Chapter Length: 3,397 words
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs
Status: Incomplete

A.N.: My intention was to get this up quite a bit earlier, but I'm afraid that, in the typical style of my life at the moment, I managed to catch a bad cold and ended up in a routine of work-home-eat-unconsciousness. I'm so sorry.

Thank you so much to everyone who has either commented, reviewed or messaged me, especially as I think I really must have the most patient and understanding readership in the history of, well, pretty much everything. Seriously, thank you so much for all of the kind words, encouragement, and support. I'll do my best to deserve it!

On that note, on we go with chapter 17. By virtue of what must be a rather major miracle, the amazing patchsassy is still willing and able to give up her time to beta this behemoth; the lovely velveteenkitten is also reading through when she can, but most of her time is understandably taken up by certain family developments. I owe both of them an enormous thank you, and this chapter would be a lot more annoying without their input.

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SURVIVAL – CHAPTER 17

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Two weeks after the confrontation with Mycroft concerning his desire to somehow alleviate John's grief, Sherlock is staring down at the series of photos clutched in his hands in silent shock. He had dared to hope that Mycroft would have his note delivered, in spite of his best efforts not to, but never in his very wildest imaginings had he considered being given proof of its arrival. It is an exercise in self-control to keep his fingers from trembling, the bittersweet delight and anticipation setting a fire in his belly.

The first two images are blurred, but he can just make John out; he is in the living room, easily within the camera's view through the right window (if these had been intercepted, the recipient would not have known that the flat itself is bugged), and he has company. In the first clear photograph, Sherlock can see that the other figure is a pretty young woman (dressed to look like a married housewife, but is in fact a divorced secretary working for Mycroft – obvious even at this distance), whom John is standing to accept a small bouquet from. In the next, she is gone and John is sitting in his usual chair, frowning at the flowers in his lap; in another, he has lifted the accompanying note, reading his name on the front of the tiny, blue envelope. From there, barely a second is left between each photograph (camera setting, not human skill – the photos are too steady to have someone's fingers rushing over buttons), as John opens it and extracts the embossed, miniature post-card that the florist had so happily recommended to Sherlock.

For a moment, Sherlock almost believes the next six images to be copies. In the first two he assumes that the former soldier must be reading, but in the next four John does not even twitch; all that demonstrates the fact that they are separate images is the moving reflection of a bird in the window pane, and the slight shift of one of the large chrysanthemums dominating the otherwise modest arrangement of flora. He almost expects the seventh to be the same, and is taken aback to see John suddenly bent double, forehead pressed to his knees and probably crying out, holding the card as though he cannot decide whether to treasure it or rip it apart. In the seventeenth, he finally raises his head and there are tears – not to mention so much pain written into his expression that Sherlock hates himself for ever considering this. He knows from putting together the evidence gleaned from Mycroft that this has been bubbling away under the surface for far too long and the note will, if anything, one day become something for his friend to cling to, but right now all he can see is John crumbling because of his selfish message. Sherlock's own tears do more than simply scald as he gives in, allowing them to fall.

Between the last two is a short missive from his brother:

'The card was presented with the bouquet as a gift of condolence from one of the "Believe in Sherlock Holmes" groups that have been springing up – he is unlikely to check the validity of the source.

'He has yet to throw the card away. With a bit of luck, brother, I have framed this well enough that it will not end up endangering either of you. Do not presume that I will do so again.'

The instruction to burn the evidence is implied but unmistakable. If Sherlock is caught with these photographs Mycroft will not expend any time or effort to mitigate the consequences. He has to admit that it is understandable – neither man is of particular importance to the country. For all that Sherlock is currently proving very useful to his brother and the government, he knows that he is easily replaceable, not to mention that Mycroft is very much aware that he has no intention of remaining at their beck and call for matters like this once he is free to return home. And whilst Sherlock is family, that does not make him more valuable to Mycroft than his beloved government.

Taking the lighter to them is still far more difficult than it should be. To be given this connection to John, to 221B, only to immediately have to destroy it himself is torturous, and once he is watching the last photograph burn on the saucer he is using in lieu of an ashtray, he pours a good measure of Fernet Stock into the discarded teacup.

"Na zdraví [cheers / literally: to health]," he says, tone low, and downs it in one.

ooo

There is one final office to be dealt with outside Europe, it transpires; a three-man cell in the city of Girishk, located in Helmand province, Afghanistan. The Kabul office was dealt with months ago, but Sherlock has long-expected to find that another office is operating from the South. With all the instability the country has suffered through in the last decade, it would be sensible for Moriarty to hedge his bets and have another handful of operatives entrenched there rather than take the risk of leaving the Kabul office to attempt to balance the interests of clients from across the country. Girishk is a strategist's dream, as well – it sits on the A1 from Kandahar to Herat, only two hours away from the hot-bed of clientele that is Kandahar whilst remaining far enough away that the foreign military presence there has a minimal effect on their ability to do good business. The Southern terminus of route 611; barely two miles off the Helmand River… Had Moriarty chosen anywhere else, Sherlock would have been extremely disappointed in him.

Despite his distaste for the very thought of being stuck in such overwhelming heat and depressingly monotonous scenery, Sherlock cannot help thinking that it would be an interesting mission, provided he can talk his way onto the roster. Not least because John had spent time stationed in the area – the doctor had taken his bullet to the shoulder during the defence of a fort a few miles from Maiwand, which lies almost directly between Girishk and Kandahar. It is a combination of sentiment and curiosity that sees him argue his right to go with the four-man team Mycroft has assembled, although he tries to hide behind well-planned reasoning; his brother refuses without a thought (Sherlock's desire to assist was expected, as were his excuses).

Instead, Sherlock is instructed to remain in Prague. His file on the office here is almost complete, but boredom and frustration have finally succeeded in digging their claws into him. For all of Sherlock's complaints to his brother, it had been more bearable with Douglas as company, and without him it is easy to sink into hours of aimless drifting or burning fury. The news from London, which had seemed so interesting, becomes almost painfully boring now that there is a foregone conclusion and no one to discuss it with. Douglas had been put off by Sherlock's more honest remarks and temperament at first, but the older man had somehow warmed to him anyway, and the camaraderie of long-suffering colleagues had not only survived intact, but had dragged them close enough that Sherlock would be hard-pressed to justify denying him the title of 'friend' now.

His surveillance is almost complete, to the point that he only needs to 'attend' two small social events before he can leave. With his increased 'off' hours he unofficially toys with various small cases, re-reads 'Red Harvest' yet again, and completes crosswords as though they contain secret messages from Lestrade and Baker Street. Nothing is enough. All too soon he has nothing left to occupy himself with, and without distractions, the reasons not to take unnecessary risks begin to fade into the nether-most corner of his mind. When the desire for a cigarette becomes unbearable, hinting at another slide down towards cocaine, Sherlock decides once and for all that he cannot – and perhaps even should not – resist the urge to rub salt in Moran's wounds.

The Prague office is less than five minutes from Wenceslas Square, a fact that has caused him to release a brief snigger more than once. He breaks into it with almost absurd ease, before spending twenty minutes raiding what paper files they still maintain for their most recent – and most lucrative – consultations. He would much prefer to solve the puzzles using nothing more than his own considerable knowledge and intellect; unfortunately, the process of doing so would doubtless make him an easy target, and he has no choice but to settle for 'cheating.'

There is, after all, a much more interesting puzzle to turn his mind to.

It hits him after only a couple of minutes of going through the first filing cabinet that there is far less information available to him than he expected, even after compensating for tightened security protocols since Anchorage and Munich. Then again, if security has been tightened there is a worrying discrepancy between the security of their data and that of the premises. Sherlock had been careful to ensure that he was not walking into an ambush – he has been careful to avoid such situations throughout his time away from London – so he can at least be sure that this is not a trap, but that does not answer the question. Why was it so easy to get in?

Unless there is nothing to really protect.

No. That conclusion is invalid. These case files are legitimate, Sherlock knows that much from what he has seen plastered across news-stands and the deductions he has been able to make based on the information made public – information which could not have been falsified, because they would have had no idea as to what to change to confound him (if, indeed, they have become aware of his presence in their operational area to begin with). The data he has gathered here is genuine, and acting on it will produce the desired results: Moran's estimated loss should be in the region of fourteen-million Czech koruna (approximately half a million pounds, going by today's reported exchange rates), plus further loss of reputation.

The answer is that Moran himself no longer believes the survival of Moriarty's network to be an achievable goal. He is fighting, still, as is a soldier's wont to do, for his personal survival and the destruction of his enemies, but the few remaining offices are nothing more than strategic hubs, to be used and discarded as and when necessary.

Glancing around the dark office, Sherlock can feel his heart-rate rising, can feel the adrenaline beginning to release into his blood.

The agents here must have no idea that they are now nothing more than disposable pawns. Moriarty could never have been an attentive boss, but he built this Network and valued it highly as his life's work and his means of 'playing games' with Sherlock – proof of both his genius and the ease with which the regular idiots can be taken in. He may not have been overly fond of any of his employees, but he respected the fact that replacing them took more time and effort than he was willing to unnecessarily expend.

Of course, now that Moran's priority is to bring down those who have brought him low, there are no such concerns.

Which is why he held no compunctions or hesitation when it came to ordering Vogt's murder.

Sherlock's steps halt. Vogt's death – and, more importantly, the swiftness of it – has been a soft tickle at the back of his skull ever since he hurried into that first taxi back in Munich and had a moment to breathe. The German had been one of Moriarty's most trusted employees (given control over the Network's accounts), and so would have been unlikely to break easily under interrogation.

Additionally, there have to have been some investments and accounts that were accessible only through Vogt; he had been exactly the sort of man to guarantee his continued usefulness in such a manner. If he had indeed been as intelligent and loyal to Moriarty as Sherlock is giving him credit for (justifiable conclusion), then it is likely that he failed to provide Moran access to every account he could in the first place. Even now, the former Colonel is still new to the role of Oyabun – it would have been wise to keep something back in case he was deemed unfit and subsequently replaced. No, as leader of Moriarty's Network, the decision to remove Vogt at the first sign of a hiccough in Munich was irrational and foolish, and whilst Moran is certainly not his predecessor's equal by any stretch of the imagination, those are not qualities Sherlock has seen in his opponent before.

Which is why he changes the baseline for his assessment. As a soldier, aware of his distinct and perilous disadvantage, it was the best possible move. Too many eyes would have been on Vogt, even if the accountant had indeed refused to talk; too many investigations would have delved into his and potentially the Network's accounts; there was too great a likelihood that something, somewhere would substantiate claims of criminal activity. Killing Vogt did not solve those issues, but it did buy Moran time. The agent planted in Munich's police force would have had orders to kill himself if his arrest became imminent, and, failing that, at least one other agent is likely to have been planted is Munich's police forces. He would not have lasted three days, Sherlock can be sure of that much, even if that last, lucky shot had missed. The lack of both men and the overall distraction value of the entire debacle would have impeded investigations, giving Moran approximately a month to find means of limiting the damage – although, this estimate would have only been accurate without Sherlock's files, which will have closed the deadline as of yesterday.

No, Moran is not Moriarty. He never has been – in fact, he has spent at least three years at the heel of the genius, most likely playing 'attack dog' (sniper at the swimming pool) or 'contact' when necessary. His official past is not clean, cannot be clean; with his focus on his own survival, he would have more than one reason to fear a connection, to fear the right questions being asked, and if buying time was all he could do, then by god he would have done it in a heartbeat.

There is a bang from outside: the heavy main door just dropped closed. Sherlock takes a glance at his watch, and is rather stunned to find that it is almost nine-thirty – time for the evening checks. He has been so caught up in his realisations and the new conclusions they lead to that he completely forgot about the two men due to take a quick look around for intruders or, as would be more likely, anything 'off.'

Sherlock hurries to straighten the two filing cabinets he had been going through, all too aware of how quick and quiet he has to be. The agents downstairs will be five minutes at the most, checking reception and the four meeting rooms before they climb the stairs slowly, chatting all the while (do not expect to find anything).When they enter this room, they will both be off their guard – it would take very little for Sherlock to kill them both quietly and leave. He could be out of the country in less than two hours, if absolutely necessary, and with his file on this office now completed to his satisfaction there would be no serious repercussions.

However, Sherlock has never been seriously inclined to remove an obstacle in that way; he has been tempted, certainly, but killing people for such a reason has always felt ridiculously obvious and utterly beneath him. Besides, the complications it would cause may be minimal and quickly solved by Mycroft, but it would be foolhardy to invite them when an escape would be so much simpler.

It is also a great deal more fun. He tries for both stealth and speed, at first, creeping out of the archive and across the upstairs office, closing each door as softly as possible. He remembers the ricketiness of the third stair down, causing the stair beneath to creak under the added strain whenever pressure is applied, and braces himself against the wall as he takes one long stride over both. He abandons silence in favour of haste a moment later, when he hears voices entering the downstairs corridor. His feet barely touch the last five steps before reaching the large, sash window set waist-high at the turn, and he hurries to drag his tall frame through it just as he hears the two men below begin heading up the wooden stairs.

Sherlock had expected there to be hand- and foot-holds in the wall – the 'bricks' are pale stone, almost a foot tall and two wide, and there is substantial wear-and-tear around the edges. He has truly struck gold by using this window, though: there are several old iron pipes (plumbing: used to be residential) running just a handful of inches below his current perch. These run into a larger, stronger one, which stretches to the ground and beyond. It takes Sherlock's weight without a sound; by the time the light goes on, signalling the agents' arrival in the office, he is turning out of the back-alley and blending effortlessly into the evening crowds.

ooo

Regardless of whether or not Moran is still concerned with the Network's survival, Sherlock finds exposing the eleven criminals and cons immensely satisfying. The likelihood of it having any effect on the other man's grand counteroffensive is slim at best, but it is a show of power on Sherlock's part, and undoubtedly achieves his aim of adding insult to injury.

The Prague office falls with seven arrests, and Sherlock is finally ushered on to Paris. Setting his mind to bringing down yet another of the Network's information hubs – even one so significant – is difficult when he knows that he is effectively dancing to Moran's tune. However, he and Mycroft agree that letting their enemy know that they have him figured out would only prove detrimental until they have a better idea of his new plan. Sherlock makes the best of a bad situation by applying his deductive abilities to a variety of smaller, local cases; it soon transpires that sixty percent of the crimes have some form of connection to Moran and the Network (lower employees getting nervous, wondering why they are being ignored, and taking cases on their own authority – a mixture of insightful and thoroughly moronic behaviour), which speeds up the process of gathering information significantly. The assignment should take almost four weeks, but after only a fortnight Sherlock is sitting in his hotel room, bored out of his mind as he awaits the message from Mycroft that will confirm his success and provide his next destination.

In all honesty, he could figure it out for himself with only the bare minimum of effort. There are so few hubs left now, and only two warrant the assignation of an operative of Sherlock's calibre. It all hangs on whether Kheel has completed his file on Algiers in time to be assigned to the minor catastrophe occurring in Moscow. If not, Sherlock is the most obvious choice to complete the five-man team, especially with Douglas taking the lead of it. If, however, Kheel has finished…

Honestly, he is a little afraid to even think of it. Hope, Sherlock has found, is as dangerous and debilitating as love; besides, he may be above thinking that an outcome could possibly be 'jinxed,' or any such rubbish, but after so much longing he doubts that he could take another disappointment.

It is another six hours before his phone notifies him of a new message, but Sherlock's frustration melts away as though it had never existed as soon as he opens it. It is two words, just two, the least information his brother could have possibly conveyed, yet Sherlock can feel his mouth stretching to split his face with a wide, delighted grin, can feel the uncontrollable giggle bubbling in his throat.

'Confirmed. Edinburgh.'

For the first time in so many months, Sherlock throws back his head and laughs.

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As ever, thank you very much for reading. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and if you have the time and inclination I would love to know your thoughts – no flames please, but constructive criticism is always welcome.

The next chapter should be up in approximately 3 weeks' time (I'll do everything I can to make sure that it's no longer).