A Bond is Possessive (The Snapped Bow)
The serotonin and dopamine have been running at an all time high since the Sherlock Holmes found his True Bond in a little sandwich shop down the street from his flat on Baker Street. It’s been almost three months since he found you and there is a striking difference from the way he is at home, where he naturally moved all of your things to while you were at your regular job teaching small children the complexities of the violin and opening up their minds to the fanciful world of classical music (God, the thought of you with children sends a strange sense of pride through him, as if he couldn’t wait to have a few children of his own one day to pass on his teachings, his genius, and his love of music) versus being on a case. And perhaps that, moving all of your items, hadn’t gone over too well, but in the end, he still went to sleep that night with you in his arms for the first time and that had sent a thrill through him. Mineallmine sifts through his brain as he closed his eyes and squeezed your small form closer, his mark warm and his mind at ease for the moment, calm for at least a while.
He hasn’t had a hit of anything illegal in three months, hasn’t gotten piss-ass drunk or shot a hole in the wall that Mrs. Hudson would call him out on or yell at him about; Sherlock has been in a good mood, is on his best behavior (whatever that truly means because Sherlock has never had any sort of behavior that didn’t involve him going against the law in some degree to get to the bottom of a case), and has begun to shift through cases quickly and more proficiently than ever before. There’s something about having his Bonded by his side that sets Sherlock on a case solving mania, and no case is beneath him, no case too great or too minuscule to go without him having a hand in it’s closure. From finding the whereabouts of a kidnapped child of a diplomat to figuring out the location of a ticking bomb located under Scotland Yard’s very own walls; it feels good to use his mind to such far stretches only to come home to her, you, waiting for him, clad in one of his large shirts and hunched over the cleared table in the kitchen grading papers.
Sherlock lives for the sight of you in his clothes, in your shared flat once you realized he’d had your contract terminated which left you no choice but to live with him. The first three months are full of these extremely invasive means to get you all to himself but you take it with a grain of salt because Sherlock would not be trying this hard if he didn’t care for you and want to be with you by any means necessary. And so, after throwing a little fit that got you nowhere (he called you cute, cute, with the blankest look on his face, like it was the first time he’d ever used the word before, and then turned and stalked away quickly to hide his face, the little marshmallow), you settled into your unorthodox life at 221B Baker Street in a flat that homes Sherlock Holmes, on most days. Some days, a case leads the younger Holmes to the edge of England, other times, he’s there for days on end, but only physically. His mind is far away, working out complex threads of information and wondering how and why they forge together to make the case become solvable. It’s fascinating to watch Sherlock work, to see the blankness on his face only for the sudden clarity to dawn on him before your very eyes. He’s adorable, truly, even if he isn’t fond of the adjective being directed his way. And maybe your footing isn’t quite solid just yet, and Sherlock is wild and uncanny and makes you pull at your hair on a few occasions, but you feel alive.
You feel something you have never quite come across before. Home. You adjust your life so easily, so smoothly, to live by his side that by the end of the fourth month, he is the first thing you see when you wake up in the morning and always the last, whether in person or by phone. He can’t always be there to hold you in the middle of the night when you’re cold, but he tries. Cases come and go and he too has to readjust and grow accustomed to the emotions swelling up inside of him as his mark throbs when you are nearby and aches when you are too far. On a few cases, he had to leave for America, his tattoo searing with a heavy sting for days on end until his return to you. He keeps this secret close this chest, never relaying it to anyone on the chance that they could use you against him in anyway.
He didn’t want the information reaching back to the one person who could use it well, use it to destroy the second eldest Holmes and everything he has ever stood for.
James “Jim” Moriarty. A man so profoundly obsessed with Sherlock that it was palpable, like a twisted version of what Jim would call ‘love.’ If Moriarty found out about you in any way, he would surely bring harm your way just to piss Sherlock off, to make him uncomfortable and put him out of his element. He had done the same with John Watson and attaching a bomb to him. He would do worse in this matter because you were someone Sherlock could admit to loving wholly and completely. He would kill you.
He would try.
.x.
“Oh no, no, you hold your wrist like this, Paulette, not like that,” You carefully reach out to readjust the child’s wrist as her other hand carefully held a small bow, glancing around at the other kids sitting with music stands in front of them, a few still too nervous to try playing a basic note. Teaching beginners orchestra had always been your favorite because you could see a new found love in all of them, in the way their eyes grew wide when they realized they could read the notes, how some could easily play a tune while others worked harder to get it just right, small fingers holding the bow just so. It’s amazing how wonderful they were all being, no crying fits or refusals to play, all of them just wanting to show off that they could do it right in front of their peers.
“Miss (y/n), look! Look!” A small, fiery haired boy, Jonas, called from his seat in the front. You finished fixing Paulette’s wrist before turning and stalking towards him, crouching down to see what he discovered.
“What is it, Jonas? Did you play the A note right?” He nodded his head fervently, his messy locks flying into his eyes as he adjusted his hands on the bow of the viola. His father had called it a girly instrument and wanted Jonas to play bass or a tuba, but Jonas had refused wholeheartedly, pointing at the viola until his father conceded with a sigh. And now, Jonas couldn’t get enough of it. His face scrunched up as he brought the bow down to the first string, moving it across the A string carefully until a noise began to vibrate from within and project out. It was a little shaky, creaky in some moments, but in the end, the smile that touched his face defeated everything else. You reached out to gently push his bangs back out of his big, green eyes, grinning down at him.
“That was wonderful. Why don’t you try again, but this time, add a little more force with it, make it come out louder. Want to try that?” He nods quickly, bangs almost falling right back into place as he tried again, this time allowing the bow to do more of the work and adding more force to make the sound project and be consistent. With barely any squeaking at all, you were impressed. You give him praise before moving on to his stand partner, Julianne, her lower lip jutting out with jealousy. Her mother wanted her to play the viola, but all she wanted was to ride her horse in the countryside. Still, you were trying your hardest to get her into the mood to play instead of pouting through the class. Crouching down beside her tiny chair, because she is a lot smaller than the others, you carefully turn the page back to the lesson from the day prior, pointing to the G note.
“Want to play that for me, Jules?” You asked, calling her by her nickname to make her more comfortable.She gives a tiny nod and sets the viola end just between her shoulder and the side of her jaw, her back straightening perfectly. For someone who didn’t like it, she had all the right mannerisms. With a bit more coaxing, the blonde tot finally ran her bow over the G string, producing a flawless sound.
“That was perfect!” You cooed softly, sighing as you saw her shoulders relax slowly, then all at once. She even began to smile as you told her that she was a natural. Leaving her to practice more on her own, you give another walk around the room, just about to go back to your seat in the front when there’s a knock on the door. Blinking and thinking about whether or not you were expecting a visitor, you head for the door, turning back to the tot sitting closest to the door.
“Jeremy, be a good student and watch the others for me? No one is to get out of their seat,” You gave him clear instruction and he nodded in understanding. He was a very diligent and thoughtful child and you didn’t feel any worry at leaving him to watch after the others in your absence. Pushing the door open, you carefully close it behind you before turning to see the principle standing before you. He looked paler than usual and more than a little frazzled.
“Mr. Wood, is there a student you needed?” You can’t see the red dot aiming precisely against the center of his back, one trigger that could lead to his death or the end of his walking for the rest of his life. Clearing his throat once, Mr. Wood, or Elliot, reached up to dab at his brow with the back of his hand.
“Ah, n-no, someone is here to s-see you. Y-Yes, they’ve been waiting for a while now. They have very important business with you on a personal matter,” He said, voice strained. Confused, you can’t think of anyone who would want to see you right now. Sherlock was away on a case for a few days now and you had no idea when he would be back. John was with him, so there was no way it could be him. Aslin had work at an office in another town- could it be your mother? She rarely left the small village you hailed from but perhaps she was in a spot of trouble and needed you for something? You had no idea who this person could be, but still, you allowed yourself to be led away to the principal’s office with a nod of your head. The red dot is against your back before you can take in another breath and it trails after you to the office, and before you know it, you are the small lamb entering a deadly lion’s den.
The man sitting behind the desk is someone you have never seen before in your days, but perhaps on a random day on a random street the two of you had crossed paths. Still, why he wanted to have a private meeting with you made no sense at all and Mr. Wood would give nothing away, flinching at the sight of him before he scurried away and shut the door behind him on the way out. Your mouth twisted slightly, confusion clear in the depths of your eyes as you ventured closer to sit in the homely leather couch across from the principal’s desk. The man sat back in his seat, arms crossed behind his head with a grin on his face once his eyes met yours. He’s dressed in a ridiculously expensive suit, that much you can tell, and he doesn’t do much else but stare you down. There is a softness to his face, but his eyes are disturbing in the way they peer into yours, searching for something you aren’t sure is there.
“Ah- um-” You start, only for him to speak over you. It reminds you of something Sherlock would do. You dislike it even more.
“You don’t know who I am, (y/f/n) (y/l/n), do you?” He asked with an eyebrow raised, voice raising an octave at the end. His voice is warm, friendly even, but you don’t think he is a friend. There is something off about him, something that bothers you with every passing second that you’re in his presence.
“No, sorry, I don’t think I do. Is there something you wanted from me?” You note that he knows your name, but you have no idea who he could be, “Did you want violin or cello lessons? I usually teach children, but I do make exceptions.” You try your best to smile, your lower lip giving a tiny twitch that gives away to how much you want to run back to your classroom and the safety of your children by your side. You miss Sherlock right now, you want him here and your bond mark gives a solid throb, an almost sting that vibrates through you. You almost feel like you’re calling out to him despite not wanting him to worry, your new bond still unraveling before you.
“No, no, my dear. That’s not what I want from you although I do appreciate the… invitation. No, I wanted you to give a friend of yours a message from me.” You instantly bristle.
“And who would this friend be?” Was he looking for Aslin? He looked like he had money and after getting over her obsession with Sherlock, your friend and coworker had fallen back into her role as trophy girlfriend to a variety of rich, upper class men. Had this one somehow figured out that you knew her? Is that what this was-
“Sherlock, of course. Why else would I find out every single thing about you to know you’d be here in this little school of yours? You see, you are an extremely valuable chess piece I have to play if I want to win. And I always win. Sherlock will soon see he’s made a mistake by ignoring me.”
“I don’t know what you want from me, but Sherlock isn’t here. I’m not his mother or his secretary. He-” You stop, trying to choose your words carefully. You’re fully aware of how much you can’t say; Sherlock didn’t want people to know that you were his Bonded; he’d made it abundantly clear that there were enemies with their eyes everywhere and that if they knew how important you were to him, then it would spell trouble for you and he didn’t want that in any way. But it seemed like trouble had sought you out for its own purpose, “I don’t know what I could possibly tell you about him.”
“Ah, ah. You aren’t playing the game, (y/n). If you tell me another lie, poor Paulette’s parents will have to attend the funeral of their dear daughter. Or maybe I’ll have Jeremy tortured until he can’t speak, choking on blood. I could have them all killed, right now if I wanted to. And there would be nothing you could do.”
The second he threatens your children, you flinch and grow tense, blinking a few times to fight back the moisture in your eyes. How someone could threaten to kill children, tiny souls who have barely lived at all was beyond you. You felt disgusted and your stomach clenched up tight with fear. This unknown man is serious, you could tell in the curve of his eyes that he’s seen terrible, horrible things. He was probably the one who initiated them.
“What do you want?” You ask again, voice quiet. You steel yourself, refusing to give anything away because you can’t betray the love of your life that way.
“Let’s go on a trip, you and I? Call it a bonding excursion, if you will. If you come, all of those kids will live. If you refuse, they die. I can see that you’re the type to care, so boring, so the choice is already made, isn’t it? So let’s go. I can give you my word that you won’t be harmed in any way as long as you come along quietly. Screaming is out of question. Trying to run away is out of question. Understand?” The way he talked, the way he deduced things about your decisions and how you wanted to make your choices was almost… too much like Sherlock. It was almost frightening how much alike they were in that regard. But Sherlock wasn’t cold to you in this way. He wasn’t the type of person to treat you like cattle he could simply carry away without a fight. But what could you do? If you went along with him, then no one would get hurt and your kids, the ones under your guidance and protection in that moment would all be safe if you just did as he asked.
How could you not? How? It was a choice of life and death and you chose for them all to live. You would feel horrible for the rest of your life if you tried to save yourself instead of your charges. And Sherlock- it hurt to think about leaving him- but he- he would know what to do. If this was some way to get Sherlock into a chess match or something, you would play along.
It was the only thing you could do.
To become the queen in this game.
.x.
Sherlock literally feels the shock of fear across the bond the moment you are compromised and it brings him out of his case in a heartbeat, although only John can see the small twitch of his mouth when he’s brought out. The man they’re helping tries to lead him down into an abandoned dungeon, a pivotal moment in the case because he knows the old bones of his case’s deceased mother lay there, most likely with a bullet still lodged in the skull because it was a bloody murder over activation codes for a project left unfinished for 15 years, something dealing with nuclear warfare and illegal acts under even Mycroft’s people. Yes, he’s close at hand, so close to uncovering the hidden truths within a dusky dungeon, but his feet refuse to move. Something is off; usually he can have the pull between the two of you stuck to the back of his thoughts, clinging to his outer shell at a safe distance for him to still function under the pressure of being so far from you. But this time, it’s different. He can feel your fear striking into his bones, another foreign sensation he’d only ever experienced a handful of times in his life.
Hardening his resolve to finish the case, because then and only then could he easily head back to you, Sherlock took a few steps after the client and John, one of the few welcome presences in his life. But then there’s a phone call to his number; a number only a few people in the world have and Sherlock doubts Mycroft is in the habit of making house calls. The name “Jim” flashes across the screen of his new phone (you accidentally crushed his old one under the weight of a brand new amplifier. He’d been barely upset about it, and the retribution had been worth the marks that littered your neck in the morning), and he instantly answers it, forcing a calm tone as he continued to descend into darkness.
“Let me guess, you were in the neighborhood and decided to chat?” He started with the pleasantries, his voice light, playful. Play with Moriarty slowly, at his own pace, or else he’ll grow rash and volatile in a matter of moments. But it seems that James had a game already in play and Sherlock would have to pick up his own pieces and shift them to the board.
"Why, Sherlock, you never told me your Bonded was so.. beautiful. Should I be jealous now?" Moriarty sounds playful and lighthearted with an undercurrent of rage so clear Sherlock could picture it on his face. And it only takes those 16 words in quick succession for him to conclude that he had made contact with you in some way and you were still alive. He wouldn’t call just to claim he had rid the world of you, and it only made sense that he would have something to do with it for the pain shifting through your bond to be so intense. That left one singular choice and Sherlock would never doubt he was wrong. Moriarty had to have you with him for him to make an impact on the Holmes and Sherlock knows this, knows that Moriarty will go to no end just to cause him the most pain in the world. John can see Sherlock’s face morphing while the genius can barely feel it, too busy trying to shift his thoughts across the fresh bond to feel for you in some way. He’s never been good with emotions so now that he has to willingly open himself up to you, he’s found it difficult in being able to maintain contact with the bond.
But you’re there, frightened, breath jumpy by Moriarty’s side due to your nerves getting the best of you. It is the first time you’ve ever been in a situation like this and Sherlock doesn’t doubt that it will be the last, because he’s going to save you so you can be stuck in another situation at a different time far off in the future if he can help it. No matter how many pawns and pieces he has to give up to win the queen, he’s willing to put it all on the line if it means that you will be safe and sound. First, he needed to figure out where you were. Listening with half of his brain is an easy feat, and he tries to attune his ears in case there is a sound that can alert him to your whereabouts. The client is ushered on by John who promises to take down any necessary information, although he can tell that Sherlock has only heard him in the back of his mind, in a different compartment for safe keeping and stored out of the way.
“Why Moriarty, I thought you were beyond such emotion. What could you be doing following around a woman. Did you lose your favorite toy somewhere and need help finding it?” He baits, unable to help himself in the least. Moriarty is such a sniveling villain that Sherlock wants nothing more than to ball his fist as tight as he can and lung it across into the man’s face for being such a pretentious asshole all of the time (like he’s one to talk). Sherlock turns slightly as he ignores the sound of John quietly prompting the client for more information, their voices somewhat mute as his heartbeat thudded in his ears. He listens to the way Moriarty laughs, the sound hollow and lacking anything entertaining by any means. His chuckle shakes as he turns to glance at you, shaking his head before responding to Sherlock’s taunt.
“Why yes, aren’t you the little genius. I’m hoping with her by my side that you’ll come out to play a little game. You do still like games, don’t you? She hasn’t taken you by the balls just yet or else you would be by her side instead of leaving her unattended. You do get so attached without even trying. But to think that you, of all people, would have a Bonded? I’m surprised. Did you think you could hide her from me?”
Sherlock bites back the possessive growl in the back of his throat, refusing to let his anger cloud his better judgement. Moriarty has given nothing away besides the fact that he did have you with him and that you were still very much alive. That was a relief to him in some way, but now he had to dial up his deducing to find you-
“I’ve sent you some coordinates to a favorite spot of yours. Be there by 12pm tomorrow or she dies. London would love to see her blood splattered against the Scotland Yard front door. See you soon, bestie.” The pain of not being able to hear Sherlock’s voice over the phone is clear on your face; Moriarty revels in causing you even the smallest sliver of pain.
Moriarty hangs up before Sherlock can do much else but look at the texted coordinates, storing them in his thoughts before deleting the message entirely. Turning on his heels, Sherlock brusquely walked down the old, worn steps to retrieve John, glancing around the dank walls the deeper he traveled into the dungeon. He logs everything into his mind palace at will, breathing in the smells present and taking note of how deep the dungeon went. Someone would only travel to a place like this if they knew that it would hold untold secrets.
And surely, it did.
“She was excited, nearly tripping here, on this step,” He began to deduce, eyes strained enough to make out things no one else could ever hope to see, “as well as this one.” He points them out, turning to look back towards the entrance.
“She was here with one other person, they were driving her faster, telling her that something lay hidden at the very bottom to make her only think of the prize, turning to head down into the dungeon without knowing that there was someone else to stand guard while her killer followed her.”
He continues in, his voice echoing off of the old stone, noticing the chipping away that could only be caused by complete contact with the weight of someone falling. It would be easier to just push her instead of waiting for her clumsiness to get the better of her. She was pushed and her jaw would’ve easily made contact with the step that’s chipped more than the step above it or below it. She fell- he ventured further down, the bottom of the winding steps emptying out into a flat ground. It was dark with only light streaming from the tiny sliver at the stairs. Sherlock retrieved his phone again and instantly turned on the flashlight. Walking around John and the client, both individuals too enthralled by the Holmes’ work, he pays distinct attention to the walls of the enclosed space, concentrating on seeing any marks. She stood, turned to see her companion behind her closing in, there, and she’s pushed-
“Here.” SHerlock points to the dark patch on the worn stone, “She was pushed, head first, head bashed in she fell to the ground,” using his free hand, he morphed it in the replica of a gun and imitated taking a shot, “and then she was shot in the back of the head before she could pick herself back up. It was sloppy, not cleaned up by any means and I doubt they thought to retrieve the bullet at all. He looked around by the perimeter once more before crouching down enough to reach into his pocket for a small plastic baggy, retrieving the worn, bullet casing, covered by years of dust within.
“If you’ve ever seen this kind of bullet before, they you’ve known the killer all along,” He turned to the client, brandishing the bullet casing, brow arched. It had to be someone close by, someone familiar, like a family member-
“Your father.”
“My f-father.”
They spoke at the same time and the client’s eyes well with tears before he can help himself. Sherlock is above feeling pity, but there is a sensation aliken to sympathy that pours from his insides at the sight of someone so broken. He can only imagine what you look like while in the company of a complete psychopath.
“Your father killed your mother to keep her from completing the project. His accomplice was that woman from before, Margeret, who has been by his side as a mistress ever since you were a boy. She helped dispose of the body and they propped the very gun in your own home.”
The client is torn apart, understandably so, but Sherlock figures that at least he received the truth that he had spent most of his young life yearning for. To hear that his father murdered his mother in cold blood was not what Sherlock would have hoped for in any case, but it is not his job to hope for specific outcomes or to avoid what is and what was; he is only there to find the clues, to follow the threads as they spin and to grasp onto the ends to find hidden truths no matter how torturous the journey is.
Sherlock had to instantly erase the case from his mind, already trying to solve another, more complex puzzle before him. Where had Moriarty taken you, and for what purposes? Of course it had to be something to draw Sherlock out from under the rock he’d been under comfortably for months now, to force him into a stupid game of wits to prove he was smarter (preposterous, absolutely preposterous) and Sherlock could do nothing but play along if it meant he could safely recover you or die trying.
Because he would die for you, would kill for you, would conjure up the darkest parts of himself in order to see to it that you would never be in harm's way again. That was how deep his love and adoration for you ran and he would get rid of anything standing in his way.
“What does Moriarty want?” John questioned him as they boarded the plane, voice hushed as he glanced back and forth. As per usual, Sherlock was being less than inviting with any information he more than likely had, but John couldn’t really blame him in this case. The younger Holmes has been a lot more amped up and human now that he had a Bond tattoo tethering him to another being. He needed to calm down but it is a lot more difficult now, to think through the burning anger in the back of his thoughts, flaring up everything in a haze of red hues.
Sherlock Holmes is angry. The emotion is biting and tearing away at his psyche, at his very being, and he allows it, settles into it like a hand in a glove. He may need it if he’s to get out of this, with you, alive.
.x.
“Come now, (y/n), don’t look so terrified. It’s putting me off my lunch,” Moriarty indicated the plate before him before pointing to your own, “Eat. I wouldn’t belittle your worth in poisoning you and Sherlock would be upset if he knew I didn’t feed you. So eat. That lamb cost a pretty penny.” It’s almost astounding that someone so twisted could be kind, despite the threatening undertones that you unfortunately cannot unmiss. You can’t forget his threats against the small minds you nurture or the other co-workers you have come to adore. It’s not right, but you know better than to try and run. You can only trust that the man you love will find and save you.
Will it always be like this? You wonder to yourself as your fingers twitch at your side before finally reaching for the silver fork by your side. Moriarty seems pleased that you’re finally breaking your vow of not eating to nibble at the lamb artfully crafted on your plate. It does taste delicious, you must admit, but it still doesn’t cover up the fact that you are sharing a table with a criminal on a balcony overlooking the heart of London. It’s a part of the bustling city that you have yet to see before, what with your two jobs and limited time since Sherlock tends to cling whenever he can and make you forget about everything and anyone.
It’s a sunny day, light streaming over the balcony and the table, making the silverware glisten. You hear the hustle and bustle of the work crowd taking a lunch break, and you wish you could become one of them, swallowed up among the many and far away from this ungodly man.
“You know, I tried to kill his best friend once, John, is it? I strapped a bomb to his chest expecting his body to be all over the place once he went boom but Sherlock, that boy of yours, he is a smart one.” Moriarty is so nonchalant, it makes it hard to take another bite of the lamb, still, you listen because there is nothing else you can do. You try to leave and the red dot marked on your neck won’t just be for show.
“He’ll figure out what you want,” You murmur with a small nod, whether to prove you believe or to reassure yourself, you can’t be too sure, “And then you’ll see what you’re truly up against.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he’ll let you die. Maybe he’ll sacrifice you to win. That is the game here, right? I want to see how far your boy will go to face me. If he’ll abandon all of this petty, useless emotions and discard you to be greater, smarter, to not be overwhelmed by love and adoration- gag me.” It’s a wicked plot; and you don’t even want to consider the idea that Sherlock would do something so monstrous, but how well do you really know him? You know he sent John Watson to interview you for a bogus newspaper, know he trailed you with his thoughts and viewed you as an adversary (his honesty is borderline vindictive, but it’ not his fault and he doesn’t know any better) before coming to terms with his attraction to you caused by the pull of the Bond. You’ve already witnessed how far he could go to have you by his side day and night without so much as confirmation from you, so who knows how easy it could’ve been to get rid of you forever if need be?
You shake your head indignantly, not willing to lose your faith in the one person who can rescue you, the person you had come to love in the heart of London. Sherlock may be many things, and most of those things you yourself know nothing of, but you know he wouldn’t abandon you or turn his back on you. He’d done everything in his power to keep you close by.
.x.
For John, the plane ride back to London is uncomfortable. Sherlock manages to upset everyone in the vicinity to the point where he’s moved them both to first class and away from the economy ‘poor’ class. John watches the way Sherlock closes his eyes to escape within the deep recesses of himself, to try and escape his reality, to tap into the information and coordinates hidden. He has no idea what’s going on, just that Moriarty is involved and by how harshly he’s taken it, so are you. And John has long since realized that anything dealing with you would draw out the Sherlock’s carnal senses, make him more human, more receptive to being hurt.
Maybe even being wrong. John has a feeling that it’s this very flaw that Moriarty grasped onto as his hole in the one, a perfect way to rid the world of the world’s only consulting detective. But Sherlock’s connection to you may be the only thing to save you as well. It’s a shallow theory John has, a small snippet of a bigger picture because he doesn’t see the view quite right. He sits back in his chair and attempts to relax in the silence of their comfortable bubble, asking stewardess after stewardess to stop coming over to see if Sherlock needed anything. For God’s sake, they were acting like vultures circling a newly dead animal.
The plane ride is spent that way, strained with John having to turn away each female with a newly made up face, rolling his eyes once the jet landed and he was allowed to get up from the plush leather to reach for his carry-on. Sherlock does the same, ignoring everyone as he began to strut with a purpose, purple scarf hung loose around his neck. John studies his best friend the only way he can, with confusion and slight ridicule with a hint of blind faith he’s always gone on because as crazy as Sherlock is, his loyalty speaks volumes.
“They’re at Restaurant O, in sight of Scotland Yard. John, get Lestrade. Tell him to get everyone out of the building. There could be bombs set to detonate at any time because Moriarty likes the flare.” John opens his mouth to protest, to claim it would be better to stick together, but before he can broach the topic, Sherlock is already disappearing in to the crowd, soon becoming lost in the tide of tall, pale faces and leaving his trusty sidekick (John abhors that moniker) to carry out the task in the event that Moriarty plans on killing every officer stationed within and outside of Scotland Yard. Sherlock stares at his phone for a moment; there’s only twenty minutes since his flight landed and he made it through customs, for him to get to you before the deadline. An easy feat, the younger Holmes brother walks with a purpose, taking as many shortcuts necessary to make it within ten minutes. He ignores the breath of relief when he sees the restaurant, the dark, burgandy wood of the establishment reminding him of the shirt you love to sleep in. It’s a side of town he knows you haven’t seen, one that fits Moriarty’s extremely high flying personality. Of course.
The moment Sherlock takes a step inside, all caution is thrown to the wind. He notices at least three ex-convicts and two ex-seals all sitting across various tables, some staged to appear carefree while others slowly chewed on their steak. Turning his head towards the stairs after taking in every person’s face for a moment, Sherlock steps past the hostess podium, ignoring her as he walked over to the grand staircase leading up to the top deck and balcony, the more expensive place to eat within the restaurant. Each step makes his muscles tenser, his shoulders rigid as he reached the top landing. Moriarty prefers upper levels, roofs, sunlight. Sherlock thinks as he heads for the second flight, taking it easily as each step weighs him down more and more. There’s a chance that you could already be de- He wouldn’t kill you without a reason, without me being there just to wait for my arrival to gloat. No. He’d want me to watch, to choose, ultimatums are his forte. Forcing me to choose. He weighs the various choices that could be given, using statistics to narrow down the options as he reaches the top. Empty tables are everywhere, part of the platform expanding out into the sun to become a balcony. It’s there that he sees the only two people sitting at a table up against the balcony, the girl’s back facing the clear, blue sky. The closer he steps, the more his pull to you is revitalized, breathing it’s way back into every crevice of his tortured soul.
Your chest shudders the moment Sherlock arrives on the floor, so terrified that you had no idea that he was so close at hand. You look up from your lamb, fingers shaking and your knees growing weak. Sherlock looks angry and it’s the first time you’ve ever seen that expression cross his face. Pure rage, hatred even.
“Oh, boy! Our prized guest is here, (y/n)! I thought you’d be late. A bullet would’ve pierced right through her delicate neck if you hadn’t. But now that you’re here, the fun can really begin.”
“What do you want?” You see glimpses of Sherlock’s feelings; he can barely make it through one emotion for five seconds before it shifts over to another. He could do something rash, something horrible, for you to live. But could you really make him take that one step down a darker path?
“You to admit that you’ve lost. I’ve got the girl. We’re going to race off into the sunset and there’s nothing you can do about it. You move, you die. It’s that easy. And you even left your little John out of this.”
“Scotland Yard is evacuated, don’t bother with the detonation, you wouldn’t be killing anything but your ego.” Sherlock spat back with a smug smile, fingers in the pockets of his overcoat. Moriarty’s smile twists away into the anger that’s always been there.
“Oh no, whatever will I do? It seems I’ll just have to do better.” Moriarty countered, pushing back from the table in order to stand and take a step closer to you. You cringe and press away, staring between the two as they face off. They are alike; the snark, the snide remarks, the self-assured aura, the ease that they deal with one another is a practiced craft that scares you to watch. Your chair skids away as you shift away more, attempting to be subtle, but there is barely any more space between you and the railing of the balcony. Sherlock pauses for half of a second when he sees the red dot just against the base of her neck, but he won’t be deterred by Moriarty’s bluff.
“Leave her out of this. She has nothing to do with us,” Sherlock said as he took a step closer, off to your other side. If he could just get close enough to shield you; he’d take however many bullets came your way. It’s the best alternative to the various scenarios occurring in his mind.
“But she does, because of you. You love her. You lust after her. She’s your kryptonite and with her by your side, Superman, you’re nothing but a normal, sniveling man in love who’s about to beg for her life over yours. And I can’t have that. If you can’t see how mundane you’re becoming. I’ll show you, the only way I know how…
“...consider this a favor.”
Everything is happening too fast. The red dot is not a bluff, or aiming at it’s true mark. The moment Sherlock moves in the perfect placement across from you, your eyes meet his and it feels as if the moment lasted for centuries when it had truly been moments. A million moments to be passed through your joined eyes, your children having a recital or soccer game, your arms wrapped around each other every night, Sherlock’s head in your lap as you stroke your hair through his dark locks. You see your last kiss before he left for his last case, the way his hands always gently cup both your cheeks to keep you where he wants you, his mouth always a careful caress against yours because deep down, he doesn’t want to ruin it for you, wants it to be perfect every time for you, the way your lips tremble shyly upon initial contact before you grow comfortable again and he nibbles at your lower lip as a surprise.You see your marriage, the white ball gown hugging your figure as Sherlock’s arms curl around your waist possessively, lovingly, his heart in your palms.
You see everything, the way the red dot previously against your flesh shifts to shoot through Sherlock’s shoulder. The shot won’t kill him, but it leaves him too stunned, the pain blooming from his shoulders as the red blossom of blood unfurls. He reaches to clutch at his shoulder and tries to get closer, ignoring the pain, locking it up tight in his vault as a second bullet pierces flesh. Your scream rings out loud, piercing, eyes wild and wide with unshed tears. You try to stand, legs shaking as you push yourself up on weak legs, watching a third bullet, unsure of whether it meets its mark but Sherlock is fall, the blood running fast. You have to make it to him, having to take care of him, your bond is in so much pain that it’s stunning.
Moriarty watches his greatest adversary fall from the bullet shots before turning his sights on her, strolling over and taking a grasp of her arm before she can dodge out of his way. She’s going into shock, her eyes wide, the tears pouring now, and Moriarty thinks it’s too easy, how trusting Sherlock had become now that he had you. He would never have recklessly taken those steps without looking around for a sniper in the area. And Moriarty never said he would play fair. He only plays to win.
Moriarty dragged her over to the edge of the balcony, Sherlock watching as the pain overwhelmed his senses and began to drape him in hot blood. The sun is radiant in the sky, not a cloud in sight, and you are terrified that the love of your life is going to bleed out on the floor of this restaurant and Sherlock knows what’s coming the second Moriarty touched her. Knew what was coming as he reached the balcony, grasp firm. You are small, weak compared to him, and the fear reflected in your eyes would haunt Sherlock until the end of time.
“I wonder if she can fly.”
Time stopped in that moment when Moriarty pushed her over the edge of the balcony, her small frame sailing out into the middle of the sky before sinking lower, faster, with no safety net. Sherlock isn’t there to catch her, to grasp onto her hand to pull her to safety; he’s busy bleeding out all over the imported carpet, vision spotty, his bond torn up somewhere in the forefront of his thoughts.
He can’t tell where the pain is coming from, the gunshots or his heart or his thoughts. This is a pain not even he can deduce, read through, figure out in a second because everything is slow now. It’s slowing down, everything but the sight of all of his hopes and dreams sailing through the air. It’s too foolish to hope that you would land somewhere safely, out of harm’s way. You may be an angel, but flying was out of your control, you aren’t- you shouldn’t-
It wasn’t supposed to end like this.
“I guess not. For all her looks, she couldn’t float.” It’s the last thing Sherlock hears before everything dims and begins to melt away.
When John and Lestrade avert the bombing of Scotland Yard, Lestrade gets the call that a girl had been pushed from the balcony of a restaurant and that the Sherlock Holmes was bleeding on that very balcony. But when they reached Restaurant O, paramedics already there, squad cars and beacons lighting up the roads, the only person they find is Sherlock being prepped and carried on a stretcher. Blood lay splattered against the concrete, but there was no body to be found, no prints, nothing but fresh human blood.