Bouquet of Thorns: Sherlock x fem!reader

Chapter 7 - The Bigger Threat

Shit.

Oh shit.

This was it; you needed to call Jim now and get that 'get out of jail free' card ready instantly.

"Why?" John steps forward, shedding his jacket and hanging it up while you subtly pat around your coat for your phone.

"Because I think Moriarty and Thorn aren't just new partners," he turns on his heel and walks up the stairs, which causes you to stop. "There's something more there," he was followed by you and John.

"More?" John inquires, finding his footing after a minor stumble from the frantic events prior.

"I don't know what it is, but Moriarty talked about Thorn... in a certain way. It was oddly sentimental, like he knew more than other people would," Sherlock's words hit you like a ton of bricks. If a sociopathic detective could spot sentiment to that extent, then Jim must really care.

You were definitely not going to let him live that down!

The couch cushions dip down as you curl up, "what did he say?"

Sherlock sits comfortably in his chair, looking from John, who brews a bit of tea to de-stress and you, who looks at him curiously. His lips part as he recounts the conversation in detail, before and after your interruption.

Sherlock laid down a tray of hot tea, steam rising into the silent air. Moriarty let his footsteps be known, pushing open the door with no regard for politeness, "Why won't you play my game?"

"A good morning to you too," Sherlock retorts, looking at Moriarty from the mirror's reflection.

"Why won't you play? I know very well they aren't boring," he recalls.

"I do play," he seats himself in his usual spot before Moriarty poses any threat.

"No, you take part, you don't play," Jim drags on, gripping the handle of his teacup tightly. It looked close to snapping if not for the deep breath he took. "Come on, Sherly, just tell me what's boring you,"

"I have better people to focus on," he scoffs, "more interesting," those words struck Jim's ego not once but twice. Slicing away at his non-existent heart, Sherlock's yawn seemed to act as salt rubbed into the wound.

"Who." He grits, smile never wavering but veins flooding with boiling blood. "Who could be more interesting than me?"

"Thorn. Don't feel left out, Moriarty, you can play too," he holds back a snicker just as Jim's gun was raised. As fast as he was raised, Sherlock grabbed him from under the coffee table, the teapot wobbling a little as tea cups were never let go of.

"And that's when you arrived," Sherlock notes mid-story, looking at you for a split second before resuming.

Once you left, Sherlock sat back down, both men nodding and placing their guns on the coffee table by the couch. "As I was saying," Sherlock adjusts his suit jacket, pushing loose curls away. "Regardless, Thorn poses a bigger threat."

"Bigger threat?" Jim sips at his tea, "how so?"

"We don't know who he is," apparently those words amused Jim.

"And you never will," Jim's grin widens. "Thorn's identity staying anonymous is not only a priority overall, but it's by far my priority unless..."

"Unless?" The cooling tea was non-existent to Sherlock as he leaned forward. "Why would it be a priority to you? And what could change you or his mind?"

"So many questions, Sherly, so little time!" He claps his hands together, tea cup and saucer shaking as it is slammed down on the table. He stands up, pressing down his suit jacket after a quick button-up. "But if you must know," just as he grabs his gun, Jim decidedly lets Sherlock in on a little hint, "Thorn is important to the grand scheme of things and much more important than any game with you or anyone else could be," but that was already too much said.

Sherlock watches Jim fit the gun in his suit jacket, spinning back and stuffing both hands in his pocket. What had he meant by that? The detective's mind ran wild as possibilities were dragged into his mind and then tossed away. "Shall I show you out?" he says absently, gesturing to the door.

"How polite," he lets Sherlock follow him down the stairs until they reach the door. Silence follows their every step as Jim allows his words to sink into Sherlock's mind like a computer virus eager to corrupt a host's system.

"How... dramatic," you mumble, letting the story ingrain in your mind. "But is that it?" You purse your lips doubtfully when he nods, but regardless, Jim wouldn't say anything more about you that would put your identity at risk.

"That's it. Moriarty wanted one thing, and that's my attention for his little schemes, and since I've been more focused on Thorn, he's gotten irritated," he stands up and walks to his room.

"But I haven't seen you even remotely focus on Thorn," John scratches his head. "You've been focusing on other clients most of the time, so- oh," he then spots Sherlock bringing out two small boxes. Littered with newspaper clippings, photos, yarn and random bits of paper with words scribbled on them.

"As I said, Thorn, alongside a few other criminals, tends to be my focus when they get on my radar again," he drops them in front of you, climbing over to mount the couch and pin up evidence one by one.

You hurry out of the way, watching the work of art fall into place. But could you call it art? Or would it be considered a shrine? A shrine dedicated to you and you alone. It was almost flattering if not for the fact he was simply there to take you down. Red yarn carefully laced around pins stabbed into paper. Either the blu-tack was cushioning the nail, or Mrs Hudson would put this on his rent.

He steps back, meeting your side as John meets his. It all linked together. Places your victim's had been found. Each one. Whitehall, St James's, Soho, Strand, Kensington, South Bank. It just went on and on.

The list was crimson. Ledger overflowing with the blood you had spilled and let coat the very hands you had done so much good with. Unforgivable sin weighed out your victim's fate in death, yet your very own sin of murder had never been put in this sort of light.

You murdered. You were a killer, and yet you always justified it in comparison to the corruption you eradicated.

So why did your chest tighten? Why did the feeling of cotton fill your lungs? It choked every last breath out of you. Did the sins of fallen men and women still outweigh the unlawful acts you committed to rid them of this world?

"Well, this is an extensive amount of research you have here," thorough it was, but it wasn't anything you couldn't debunk with a few more fake news articles here and there.

For that, you'll need to consult Jim. So, with a few steps forward, you examine more information before slowly devising your plan.

~~~

Happy New Year's Eve! I can't believe how fast this year has gone :)

- Anna ❤️