Vague Shadows

I pressed my back against the wall, fighting every instinct I had to either run or faint. Guns pointed at me were my weakness. I could handle most everything else, but the memories pulled to the top of my mind paralyzed me.

For a brief moment, I didn’t see Oliver; I saw my father.

“If you shoot, they’ll all hear you,” I said softly, my mind racing. I had to think of something, anything to get Sherlock and John’s attention. I needed to buy myself time.

“As if I care,” he growled, the gun unwavering. “Mrs. Hudson is next door with her handsome friend. You know as well as I do she won’t think twice about hearing gunshots coming from the flat.”

“Obviously Sherlock and John will know something’s wrong,” I warned him, swallowing hard as I suppressed my terror. “Even if you kill me, you won’t get away.”

“Don’t play games,” he laughed harshly. “Your precious Sherlock isn’t here. I know he isn’t. We had him taken care of. He never came home. It’s just John up there, and your little wounded soldier won’t be fast enough.”

My eyes widened. I forced myself to ignore the fact that Sherlock was supposed to be dead as I focused on the more relevant detail I’d just learned. Oliver didn’t know Sherlock was upstairs; he had no idea, and I could use that to my advantage if I played my cards right.

“If you kill me, John will never stop looking for you,” I said quietly. “He’ll hunt you down and he’ll kill you.”

“I don’t care anymore, Laicee, I really don’t,” he spat. “After all the time I spent loving you, it’s time I took control. Sherlock wouldn’t let you be with me, but now he can’t stop us.”

“This isn’t love,” I shot back; gun be damned. I was on the verge of an idea, and I needed to buy myself another moment or so to think it through. “This is crazy. This is obsessive. This is insane. Whatever feelings you have for me certainly developed, but not into love. Into hatred, almost.”

“I don’t hate you,” he said, his voice harsh. “I hate Sherlock. He stole you from me. I’m taking you back. He’s gone. You’ll see. You can be mine now. Mine or no ones. This is your choice.”

I took a deep breath; this was certifiably insane. I was an idiot, no mistaking it now. But I didn’t have another choice.

“Kill me, then,” I begged, holding my arms out. Oliver’s eyes widened slightly. “My dead body is all you’ll be able to have of me.”

I chose my next words carefully as Oliver’s eyes darkened. They had to be just right. Said just perfectly to throw him past the point of return in one swift move. “Because I love Sherlock with my whole heart, whether he’s dead or not. I will be too, now, and you’ll find not even death can make me change my mind about him. He and I will be together again, and you’ll have nothing.”

That was it.

Oliver pulled the trigger, and I threw myself to the floor. The air exploded around me, the gunshot shaking me to my core, like one loud round of thunder echoing around my room.

The bullet grazed my left shoulder; it burned, but it was livable. The straight-on shot would have been fatal. Oliver wasn’t joking; he’d been aiming for my heart. I hit my knees and immediately flung myself for my door. I had only a couple seconds before he cocked and took another shot.

I all but ripped my door from its hinges as I pulled myself up on the handle and threw it open. Another bullet tore through the doorframe; the wood splintered and sliced my face, but I kept going. I whirled around the corner as I heard Oliver cock the gun.

“John! Help me!” I screamed, stumbling in the dark, desperate to find my escape. Even now, I forced myself to think rationally. Though I wanted to scream for Sherlock as well, I had to keep up the façade Oliver had unknowingly invented. I could only pray Sherlock picked up on the subtle clue.

I scrambled up the steps, adrenaline pulsing through me so painfully I couldn’t stand. I had to reach the flat. I had to reach Sherlock and John. I made it up the first flight and started on the second as I heard Oliver crashing up the stairs behind me.

“Laicee?!” I heard John holler; I choked back the sob building up in my throat.

“John!” I cried, pulling myself faster. “Help me, please help-“

Oliver’s hand locked around my leg, and my words broke off as I hit the steps. I tried to wretch myself out of his grip, but he was ready for the fight I’d put up. He entangled his arms around my middle and hoisted me up off the ground in a painful move, shoving the gun up underneath my jaw.

“One more word, one more escape attempt, and I kill you where you stand.”

I nodded slowly, the cold barrel of the gun paralyzing me. Keeping a tight grip on me, Oliver began up the stairs. My mind was racing. I had to think of a way to tell John that Oliver didn’t know Sherlock was here. Sherlock was our only hope.

“Laicee, what’s happening-“ John began; he’d been preparing to come down the stairs when Oliver and I emerged. He had his own gun in his hands, but it wouldn’t do him any good right now. He couldn’t shoot Oliver; I was his human shield. The only relief I had from the situation was that Sherlock was, as far as I could see, not in the living room.

“Drop it,” Oliver hissed; John hesitated. Though John didn’t know it, he had just set me up perfectly.

“Do it, John, please,” I whispered. “He had Sherlock killed. That’s why he never came home tonight.” I gave John my best look, begging him to play along. John swallowed hard. “Please, listen. I can’t lose you too.”

John nodded, and I caught the understanding gleam in his eye. Slowly, he lowered the gun onto the floor and looked at Oliver.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, confused more than anything. “You care for her. Killing her isn’t going to solve anything.”

“Sherlock left me no choice,” Oliver insisted. “He had his grip on Laicee. She loved me, and he wouldn’t let her go. She’s mine now.”

“You didn’t do this alone,” John said, trying to keep him talking. Where the hell was Sherlock? Surely he couldn’t have slept through all this. He probably hadn’t even been asleep yet! “Who helped you, Oliver?”

“An old friend of yours,” he hissed. “Moriarty.”

“Moriarty?” John breathed. “Oliver, please listen to me. He’s not a good man. He’s not the answer to your problems-“

“He’s solved everything!” Oliver exclaimed, his sudden outburst causing him to tense; the gun pressed harder into my throat, and I flinched. “He showed me the truth behind Sherlock Holmes. The medicine he gave me cleared my head. It gave me the courage to stand up to him and take what’s rightfully mine!”

“He drugged you,” John said gently, starting to approach us slowly. “He warped your mind, Oliver. You’re not stable. Please, let Laicee go. We can work something out-“

“One more step and I shoot her,” Oliver snarled, backing up desperately. John’s eyes flicked up, over Oliver’s shoulder, and without hesitation he threw himself towards me.

I felt Oliver’s hand tense to pull the trigger, but he never got the chance. Oliver was jerked backwards by an unseen force, the gun shifting off my neck just briefly. John grabbed hold of me at that exact moment and forced me to the floor as he wrapped his arms around me and shielded me from the gunshot that Oliver let off.

The bullet flew harmlessly into the wall, and I looked up, confused at what had just happened. My heart tightened, and I stared in awe up at Sherlock. He had one arm around Oliver’s neck, holding him firmly in place as his free hand held tight to Oliver’s, forcing the gun towards the mantel so the shot would miss John and I.

“Lestrade is nearly here,” Sherlock said, his breath short as he struggled with Oliver; his free arm flew back and caught him in the ribs, and Sherlock flinched. “Get Laicee out of here, John!”

I wanted to stay to make sure Sherlock would be alright, but John didn’t give me the chance to protest. He stood quickly, lifting me with him and shielding me as we raced down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was gathered outside the flat with a couple of our neighbors.

“John, Laicee, oh dear, what’s happened?” she cried, bustling towards us.

“We were attacked,” John breathed, not slowing until we were safely on the sidewalk across the street. The moment he stopped moving, my legs gave out from beneath me. The adrenaline crashed over me, and I sunk onto the cement, shaking.

“Lace,” he breathed, kneeling down next to me and taking my head in his hands. I was breathing hard, trying to eliminate the wave of emotions burning through me. All the fear I forced away inside had now come back tenfold.

“I-I’m fine, I just- I didn’t, I can’t-“ I panted, nearly hyperventilating. John swept his thumbs over my cheeks to brush away the tears I hadn’t noticed before.

“I need you to breathe, okay?” he said softly. Over the wail of the ambulance closing in on the flat, I could hear cars pulling up, and I heard Lestrade shouting to Donovan as he raced past us. A moment later, I felt a soft hand on my back. It was one thing for John to see my composure shaken, but an entirely different matter for someone like Donovan. The moment I felt her behind me, I forced my emotions back and cleared my throat, wiping any traces of fear from my face.

“Are you alright?” she asked me gently. I took a deep, shaking breath and nodded as I felt John’s gaze scrutinizing me. He knew I was lying, but he focused instead on the physical damage I had. His fingers brushed over my shoulder, sore and slick with blood, and his brows drew together.

“He clipped the skin, but besides that I don’t think I’m hurt.”

“Let me take a look,” he urged; Donovan stayed crouched beside me, probably on orders from Lestrade. John accepted the flashlight from Donovan and began to examine me as Mrs. Hudson came bustling past us.

“Oh dear, your new shirt,” she tisked, hurrying off to go shoo some neighbor kids away from the squad cars. “Don't worry, I've got an old recipe to get those bloodstains out in a jiff.”

"That's more than little disconcerting," I chuckled to myself as I attempted to calm down; John gave a bemused snort of agreement. My attention was quickly drawn to the activity inside. I could hear commotion coming from the flat, but I knew there was nothing I could (or would be allowed to) do.

“I’ll go get some supplies,” John told me, giving my knee a gentle squeeze. Donovan made no move to leave me, but I caught a lucky break. Lestrade and a couple of his men had just come out of the flat, forcing Oliver along with them. I nodded over to the group.

“I think they need you more than I do,” I assured her; after giving me a questioning glance, I nodded and she stood, patting my arm and disappearing to help contain Oliver.

I kept my eyes trained on the door to the flat, waiting. My mind raced with all the possible scenarios Sherlock could have faced in there, and the longer he took to emerge, the longer I had to envision all the ways he could have been killed.

So when Sherlock finally walk out of the flat, nothing amiss besides a couple of buttons off his shirt and a few curls out of place, I almost passed out from relief. His eyes swept the crowd, and finally they landed on me. I gave him a smile as he strolled casually over to me.

He held out his hands, and I took them without hesitation. He lifted me to my feet easily and helped support me as I regained my balance. I looked him over again, and finally allowed myself to accept he was alright.

“Would you mind explaining to me why Oliver was under the impression you’d been killed earlier?” I asked, giving him a scrutinizing frown. One of his eyebrows twitched up, and he gave a casual shrug.

“A couple of hitmen turned up at the hospital earlier,” he said dismissively. “I didn’t think anything of it, but now I suppose it makes sense.”

I gave him an incredulous look.

“You were nearly killed, and you didn’t think anything of it?”

“It hardly mattered,” he said, and then noticed the injury on my shoulder. His fingers brushed it lightly; I barely felt his touch.

“You were shot.”

“Not bad,” I told him, taking on his own dismissive tone. “It hardly matters.”

His brows drew together and he gave me a contemptuous frown. I returned it with a cheeky grin. He was on the verge of retaliating to my comment when our attention was drawn to Oliver. He let out an almost inhuman screech as they forced him into the back of the ambulance.

“So it was Moriarty,” I murmured, shaking my head. “I can’t believe Oliver was taking those drugs just because of me. He’s completely lost his mind."

“Well, your beauty is intoxicating.”

Sherlock’s words had been said so casually that it took a moment to register with me, and when they did, a blush exploded over my cheeks.

“Really, Sherlock?” I mumbled, folding my arms over my chest, thankful no one had heard that. I snuck a glance at him when he said nothing, and my blush intensified when I saw the small, satisfied half-smirk half-smile flicker onto his face.

John came up to the two of us, and he quirked a brow at our expressions.

“What’s this about-“ he began, and immediately I cut him off.

“Nothing, nothing, it’s fine. Did you get the bandages?”

John blinked at my hastiness, and I blushed even harder. Sherlock chuckled softly and wandered away from us, looking around idly for Lestrade. John led me over to Donovan’s squad car and motioned for me to sit on the hood. I did as I was told, watching John’s hands work at my injury.
"How'd you get this?" John asked a bemused voice as he wrapped the bandage over my wound. A quizzical look came over my face and I stared down at him.
"Uh, I was just shot by Oliver, John. What's wrong with you?"
“Your beauty,” he smirked, giving me a devilish grin. “It is intoxicating, after all.”

I felt my entire face light up scarlet, and I smacked his arm as hard as I could.

“John Hamish Watson, you’re a royal arse,” I snapped, smacking him harder when he began to laugh at my reaction. As I glanced away from John in an attempt to quell my blush, I caught Sherlock’s glance directed at me. Before he turned back to Lestrade, he gave me a wide smile.

My heart skipped a beat, and I grinned back, blush and all. Sherlock gave me a swift wink and went back to his work; I could still see the corner of his smile.