Needing You

Maxwell's Murder

John accepted the call from Mycroft.
"About the case I gave Sherlock. It should be at least an 8, enough to keep him busy for a bit." John sighed in gratitude. Sherlock had been a right pain for the past week.
"I'm still not sure how the queen is going to react to me trusting compromising secrets to my incredibly unqualified little brother, but I have no choice." John couldn't help but nod in agreement.
"The client, Maxwell Bryant, should show up in roughly fifteen minutes. He will come with some files and information. He will be secretive. It's part of his job. Try your best to prevent Sherlock from punching him."
"Duly noted." John said, before ending the call. Fifteen minutes passes by quickly. Then twenty, then thirty. By forty, John was ready to call Mycroft. Just as he picked up his phone, he got a call from Lestrade. He quickly answered it.
"John, mate... we've got a new case. 31-year-old Maxwell Bryant found dead in his apartment by his husband, Jason. We're just reviewing the security now, but..." his voice trailed off.
"John?" Lestrade's voice sounded strained. "You should be receiving a text right now..." just then, John's phone pinged. It was a picture of a grainy security screenshot in which Maxwell, who John had just realized was the client they were supposed to see, was getting ready to leave when two people came in. It was... them? Down to the swish of Sherlock's trademark coat and the color of John's shirt, it was undoubtedly them. Except it wasn't. Because John was sitting in his bedroom and judging by the relentless sound of gunshots against the poor wall, Sherlock hadn't left either. But then who...? John's phone pinged again.
ALLEY BEHIND THE BOOKSHOP. 20 MIN. BRING SHERLOCK. –JM. Moriarty? Why? John looked at his phone. About an hour since Maxwell was supposed to show up. Phrases flashed through John's head. At least an 8... the queen... compromising secrets...
"Oh, Sherlock," John sighed. "What have we gotten ourselves into?"
_____________________________________________________________________________________
They were at the bookshop with five minutes to spare. John had no idea how much Sherlock had paid the cabbie, but he was very certain that is was much more than required. They passed the time with idle conversation, but after ten minutes had passed the conversation had switched to where Moriarty was.
"Moriarty?" a voice from behind them sounded.
"You mean the criminal? Is that really who you think I am?" the voice was definitely not Moriarty. John turned around to a man in street clothes. He had sandy blond, messy hair and his hazel eyes glittered with—anger? Greif? Sherlock swept his eyes up and down the man, obviously deducing everything about him.
"Jason Moore." Sherlock finally said.
"Maxwell's husband." John made a sound of understanding. JM. Jason Moore. Not Jim Moriarty.
"That's right." Jason smirked.
"Now," he said, cracking his knuckles, the pop echoing in the alley, "Why did you kill my husband?"
"We didn't," John said, although he could see why Jason thought so. It was them in the security footage, every last detail. Whoever played them played them well.
"I don't believe you." Jason practically snarled, balling his hands into fists.
"You were there. Both of you were." He lunged at Sherlock, who sidestepped his attack. John stepped forward just as Jason pulled out a gun. He pointed it at John first, then Sherlock, before firing it at the nearby wall. John put his hands over his ears in hoped of retaining his hearing after the loud bang, but none came. Instead there was a loud hiss, and a strange smell. Sherlock quickly covered his nose and mouth with his scarf, and John did the same with his shirt.
"Right, now." Jason said, from behind some kind of mask.
"This gas should start eating away at your lungs within the minute. Good luck," he said with an evil smile.
"I hear it's an incredibly painful way to die."
_____________________________________________________________________________________
One hour after John was supposed to meet Maxwell, John hears the footsteps of expensive shoes on the dirty concrete.
"John?" Mycroft's voice sounds like it's coming from the other side of a long tunnel, despite the blurry face inches from his that proves otherwise.
"John, you were drugged, can you hear me? Sherlock is at the hospital already, I need to know if you need to go too." Those words finally dragged him from his stupor. Sherlock? Hospital? Why?
"It's a very good thing I was tracking your locations. Without it, you both would be dead." John realizes he probably should thank Mycroft, but his mouth won't move. In fact, nothing will move.
"It's alright, John, you can rest now. I will bring you to Sherlock." So rest John Watson did.