Battle Butler
Believe me, to survive living with Sherlock Holmes, a kick-ass battle butler is needed. Especially when consulting criminals get themselves involved...
Jim Moriarty had almost never found the need to contract out any hit. Almost being the relative word; there were some jobs that were just out of the scope of the assassins he kept in the organisation. Examples include people too scary or too docile to actually pose much threat to them, and thus they would not take the job seriously, and they might bungle it, which would result in everything going to hell in a hurry.
Hence, when every assassin took one look at the target, a Doctor John H. Watson, and immediately rejected it, he thought nothing of it.
On hindsight, he should have paid more attention to the look of fear in their eyes before calling the only fearless man he knew in...but then again, they always held that expression in his presence. Nothing much to worry about...it wasn't as if Doctor Watson could scare the beejezus out of every assassin in his pocket...right?
At an indeterminate mild night in London a few weeks later, the sniper stood on the roof of the house directly opposite 221 Baker Street, sights trained upon the window of the second-floor suite which was 221B Baker Street.
He grinned as he waited for his target to approach, to make the kill shot, leave, and then collect his pound of flesh from the man in the Westwood suit. Moriarty was one of two men that had ever scared him much, and even then, after the undisputed number one of his nightmares, Moriarty looked liked a friendly puppy, hence the use of dough instead of threats; Moriarty knew that he wasn't ever scared of almost any target.
And then, a gun clapped itself onto the small of his back (there was no mistaking that feeling), and a masculine voice with a British accent, but otherwise more or less pedestrian said: "Evening."
The sniper stiffened instantly as the voice that haunted his very nightmares made their appearance in reality, apparently holding a gun to his back. Cue the nervous choking sound.
"Who's the target this time, Basil?" the voice was still calm, cheerful even, Basil the sniper imagined, while thinking of the most painful weapon of torture he could probably get away with.
"Doctor...detective...both...don't kill me..." Basil wasn't above pleading when he was concerned. He'd been present when the Battle Butlers made their last raid. The names were still regarded as legends amongst the underworld. His hands immediately ran cold upon recalling that his firstname had been John, and that he looked pretty pedestrian, which on hindsight should have ben enough to tip him off and send him packing up to fly really far away. It was the running joke that one of their most dangerous was a doctor, of all occupations.
"You see, Basil, here is where you went wrong," the voice continued, right in his ear. "That is my flat. The detective is my flatmate. And, you have just admitted your purpose in coming here. Now, give me a very good reason not to mail you back in a dozen parcels as mincemeat."
Basil weakly wondered if the scariest batman he'd ever have the misfortune to meet would use UPS or FedEx. "I'll talk!" he almost howled. "Don't kill me! Don't do what you did to the poor Afghani sods then! Don't break my fingers with a toothpick!" He'd seen it done once by this very same man. It was incredible to see soft wood go straight through flesh. "The client's name is Moriarty! For God's sake, I'm just the hired help! Don't kill me!"
There was a long silence, before the voice spoke again, with an underlying edge of steel in his voice that made Basil, experienced mercenary that he was, think of really dark torture rooms and painful devices:
"Basil, I am going to let you go. You are going to get the hell out of London, you are going to tell your client that you give up, you might even kill him, I wager, and then, you will spread the word that I am alive, well and cranky. If you do not do any of those things I mentioned, it'll be me and you, personally. And, if you're not gone in twenty-four hours, I suit up and kill you. If you ignore me, I kill you anyway. And leave you in the nice suit. What do you prefer, Armani or Westwood?"
Basil went pale at the mention of the infamous suit.
"Now, be the good mercenary that you are, and leave." The voice left soon, as did its accompanying presence and its gun. Rapidly, Basil turned around to aim, to be met with only shadow.
And then, the ring of a shot rang, and Basil looked down to see a neat mark of a ricocheted shot in the concrete floor merely millimetres from a vital vein in his foot, the bullet lying nearby, and a small, scrawled note beside the mark, scuffed with a sneaker:
Next time, I don't miss.
He hot-footed it out. There were cases where you rebelled, and cases where you shut up and followed orders. This was one of the latter.
James Moriarty scowled at the presence of the only mercenary within Central America who wasn't afraid of him, shivering as he delivered a missive from the target, of all people. "What's wrong with you?" He raged. "I send you after a detective and his pet doctor, and you couldn't even kill one of them! Has your fearlessness rotted your brain or something?"
"B-b-battle...butler..." Basil mumbled, still white and shivering like a leaf. The shivering, not the white part. "You set me after one of them! The Batmen! Worse, you sent me after him!"
Moriarty stared at the mercenary who seemed to have gone bugfuck insane. "I sent you," he began speaking calmly to Basil. "After an ex-Army doctor, Doctor John Watson..."
Basil stared at him like he's gone bugfuck insane. "You think he's a wuss? Believe me, no hitter's going after that pair for a damn long time." He, Basil knew, cared for those living under the same roof as him. Therefore, they were under his protection. And only stupid people cross the Battle Butlers and expect to live. And, Moriarty had kidnapped him and strapped him to Semtex.
This could only end badly.
"It has come to my attention that several professional hit-men are staying as far away as possible from Baker Street."
"Yes, sir."
"John Watson's continued presence has ensured my brother's safety before any surveillance detail." It was a statement, not a question.
"Indeed, sir."
There was a beat of silence before: "Do you think I should send him Armani or Westwood?"
"I'd recommend Saville Row, sir."
"Very good. Yorkshire wool?"
"Highly recommended."
"Good. We must include a bit more in his pension soon; god knows how he stands that violin."
On cue, the sound of the strangling of a laryngitic cat came through the speakers, followed by a loud "SHERLOCK!". They winced.
"Indeed, the best of the best is needed to keep Sherlock in line," Mycroft commented as he muted the speakers.
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