As We Are, As We Were - Chapter 1 - CreativeWords (original) (raw)

Chapter Text

It was cold.

His left arm was numb from shoulder to elbow and the tingling was beginning in his fingertips. Sherlock knew that wasn't from the cold, but from the compression of the basilic vein where he had his weight resting on his elbow. If he wanted to alleviate the pressure, he was going to have to change positions. To do that would be fatal.

All it would take would be one slight shift, and his brain would be decorating the rooftop. He wondered if his enemy was savoring the irony. A chance to kill the man who drove Moriarty to suicide by shooting him in the head on a rooftop. Poetic, even. From what he knew of the man, it was unlikely such literary constructs were flitting through Sebastian Moran's head. No matter. He could enjoy it enough for the both of them.

He wished John was there.

It was not the first time in the last three years that Sherlock found himself resenting his friend's absence. It was imperative, of course, that John remain in London, convincing the world at large – and more particularly, any of Moriarty's agents who might have stuck around – that Sherlock was, indeed, dead. But he'd grown accustomed to having someone else along, someone who could take up the slack in conversation with a suspect, distract the nosy bystander, pull rank on an army official, take the impossible shot.

Moran may be an internationally known assassin, but Sherlock had no doubt that John Watson could bring him down with one bullet.

If, in fact, John was there.

Another gust of icy wind cut past the short collar of the close-fitting coat he'd chosen for tonight. Nothing had gone according to his plan. He was supposed to arrive before Moran, be lying in wait, ready to take down this last, strongest of Moriarty's allies. He hadn't expected Moran to realize he was in Paris at all, though surely he was aware that Sherlock was coming after him – especially after the debacle in Prague. Tonight was simply supposed to be reconnaissance, a chance to confirm his theory that Moran was scouting the building opposite for a chance to fulfill his contract on Vanneste. Moran, it seemed, had a more extensive network of eyes and ears than anticipated.

He estimated they'd been at a stalemate 11 minutes. Based Moran's decisions, it was clear the man was low on ammunition, because he wasn't spraying the area with bullets. Sherlock had managed to squeeze off enough gunfire to make Moran hesitant to come closer, but he also wasn't leaving. He was simply waiting. Waiting for Sherlock to get tired of hiding behind the HVAC unit and make a move. Once he did, the conclusion would be swift enough. Moran was known for his patience. Sherlock was not.

The scenarios playing through his mind were not encouraging. He could attempt to edge back to the fire escape, and have Moran put a bullet in his brain on the way down. He could leap up and fire, trusting his best guess as to Moran's location and cover, and likely have Moran put a bullet in his brain before he'd have time to see the results. He could attempt to find a place that gave him some visual confirmation, but any movement from behind his very small shield would give Moran all the data he needed to put a bullet in his brain.

The outcomes were all so tediously similar.

His phone vibrated against his ribs. Logically, it would be folly to answer. His attention needed to remain on the gunman across the roof. It was likely a sort of trap, the kind of thing that Moran, with his many underlings, could easily arrange to distract Sherlock. Best if he just left it alone.

But. But as of this moment, there were only four people in the world who knew this number. He ticked them off in quick succession. Molly Hooper – had learned within the first six months of this life that getting in touch "just because" was completely unnecessary and had abided by that. The heads of law enforcement in Venice and Berlin – but both cells of Moriarty's network were completely dissolved there. So most likely –

He sighed and leaned forward enough to ease the phone out of his pocket with his left hand. He registered the whine of a silenced bullet just before it ricocheted off the edge of HVAC where his hair had been momentarily visible.

Shall I? M

Sherlock groaned almost silently. He'd attempted to throw his brother off this time around. He'd out and out told him his next stop was somewhere in Asia, but dropped a discreet number of references to Dublin before sneaking onto the train to Paris as a baggage handler. Apparently he'd have to try harder next time.

The deliberation didn't take long. If he wanted to get off this rooftop before Moran's patience ran out (24 hours, at the minimum), he was going to have to let Mycroft bring in the calvary.

Ye

He hadn't completed the text when the sound of a helicopter reached his ears. He didn't bother to glance up, he just acted.

He leaned out, hesitated only long enough to perceive the shape of Moran's head and fired.

He didn't really need the sensation of the bullet slamming into his right arm to inform him that he hadn't killed his enemy, but the confirmation was helpful. In about 1.8 seconds, the pain would register, but not before he heard the shouts of the man leaning out the door of the helicopter and the pounding steps of reinforcements on the fire escape. He grabbed the corner of the HVAC unit and attempted to stand.

Bad planning. His mind was reacting to the wound by attempting to make him pass out. Unnecessary precaution as he was certain the bullet hadn't done much damage. He dragged himself further upright, caught a blurred glimpse of Moran heading for the edge of the roof, and promptly pitched forward. It was, he thought, rather how a tree must feel when it's been chopped.

An unfamiliar face appeared over his, a man in special operations gear.

"Mr. Holmes?"

His tongue felt thick and heavy, but he decided to attempt a reply. "Donntell Mycrof-"

The man just grinned and turned to the radio on his shoulder. "Sir? We've got him."

Sherlock imagined the smile on Mycroft's face, and allowed himself to pass out.