Reichenbach Rising: Part 2

Chapter 2

John surfaced in a darkened room. There was some sort of light source on a table to his left, but he couldn't make it out through his still blurred-vision. He attempted to move and found his arms tied behind his back. He blinked and tugged at his bonds, only to be met with a swirl of dizziness. Struggling not to throw up, John hung his head and stared at his lap.  

"Boss, he's awake."

John looked up again just as a tall, blonde man with a high-tech sniper rifle over one shoulder stepped into his field of vision.

Oh no . . . John's stomach sunk as he recognized his captor. Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's right hand man and gun for hire. One of the most ruthless, most capable minds in the city now that London had lost its two geniuses.

"Doctor Watson, so good of you to join us," Moran said in a low, smooth voice. "Last time I saw you, it was down the barrel of a rifle."

"What do you want, Moran?" John said flatly, not taking his eyes off the man.

"I have a question I need to ask you, Dr. Watson. Just one question. Answer me truthfully and you can go home."

John highly doubted that.

XXX

The Tardis may have been bigger on the inside, but at that moment, it could not have been big enough. Sherlock Holmes stormed around the console room, kicking things and pulling wires, waiting.

I hate waiting.

They were parked in 2013, two days after John 's disappearance, just around the corner from 221b. The Doctor had taken the psychic paper and gone to speak to Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock had rinsed the dye from his hair and donned his usual clothes, now there was nothing left to do but wait.

So he paced. Usually he was content to lie still, letting his mind to the running, but today his nervous energy had swelled far beyond its normal bounds.

John.

What had happened? John had vanished around a week after Sherlock had gone off with the Doctor. Had he been kidnapped? By who? Moriarty's web was all but destroyed at this point, he had gotten rid of everyone important. Unless . . .  

Oh!

He spun on his heel, snatching up the newspaper. Of course, how could I have missed it?

" . . . an anonymous tip on the location of Sebastian Moran . . . "

But Sherlock had killed Moran six months ago. Or, he thought he had. I guess Sebastian has a few tricks of his own, he thought grimly.

Just then there was a rattle in the Tardis lock. The door swung open and the Doctor stepped inside. "No luck Sherlock." He said. "'He took a cab,' that's all she knew."

"He was kidnapped, Doctor, I'm sure of it." Sherlock said, looking up from the paper.
"And I think I know by whom."

XXX

"It's been nearly four years now, I believe." Moran continued, turning away from John.

"Since what?" John asked after a minute.

"Since you needed this."

The sniper turned back around, and this time he held in his hands a long, slender metal pole with a plastic hook at the end. A pole John was very familiar with indeed.

"Where did you get that?" he said softly.

"Ella was more than helpful." Sebastian grinned, twirling the cane in his hands like a baton.

"What have you done to her?"

"Nothing that won't grow back. Well, mostly."

"You said you had a question for me. What?"

"Ah yes." Moran held the cane in front of him, tapping it on his chin as he walked past John's chair. "The question."

John sat perfectly still, waiting. Get on with it, he thought.

"It's a bit of an odd question, you see. One some people think is completely obvious. But you and I know it's a bit more complicated, don't we."

"What. Question?"

Moran stopped his pacing and spun to face him.

"Where can I find Sherlock Holmes?"

XXX

"We need to know where he went." Sherlock said, throwing the paper down and resuming his pacing. "What else did she say?"

"Only that he looked a bit upset."

"Upset, upset." He reversed direction, pacing counter clockwise around the controls.
"Where would he go? He could have gone shopping, but he never does the shopping that late at night. Maybe a girlfriend's, but if he'd had one at the time she would have been in the case recap, romantic attachments are always the first suspects." He stopped walking, steepling his fingers in front of his face.

An odd look crossed the Doctor's face.  He reached up and pulled the monitor down, looking at something on the screen intently.

"Sherlock, what day did you die?" he asked.

"What?"

"The day you jumped, what was the date?"

"September 13, 2012, why?"

The Doctor didn't say anything for a moment. Then he turned to face the detective.

"It's been exactly a year, Sherlock."

"So?"

"So think. You've been dead a full year. If it was John, where would you go?"

XXX

John was utterly speechless for a second. "What?"

Faster than John's eyes could follow, Moran whipped the hand holding John's cane back and swung it around, striking John hard on the side of the face.

"Where is he John?"  he said again, still perfectly calm.

"Dead," John spat, already feeling the side of his face swelling.

Moran laughed, his head falling backward. "The rest of the world may be stupid enough to fall for your little trick, John, but not me! My people have been dropping like flies this past year and only one person could be behind that."

He was crazy! Crazier than his dead boss! Sherlock was dead, they had all seen it. Seen him fall, seen him lying there, blood pooling on the sidewalk . . .

Moran stepped back and crouched down in front of him. "I know you John. I know how devastatingly loyal you can be. But think about it, really think for a minute. And tell me: where is Sherlock Holmes?"

"London cemetery, six feet under."

"NO!" Moran sprang forward across the floor and slammed the cane into the knob of bone on the side of John's ankle.

John gasped as the spike of pain flashed across his body. "Sherlock is dead!" he cried, "I told you!"

"And I told you"—Moran punched him across the face—"not to lie to me!" He punched him again.

XXX

The Doctor watched his companion curiously. Sherlock had mentioned this John from time to time, but it wasn't until know, with his life in danger, that the Doctor could see how much Sherlock really cared for his friend. He was unusually quiet and fidgety, never still for more than a second.

The detective and the Doctor raced about the heart of the Tardis in perfect sync, turning dials and flipping toggles, aiming for the London cemetery on the night of September 13, 2013. The Tardis spun through the vortex, occasionally jolting them sideways into the railings or each other, but Sherlock always returned straight to the controls, anxious to get to John.

There was the usual pleasant wheezing, and then a firm thunk as the ship landed. Without hesitation Sherlock wrenched open the door and ran out into the chilly night, the Doctor on his tail.

There was no one in sight. The London Cemetery was dark and silent, the frost crackling under their feet.

"We've missed them." Sherlock said softly. "They aren't here."

The Doctor pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and bent to inspect the grass. The uniform frost pattern was broken in several places.

"But they were. Look at this."

Sherlock bent down beside him, his keen eyes sweeping over the lawn. Footprints, he knew immediately. Size 8 for John, and a size 10 he didn't know.

"John came in this way," he said softly, "stood here for a minute." Sherlock paused, the memory of the last time he'd seen John here surfacing. "Then when he went to leave, this other man followed him and attacked him . . . here!"

The Doctor watched his companion pacing in front of his own headstone. The Time Lord was silent, letting Sherlock's brilliant mind sort everything out. The detective followed the second set of prints backwards to a spot behind a nearby tree.

"Moran figured it out, Doctor, just like you did. He knew John would come, and he waited for him. Here, look! There's no frost, and the grass is all trampled. Must have waited all day. It's not Sebastian's style to wait around though, and this isn't his shoe size . . . so he had an accomplice." Sherlock dropped to the ground and took a long sniff at the trampled spot under the tree. "And he spilled the chloroform, its frozen on the grass." He stood motionless, eyes flicking back and forth rapidly, mind whirling.

And then it clicked. He spun back to face the Doctor, his face alight.  

"I know where John is."

XXX

John's head was spinning. Blood dripped down his face, and he couldn't hear out of his left ear.

"I have to say, John," Moran said, wiping blood from his knuckles with a white handkerchief, "most men would have saved themselves and told me what I want to know by now. I'm impressed by your devotion. However," he set the cloth down and pulled a small knife out of the top drawer of the desk.

"  . . . I am getting a little frustrated."

He bent forward, grasping the back of John's chair. Moran leaned in until his face was just inches away. John squirmed weakly, blood stinging his eye.

"Thing is, John, you're a smart guy. So you probably already know that I will find Sherlock Holmes, even if you won't tell me." John felt the tip of the knife hovering on the top of his knee.

"Because what do you think he will do when he sees your mutilated body on the telly?"  The knife bit in, ever so slightly. John hissed, arching his back.

"He'll come after me, that's what."  The blade felt hot, cutting deeper into the sensitive nerves and tendons holding his kneecap in place. John's breath rushed out through his clenched teeth. He saw stars.

" . . . and I'll be ready."

All at once a hollow whooshing noise filled the room, growing louder and louder. Moran spun around and John screamed as the knife was jerked out of his leg.

The far corner of the room was lit with a brilliant blue-white glow, about 10 feet off the ground. Underneath it there seemed to be an old fashioned police box that was appearing out of thin air. John would have thought he was hallucinating, but clearly Moran could see the thing too. The assassin just stood there, staring at it, not moving.

The door of the box flew open almost before it was completely there, and two men came running out. Moran stabbed at the nearest one, a skinny man in a brown suit, who jumped backward out of the way.

But John had eyes only for the second figure, a man John knew very well indeed. He leapt from the door of the blue box, dark coat flying, and punched Moran's bulky accomplice across the face.

No. No it couldn't be. This man was, as he had repeatedly told Moran, dead.

Yet here he was.

John watched blearily as his rescuers dispatched Moran and his associate. The dark one bent over John's chair, speaking quickly in a low voice. He tried to listen, he really did, he knew it was important, but his ears didn't seem to be working right.

John could feel the blood running down his leg.

Running. He'd done a lot of running this year.

The blood. His sock was soaked in it. He hated wet socks.

Blood.

So much blood.

Sherlock.

John blacked out.