Promises Series

Broken Promises - Chapter Two

Four Years, Eight Months, and Twenty-One Days Before the Meeting of Sherlock and Julia Holmes

The flash drive was his only bargaining chip. Sherlock knew that Moriarty wanted it, but that did nothing to calm the jumble of nerves in his stomach.

"Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present," he called into the empty room. His voice echoed off the walls. How disconcerting. "That's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance - all to distract me from this."

Sherlock froze, his breath in his throat. His crystalline eyes were trained on none other than John Watson, the fur on the hood of his brown parka framing his head.

"John." The name rushed out of Sherlock in one breath.

He couldn't talk. He, Sherlock Holmes, couldn't gather enough air for a single coherent thought to leave his mouth. Sherlock's brain, normally crystal clear and precise, was running wild. At least forty-eight different thoughts crossed his mind at once, and with those thoughts came sub-thoughts, and with those sub-thoughts came sub-sub-thoughts, and Sherlock had never hated his mind more than he did at that moment.

John was Moriarty. He was the criminal mastermind Sherlock had been playing against. It had been a trick, everything they'd been, everything Sherlock had hoped they would be. John was standing by the pool, his hands in his pockets, his eyes boring into Sherlock.

"Evening. This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?"

"John..."

"Bet you never saw this coming."

And Sherlock realized that he had never been more wrong. John would never betray him; the doctor was unceasingly loyal. There was someone else here, someone dangerous. The detective scanned the pool, finding no one besides himself and his friend. Sherlock had never been more relieved to be so incorrect.

His stomach dropped when he saw the bomb strapped to John's chest.

No, Sherlock despaired mentally. No, not now. We're still so new. Don't take this away from me now.

"What would you like me to make him say next?"

White hot fury washed over Sherlock like a tidal wave. Moriarty could play all the games he wanted; Sherlock would happily solve them. He could kidnap Sherlock, poison him, beat him, hell, even kill him one day, but Moriarty did not get to touch his flatmate. The other genius was not to lay a finger on his John.

"Gottle o' geer. Gottle o' geer. Gottle o' geer." John's voice cracked on the last word.

Sherlock couldn't take it. John - his John, his only friend, his best friend - shouldn't have been brought into this at all. This was between Sherlock and Moriarty. John had nothing to do with their game; he should be at Baker Street right now, sitting in his chair and wondering where in the world Sherlock had gotten off to this time.

"Stop it," Sherlock seethed.

"Nice touch, this. The pool where little Carl died. I stopped him," John recited. He obviously resisted the urge to grimace with the next phrase. "I can stop John Watson too."

Sherlock stared blankly at the laser pointer trained on John's chest.

No.

"Stop his heart."

Sherlock spun around, searching wildly for whoever could be controlling the gun. He didn't care if he got hurt; Sherlock was going to kill every last one of them, if it was the last thing he did.