Fic for trickybonmot: Ford (4/5)

[holmesticemods]

My eyes flutter open, gummy at the inner corners. I hear a voice close by (John) and an odd tinny voice that sounds miles away.

“… Hello, ma’am … Ah, no, actually it isn’t. Could I ask to whom I am speaking?”

John’s back is to me, one hand raised to his ear, the other obscured in front of him. He’s on the phone. Why is he on the ph- wait. Is that my phone? “Wh-”

John turns to face me, and the fluorescent light glints off the grey metal of his handgun. I suck in a breath, scrambling to sit up and pressing my back against the wall. He brings the gun to his lips and purses them, Shhh. My eyes turn hot, my lips trembling, but I nod at him all the same.

“… Anita! Perfect.” Anita? Annie? “Sorry, yes, hello, I’m John…” Oh my god, it’s Annie, he’s talking to Annie! “Yes, hello. I- I found this mobile on a bench in Regent’s Park,” lie “and this was the last dialed number…” I lean forward, kneeling with my hands on the cold cement floor. When I open my mouth to speak, he extends his arm with a glare, pointing the gun at my temple. I clench my eyes shut and bite my lip.

“Oh, it’s your brother’s, is it? …Scott. I see.” Oh, Annie, AnnieAnnieAnnieAnnieAn-

Suddenly, John pulls the phone away from his ear and holds it between us. I lift a timid hand to grab it, but he wags the gun in my face. I tip my head down and sit back on my haunches. I see him click the screen a few times out of the corner of my eye and then-

“… is just like him, too. Always so forgetful, our Scott.”

Oh. It’s Annie. It’s Annie’s voice. God, I thought I might never hear it again. Annie, Annie, I love you, I love you so much, I’m sorry, I’m sorr-

“Oh, is he,” John says, and I look up at him. His eyes are flat, riveted to mine.

“Completely,” she says with her soft little laugh. I can’t help but smile, and the motion pushes fat tears down my cheeks. “He’s only locked himself out of his flat a hundred times.”

I nearly laugh at that, but stifle myself at the last minute, covering my mouth with my shaking hands.

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah,” she says. Was her voice always so melodious? The hand pressed against my lips is wet with tears, and my nose is clogged - I feel like I might start sobbing. I smile instead; I know what she’s going to say next: He’d forget his h- “He’d forget his head if it weren’t attached to his neck.” My eyes close tightly, pushing more tears over the lashes.

John huffs out a strained laugh, and I feel him take a small step away from me. “I see. Look, do you know where I could find him, your brother? Is he staying somewhere in London or-?”

Here. I’m right here. “Well, he’s meant to be visiting our cousin Maggie,” I love you, too, Maggie. Silly cow. “But she’s not back from holiday until tomorrow.” Tomorrow. So today’s Saturday then? God, when did I lose track? “I’ve no idea where he’s staying until then.”

John harrumphs, and I peer up at him. He looks… bemused. “Ah, well,” he says ruefully, though his face is anything but. His eyes are still locked onto mine. “Bad luck.”

I hear Annie sigh, and it’s a sound I’ve heard a thousand times, usually preceding the phrase Ford, you eejit. “Yes, well, hopefully he’ll give you a call from the hotel phone or something,” she says, then laughs softly. I’ve always loved her laugh. “But knowing him, he likely hasn’t even noticed he’s lost the silly thing!” She laughs again, and I can picture her in my mind - long wavy hair, redder even than mine, swaying as she shakes her head in amusement. “He’s there for another week yet though, so I’m sure - well, I hope - he’ll give you ring before then.”

John still hasn’t looked away from my face. It’s unnerving, and I struggle to keep my wits about me. “Ha,” he laughs insincerely, “alright then. Thanks for your help. Anita.” He says her name in an odd tone; I don’t like it. He should never say her name, never.

But Annie, my Annie, is just as she always is: a bit oblivious and endlessly sweet. “No no, thank you, John. Truly. Half of London would’ve just pawned the thing.”

“Ah well, I’m not so bad as all that.” He quirks a brow at me, and I glare back. I hate you.

There’s a loud, indistinct voice in the background, followed by a soft grumble that I recognise as her husband, Trevor. “Oh bugger,” she curses, “they’re calling our reservation, sorry, I’ve got to- do you mind if I-?”

“Oh, no worries, all fine,” John says, and it’s another lie, ‘all fine’. Nothing is fine. “Hope it all gets sorted.”

“Yes, me, too. Thank you again!” No, please, please don’t go, Annie. Please, just stay on the line, keep talking, keep-

“Of course.”

“Bye now.” Keep talking to me, love, I need your voice, I need-

“Cheers.”

Beep beep.

She’s gone. She’s… gone.

There’s a terrible feeling in my chest, one I’ve never had before. Never been much of a one for strong emotions, tumult. Though, I suppose I did get rather depressed after Mum passed; nearly thirty years old, and I pictured myself an orphan. But Annie was there, and Trevor, and baby Kirkland, and Maggie, and Dinger the cat, and Mrs. Edgeworth, and Seth who’d just moved to town, and all my bright, silly students, and the whole faculty-

There’s… There’s no one now. No one here. Just me and him. And the ghosts. So many ghosts.

I pull in a deep breath, expanding my lungs as far as they’ll go, but that horrid empty feeling persists. I am alone. I am… alone.

“Was that Anthea, then?”

My head shoots up, my eyes latching to John’s. He’s staring at me intently, the odd tinge of bemusement still lingering. Anthea? I shake my head. “It’s Anita,” I correct, and my voice is thin and gravelly. “Her name is Anita.”

He keeps staring, and, inexplicably, I feel tears welling up again. “Right, of course,” he says with a huff of sarcastic laughter. He purses his lips. “My, you’ve really covered your tracks on this one.”

My eyes fall closed. Too exhausted to keep them open. I feel a few tears leak from the corners. “I haven’t,” I whisper.

“Pretty well done, Sherlock.” Don’t call me that. “I could almost buy it.” He snorts then, and it’s an ugly sound. “Bet you’ve got a Facebook set up and everything.”

I nearly snort back; of course, I’ve got a Facebook. Everybody’s got a Facebook, how else are we to live vicariously through more interesting peop-

Wait.

Wait.

I do have a Facebook. And an Instagram. Snapchat. Tinder. Not to mention countless public records, licenses, everything. Oh my god, why didn’t I think of- I can prove it! I can show him, prove to him who I am, I- “I do! I do have a Facebook!” I say, rising from my haunches and gesturing wildly at my phone still clutched in his hand. “Look at it, check it, please, you’ll see-”

He closes his eyes, scrunching up his face. “Christ’s sake, Sherlock, I’m not gonna check your bloody Facebook-”

No, that’s fine. It’s fine, there are others, there’s more, there’s- “Public records, then! My birth certificate, or-or my QTS, or I-” shit, what else is there? This is it, the only option, my last chance, think! Er… Oh! “I did my initial teacher training at Perth College ten years ago,” I blurt out, the words tumbling over each other. I can prove it, I know I can, only…

He’s staring at me, expression supremely unimpressed. What? No, I… No.

He couldn’t - Sherlock - he couldn’t… couldn’t fake all that, even if he was a genius. He couldn’t mock up a QTS, an ITT from ten bloody years ago, a birth certificate from thirty-six years ago or- or any of it. It’s not possible! There’s- there’s- “There’s got to be some record, something to prove-”

There’s an odd choking sound, and I look up at him. He’s looking down, expression obscured, but his shoulders are quaking. He’s… he’s laughing at me.

… Oh. Of course. Right. It doesn’t matter, does it? If I’m not Sherlock, then I’m not… not anyone.

He looks up, that antagonistic mirth still lingering in his eyes, and I- I’m so- I hate you, I hate you, I HATE Y- “Yes, I’m sure you and your brother have got all your paperwork in ord-”

“Then what do I do!”

He jerks back, hands clenching. I hear the glass of the phone squeak against his skin as the gun in his other hand shines in the light. He may as well kill me, may as well kill us both.

“If I can’t prove it to you,” I whisper, my eyes glued to the gun. “If you won’t- won’t believe me no matter what I do, then…” I trail off, sucking in several quick breaths as the tears come back. “Then what am I supposed to say?” I look up at him, and I can barely see him through the wetness in my eyes.

His eyes don’t soften. Not a bit. “The truth, Sherlock.”

I groan in impotent rage and bring my hands to clutch at my hair. “There is no truth! I’ve told you-” heart’s beating so fast, “I’ve told you everything,” can’t breathe, “everything I possibly can,” can’t, oh god, can’t breathe, “everything I know, but I’m not- I’m not-”

“Do you think you’re protecting me?”

I look up at him, my hands sliding to wrap around my throat as I balk at him, panting heavily. “Protecting y-” God, is he an idiot and mad? “I’d kill you for this,” I whisper viciously. “This is- this is-” madness, insanity, ridiculous, I can’t even-

“Would that make you a serial killer?”

My eyelids flutter, my brows dropping down in confusion. A serial k- “What?”

He tilts his head to the side, eying me curiously. “If you killed yourself, and then me.” Oh god. “Would that make you a serial killer?”

I feel my face crumple, my lips turning forcefully downwards, and I just barely hold in a sob. “I didn’t k-kill myself,” I stammer out.

“Ha,” he laughs thickly. “Well, that much is clear.”

… I… I can’t get enough air in my lungs, and there’s nothing, no one. Just me and him. Him and me. And ghosts, and ghosts, and ghosts.

I crawl to him on hands and knees - all shame, all dignity forgotten. “Please,” I whisper, and my torso is pressed against his legs, my hands clenched in his jumper, my chin - wet with tears - pushing into his navel. I look up into his eyes, and he looks down into mine. “Please, John.” I beg of you, I’m begging, on my knees, please, please- “Please let me go.”

My voice is barely audible, but I know he hears me. He brings the hand holding the gun to my face. The backs of his fingers, still clutched around the grip, smooth over my cheekbone, the barrel of the gun pointed harmlessly at the wall behind me. He looks down into my face, expression fond, nearly serene.

“… No.”

—

“The partition is in place?”

“It’s not a partition, it’s a room.”

I huff in annoyance and grip the handset ever tighter. “Is it ready, Sherlock?”

“Yess,” he hisses, and I hear the rustling of some sort of thick fabric - canvas, perhaps? Ah, luggage.

I purse my lips at the lateness of my brother’s preparation. Always such a procrastinator. “You do realise that Moran will very likely kill Scott Ford Williams,” I remark absently, glancing down at my nails. Three weeks since my last manicure, and the cuticles are already rough and uneven; one would think I was employed as a manual laborer. “Innocent bystander or no,” I add.

I hear his movements halt as he breathes an annoyed sigh. “Sacrifices must be made for the greater good,” he intones. “Isn’t that what you always say?”

I tilt my head to the side. “Not always.”

He makes an irritated little scoff in the back of his throat. “For god’s sa- you said it yourself, it’s this or you take me into custody,” he blusters, “and I will not let you stick me in some MI5 safe house to rot. So, it’s this.”

I sigh and wonder briefly if his goal in life is turn my hair white with stress and vexation. “Sherlock, I am only-”

“You’re only letting sentiment cloud your judgement,” he bites out, and my eyebrows rise. I let my amusement at the hypocrisy of this statement permeate the silence between us, and I hear him harrumph in discomfort. “Moran,” he says, stressing the name as he knows it will draw my attention, “still has the ability to hold John, you, me, this entire country hostage.” Well, he’s certainly not wrong about that, but- “If one man’s death- if Scott Ford Williams’ death can prevent that…”

He trails off uncharacteristically, and I let out a heavy breath. He’s right, of course, and it’s not as if I didn’t predict it. Collateral damage. Hardly an ideal outcome, but… I nod and swallow audibly. “So be it,” I murmur.

“Should-” I begin, then cut myself off abruptly. I feel a growing sense of dread opening up in the pit of my stomach - too many variables, not enough time, unpreventable collateral damage, sacrifices, sacrifices, even more sacrifices necessary to earnthewin, you’reastupidlittleboy unpredictableopponent soverystupidSherlock brilliancyrandomfeatsofgenius didyouwanttodieSherlock? wereyoutryingtokillyours-

//

SYS ERROR: Unapproved File Access. Repairing data corruption… Repairs complete. Compressing… Sealing… Complete.

//

I shake my head in a brief susurrus of motion and take a short breath. Try again. “Should Scott survive-”

“There’s a codeword,” Sherlock interjects. His tone is soft, almost cautious, and I know he has observed my brief… aberration. I smile slightly. As much as he claims to loathe me, I can tell by his reaction to these occasional phenomena that there’s a small, unacknowledged part of him that still thinks me infallible. It is… heartening.

“Well,” he interrupts my maudlin thoughts, his tone returning to normal, “code-phrase, rather. I’ve sent it to your mobile.”

I nod briskly. “Of course.” I adjust my tie, then peer down at the face of my phone. A text message shines on the screen, backlit. I smirk at the phrase he has chosen. My brother, ever the sentimentalist.

A quick glance at my watch. Needs polishing. “Your transport will arrive within the hour,” I confirm.

I hear the metallic buzz of a zip and the plop of a suitcase landing on a thin mattress. “I’ll be ready,” he responds, voice flat in an attempt to hide his obvious excitement.

I nod as the rings off, dial tone blaring in my ear. Setting the handset back in its cradle, I allow myself to lean gracelessly back in my chair with a soft grunt. I’ve ordered a replacement, but I fear I may develop a severe case of sciatica before it arrives.

Of course, that’s the very least of my worries, when Sherlock is (finally) coming home.

—

I’ve only just settled myself back in the chair when I hear the snick of the padlock opening. Shit. Shit. I’m not ready yet, I’m not- Christ, I’m not an actor, can barely even tell a lie, for god’s sake, how am I supposed to pretend to be someone else?

No. No. I can do this, I can.

The metal door slides up, clanking all the way.

There’s no room for doubt, for second guessing. Ford isn’t getting out of here, but maybe, just maybe, Sherlock can.

John, be-jumpered as usual, steps into the room. It’s barely dawn, the row of units behind him mildly illuminated with soft, indigo light. He steps inside and doesn’t greet me, but that’s good. Bide my time.

He lowers the door and turns to face me, the keys held loosely in his hand. I can see the outline of the gun in his pocket.

My name is Sherlock Holmes.

My name is Sherlock Holmes.

My name is Sh-

“Well, look at that. You drank the water,” he says with a smirk.

I lift an eyebrow, and follow his line of sight to the jug of water he’d brought me two days hence. I look back up at him, trying my damnedest to mask any trace of emotion. “John,” I say flatly.

He sniffs and folds his arms over his chest. “I was worried I might have to steal some supplies from the clinic, set you up an IV drip,” he mutters.

My name is Sherlock Holmes. “John.”

“Still not eaten though,” he murmurs, glancing at the small mountain of unopened energy bars next to the mat. He shrugs and raises his eyebrows. “Suppose that’s alright,” he continues, and cracks a smile. “Cleaned up after your disgusting experiments enough times, I’m not particularly inclined to clean up your actual shit.”

My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am Sherlock Holmes.

“John.”

“So, I’m thinking your cousin will likely call me when you don’t show today,” he says, as if I hadn’t spoken at all. “Honestly, I’m a bit surprised they’ve not tracked us here since the call yester-”

I am Sherlock Holmes.

“It was to protect you.”

… He goes still, as if turned to stone, and his face goes blank. His jaw slackens for a moment, nearly hanging, and I stare up at him blankly. I am Sherlock Holmes. I’m a high-functioning genius sociopath. I am Sherlock Holmes.

“Wh…” he trails off, eyes losing focus, and he seems a bit faint, all the colour draining from his face. “What,” he whispers, his tongue clicking hard on the t.

Oh, god. Oh my god… It’s working.

“All of it,” I say, gaining confidence, but not yet allowing myself to hope. “All of this. It’s to protect you.” Tell him what he wants to hear. He wants Sherlock - loves Sherlock. Give him Sherlock.

His eyes slowly rise, reticent, to meet my own. He looks… Well, he looks how I feel: devastated, terrified, beyond hope. Détruit. “Sher-lock,” he whispers, anguished voice cutting out on the second syllable.

Yes. Yes, that’s me. I am Sherlock. “Yes,” I reply, careful to keep my voice level and even.

He stares at me in dismay for what feels like minutes. And perhaps it is - I’ve lost all concept of time. If John’s here, I suppose I can safely assume that it’s ‘sixish’, but-

He makes a wretched sound like a choking sob, and I just barely restrain myself from flinching back. The destroyed, hollow look is gone now, replaced with something I’ve never seen before: a trembling, ruddy, seething rage.

I take a deep breath, slow enough to keep silent. I expected this part, though perhaps not the intensity of it. He might hit me, might hurt me, but he’s gone to all this trouble to get Sherlock back, I know he won’t kill me. If I can surpass this, if I can outlast his anger, then there’s a chance I can-

“Why now,” he growls, and I see now that this - this - is the thing that lurks.

But I’m prepared for this one, too. “We’re not safe here,” I reply, thickening my voice with intensity. If I’ve fallen into a Bond film - a strange Bond film, mind you, where Bond is dead, and Q goes mad with grief - then I ought to be able to use his lines.

“My wife was murdered in front of me forty-three days ago,” John grits out, throwing his arms down and stalking toward me. “We’re not safe anywhere.”

I clench my jaw, the only show of discomfort I allow myself. He’s… closer than I’d like. I nearly scoff at that thought - if this goes according to plan, we’ll be getting quite a lot closer. “John-”

“Why,” he whispers, curling himself to tower over me. I feel my body tauten in an attempt not to cower. “Why, Sherlock.”

… It’s the question that kept me up most of last night. I can’t even guess at why he - why Sherlock - would do such a thing; it’s insane at best, evil at worst. But, really, it doesn’t matter. Sherlock is dead (I am Sherlock Holmes). The best I can do - the only chance I’ve got - is to tell John what he wants to hear, to give him what he needs.

I look up at him, keeping my expression painfully neutral, and state plainly, “You were in danger.”

He balks at this, barking out an incredulous laugh, and his voice cracks when he says, “So you killed yourself?”

I swallow, my lips turned down, and dip my head. “It was the only way to protect you.”

“Really,” he says, breathy with dismay. “Making me watch you die was the only way.”

“I didn’t…” Bet it soothes your God complex. Or maybe your Asperger’s - being right - high-functioning sociopath… But, no. That’s not what John wants, not what he believes. Always figured you were just different and… lonely. Yes. Yes, that’s what John wants.

I look up at him, jaw tight, eyes wide, intending to convey just enough emotion to calm him down, to settle him, but not enough to break the illusion. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I murmur, eyes glued to his. “John.”

My brow furrows as he does that thing again - smiling in anger, eyes blurred with tears. “Oh, you didn’t hurt me, Sherlock,” he whispers, reaching out to grip the back of the chair just behind my shoulders, his face so close it’s out of focus. “You ruined-” he leans ever closer, “-my entire-” his breath condenses against my cheek, turning it moist and warm, “… life.”

My breathing has picked up, I’m nearly panting now, and he’s so close - too close - and- and- Oh god, I can’t do this. I can’t do this, I can’t, I just-. I’m not a pretender, I’m not Sherlock Holmes, and this man, John Watson, is- is - (détruitdétruitdétruit) - he’s deluded, for Christ’s sake, and…

… I don’t want to die here.

He won’t kill me…

… I don’t want him to hurt me. I’m tired and cold and terrified, I could hardly stop him if he tried-

He won’t hurt me. Misses me. Needs me. Loves me…

… Not me. Him. The ghost.

I am the ghost. (I am Sherlock Holmes)

…

He’ll never let me go.

…

He’ll never let me go.

“I’m sorry.”

His face scrunches up. “…You what?” he asks in dismay, and this close up, his features are blurry, doubled, indistinct. They exist independent of one another; not a face, per se, but a collection of parts: two eyes, a nose, furry brows, thin lips, and weathered skin like wrinkled paper. He could be anyone, anyone at all. I could be anyone at all.

I am Sherlock Holmes.

(I am Scott Ford Williams.)

“I’m sorry, John,” I whisper, my hands reaching up to clutch at his forearms. I don’t know what he sees in my face, but his eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and I lean further into him. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, but…” Of course, I loved you, he said. I still… I still love y- “but I had to protect you. I…” I shake my head slightly, perturbed with myself. The words are coming before I even think of them - God, am I thinking at all? I feel cold and hot all at once, like I’m barely inside my own bod-

Oh.

Oh.

… I’m floating now, hovering over myself, watching as I cling to John’s arms. He looks down at me, and there’s something growing, blossoming in his face. The blankness, that vast emptiness in his eyes that seems to reflect everything and reveal nothing, is filling up, disappearing as it’s replaced with something real. He looks awed. Humbled. Terrified.

His knees buckle, and I watch as my legs part slightly so that he may crumble between them. I see his hands release their grip on the chair, slide over my shoulders, and smooth over my neck to tangle in my hair. I feel nothing.

“You what,” I hear him repeat, though I don’t so much hear him as read the movement of his lips.

“Please, John,” I see myself whisper, my head dipping down closer to his. “Please.”

He pants out a sigh, the breath brushing the overlong strands of my hair against my cheekbone. I feel nothing, nothing at all. “Sherlock-”

He’s kissing me. He’s… he’s kissing me.

His lips are pressed against mine, forceful and rough, and I’ve never seen a kiss like this. His fingers clench at my hair, pulling me closer to him. No. Not closer, further. Further into him, deeper, like he intends to devour me, to pull me inside of himself and keep me there. He sucks my lower lip into his mouth, and I see a glimmer of white as he sinks his teeth into it, not enough to break the skin, but enough to make me whimper. His tongue is slick and warm as it smoothes over the indentations left from the bite, and it burns and hurts and aches and feels so-

Feels so-

Feels so-

Oh, god.

I’m back, present, inside my body again, and I can feel, I can feel him. His chest is pressed against my ribcage, and I feel his heart beating fast, feel my own pounding arrhythmically against my breastbone. His scent fills my nose - tea, sanitiser, bitter whiskey, sharp aftershave - and I’m choking, stifled. His hands, god, his hands are burning hot, branding my throat, callused and chafing my skin. He tastes like- like salt and scotch and sorrow and rage, and he bites my tongue, pulls it into his mouth, pushes it back into mine, and back and forth, and back and forth, pouring himself into me then stealing me away, and his hands tighten on my throat, oh my god, too much, too much, too much-

I wrench my head back, and suck in a breath like I’m drowning. “I’m sorry,” I choke out, “I’m sorry, I’m so-”

“Christ, Sherlock-” He says my name like a prayer and presses his open mouth against mine, breathing my air, tapping the tip of his tongue against the inside of my bottom lip. Jesus-

Wait. I… He says my name like a prayer.

My name. My name.

… Sherlock.

No.

No.

… NO.

I’m not, no, I’m not, I’m - I am not him! I am not Sherlock Holmes, I’m Ford, I’m Ford, I’m Scott Ford Williams, from Dorset, a schoolteacher, a scorpio, I’ve got a cat, I- I-

I have to get out of here.

John bites at my parted lips, and I clench my eyes shut, stammering, “W-we have t-to-” bite, oh Jesus, let me go, let me out, LET ME O- “I’ll explain, I’ll ex-explain everything,” bite, fuck, “-but w-we-”

“Sh, shut up, just-”

Ohh god, fffff- “John- haahh ah, John we have to-”

“You ruined me,” he groans, and he squeezes at my throat, and it’s- oh my god, it’s- yes, yes—

No no nono NO. “I’m sorry-”

Bite. God, that stings. Salt, so much salt, tears? Are they mine? Or his? He moans, moans, deep and dark, and it quakes the floor beneath our feet.

He pulls my hair hard, whispers into my mouth, “Nearly killed me, it nearly fucking killed me-”

Bloody fu- “Ah, ah! Gg- I’m sorry, I’m s-”

“-to, ah yes yesss, to lose you,” What’s happening? Jesus Christ, what’s happening? “Losing you, it nearly- nearl-”

His tongue, Jesus, I can’t- “I’m so - nnggh ha ahh! - I’m so sorry-”

“God, I love-” oh my God, “I fucking love y-”

“Forgive me, forgive me, please-”

And it stops.

… He’s still leaning into me, mouth smeared across mine, but he’s immobile, inanimate, unnaturally so. Even his breath has halted, and I feel the moisture on my face - saliva? tears? - drying up, tightening my skin with a persistent itch. Can’t even hear his heart beating, Jesus, is he-? What’s happeni-

He pulls back, the motion strangely slow, until there’s nearly a foot of space between us, and his hands rise slowly from my shoulders to hang limply in the air. His face is a mask of bewilderment, of dread - shiny lips slightly parted, nostrils flared, eyes unfocussed and almost comically wide.

… He knows.

I shake my head in a tiny, quick movement. “J-… John?”

Of a sudden, his breath comes back, stuttering with stops and starts as he inhales gustily, and his eyes flicker ominously.

He knows, he knows, he knows. “John,” I whisper.

“Not your area.”

The words come out in a deep, barely audible grumble, and I’m not sure if I’ve heard him correctly. “I-… What?”

“This,” he says, marginally louder, though his eyes are still wide and distant. “This isn’t… you don’t do this,” he murmurs, breath hitching, and his brow furrows. “You’ve never done this.”

Oh, god, he really does know. Shit, shit, shiiit. This was… not supposed to happen. Not good, not at all, oh so very, very not good. John might’ve let Sherlock go, but… not Ford. No, Scott Ford Williams doesn’t get out of this alive.

I swallow thickly, and of course, of course, the moment I decide to be Sherlock is the moment he decides that I’m not. “I- I don’t-”

“You never apologise,” he says, and his tone is a little closer to normal, though still coloured with dismay. His eyes focus and cut sharply to mine. “You never say please. You don’t.. do this.”

Oh, yes. Right. You’re not ‘my Sherlock’, he said. You were never that. Stupid, so stupid of me. The man was a sociopath, for Christ’s sake; John may have loved him, but, of course, he couldn’t possibly reciprocate. Shit. “John, I-”

“You would never do this,” he says again, and there’s a dawning in his eyes, like he’s seeing something for the first time. And perhaps he is. “We were never… you and I - Sherlock and I - we never…” Oh my god, third person, third person. “He would never do this.”

I stare down at him, and my resolve crumbles, any remaining bits of the façade disintegrating into the ether. I am Scott Ford Williams. “J-John…” I don’t know what to say.

“You’re not… you’re…”

Nothing left to say at all, really. “John…”

He sucks in a breath and collapses down onto his haunches. “You’re not him.” Finally. Finally. And it’s almost worth dying in a filthy storage unit at Big Yellow, Battersea just to hear him say those words. “You’re not… you’re not Sherlock.”

Finally.

“No,” I whisper, and my shoulders slump - though in relief or defeat, I don’t know. “No, I’m not.”

He squeezes his eyes shut at the confirmation, as if some tiny part of him still held out hope that… Well, I suppose we all wish that someone we love hadn’t been lost.

“But-” he starts, then shakes his head violently. He leans in close to peer into my face, eyes flicking over my features. “You look- you look just like…” Yes, well. Not like England’s got a particular large gene pool. There could well be a hundred men who look like Sherlock Holmes. Selfishly, I can’t help but wish that John had taken one of them instead.

His breathing speeds up, face going a startling shade of white, and- oh god, he might be hyperventilating now. “Oh, god,” he whispers, nearly choking on the words. “Oh my god.” I can see his pulse in his throat, rapid like a hummingbird’s. “Oh my god- you’re.. You’re really not-” his head bobs quickly up and down with the intensity of his breaths. Panic attack? Heart attack? “You’re… you’re…” he stammers, and his eyes lock imploringly onto mine, begging me.

Begging me for what? The truth? God, I hardly know what that is anymore. Only thing I know for sure, at this precise moment, is that- “I’m Ford,” I murmur, voice soft but firm. “Scott Ford Williams.”

“Oh,” he says brokenly, and it is so very inappropriate a word, so unrealistic a response to this situation that I nearly laugh out loud. God, I might be hysterical.

I nod my head, biting at my lip. Will he- might he-… Maybe he will let me go?

John’s head is shaking back and forth repetitively, and he looks lost, shattered, détruit. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, and the sincerity, the depth of it widens my eyes. He… He’s sorry? “Oh my god, I’m so sorry- I’m so, I’m so.. Christ, I grabbed you, I-I took you, Jesus fff-”

He looks a bit faint now, and I’d really rather he didn’t. Need the keys, where are the keys? “It’s alright, John,” I tell him, and I can almost believe it. Hope, there’s hope again, and it’s rushing through my veins, waking me up, granting me second wind. “It’s fine, I’m fine, just…” I trail off briefly as I reach down and grip his shoulders in my hands, looking him dead in the eyes. “You have to let me go, John,” I say firmly. “You have to, John. You can’t-” My breath hitches at the look on his face. I might make it out of here alive, I might actually survive this- “-can’t keep me here.”

His breath still comes in hitching, panting bursts as he stutters, “I ch-chained you up, I-” he looks down at his hands, staring at them like he’s never seen them before. “I pointed a gun at you, I-”

No, no no no, don’t think of the gun now, just- “John-”

But it’s too late, he’s already slipping his hand into his pocket, already pulling it out, already pointing it at me, and oh god oh god oh god oh g- I feel cold metal press against my… palms.

It’s… it’s not pointing at me. Quite the opposite, in fact, it’s pointing at… John reaches into his other pocket and pulls out his keys, grasps the smallest one with shaking fingers. My breath stutters out as he slides the key into the lock between my wrists and… click.

Oh my god. Oh my god, I’m free.

He stands up in a flurry, and I see him sway for a second with head rush. I nearly reach out an arm to stop him falling on me, only he sets himself to rights pretty quickly and, well, I’m holding a bloody gun.

He makes a swift volte face, takes two short steps, and crouches down, pulling the metal door upwards. Morning light floods the room, though I can tell the sun has just barely risen, and I’m blinded for a moment by the brilliance of it.

When he stands back up, I can only see his silhouette, edged with golden light, like a conductor burning with electricity.

“You can,” he murmurs, and through my squinted eyes I just barely see him nod toward my hands. “You can- you can do it. S’alright.”

Do it? Do wh- oh. Oh. “Wh-What.” No, I… No.

“You can,” he says, louder this time. “I-” he blows out a harsh breath, almost a sob. “I abducted you, I…” You need help. You need help. “It’s- it’d be self-defense,” No. No. “I-.. I deserve it,” Doesn’t matter, that doesn’t matter, I won’t- “You can- you can do it. It’s fine, it’s all- all f-fine.”

You’re mad, you’re mad, yes. Not evil. You need help, not- not bullets. Even if I wanted to, “I can’t, John, I-”

“You said,” he shakes his head, and the bright spots in my vision fade away, just enough that I can make out his face. He looks - fuck - desperate. God, he wants this, wants me to ki- “You said you’d kill me for this-”

“I didn’t-” mean it, you idiot! God, I don’t even know how to turn the safety off! And even if I did, I’m not a killer, a murderer, I’m not mad like you. “I- I was just-just- I can’t actually-”

“No, it’s alright, it’s-” he cuts himself off abruptly, brow furrowing then smoothing into blankness as his jaw hangs. His eyes have dropped to my chest, widening in something like… terror?

God’s sake, what now? “John?” I ask, then follow his line of sight. Oh. There’s a tiny red stain on my shirt. Odd, how did that get th-

No. Not a stain. It’s moving, flickering ever so slightly like… a laser pointer? “What’s-”

“Vatican cameos,” he whispers.

Vatican what? What on earth does that even m-

—

END PT. 4

—