londonsniper:

tea-milk-and-jam:

He raised an eyebrow, but grabbed his laptop from off of the table anyway. “D’you really think he’d be stupid enough for that, though?” He asked. “I mean, it’s not that obscure of a secret anymore, it’s just that people don’t really think about it. And that would be a big slip-up, even for an amateur.” He paused a moment.

“But then, of course, your boss made the same mistake,” he remembered.

He turned on the machine and began waiting for it to boot up, and he scratched his head a moment, thinking. “On my first case with Sherlock,” he said, “He figured out that the cabbie accidentally took one of his victim’s phones. He had me text it pretending to be her, to draw him out.” The corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement at the memory. Damn, had he been annoyed.

He continued. “It worked, even if we hadn’t realised that it had. The cabbie was supposed to be a ‘proper genius’ as well, so if it worked on him, d’you think it’d work on Edmund, too?” He typed in his password slowly, using his index fingers and looking for each individual key to ensure no spelling mistakes. Because that, and not that he just typed really bloody slow, was the reason for how slow he typed.

“Mistake, oh that’s funny, I like your sense of humour,” Sebastian remarked before leaning onto the table to analyze the software. “Proper geniuses is just another word for walking dickhead. This kid is barely out of primary, I’d be impressed if he did.”

Licking his lips, the sniper suddenly darted his eyes over John’s bismal typing. His brows knit, fingers tapping before he spoke up.

“How about I take over the typing from now on. Think if I left you at it, they’ll both end up dead,” the sniper swerved the laptop toward his direction once John logged in. As Sebastian held John’s phone, he entered Sherlock’s number, scoffing to see a warning for the shut off phone.

“Here’s a magic trick,” he murmured, entering a series of digits into John’s phone, connecting to Sherlock’s number. “Phones will boot up for emergencies and manufactured resets. What I’m doing,” Sebastian held up the phone, John’s screen turning black, white text whizzing by. “Is a wireless reboot. Turn the phone on, and-“

Leaning into the laptop, the sniper watched the screen carefully, clenching his jaw to read for an impending dot. The map began to change, blurring before the coordinates began to focus on an address. A red dot popped up.

“We have a signal,” Sebastian teethed a terrible grin, turning the screen towards John. “A factory. A chocolate factory four miles west of here. Have to hand it to the kid for being an absolute idiot.”

John visibly twitched. It hadn’t been a mistake. They had let them track the phone. John had known that they had; it was so obvious, too big a mistake for the great Moriarty, but he had buried it down, not let himself think of it. He hadn’t wanted to believe it, so he literally didn’t let himself, and shoved it farther and farther down until he had believed that they’d just made a stupid mistake. He grit his teeth. He couldn’t think about this right now. He had to focus on the task at hand: finding Sherlock, making sure he was safe, getting him out of there.

His hands clenched briefly as Sebastian grabbed the laptop. Yes, alright, he typed slow, fine. That was something he wasn’t in denial in, unlike with his height. He put up with it, though. If Moran could find Sherlock, then John didn’t care that he refused to take the god damn cuffs off of John’s wrists, or that he drove like a sodding mad man, or what kind of sorcery he pulled.

John’s foot tapped impatiently, and he sat up stock straight once it was announced that they had the signal, the adress. He lurched out of his seat before Sebastian even finished talking and spoke over the sniper’s last words, not particularly caring to hear another comment about the kid’s stupidity.- “Let’s go,” he said shortly.  Yeah, Byron was stupid, he knew that, they didn’t have time for this. He walked towards the the door brusquely, leaving the taller man to follow him.

londonsniper:

tea-milk-and-jam:

John gave one of those woe-is-me sighs as Sebastian let himself into their flat, and took a small amount of pleasure at the slightly disgusted look on the sniper’s face due to the smell. No, the millions of experiments that Sherlock insisted had to be done with closed windows - “Contaminants in the air, John!” - did not make for very healthy breathing air, and John was, quite frankly, surprised that neither of them had grown a third eye yet.

“Help yourself to my mobile, you were probably going to anyway,” he said, following him into his own flat. “It should be on the kitchen table.” He was suddenly very, very glad that he’d left it at home this morning, actually; it would have been irritating to have to replace it, like they would probably have to replace Sherlock’s, because he doubted that Edmund would have let him keep it. He went into the sitting room and dropped himself into his chair, looking towards Sebastian expectantly, waiting for an explanation of who he was about to call and why.

Sliding against a table, Sebastian took a leaning seat against the edge, palming John’s mobile with a curious tilt of his head. Standard issued phone, similar to the type Sherlock most likely had, he noted, tapping the keys as he darted his eyes pass the listed contacts. Hovering over Sherlock’s name, the sniper licked his lips, an idea lifting his brows.

“Phones like yours and Sherlock’s,” Sebastian began, lifting himself off the table. “They send and receive signals at all times, even when turned off. It’s only when the battery has been removed that all connection is lost.”

He held the phone between his thumb and pointer finger, smirking as he approached John at his seat.

“Not many people know that, and if that kid was stupid enough to use cuffs instead of zipties…..” he tossed John’s phone up, eyes pale with a sense of mischief as he caught it. “I have a better idea Dr. Watson. Run up the software you used to track Sherlock’s phone.. I’ll tinker with it and we should have some place more solid to start.”

He raised an eyebrow, but grabbed his laptop from off of the table anyway. “D’you really think he’d be stupid enough for that, though?” He asked. “I mean, it’s not that obscure of a secret anymore, it’s just that people don’t really think about it. And that would be a big slip-up, even for an amateur.” He paused a moment.

“But then, of course, your boss made the same mistake,” he remembered.

He turned on the machine and began waiting for it to boot up, and he scratched his head a moment, thinking. “On my first case with Sherlock,” he said, “He figured out that the cabbie accidentally took one of his victim’s phones. He had me text it pretending to be her, to draw him out.” The corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement at the memory. Damn, had he been annoyed.

He continued. “It worked, even if we hadn’t realised that it had. The cabbie was supposed to be a ‘proper genius’ as well, so if it worked on him, d’you think it’d work on Edmund, too?” He typed in his password slowly, using his index fingers and looking for each individual key to ensure no spelling mistakes. Because that, and not that he just typed really bloody slow, was the reason for how slow he typed.

Why, thank you, anon. I really appreciate it. See, Sherlock? Someone else likes that jumper, too.

londonsniper:

tea-milk-and-jam:

He shot another glare at the sniper and went back to his silent mantra of “Please, God, let me live,” and sagged against his seat in relief when they finally arrived. The got out of the car and John immediately started heading for the door, not waiting for Sebastian, who seemed to be scouting the place out.

“Yeah, probably,” John agreed with a shrug. “We know all about the millions of open shots here, and how likely it is that we’re constantly being spied on. Not much we can really do about it. We’re as careful as we can be.” He patted his pockets when he got to the door and groaned - the bugger had taken his keys. Fantastic. He rang the doorbell, but after a minute, it seemed clear Mrs. Hudson wasn’t coming. She must be out. Well, that was absolutely brilliant. He turned to Sebastian, annoyed, wondering if he’d be able to get his keys back when they finally caught up to Byron. “Can you pick the lock?”

“You know all these holes in your security and you still live in his shitty flat,” Sebastian spun a pick from his pocket, leaning into the door. “Stupid. Yet….a little ballsy doctor Watson.”
Pushing the pin into the lock, the sniper jostled the handle with a few satisfying clicks, nudging the door open with a smirk. Sebastian eyed the foyer for a moment before taking the liberty of climbing up the stairs, familiar when he shouldn’t have been. 
“I installed the cameras you know. Surprised it took that long for that cunt to find,” he continued the small talk, picking the lock to their flat with a casual shrug.
“So finding him shouldn’t be too hard.”
Pushing the door open, Sebastian nearly winced from the wicked stench in the flat. Experiments and closed windows didn’t seem to be a great mixture.
“I need to make a few calls…”
 

John gave one of those woe-is-me sighs as Sebastian let himself into their flat, and took a small amount of pleasure at the slightly disgusted look on the sniper’s face due to the smell. No, the millions of experiments that Sherlock insisted had to be done with closed windows - “Contaminants in the air, John!” - did not make for very healthy breathing air, and John was, quite frankly, surprised that neither of them had grown a third eye yet.

“Help yourself to my mobile, you were probably going to anyway,” he said, following him into his own flat. “It should be on the kitchen table.” He was suddenly very, very glad that he’d left it at home this morning, actually; it would have been irritating to have to replace it, like they would probably have to replace Sherlock’s, because he doubted that Edmund would have let him keep it. He went into the sitting room and dropped himself into his chair, looking towards Sebastian expectantly, waiting for an explanation of who he was about to call and why.

londonsniper:

tea-milk-and-jam:

Yeah, it was, so what? There was still a difference in putting it on his blog, and bloody telling someone who had once helped kidnap and torture his best friend.

John became increasingly more tense as he directed Sebastian through London, back to their flat, and eventually realised his hands were gripping the sides of his seat quite tightly. The bloody sniper drove like a god damn madman. He swore at one particularly sharp, swerving turn. “Will you slow the hell down and stop turning like that?!” He yelled, panicked, fearing slightly for his life. If this bloody man didn’t stop driving like this, then if they didn’t die, they would definitely be pulled over, and John didn’t really want to be found in a car by the police with this person.

He groaned at the question. “You’re joking, right?” He looked over at Sebastian, trying to read if he was or not. “Did you actually think we were? Jesus Christ, even our enemies think we’re shagging? This isn’t happening.” He scrubbed his face with his hands and looked forward again. “No. We’re not. We started living together because we both needed someone to share the rent with, and now, I suppose we’re still living together because we’re friends, and it’s convenient for the cases.” He clamped his mouth shut, now, hoping that Sebastian wouldn’t harp on it, and focused on not freaking out any more than he already was about the insane driving he was being put through at the moment.

“Have to make up time for that bottle of whiskey,” he jabbed back, slowing only slightly to the heavy traffic. Listening to John’s exasperated explanation added a thrum to Sebastian’s mood, a snicker escaping his lips to picture two squawking at each other to pay the bills or make the tea.

How domestic.

Jim would have gotten a kick out of that.

Sighing to stroll onto Baker street, Sebastian idly parked the car on the opposite side of the road. The sniper cut off the engine and stepped out, waiting for John to hobble out of the car and personally lead him into his home. But prior to hounding the doctor for information, the sniper took rapid glances around him, similar to Sherlock in his instinctual observations, only with more predatory results.

“Your street, your flat has plenty of open shots. He could have been spying on you two for weeks without noticing…”

He shot another glare at the sniper and went back to his silent mantra of “Please, God, let me live,” and sagged against his seat in relief when they finally arrived. The got out of the car and John immediately started heading for the door, not waiting for Sebastian, who seemed to be scouting the place out.

“Yeah, probably,” John agreed with a shrug. “We know all about the millions of open shots here, and how likely it is that we’re constantly being spied on. Not much we can really do about it. We’re as careful as we can be.” He patted his pockets when he got to the door and groaned - the bugger had taken his keys. Fantastic. He rang the doorbell, but after a minute, it seemed clear Mrs. Hudson wasn’t coming. She must be out. Well, that was absolutely brilliant. He turned to Sebastian, annoyed, wondering if he’d be able to get his keys back when they finally caught up to Byron. “Can you pick the lock?”

londonsniper:

tea-milk-and-jam:

John twitched a little. Yeah, alright, he was short, but he was not that short. Not short enough to be called a hobbit, at least. He refrained from pointing out that most of the codshit, as Sebastian had so eloquently put it, had been because of the sniper, and went out the door after him. He walked down the street with him. The key that the (only by a few inches) taller man had pulled out of his shoe was most likely a car key, John figured, and he was proven to be correct a minute later when they came up next to a car that Moran then unlocked and climbed into. 

He frowned as he climbed into the passenger seat. He didn’t really want to tell Sebastian where he and Sherlock bloody lived, let alone let him into their flat, but it wasn’t as if he couldn’t find out if he wanted to, anyway. Besides, John was willing to bet his medical license that Jim already knew. “221B Baker Street,” he said, and pointed down the road. “That way. It’s not far, just go and I tell you when to turn and everything.”

“I know where you live, it ain’t news. It’s on your bloody blog and in the papers,” Sebastian locked in the doors, a wry smile etching into his wolfish features. “I just have no idea where we are, so lead away Siri.”

Following John’s curt instructions, the sniper made sure to steer jaggedly and turn sharply, racing up to unreasonable speeds to fly down the streets. Moran eyed his passenger for a brief moment adding at a redlight.

“So are you and Sherlock really not fucking,” he squinted, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “Why do you live together? What’s the point.” 

Yeah, it was, so what? There was still a difference in putting it on his blog, and bloody telling someone who had once helped kidnap and torture his best friend.

John became increasingly more tense as he directed Sebastian through London, back to their flat, and eventually realised his hands were gripping the sides of his seat quite tightly. The bloody sniper drove like a god damn madman. He swore at one particularly sharp, swerving turn. “Will you slow the hell down and stop turning like that?!” He yelled, panicked, fearing slightly for his life. If this bloody man didn’t stop driving like this, then if they didn’t die, they would definitely be pulled over, and John didn’t really want to be found in a car by the police with this person.

He groaned at the question. “You’re joking, right?” He looked over at Sebastian, trying to read if he was or not. “Did you actually think we were? Jesus Christ, even our enemies think we’re shagging? This isn’t happening.” He scrubbed his face with his hands and looked forward again. “No. We’re not. We started living together because we both needed someone to share the rent with, and now, I suppose we’re still living together because we’re friends, and it’s convenient for the cases.” He clamped his mouth shut, now, hoping that Sebastian wouldn’t harp on it, and focused on not freaking out any more than he already was about the insane driving he was being put through at the moment.

londonsniper:

tea-milk-and-jam:

John heaved an impatient sigh and pinned Sebastian with a look. “You have my gun,” he said casually, looking away again, staring at the wall. “I have some cuffs still attached to my wrists that’ll leave some nice chaffing marks for people to wonder about, and lead them to probably draw conclusions about my nonexistent sex life with Sherlock.” He frowned at the thought. It had just occurred to him, but unfortunately, it was probably true.

He huffed at the realisation and continued. “I’m not a stupid mutt. I’m not going to bite until it’s safe to, and if I don’t see an opportunity that’s safe enough to please me, then I’m not going to do it.” He looked back at the hitman again, sharply. “And that, actually, is how Sherlock likes them. Smarter than the average idiot, and knowing what battles to fight. And when.” He pushed himself off of the counter and stood up straight, crossing his arms.

“I know perfectly well what the crime world is like,” he said firmly, unwaveringly. “I should like it if you were to not insult my intelligence like that. I’m a soldier, and a doctor, and I help Sherlock with his cases regularly. I’ve seen plenty of crime and the results of crime in all three professions.” He turned towards the door.

“I’ve violated my Hippocratic Oath plenty of times before, one more time won’t damn me any more than I already am. But only if it’s absolutely necessary. If there is any other way at all, I refuse to do it, or to let it happen. If you’re done with your bloody whiskey, now, I’d like to get going and find Sherlock.” And he began walking towards the exit.

“Thank you for that very inspiring speech Bilbo Baggins, bravo, did they teach you that in the shire?” Sebastian retorted tipping his head, casually backing out the door. With a self satisfied smirk, the sniper slid his boot off one more time before slipping a spare key into his palm. 

“Alright enough codshit, time to find out who this Edmund Byron bastard is and figure out what the bloody fuck he wants.”

Stepping back into his shoe, Sebastian climbed down the steps, squinting at the addresses  and the realtors nearby to murmur them aloud. He lead the way to the Aventador parked on side street, cocking his head back to John to follow.

“Lead the way back to your flat, because there is sure as hell nothing in mine,” the sniper mentioned, sliding into the driver’s seat before revving the engine with a quick turn of his keys.”That and you two actually live together, with laptops and all so there has to be something to go on.”

John twitched a little. Yeah, alright, he was short, but he was not that short. Not short enough to be called a hobbit, at least. He refrained from pointing out that most of the codshit, as Sebastian had so eloquently put it, had been because of the sniper, and went out the door after him. He walked down the street with him. The key that the (only by a few inches) taller man had pulled out of his shoe was most likely a car key, John figured, and he was proven to be correct a minute later when they came up next to a car that Moran then unlocked and climbed into. 

He frowned as he climbed into the passenger seat. He didn’t really want to tell Sebastian where he and Sherlock bloody lived, let alone let him into their flat, but it wasn’t as if he couldn’t find out if he wanted to, anyway. Besides, John was willing to bet his medical license that Jim already knew. “221B Baker Street,” he said, and pointed down the road. “That way. It’s not far, just go and I tell you when to turn and everything.”

londonsniper:

tea-milk-and-jam:

John pinched the bridge of his nose and scrunched his eyes shut, clenching his teeth to try and abate the urge to argue more. Arguing with Moran would get him nowhere. Shot, maybe, but other than that, nowhere. He leaned against a counter and focused on breathing steadily to get his temper back under control. Bloody hell, but this man set him off, and not only because of who he worked for and what he had most likely done to Sherlock; seeing as John was assuming that this was the ‘other man’ that Sherlock had said was there, helping Jim at that night at the Reichenbach House.

And, yes, he knew that neither Jim nor Sherlock needed saving, most likely, but… Edmund had fooled them enough to be able to drug all of them, including the two smartest and most devious men in the world. It made John wary of underestimating him again. And besides, knowing that Sherlock could save himself didn’t make John worry any less.

“Fine,” he said finally. “Have your bloody drink. Take your god damned time, why don’t you, and tell me when you’re ready to get moving, alright?” Like hell was John going to let Sebastian torture any information out of anybody, though. Intimidate it out of them, sure, maybe, but John refused to let violence be used as a tactic of persuasion.

“All bark and no bite….is that how Sherlock likes them? Not too much of a surprise,” Sebastian smirked, the slosh of the alcohol obnoxious as he took a swing, emptying the last of the bottle. Wiping his lips on his sleeve, the hitman watched John from below his lashes, wolf like in movement as he trailed up from his seat. The pinch of John’s brow and the restrained annoyance did not go uncharted. It made Sebastian’s nose twitch in a snarl. Men like John Watson, men of honor and valor and caution were afraid to let go, afraid to see what monsters stirred beneath the surface. 

Except that night the doctor put a bullet through the cabbie’s heart flashed in his mind’s eye, recalling John’s sturdy aim and even sturdier grip on his gun…

“This isn’t like one of your ‘cases’ where you collect clues and report to the police,” Sebastian warned, pale eyes setting on John. “This is the crime world. There is no police. There is no sympathy and honor or truth. Everyone lies and the only way to get what you want is through money or blood, so get used to it solider.”

John heaved an impatient sigh and pinned Sebastian with a look. “You have my gun,” he said casually, looking away again, staring at the wall. “I have some cuffs still attached to my wrists that’ll leave some nice chaffing marks for people to wonder about, and lead them to probably draw conclusions about my nonexistent sex life with Sherlock.” He frowned at the thought. It had just occurred to him, but unfortunately, it was probably true.

He huffed at the realisation and continued. “I’m not a stupid mutt. I’m not going to bite until it’s safe to, and if I don’t see an opportunity that’s safe enough to please me, then I’m not going to do it.” He looked back at the hitman again, sharply. “And that, actually, is how Sherlock likes them. Smarter than the average idiot, and knowing what battles to fight. And when.” He pushed himself off of the counter and stood up straight, crossing his arms.

“I know perfectly well what the crime world is like,” he said firmly, unwaveringly. “I should like it if you were to not insult my intelligence like that. I’m a soldier, and a doctor, and I help Sherlock with his cases regularly. I’ve seen plenty of crime and the results of crime in all three professions.” He turned towards the door.

“I’ve violated my Hippocratic Oath plenty of times before, one more time won’t damn me any more than I already am. But only if it’s absolutely necessary. If there is any other way at all, I refuse to do it, or to let it happen. If you’re done with your bloody whiskey, now, I’d like to get going and find Sherlock.” And he began walking towards the exit.

hayzles:

I need this in my life right now.

londonsniper:

tea-milk-and-jam:

He gave a sigh of frustration. Fine. He supposed he might be able to bludgeon someone over the head with them, perhaps, but other than that, he wasn’t entirely sure how he was supposed to use a pair of handcuffs as a weapon. It was better than nothing, maybe, but he’d still feel much better with his gun.

He followed Moran out of the door and came into the sunlit upper floor, blinking, eyes not used to the bright light after the dim basement.

Wait, light?

Shit.

He’d been asleep, knocked out, for nearly an entire day.Sherlock too, presumably, and most likely Sebastian as well, seeing as the place had looked rather roughed up when John had arrived with Sherlock like Edmund hadn’t had time to clean up, and it was most probable that Sebastian had been the one to do that. He seemed the type to knock down a door and shoot off a round of bullets from a machine gun, swinging the weapon and roaring like an animal.

John frowned disapprovingly at him as he grabbed a bottle of scotch and started drinking. “We have some important crap to do, if you don’t mind,” he snapped, snatching the bottle from the sniper and setting it back on the counter. “We both need to find our respective partners, and I’d really rather not waste time drinking when Sherlock is god knows where, most likely handcuffed to your boss.”

He scanned the room quickly, thinking. No, he didn’t really have any ideas, not past checking the rest of the rooms around them in this house, and looking to see if there was another floor, possibly. “Not really, no,” he said finally, reluctantly. “We need to check the rest of this house first, see if there’s maybe another gun. I doubt that Edmund put Sherlock and Jim in the same place as us, so we need to figure out where he could have put them.”

Sebastian flashed a warning glare as the bottle left his lips, inhaling as John began his sermon for the good of mankind or Sherlock, he didn’t really pay attention but it was all the same. But a word snagged his jaw like a fishhook, twisting his head with a quick jerk as he stared at the Doctor.

“Partner?” he snorted, nearing the shorter man with one slow stride. “Please. My boss isn’t some fairy princess waiting to be rescued.”

“We’re both capable of saving ourselves, and that pestilential sleuth cunt should be too. Sorry to say John, but taking a few bloody minutes to relax and have a drink is not a matter of life or death for me.”

Sebastian snatched the bottle, returning to his seat to add, “And if you’re really worried about time, I’d not waste it on searching rooms we both know have been cleaned and cleared out. You have to try harder.”

Kicking his feet on the table, Sebastian swirled the bottle, tapping on it’s sides every now and again. For all he knows, Jim could already be dead. Jim could think he was dead too. They both knew better than to depend on someone else. But….

“Edmund may be a good maid and clean up this house of any trace, but there is a deed for this place. We will find it, and we will find him. Money talks, but I think violence does a much better job,” the sniper implied, taking a heavy swing as he continued to nod off ideas.

He at least hoped Jim could meet him half way on this.

John pinched the bridge of his nose and scrunched his eyes shut, clenching his teeth to try and abate the urge to argue more. Arguing with Moran would get him nowhere. Shot, maybe, but other than that, nowhere. He leaned against a counter and focused on breathing steadily to get his temper back under control. Bloody hell, but this man set him off, and not only because of who he worked for and what he had most likely done to Sherlock; seeing as John was assuming that this was the ‘other man’ that Sherlock had said was there, helping Jim at that night at the Reichenbach House.

And, yes, he knew that neither Jim nor Sherlock needed saving, most likely, but… Edmund had fooled them enough to be able to drug all of them, including the two smartest and most devious men in the world. It made John wary of underestimating him again. And besides, knowing that Sherlock could save himself didn’t make John worry any less.

“Fine,” he said finally. “Have your bloody drink. Take your god damned time, why don’t you, and tell me when you’re ready to get moving, alright?” Like hell was John going to let Sebastian torture any information out of anybody, though. Intimidate it out of them, sure, maybe, but John refused to let violence be used as a tactic of persuasion.