fossilised | For John Watson

For John Watson

It was the worst blizzard that London had endured for three hundred years. That's what the news reports said before they all cut off, the power lines giving under the weight of the snow. It had started as just inclement weather (everyone take care out on the roads!), and then escalated into proper warnings (the emergency services recommend you stay indoors), and had finally ended in full lockdown (up to 65% of Londoners are trapped in their homes today).

John had been planning to catch a train to visit Harry, she claimed to be off the drink again and it was his duty as brother to go and support her. It had just made sense to stay an extra hour or two until the snow let up. Big mistake, as it turned out. Now he was fully snowed in with an extremely bored and agitated Sherlock Holmes.

No radio. No internet. No TV. No electricity of any kind.

Sherlock hadn't said anything for fifty-seven minutes, probably a relief to the poor beleaguered John, but that was because he was busy. He had to do something to occupy his mind, it was either that or dig into his stash of drugs hidden in John's bedroom, and he had chosen the fridge. Slightly manic movements have helped him get literally everything out from the fridge and freezer, distributing it all over the living room floor. There's everything from a glass jar of thumbs in formaldehyde, to three half eaten tubs of Ben and Jerry's Cookie Dough ice cream.

His treasure trove assembled, Sherlock crouched on the floor and began to move things around, organising them and then reorganising them in an ever more frustrated manner. It took only a further fourteen minutes before he stood up and shouted, explosively.

"DAMN IT!"

Before he threw a ceramic pot of left-over stew at the wall, where it shattered with a loud crash and drenched John's chair (and John, if he happened to be in it) in congealed lumps of meat in gravy.

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At the peak of the hill, Sherlock paused, looking ridiculously like a dramatic painting from years gone by. Tall and slender with his long coat flapping around him in the wind, framed from behind by the moonlight, and half in profile. But he spoiled that image by immediately dashing back over the hill to leave John behind, his much longer legs eating up the distance easily.

John would not have the chance to catch up before a car pulled up beside him, the motor purring smoothly and the tyres obviously having been refitted to deal with snow. A perfect marriage of luxury and need bundled into one car. The window wound down and a blast of hot air from the heating inside steamed out.

Anthea, Mycroft's assistant, glanced up from her phone as if she hadn't even realised he was there.

"Are you getting in then?"

Sometimes John forgot that Anthea even existed, much the same as she forgot the whole world outside of herself existed. He pulled his jacket a little more tightly around himself and leaned down to peer not only at her, but around her. Was she alone? Likely. Mycroft would never come out in this weather.

"Actually, I'm on a bit of a sitting job right now," he grinned, and Anthea flashed him a not grin, too much grin, not grin again that was honestly all her own. How did the Holmes' surround themselves in so many utterly odd people? It had to be some sort of conspiracy.

And, knowing Mycroft, it absolutely was.

John looked up to find Sherlock bounding around like a dog down the street and he cursed. "Sorry, must go," he said, trying to skirt around the car without falling over. He wasn't going to lose Sherlock to himself, not tonight.

The car easily kept pace with him, and one of the doors opened so that Anthea could lean down a little and peer out at him. Every so often checking her phone and tapping away on the keys, for she could never pay attention to him for very long.

"You know how this works, that wasn't really a request."

Come on, Doctor Watson, how many times had Mycroft sent a polite 'request' for him to join him before now? It was never optional. Mycroft Holmes wanted to see John Watson, and that meant he would send a car for him.

"It's bloody cold, so would you please get in? I've got an email to send and you're holding us both up."

"Do you-- This is not a good night," John complained, but Anthea had already moved over to let him in and... Well, she was cute. She didn't know his name once she looked away from him and forgot he existed, but she was cute. And that could get John Watson to do a whole lot. Including leaving Sherlock to his own devices.

He thought, blearily, that Mycroft probably had a way to power at least some of those cameras, likely through battery or on an alternate power grid and the whole city couldn't be out of power so someone would be able to watch Sherlock.

And when this little meeting was finished, they could collect their detective, have tea, and fight about who was taking the first shift to watch him in a town home that hopefully had been cleaned up by their landlady so no one had to smell the mess Sherlock had left in it.

John sighed and climbed into the car, happy to be warm. He waited for the car to pull away before he glanced over at Mycroft's assistant. "Hello, by the way. It's certainly been awhile. How have you--"

She glanced at him and John sighed, turning away.

"Right."

Anthea, once John had got inside the car as he was supposed to and the door could once again close to shut out the freezing conditions outside, once more completely ignored her travelling companion. She had a lot to do, she was a very busy woman, and being called on to babysit every once in a while was a little insulting to her position.

The car purred along with no issues over the snow covered roads for approximately twenty minutes, before it pulled up outside of Mycroft's favoured club, where at least one of the rooms had a complete silence ban.

Anthea opened the door and tilted her head in the direction of the outside before he took the hint and left.

Thankfully, the doorman was able to point him to Mycroft without too much of a charade at the front desk. An oak-panelled room that practically reeked of money, with Mycroft relaxing in front of a roaring fire with a decanter of brandy and two glasses.

"Do sit down, Dr. Watson, have a drink. And then tell me why you gave in to my brother's foolish whim to go cavorting about tonight, I had thought you had better sense than that."

The Diogenes Club was really very famous. After John had been here once he had done a little digging. The point of it was that there was to be no speaking whatsoever in any public area and even in private areas, it was discouraged. All of the important men on business and government were allowed to sit in peace without having to worry about deal making. Or nagging families that wanted the time they did not normally have. John thought the idea of the Diogenes Club was a good one. But sexist and perhaps an obvious sign that they should cut back on back room dealings and be a better, humanist country.

He did clear his throat twice on the way back to Mycroft's office, if only to see the old men grouse and rustle their papers. It amused him.

Back with Mycroft, John didn't bother to sit.

"Next time just call me. None of the public phones have power but you have my number, Mycroft. Do you have eyes on him?" John didn't like to be initially forthcoming.

That amused him too.

"I dislike using the telephone when unnecessary, civilised men discuss their plans and issues face to face."

Mycroft smiled, a thin and polite sort of smile, the sort that said John just didn't understand how the world really worked. He was a charming sort of pet for his brother, this Doctor Watson, but he never really thought very deeply about things. Excellent for keeping Sherlock on the straight and narrow, however. Usually.

"Even we don't have eyes out on the road currently."

That would be a no.

"I lost visual contact when you stupidly gave in to his ideas about leaving the flat, whatever possessed you, man? You must know that tonight is a danger night."

“And you took me away from him,” John said, less malice in his voice and more annoyance at the arrogance all around him. He had no idea what was going on here. Mycroft, being the smartest man in the country according to multiple sources, so often acted the most ignorant. “We were off to find a case to keep him from feeling the need for.. That.” John shifted his weight as he always did, as if he was simultaneously moving forward and about to leave. “You’ve lost sight of him and by now he might as well be in Soho, so if you don’t mind, I need your car.”

It wasn’t like he was going to get one himself and the tube would take much too long from here.

John was worried for Sherlock’s state. He should have never come. It made him agitated and he did finally take a step forward and push his fingers into Mycroft’s pristinely waxed and finished desk.

“If he hurts himself or gets hurt because I wasn’t there—“ He wet his lips. “Get me a car, Mycroft.”

"Will you sit down?"

Mycroft did not often let the calm of his outward demeanour slip away, but he barked the last two words. He also wanted to get John back to his little brother as soon as possible. No matter what Sherlock might say about him, and about their relationship, Sherlock was one of the few people that he did truly care about.

"Do you think I brought you here just to ask you about your idiocy? Though I have yet to receive a satisfactory answer on that. I know what Sherlock needs, and I have a case for you to take to him. After you explain your foolish lack of judgement."

"I'm not going to sit. You'll give me the case and you'll get me the car and I'll find your brother." John know that this was a man that could probably have him killed 'accidentally' tomorrow on the bus but he also knew that he wouldn't.

Mycroft valued him enough for that at least and John had proven himself capable of not being bossed around by a big shot with too much money and agendas that were country straddling.

He didn't take orders. Not from Mycroft Holmes, certainly.

Meanwhile, while John was arguing with Mycroft Holmes about the etiquette of accepting a case and the stupidity of giving in to Sherlock's every whim, said detective was wandering around the streets of London without even really realising that John had gone. Every so often he turned on his heel and picked a different direction, muttering to his absent friend about the laws of probability and finding a crime.

He was desperate.

That was the long and short of it, he could barely bring himself to think that they might have to go back home after this with no new case. He would even take a robbery, even something as petty as a gang of hoodlums stealing a car radio at this point. At least it would take the edge off. And worrying about how to take the edge off was how he ended up following his feet towards the back end of Oxford Street where he knew one of his homeless network that dealt in a specific sort of poison.

Shuffled between the snow and the lack of power and John being so far away with a distracted Mycroft, Moriarty couldn’t have planned for a better way to have a second date with Sherlock Holmes. He sent his wonderful, tiger-catching, darling Moran to wander out into the cold and play fetch for him. It would be easy. Even without a gun.

Because no guns! He didn’t need a happy trigger finger painting the snow blood red! That was his job! Eventually. Maybe. Who knew? He didn’t.

He was much too pleased with his glorious, clever little playmate to think too hard about killing him.

Moran might not have been able to bring a gun along for the initial playdate, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t pistol whip Sherlock for the transport. Moriarty was not entirely pleased, so he bloodied Moran’s lip and kissed it better with a bite before sending him off to clean up.

He waited…just waited…crouched at Sherlock’s knees like a school child, big, bright eyes focused only on him, and waited for his sweetie to wake up.

Sherlock had been intent on a split bin bag at the side of the road, half submerged in the snow and apparently full of food refuse, half convinced that it might hold a body part when all of a sudden he wasn't very conscious any more. It was almost a relief. His final thought before he sank into the mire of a comatose state was a single ah, finally some peace.

When he came around he was distinctly less relieved.

He remained still to begin with, keeping his breathing exactly as it had been to mask his return to wakefulness in order to give himself a precious few minutes to deduce the situation he had found himself in. Nothing felt broken, all his clothes were in place, and he could even feel the press of his mobile phone in his pocket at an uncomfortable angle to his hip. Not a mugging or a robbery then. He was somewhere warm, a kidnapping then. But why? That was much more difficult to ascertain, mainly due to the large amount of possibilities. It could be someone who thought to get to Mycroft and thus the government through him, it could be an ex convict that he had helped put away, it could even be someone he had irritated on the street who happened to be a psychopath.

Nobody talking so an accent couldn't be identified, but he could hear breathing. Male, excited by the sound of it. He inhaled and got a faint scent of an aftershave he hadn't smelled since that night at the pool. His own heartbeat quickened in excitement and fear mingled, before he finally opened his eyes with a smile as if they were old friends meeting for tea.

"Jim Moriarty, you could just have called, I know that you do have my number."

“Sherlock!” Huffing in a breath, the Irishman pressed a hand to his lips as if he was truly shocked. “Civilised men discuss their plans and issues face to face,” he insisted, having no idea (or every idea) that he was mirroring the words spoken by Sherlock’s brother at right about that time. They had a good relationship, he and Big Brother. And little sister, incidentally, too. Oh, he did love the Holmeses so, but none quite as much as the man sitting in front of him.

Jim didn’t so much as touch Sherlock as he rose to his feet and titter-tottered over the cut in his head with a fawning sort of lack of compassion.

“Besides, I’ve wanted you over quite badly for forever, and here you are!” He turned, arms wide open, to indicate this shell of a room (for it was indeed a shell, not actually his place at all but a reconstruction of a living room of quite good taste thank you, in a warehouse with a lovely view of the city from the Southbank. “We shall have such a fun night, two of us!”

Sherlock pulled himself into a sitting position and ignored the way that his head swam and nausea brought bile to the back of his throat. A concussion then, and not a particularly mild one. He should be careful of feeling too sleepy, for he certainly did not trust Moriarty to wake him if he did slip. The pain dulled as he compartmentalised it, focusing instead on his surroundings and the man in front of him.

"I'd love to have visited before, but I'm not visiting even now. A facsimile of a room, acoustics suggest warehouse and the smell indicates a packing plant for computer parts, likely only abandoned a year or two ago."

Having conquered sitting, Sherlock now decided to try standing. That was a mistake as it turned out, but aside from swaying he managed not to give too much of an outward show.

"Recently abandoned computer plant, Southwark? Am I to assume the snow has bored you too?"

"Very, very good," Jim cooed. "All accounts. Top marks!" Save for the common misconception about it being dangerous to sleep on a concussion. Moriarty wasn't a mind reader. He couldn't just skip through Sherlock's thoughts as much as he wanted to. And besides, Sherlock didn't know the most common of things so why would he know about that?

Moriarty's smile was jovial and almost sweet as he helped himself to a chair dragged across the room.

"It's still a very good facsimile. Bit like the house John and Harry grew up and and very much like the house Harry is currently residing in now."

He rocked forward almost to the point of tipping over into Sherlock's lap.

"Snow is never boring and I am never bored. There always more work on my side of the scale than there will ever be on yours. Sometimes I slip up just to give you something to do. And sometimes-- All I have to do is sit back and wait until you wander about so happily on your own." He pulled a monstrous face and then laughed merrily. "Have you missed me?"

Sherlock didn't know about the true way to treat a concussion, that's why he kept John around, his expertise were not medical by any means. He found the human body, when it was alive, to not be at all interesting. He was not trained, and the not sleeping was simply something he picked up via osmosis along the way and had never bothered to check.

The answer to that question was a resounding yes. He had missed Moriarty deeply, they were two sides of the same coin and it was so much fun flipping that coin to see where it would land. He had been bored out of his mind, nearly literally, with his thoughts flying all over the place and unable to be tamed, but now he was sharp and focused and interested.

"No."

That, of course, was the correct response.

"You're a spider, I don't miss spiders, I squash them under my heel."

"Liar!" He liked a good lie as much as the next person, it made everything so much spicier. Delicious! He just also liked to yell and he did his best to take every opportunity possible to yell. It got the blood moving, it was like a good, cold shower or a nice stiff drink. "Maybe not so much about the spiders. But spiders have uses, darling. Dearest. Sherlock. We both know that. Homeless for you. Criminal sorts of absolutely all kinds for me. Won. Der. Ful. "

Jim reached up to come an inch or so from Sherlock's hair, as if he might pat down curls that were slightly damp from the snow.

"If your heart was capable of love, you would love me. I'm so much better than your lapdog. I come when called too," he grinned, never quite sure if Sherlock understood the racier things he said meant.

Such a shame.

Sherlock understood more about sex and innuendo than most people gave him credit for, he just didn't have any interest in it at all. Or so he told himself and everyone around him whenever the subject came up. He was a man of logic, of deductive reasoning, he did not need to engage in that sort of foolishness with anyone.

He raised an eyebrow and moved to sit on one of the comfortable chairs in this makeshift flat, putting his back slightly to Moriarty as though he didn't feel any fear from that vulnerable position. This was chess, that was all.

"Then why don't you put the kettle on and bring me some tea, if you're so obedient?"

Makeshift! Sherlock, this is museum quality furniture you're rubbing your snowy self all over! These are antiques. The paneling and silk wall covers are too! He's gone so such trouble, such lengths--

But Sherlock had always been hard to get. A difficult nut to crack. Oh. He loved it. The feel and the enjoyment of it. This whole thing was just so delightful!

"I would be honoured to make the great Sherlock Holmes some tea," Jim responded. He'd put something in it of course. Many things in it. That was part of the fun. The biscuits, though,settled on the saucer, were pristine. Good qualify Swiss chocolate.

Jim never messed around with biscuits.

"I hope you enjoy it."

Sherlock took a biscuit. He was hungry, he had clearly had a head trauma, and so putting some fuel in his body could only help him feel better. He was not afraid that Moriarty may have tampered with the biscuits, it was very hard to tamper with biscuits. And what would be the point? He had him unconscious, at his mercy, for some time and done nothing. Why bother poisoning or drugging him after the fact?

It was this miscalculation which meant he did actually take a large gulp of the tea that Moriarty brought over to him.

"The missing tube train last week, that was your work." It suddenly snapped into place from the back of his mind, a memory of seeing the small piece in the paper about it. "A rolling base, very clever. Where is it kept when you're not using it?"

It truly didn't matter about the train. That wasn't the point of this. Of any of this. He'd been so excited to have Sherlock here that he was almost giddy. It was wonderful! And then he had to go and drink the tea. Well. At least it wasn't poisoned.

Not in any sense of the word that Jim might use. Sherlock wouldn't vomit or die, but he had seeded him with something oh so terribly mean.

It was just a taste, and a bit outside of Sherlock's usual solution, but it did mix so easily with the tea when heated first and stirred in. The tingling in his tongue and throat and the punch of wakefulness would surely clue him in to the cocaine.

"Irrelevant! Oh Sherlock. Sherlock you disappoint me. Why? Why when I go out of my way to make this so easy for you?!"

Sherlock was not a stranger to cocaine. He was not a stranger to most of the harder drugs out there, much to the disappointment of Mycroft, and he had really gone down a hole once or twice in his younger days. Not since meeting John, not since a short time before that when he had managed to get Lestrade to allow him to work on murder cases. Oh, he slipped every so often, but always carefully.

This was not careful, this was not a dose he had chosen for himself, and so he immediately put the cup down on the table.

"I like to allow you some smaller victories," he said, voice level and calm despite the inner deductions already racing at the likely solution percentage and how badly it would affect him. "It can demoralise an opponent if they are consistently crushed."

As if he was a five year old and someone just trampled on his drawings, Jim marched around with a sort of bulldog face, arms hanging loose. He let his oddities just be out there. He was tired of hiding it all and had grown that way around the age of ten and so he'd just decided to make everyone worry more for their safety then his histrionics. "Wrong!" Shouting again, but this time out of anger. "Wrong! I have so much hope for you! It's demoralizing when you fail to live up to your potential!"

Jim sat heavily beside Sherlock, reached for, and drank down his tea all while staring up at him with his massive eyes and slicked back hair. Moriarty had a slight build but also a great tolerance for whatever he dosed people with. He'd gotten bored for a few years and just built resistance up to everything he could.

There was obviously not a lot of cocaine in the tea. No one wanted that. No matter how strong a level he could stand.

"Don't let me win. Don't even let me win. That's cheating. I thought better of you. I should have someone bring your dog around and teach you how cheating feels. But!"

His smile returned and he picked the biscuit off of the saucer to hand over to Sherlock. "I don't know your brand. It was either these or Pink Ladies."

This was what made James Moriarty so dangerous, he was legitimately insane. Brilliant, perhaps even almost as brilliant as Sherlock himself in a different way, but utterly unstable with it. He was ruled by his emotions just as much as Sherlock was ruled by logic, and the two of them were destined to push and pull against one another in equal measures.

He could almost wish that John were here, he would be a steadying influence. Sherlock knew his own foibles, and he could quite easily be talked into some dangerous things, even life threatening things, just to prove himself right. The smartest person in the room.

"Perhaps it's you failing to live up to your potential, if I have to allow you some victories then doesn't that suggest that you're lacking?"

It probably wasn't the right thing to do to taunt Moriarty, but keeping himself from speaking what was on his mind had never been one of Sherlock's strong suits. He took the biscuit and bit into it with a smug sort of smile.

"Southwark, let me see, Great Guildford Street. Number thirty. Too easy."

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