thewhitelily

Tell me, intruder!

One.  Sherlock had started it all off, with the limp.

Then one—ah!—One-All.  The cabbie, obviously.

One-Two.  In Soo Lin’s apartment, John's words had sent off Zhi Zhu, without finishing the job on Sherlock.

Someone was asking him questions.  Irrelevant.

Two-Two—ngh!—yes, two-three.  Call Shan a point each, since John had only been there as a substitute for Sherlock.

Three-Four.  The Golem—a point each again.  Sherlock had been worse than useless in that fight, but he’d brought John the gun he needed, even if it hadn’t done any good.

You will talk, pig-dog!

Three-Five.  No, wait for it… ngh!  Ah!  Four-Six.  At the pool.  The little nod, that had given him permission to do what he had to.  Perhaps it hadn’t made a difference.  But the prospect of imminent death had certainly been a factor in changing Moriarty’s oh-so-changeable mind.

Four-Seven.  The Americans in The Woman’s house.  John had thought his revenge was only for Mrs Hudson, but Sherlock had run out of anger about a few scrapes and bruises after the second trip out the window when the ribs started fracturing.  The next three times had been running solely on the fumes of I’ll believe you any second now.

Five-Seven.  Opening the safe.  Taking them down.

Five-Eight.  Or Five-Nine, really.  Maybe… uh! Yes, Five-Ten.  The Hound drug had clearly had an unfortunately enhanced effect on a superior mind.  No wonder it had taken Henry so long to fall victim to it.

Five-Eleven.  The superintendent.

Five-Twelve, uh!  The escape.

Five-Thirteen, nnngh.  Hostage, that works.  The score slipping further and further away from him.

Five-Fourteen.  The bus, risking John’s life to prove he was clever.

Five-Fifteen.  The rooftop, Moriarty’s assassins staring down sniper scopes at all Sherlock’s friends, just because they were his friends.

Six-Fifteen, o-oh.  The fall.

Six-Sixteen.  John’s voice. Nnngh, Jesus no.  Was there anything that could ever balance that?

You broke in here for a reason, says the voice, pausing in its work for a moment.

Of course he did.  Sherlock fumbles to get the count ready again, but the rest is easy, meaningless, the numbers lining up on the other side of the equation now: John safe at home, Sherlock going in alone again and again to take down Moriarty’s network.  Guns, knives, explosions.  Loneliness.  This, the very last puzzle piece.  This place: Sixteen-Sixteen.

Just tell us why and you can sleep, says the voice, and it draws the pipe (sound, speed, and the glimpse of the table from earlier) back over its shoulder, the air shifting (long, thin, heavy), the smell of metal in the air (perhaps the pipe, perhaps his own blood) and this is going to hurt without the distraction of his hazily constructed mental defence. Remember sleep?

And then Sherlock spots the shoes.  Impeccably costumed of course, genuine soldier’s boots, but with the soles scuffed in a very specific way for Sherlock to recognise.  Mycroft.

He's being extracted.  Sixteen-Sixteen.  He's done now.

Sherlock takes a breath.

“You used to work,” he whispers, low, but loud enough for the torturer to hear the words, “in the navy.  You had an unhappy love affair while you were there…”