…? The fourth criminal you've helped to place behind bars. I am no expert in determining how rogue meets rogue so inevitably, but the fact is that these people have associates who have thus far managed to remain out of prison. You may be in danger. And in order to strike at you, they may instead choose to strike at those close to you.
--- Ah, I see. Afraid for your own skin?
--- Certainly not.
Sherlock snorted in disbelief.
--- You're thinking of Mummy, then.
--- Mummy is quite safe, I assure you. She has been for years. No, I'm merely advising you to continue on your present trajectory, brother. Friends, lovers – Mycroft made a small moue to indicate his contempt – spouses: they're all vulnerable. Fortunately, you needn't worry over any of that.
Sherlock was silent a moment, then he smiled disdainfully, twisting a tuning peg.
---This from a man who belongs to a club composed entirely of misanthropes.
--- As I said, it's merely advice; do with it what you will. Of course, if by some truly remote chance you manage to find someone who doesn't mind the threat of danger, then so much the better, I suppose. Are you going to offer me tea, or must I go home hungry?
--- You can live a month off your fat, Mycroft.
And so on. But Mycroft had been right. If Sherlock hadn't made the colossally stupid mistake of befriending John, John wouldn't be in danger now. If the Golem decided to snatch John away and bring him here, and if Sherlock couldn't manage to free himself in time, then –
Sherlock froze. Suddenly he knew. He knew why he was being held down here, why Dzundza was whiling away his time with a book.
He was waiting for Jim Moriarty. Jim, who wouldn't be able to resist showing up and cawing with delight. Jim, whose plans Sherlock was about to spoil yet again. Jim, who had an axe to grind.
I'll burn you. I will burn the heart out of you.
Despite his nakedness and the chill of the underground room, Sherlock's body began to sweat. His heartbeat thudded in his ears as he lay on his side, staring at the short well cylinder in growing despair.
John. For the love of God, get out of here.
*
Sherlock slept, his body succumbing to exhaustion though he'd tried to stay alert and to continue working at the ropes encircling his wrists. He woke once to see Dzundza asleep too, his body splayed out on the bedroll. He looked like a corpse in the muted lamplight, and had Sherlock been free, he would have gladly strangled Dzundza himself. He sighed and kept making little circles with both wrists. He couldn't tell if his efforts were fruitful – his arms and hands were nearly numb and the ropes didn't feel slack at all, but it was something to do, better than simply lying still and helpless and waiting for whatever Jim had in store for them.
Time slowed to an agonising crawl. Sherlock distracted himself as much as possible, passing the time by imagining himself constructing a nuclear weapon in Baker Street before NSY found out. Would there be enough time? Natural uranium contained only 0.7% U-235, so he would need highly enriched uranium containing 90% U-235. Now where might he obtain that, were he at home now? Surely one or two of Mycroft's contacts would have some inside information on how one could get his hands on some of the highly enriched stuff. Americium oxide was a slightly greater problem, but not insurmountable, thanks to dear big brother and his access to military labs. The next move was to get John out of the house for the appropriate length of time. Some ruse involving Harry, most likely; she wasn't keen on Sherlock, but she was keen on attention, so it wouldn't be difficult to persuade her to treat John to some family dramatics for a week or two. It couldn't be a false gas leak or structural problem; John had to be distracted, or he'd follow Sherlock –
Sherlock winced. He doubted, if indeed they were to somehow escape from here, that John would be following him anywhere for some time. Without saying a word, he'd presented John with a fait accompli in Ian Adler, and John had told Sherlock in no uncertain terms what he thought about that. And whether or not John harboured any…romantic (oh, God, he hated that word. Meaningless sentiment) – or strong feelings for Sherlock, Sherlock suspected that this matter couldn't be undone by an offhand 'Sorry, John' or an offer to pick up groceries two or even three weeks running.
Bloody stupid emotions. Needless complications and boring besides, a bunch of sheep who didn't have the brain cells to realise –
I’ll burn you. I will burn the heart out of you.
I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.
But we both know that’s not quite true.
Sherlock clenched his teeth on the foul rubber in his mouth and jerked hard at his bonds. He stared up at the low ceiling hopelessly, and then heard a rattling at the door.
Dzundza had heard it too; he sat up and looked over at Sherlock.
Three, perhaps four seconds of hesitation passed before Sherlock flung his body toward the door and let out a cry that seemed quite loud in his own ears, but was likely no more than a pathetic little whimper. And before he could cry out again, the Golem was atop him, wrapped round him like an octopus, one huge hand pressing on the leather strapped to Sherlock's face and shoving the rubber even further down Sherlock's throat.
"Is anyone there?"
John. JOHN! Sherlock writhed in the Golem's grip, but he couldn't dislodge the hand over his face, nor make a sound loud enough to attract John's attention. The rubber phallus in his mouth pushed against the back of his throat, and he gagged and implored his gorge to stay down so he wouldn't throw up. He forced his limbs to cease thrashing, and looked toward the door, praying that John had gone to get some sort of implement to pry the door open. Perhaps he was with another monk, who had a key. He waited, torn between a desperate hope that John would storm in and another hope, just as desperate, that he would leave. Eventually, it seemed the latter had won out. John didn't return. There were no more noises from the corridor.
Dzundza waited in silence, his limbs still locked around Sherlock's body. At last, when it seemed clear that John had gone for good, he loosened his grasp and bore Sherlock back to the blanket. He gazed down at Sherlock's supine form for a moment, and then his teeth showed in a menacing grin. Deliberately, he reached out and caressed Sherlock's naked chest, then moved his hand down, resting for a moment on Sherlock's belly, then drifting between his legs.
Sherlock stiffened in utter revulsion and glared at what he could see of the Golem's face. He kept still and ordered his body not to respond, not to struggle away, afraid that Dzundza was going to apply more pressure and arouse Sherlock against his will. For one endless moment both men were motionless, then Dzundza's hand began to move.
With a speed borne of mingled instinct and calculation, Sherlock lashed out with both feet, catching Dzundza squarely in the kidney. Dzundza let out a muffled snarl and struck Sherlock across the face, knocking him to the ground. Dzundza was atop Sherlock instantly, pressing the gag down again and covering his nose.
Sherlock's heels beat a muffled tattoo against the stone floor as he fought fruitlessly for air. No John this time. This time he's just going to kill me.
"What are you doing?"
The familiar voice scarcely pierced Sherlock's fading consciousness, but he saw hands descending on Dzundza's shoulders, pushing at him.
"Let him go! Arrêter, imbécile!"
The massive hands came away from Sherlock's face, and he sucked an uneven breath through his nose. Swimming in and out of his blurry vision, he saw a tall, slender figure silhouetted in the lamplight. Ordering himself not to pass out, he focused through his good eye (Dzundza's blow had swelled his left eye shut) and recognised Ian Adler.
Ian was talking in rapid French, and Dzundza answered in what sounded like grunts. Sherlock was woozy, but he discerned, eventually, that Ian was upbraiding him for assaulting Sherlock (Ian didn't know the half of it) and that per Jim's orders, Sherlock wasn't to be harmed.
Saving you for something particularly nasty, no doubt.
Dzundza muttered something unintelligible and showed Ian a blood-stained hand. Sherlock felt an instant of wild exultation. Reopened the wound that John made. Good. Good. He watched as Ian pointed to the bedroll and ordered Dzundza to lie down so he could look at the wound. Ian busied himself tending the wound for a few moments, using what looked like Dzundza's last clean shirt to bind it, and then moved to crouch beside Sherlock. He set a folded bundle on the ground – Sherlock's clothes and shoes. With gentle hands, he reached behind Sherlock's head and unbuckled the gag, carefully easing it from Sherlock's mouth. "I'm sorry about that. You did provoke him, though – you can't expect him to be happy with you. You're lucky I showed up when I did."
"Lucky," Sherlock rasped. "Yes, awfully lucky. Thank God you showed up. If it weren't for you I might be dead now. Oh, wait – you're the one who engineered all this. Thanks for nothing, Ian. Come see me next time you need a favour."
"Sherlock," Ian said, a chiding note in his voice, "come on now. I wouldn't have chosen this for you, but I'm afraid Jim is very exacting. When he found out you were involved in all this, he was…well, I wouldn't quite say he was happy, but he wasn't displeased, either. Delivering you to him means an extra bonus for me."
"Short on bondage gear, are you?"
Ian gingerly touched Sherlock's swollen eye. Sherlock jerked his head away. "Don't be so recalcitrant." He sighed. "I did try to help you. I told John to leave. He's proving to be just as stubborn as you are, though. Perhaps even more so."
A surge of pride swelled warmly in Sherlock's chest along with a brief piercing stab of fear. "What is Jim planning to do with him?"
"I don't know, but I suspect it won't be pretty, knowing Jim. I will try to warn him again, but I can't force him to leave."
Sherlock wet his lips. He was unbearably thirsty. He'd die before he asked for a drink, but for John….
For John, he'd beg. "Ian…please. Get him out. Tell him anything. Tell him…tell him that I'm going away with you for a while. That I've already left. Tell him I don't want to see him any longer, that I'm leaving Baker Street for good."
"He'd never believe that."
"He might, if you made it convincing enough. Untie me and I'll write him a note. Or text him. My phone's in my coat pocket." Sherlock listened to the words tumbling from his mouth and pressed his lips together tightly. "Please."
Ian, his face shadowed, gazed at Sherlock for a long, thoughtful moment. Finally, he shook his head. "I can't. You're not the only one who's got himself in over his head."
"You thought you could handle Jim Moriarty. You didn't know that he would wring you dry of every drop of usefulness before he tossed you aside like yesterday's rubbish. What's he got on you, Ian? How does one blackmail a blackmailer? If anyone knows, it's Jim." Sherlock lowered his voice. "Help me, and I'll help you. I promise."
A long, low sigh escaped Ian's chest. "I can't." He picked up the gag. "Sorry, Sherlock."
Sherlock compressed his lips and turned his head to one side, refusing to cooperate.
"If you don't open your mouth I'll call Oscar and ask him to help me. I don't think it would take much to persuade him, do you?" Ian grasped Sherlock's chin and turned his face upward.
"No, don't –" But Ian prised Sherlock's mouth open and shoved the thick phallus back inside his mouth, then fastened it behind Sherlock's head once more. Sherlock settled for a smouldering glare that communicated his anger and contempt.
Ian gave him a tilted smile, then bent close to Sherlock's ear. "For what it's worth, I don't regret a moment of time that we spent together. I'll do what I can to see that we're allowed to continue."
Allowed? Unless it courted James Moriarty's whims, it seemed highly unlikely, not that he would ever willingly touch Ian Adler again. It wasn't the first time his impulsivity had steered him wrong; he fervently hoped it wouldn't be the last.
Though the odds didn't seem to favour survival.
*
Things were quiet for some time after Ian left. Ignoring the chill that had seeped into his naked body, Sherlock persisted in working at the ropes, and they did seem to be loosening the slightest bit, to his gratification. Dzundza stayed on his bedroll beside the lantern. The kick Sherlock had administered seemed to have dampened his amorous proclivities, for which Sherlock was profoundly grateful.
As Sherlock toiled, he couldn't help but feel a small dart of jubilation and pride in John's stubbornness and courage. True, John owed him nothing (although, Sherlock acknowledged, he owed John a great deal, and if they both made it through this ordeal alive he'd…he'd try to pay John back, somehow), and it was heartening to know that John hadn't simply abandoned him – though he had no idea where Sherlock was, most likely. Sherlock had been careful, just lately, to be a bit more prompt about keeping John abreast of things. If he'd had his phone to hand, he'd have sent a text.
Dzundza's prisoner in well. Moriarty on his way. Obtain reinforcements. Hurry please.
He'd have smiled but for the rubber contraption in his mouth and the sudden scraping of the lock. Dzundza rose to his feet – slowly, Sherlock noted, as if he were in pain – and moved to the door as it swung open.
"Honey, I'm home!" Jim Moriarty stood silhouetted in the doorway. A man, much taller than Jim, stood behind him, and as both men entered the room, the tall man coolly sized up Dzundza, then gave him a brief nod. Moriarty strolled over to where Sherlock lay and crouched down, his hands dangling between his knees. "Aw, look at you, all wrapped up. And quiet, too! Bet that's a rarity – a silent Sherlock." Jim grinned and patted Sherlock's cheek.
Sherlock didn't blink as he returned Jim's steady stare. How had Jim and the other man got into the abbey without being noticed? Surely they hadn't taken a taxicab. Sherlock narrowed his gaze and inspected Jim's suit, difficult as it was in the dim light of the lantern: soil and moisture on one sleeve and trouser cuff, as if he'd brushed against something damp and dirty; mud on the soles of his shoes. Unless there's a tunnel entrance at the gatepost, outside the abbey. It wasn't completely impossible; John had said the tunnels seemed to go on for miles. Certain he was right, he glared triumphantly into Jim's face again.
"Ooh, look at him, Seb. He's furious. He'd throttle me if he could." Jim straightened up and sighed. "I admit he's not as much fun when he can't speak, but let's leave that in for the moment. One of Ian's little toys, am I right, Sherlock?" He turned away without waiting for a reply, not that Sherlock was in a position to give one, and spoke to the tall man again. "Sebastian Moran, meet Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, Seb. I'm a little disappointed that you got caught so easily, Sherlock. And with Ian, of all people. It's all so unexpected!" Jim clapped his hands together. The sound reverberated sharply off the walls. "But it's not altogether unpleasant. Now all we have to do is wait for the good doctor. You do think he'll come, don't you? I got all dressed up."
Sherlock turned away as if the topic held no interest for him. A few seconds later agony exploded in his right thigh.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you, sweetheart." Jim's voice was a low growl.
His eyes swimming with tears of pain, the sartorius muscle of his thigh throbbing where Jim had kicked him, Sherlock screwed his eyes shut to stop the tears and forced himself to meet Jim's gaze once more.
"Oh, that's better. Good boy. Anyway, if Ian can't get him here, I'll have to dispatch Oscar, although…." He gave Dzundza a dubious once-over. "Oscar doesn't look very well, does he? Is that your doing, Sherlock? Or Johnny-boy's?"
The man Jim had introduced as Sebastian Moran walked quietly to Dzundza and murmured a question. Dzundza answered in an equally low tone, too soft for Sherlock to make out. Sherlock saw the bulge of a shoulder holster under Moran's jacket and an irregular shape beneath the narrow cuff of his immaculately cut suit. Knife. Accessible at ground level.
"Well done, whoever it was." Jim sounded positively jovial now; jovial and utterly, utterly mad. "That's twice you've tangled with him and lived, and I expect he'll want to pay you back somehow. I'm a little surprised he hasn't been smothering you at intervals – that's his thing, you know," Jim said confidingly. "Personally, I think it's a little –" Jim twirled his finger next to his ear, "—but who am I to judge, right? I guess it's just nice that he enjoys his work so much. I think I'll let him take another crack at darling John. What do you say?"
Sherlock gave Jim a look that promised murder. If I get my hands on you – A sharp series of raps on the door startled his attention away from Moriarty. He strained to hear a voice, then recognised Ian Adler's. Perhaps he persuaded John to leave. Perhaps –
Jim Moriarty put a finger to his lips, his eyes dancing, and sank back into the shadows near the door. Dzundza rose to his feet with effort. Moran strode to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it slightly ajar, then stepped into the darkness as well.
Ian stepped over the threshold awkwardly, and John was directly behind him, glancing this way and that, but failed to notice Moriarty or Moran. He saw Sherlock, and his mouth dropped open, concern and apprehension etched in every line on his face.
Sherlock shook his head and jerked his chin toward Moran's hiding place. He tried to speak and knew full well that his words were completely unintelligible.
John kept a tight grip on Ian Adler's arm, and Sherlock saw that Ian's wrists were bound behind his back. Well done, John. He can't be trusted. "Untie him, Dzundza. Now." John's voice was steady, clear, and carried the weight of finality.
John, use your torch. Look behind you, for God's sake! Sherlock shook his head again and raised his voice, trying to warn John as best he could, but it was too late; John frowned and began to turn his head toward the spot where Moriarty concealed himself, but Moran detached himself from the darkness, his arm raised, and brought the butt of a gun down against the back of John's skull. John took two unsteady steps and crashed to his knees.
"Surprise!" Moriarty cried, and Moran brought the weapon down again. John slumped unconscious to the floor.
God damn it! Sherlock cried out in protest and struggled against his bonds.
"Shut up," Moran ordered, "or you'll get the same treatment."
"Now, Seb," Jim chided. "Let's not, shall we? Pick Dr. Watson up and put him next to his pal."
Moran didn't pick John up; instead he replaced his weapon, then grasped John's ankles and dragged him over the rough ground to lie beside Sherlock. He smiled at Sherlock, a smile full of even white teeth but lacking even the smallest bit of sympathy. "He's tough. Most people would have been knocked out instantly. Look, he's stirring already."
Sherlock moved closer to John, anxiously inspecting his face. John groaned, shifted, and was silent once more.
Ian's voice broke into Sherlock's scrutiny. "Can someone please untie me?"
"Honestly," Jim sighed. "Can't you slip a little knot? Thought that was your occupation. Seb, if you wouldn't mind?" He moved past Ian and placed his hands on his knees, leaning forward as if he were addressing a small child. "Now that the gang's all here, what shall we do?"
*
Sherlock dared to ignore Jim in favour of continuing to look John over, watching him shift like a man in the grip of a bad dream. Apropos. This can't get much worse. Sherlock glanced up as Jim, Moran, Ian (rubbing his wrists and looking indignant), and Dzundza gathered round, all looking down at John with interest. He would have loved to tell them to piss off; this muteness was beyond frustrating.
"It was Watson who injured Oscar," Moran said. He drew his weapon, a blunt, sensible semi-automatic Tokarev, and pointed it at John.
Sherlock smirked inwardly. Taking no chances, are we?
"Tiens!" Jim said, lifting his neat, dark brows. "Well done, Johnny. Search him, please, Seb."
"He's not armed," Ian said. "I'm fairly certain of that."
"Honey, it wouldn't take a weapon to subdue you." As Moran quickly checked John's pockets, Jim prodded John with his foot. "Up and at 'em, Johnny-boy! Rise and shine!"
John groaned and opened his eyes. He blinked, then looked at the four men gathered round him, one with weapon drawn, and tried to sit up. Moran pushed on John's shoulder with his foot, pressing him to the stone floor, and John raised his hands uncertainly. "What the hell?" he murmured.
"Hi again," Moriarty said, his voice spiraling upward.
"Moriarty," John whispered, then put a hand to the back of his head. "Ow."
"Sorry about that. Seb can get carried away. You feeling all right?" Jim smiled, all melting sympathy.
"Fuck you," John retorted, then realised Sherlock was lying next to him. He sat up, then regarded Sherlock anxiously. "Are you okay?" As Sherlock nodded, John brushed the tip of his finger over Sherlock's bruised eye, now swelled almost completely shut. "Who did that to you?" He glared up at Jim. "Did you do that, you fucking lunatic?"
"Shut up," snarled Moran.
"It's okay, Seb. You know, for a soldier, you have a really remarkable talent for getting yourself ambushed. How'd you ever make it out of Afghanistan?"
To his credit (and Sherlock admitted to himself that he wouldn't be able to resist a smart-arse remark) John turned away and directed his attention to Sherlock once more. "You sure you're okay?"
Sherlock held John's gaze with his one working eye and nodded again.
"Nothing broken?"
"You can take the gag out, Johnny," Moriarty offered. "Nobody's going to bother us down here. And Sherlock's boring when he's not talking."
John gave Moriarty a quick, chill glance, and reached behind Sherlock's head to unfasten the gag. "Second time," he muttered, and now his hostility fixed itself on Sherlock for a second. He succeeded in unbuckling the gag and pulling it out of Sherlock's mouth, tossing it aside with disgust.
Sherlock's cheeks felt warm. He worked his jaw to loosen it, and moistened his dry lips. "Thank you," he croaked.
"Yeah, don't mention it." John compressed his lips, then patted Sherlock briefly on his naked thigh before snatching his hand back. He turned to Moriarty again. "You couldn't give him his clothes, for Christ's sake?"
"Oh, come on, John," Jim sighed. "Don't you like looking at him naked? Even I think he's kind of pretty." He leant down. "Though not exactly…impressive. Still, not everyone is a size queen." He straightened again. "So. Down to business."
"It's over, Jim," Sherlock said. "You've overstepped, and there's no way you won't be caught. Too many people have been killed."
"But there's nothing to pin them on me." Jim strolled to the well, looked down into its depths, and turned back to Sherlock, his face an innocent boy's. "Nothing except for the mighty Sherlock Holmes, oh dear, oh me." His voice dropped into perfect RP. "Isn't he clever? Isn't he just the limit, that man? Except I can't have the dots connected. So that means I have to bottle up the source. Eenie, meenie, minie, you." He waggled a finger at Sherlock.
Sherlock snorted in pure disdain. He rotated his raw wrists and felt the rope give a little. He kept his movements almost imperceptible. If one of them saw, they'd make certain he couldn't move at all. "You're going to kill me?"
"Nah. What did I tell you last time? You remember, Sherlock?"
Sherlock lifted his chin. "You said you'd burn the heart out of me."
"What a good memory you have." Jim went to the folded pile of Sherlock's clothing and lifted his coat. He dug in the pockets until he found Sherlock's phone, held it triumphantly aloft, and then began thumbing through it. Sherlock watched in silent outrage as Jim tapped easily, as if Sherlock's mobile was his own. "Let's see now. If I wanted to tear you apart, what would I – oh, look at this. Some new messages." He began to read. "'Phone me at once. M.'" Jim pulled a face. "Big brother? My, he's bossy. What's this one…'All right. Where the hell are you?' That one's from John. Oh, another one from John. ' Stop sulking. Are you okay?' He's getting anxious. And one more. From John, of course. 'Not funny anymore. Where the hell are you?'" Jim shook his head, smiling. "Gosh, isn't that devotion for you. Not even your own brother is as concerned for you as Dr. Watson."
Sherlock felt the rope on his right wrist loosen enough to slip his hand free. "You wouldn't know genuine concern if you tripped over it." He kept his hands behind his back.
"Even without these messages, I can tell how much he cares about you," Jim replied, sounding disgusted. "He stares, Sherlock, with big cow eyes. He put his own life on the line to protect you – remember that, Johnny? He puts up with you day in and day out, and that, my dear Sherlock, has got to be a miracle on par with the loaves and fishes. But something tells me that you haven't…done the deed. Have you?"
Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and refused to look at John. He knew now what Moriarty intended to do; the key was to delay him somehow. Overpower…God. Two against four, and at least one of them was armed. Dzundza was wounded, but still powerful. Ian…Ian was an unknown variable. Sherlock peered at him, but Ian was studying the toes of his boots and looked oddly abashed.
Jim, of course, intercepted Sherlock's glance. "Oh, Ian." Ian's head jerked up. "Yeah, he told me. Sent me a little home movie, even. But it's not Ian you really care about. He can't be trusted."
"For once," Sherlock replied coldly, "we're in complete accord." Slowly, stealthily, he shifted, making sure his feet were in the shadows. Dzundza had done a sloppy job. He moved one foot back and forth, and found himself free. Free.
"So you'll bump uglies with Ian, but your love for Dr. Watson is chaste and pure," Jim purred. "That's so sweet. It would really hurt you if John died, wouldn't it? And right in front of you, as you lie tied up and helpless, maybe screaming his name."
Sherlock suppressed a shiver. "I'd kill you. You know that, don't you?"
"And not feel a shred of remorse." Jim laughed. "Oh, Sherlock. It's going to happen, but not here. We're going to take a little trip, the four of us, somewhere quite safe. And then I'll burn you, oh, so slowly. And when I come back, I'll give Johnny – or what's left of him, anyway – a special burial, in one of the crypts. Won't that be nice?"
John reached out and rested one hand on Sherlock's shoulder for a moment and, absurdly, Sherlock felt calmer. John rarely touched him except to tend to his injuries, and this unsolicited bit of affection was…lovely.
Jim noticed, too. "Aww." He mimed playing a violin.
Surreptitiously, Sherlock flexed his hands and feet. The sensation was back; pins and needles tingled in his extremities, but it meant he would be able to move when the time came.
"Four?" John said. "Which four?"
"Durrr," Jim mocked, pulling his mouth down into a parody of slack-jawed stupidity. "Who do you think? Me, Seb, you, and Sherlock. God."
"What about Ian?" John asked. "He –"
Jim blinked. "Oh. Yes. Oscar?"
Dzundza lurched forward and grabbed Ian's wrists, pinning them behind his back.
Ian cried out. "What – what the hell are you doing?" He struggled in the Golem's grip, but he was caught as surely as an ant in sap.
"Whoops!" Jim slipped Sherlock's phone into his pocket. "I lied. I decided to let Oscar have you after all. Don't worry, it'll be pretty fast, or so I understand. Good job none of the monks will be here for long. I don't think Eau de Adler is going to taste very nice."
Ian's eyes darted to the well, then back to Jim. "Jim, look – please, I can –"
"Oscar?" Jim nodded and perched on the edge of the well.
Dzundza reached up and clamped a massive hand over Ian's face. Ian let out a muffled cry and started to thrash madly in the Golem's arms.
Jim and Moran turned to watch Ian struggling in Dzundza's arms. Sherlock reached out and touched John's arm. John gave him a questioning frown, and Sherlock held up one hand, free of its fetters. "Moran," he whispered. "Ankle knife."
John glanced at Moran's legs and nodded slowly. He looked back at Sherlock, let his mouth turn up a bit, then disengaged his eyes and took a deep breath.
Sherlock ignored the struggle and watched Jim coolly. Head. Arms. Knees.
Above them, Ian fought frantically for air. Small, helpless whimpers filtered from behind Dzundza's hand, and he kicked out, but Dzundza only grinned and dragged Ian backward, forcing him off his feet.
"Go," Sherlock whispered. He crouched, sprang, and rugby-tackled Moriarty, slamming his head against the stone lip of the well. Only dimly registering that John had thrown himself at Moran's knees and brought him down with astonishing speed, Sherlock acted almost mechanically. He dragged a dazed Jim up by his collar, and reached for the long loop of rope hanging beside the well. He secured Jim's arms with one well-chosen jerk of the cord, and quickly wrapped more rope around Jim's knees.
He shoved Jim halfway into the mouth of the well. "Stop!" He looked at John, who had wrenched the knife from Moran's ankle sheath and was sitting on Moran's back, twisting his arm and holding the knife to his throat, one foot crushing the hand that held the Tokarev.
Dzundza, startled out of his murderous reverie, released Ian and charged at Sherlock. Sherlock moved with deft rapidity, putting Jim between them.
"Stop. I'll shove him down the well, Dzundza." Sherlock's breath came in rapid gasps, but he controlled his voice, lowering it to a threatening rumble.
Ian tore the Tokarev from Moran's hand and pointed it at the Golem. "Get against the fucking wall, or I'll shoot you," he rasped. His hands shook as he moved backward and picked up the hand-held drill. "Now, you bastard." Dzundza let out a snarl and charged, and Ian shot. Dzundza collapsed into a large, untidy heap, groaning in pain. Ian took a deep, shuddering breath, then fixed his attention on Sherlock. "Dump him."
Sherlock hesitated. He might be doing the world a favour. Jim Moriarty was a human missile, dangerous and certain to destroy those unlucky enough to fall beneath his deadly aim. All Sherlock had to do was push. How deep was the well, he wondered – fifty meters? More? Would the fall kill him?
Trapped and dangling halfway over the rim of the well, Jim giggled. "Go on, Sherlock. Dare you."
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock turned to John. John moved his head in a simple gesture of negation: Don't.
"You'd have done it for me," Sherlock said softly. You have done it for me. And he wants to kill you, John, in case that minute, unimportant detail had slipped your mind.
John smiled. "I know, you idiot."
Sherlock pulled the rest of the rope from the rock pillar and bound Jim tightly, then pulled him out of the well and shoved him to the floor. John yanked down Moran's jacket, flipped up his shirt collar, and wrenched at Moran's tie, nearly choking him. He pulled it off with some difficulty, and tied his wrists together. Then he removed Moran's belt and bound his ankles.
"You're making a mistake," Ian said. "I should kill him myself." He set the drill on the lip of the well and pointed the Tokarev at Moriarty.
"Don't," John said sharply. "He'll get life in prison for this. Let him rot."
Ian hesitated, then moved toward the door. "I'm not going down with him."
"Go," Sherlock said wearily. "We won't stop you."
"Sherlock!" John gaped at him, outraged. Then he sighed and shook his head. "Go." He picked up the drill. "Before I change my mind."
Ian looked from Sherlock to John, then pivoted on his heel and vanished into the corridor.
Sherlock limped toward his clothes and began to dress. His knee was killing him, and his eye throbbed. He'd be lucky to see out of it at all for the next week or so. He moved back to where Jim and Moran were propped against the well cylinder. Moran glared silently; Jim's mouth was curled in an enigmatic little smile. A scrape from the side of the well decorated his face like a streak of dried crimson watercolour.
Sherlock crouched, ignoring the pop in his knee, and slid his hand into Jim's trouser pocket.
"Getting saucy, aren't you, Sherlock?"
"Just retrieving a bit of stolen property," Sherlock said, waving his phone in Jim's face. "All that untapped uraninite," he taunted. "Pity."
"This isn't over," Jim replied softly. "Not by far."
"Oh, I'd be disappointed if it were," Sherlock said, and stood up. His knee felt as if it were on fire. "Tell me – how did you find out about this place, anyhow? Who told you about it?"
Jim grinned. "Oh, come on, Sherlock. I'm not that easy."
Sherlock paused and calculated the possibility of Jim revealing his source under duress. A broken nose, perhaps, or cracked fingers.
"Horst."
Sherlock turned to John. "Say again?"
"Horst. Victoria Trevor's husband. Busman's holiday," John said. He stood with the drill in his hand, looking rather sweetly compact…and murderously efficient. "Ms. Trevor said her husband loved coming down here. Simon said the same thing. The codex was just a red herring."
Sherlock looked at Jim, who shrugged. "Trevor," he said softly. "She doesn't know, does she?"
Jim smiled. "Don't know who you're talking about."
Dzundza stirred and groaned quietly, and Sherlock's concentration wavered. "John," he said, "come on. Let's get above ground and call the police. And Interpol, too. And I think I'll return Mycroft's call as well."
John scooped up the ropes that had bound Sherlock and tied Dzundza up, this time securing his hands to his feet so he couldn't move. Dzundza groaned. Sherlock peered down at him, registering the bloody, torn hole in one thigh. Maybe we should kill them all and have done with it.
Meanwhile, John had scooped up the box that held the codex. "Let's go, Sherlock."
Taking the drill and the lantern, Sherlock and John left, carefully locking the door and securing the prisoners inside. They hurried through the dark corridors until they came to the crypt, and finally, to the stairwell leading to the altar. Without speaking, they made their way outside into waning daylight, and as Sherlock pulled out his phone, a quartet of police cars drove into the rain-washed central courtyard, lights flashing.
Sherlock traded a puzzled glance with John.
"Ian?" John ventured.
Sherlock shrugged. "I suppose so." He strode forward to meet the police, John close on his heels.
*
The good-byes were brief; Sherlock and John were to catch the early train. Brother Edward drove them to the station and shook their hands. "Father Simon asked me to thank you for him. He'll contact you later in the week."
"Not necessary," Sherlock replied. "I hope you can keep the abbey, Brother Edward. Once the word on the uraninite deposits gets out, you'll have a queue at the door."
"We'll do our best. Father Simon and his sister have a few tricks up their sleeve, I think. Maybe you'll come back to visit."
Sherlock smiled politely. "I rather doubt it."
"Well," John said, "there's our train. Thanks for everything, Brother Edward."
They exchanged farewells and Sherlock and John boarded, finding seats easily. The train moved sluggishly out of the station, then picked up speed. The mountainous landscape whizzed past their windows, stark snow-capped peaks jutting into a porcelain-perfect blue sky. Sherlock sent a few texts; John read a paperback spy novel. Two hours passed. Sherlock purchased coffee for them both from the trolley service, and they sipped in silence.
After another hour, Sherlock said, "I don't suppose you'd…want to discuss anything."
John didn't look up from his book. "No."
Sherlock nodded. "All right." He looked out the window at the passing scenery.
For a few moments he saw a reflection of John's face in the window, staring at Sherlock with an unreadable expression, but he elected to say nothing.
*
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-06-30 11:08 pm (UTC)