Unforgettable: Set in America during Prohibition, Sherlock Holmes comes to Boston to investigate the death of his rival, Jim Moriarty. – AU –
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of these characters.
Author's Note: This is my first attempt to get into the mind set of Sherlock. I really wasn't sure if I should do it, but this story just popped in my head, so here we are. More then likely Sherlolly love will come around.
Prologue: The Game Is On
He had only been in Boston for twelve hours and already Sherlock Holmes had been berated by a detective, bruised and broken his nose, frightened an old woman, flirted his way into a suspect's home, entangled in that woman's web, spilled with hot tea, taken on the worse cab ride of his life, knocked out, had a bag over his head, and tied up to a chair.
"You really don't need to tie me up." Sherlock announced. "The bag over my head is useless as well. I know we're at St. Bart's. In the basement, a bit musty. Judging by the mixing of odors I would say healing is done here in a variety of ways. Very bad moon shine. You should get a different supplier."
He could hear footsteps. He was tied to a chair in the middle of an abandoned hospital turned speakeasy with alcohol filling the air. He could smell the sweat. Heavy men. A great deal of them. Approximately eight at the most, three if they were practically big and worked too much. He could hear their heavy sighs and heavy footprints as they came at him. Sherlock wondered exactly how Prohibition had meant to halt the sale of liquor when he could clearly smell it wafting in the air. The police force certainly weren't doing a good job keeping things under control if the production of alcohol was being produced right under their noses, very literally.
"Word is that bad moonshine can make you go blind. Blind customers are not really ideal in your line of work." The bag was yanked off his head violently.
He quickly spotted them. Two identical men, brothers, twins, large hands, large heads, defensive by their stance. The one holding the bag from his head was a bit more passive, while the other brother held a stronger stance. He made a note of it. He peered around the room seeing that barrels upon barrels of alcohol were being stacked across the room. Eight men in total. He gave a smug smile across his face.
"And I am certain your boss needs me for a particular reason." He peered from to each twin. The passive one shifted his eyes. The other one looked hard at him, a warning puckered on his lips. "Perhaps he is the one who killed Moriarty."
"You don't know Mr. Holmes?" His face snapped up hearing the voice, the shoes coming forward. The footsteps weren't large and heavy. They were soft and careful. "Surely twelve hours was enough to solve the case. Jim always said you work fast. Haven't you solved it?" His eyes widened when he saw the outline of the figure. His eyes widened.
He hadn't seen it.
Why hadn't he seen it?
Off the ship, he had spent five seconds in Boston and he was already bored.
Bored. Bored. Bored.
Sherlock Holmes took in the failed sea air. Despite the fact that America had banned alcohol the midafternoon air reeked of all kinds of illegal acts. Illegal activity wasn't his game. Murder was his game. More importantly James Moriarty's murder. His rival in the criminal underworld had been quiet in London for the past six months. Sherlock had mused he had decided on a new playground once Prohibition went under way. The Irish consulting criminal would be in paradise in the underworld of America. He had never suspected he would die on foreign soil. He was too smart to die. Too smart to get caught at his own game.
He was greeted on the docking bay by a Detective Lestrade, British, married to an American woman, judging by the brand of cologne clinging to him. She wasn't an easy woman to deal with. He could by how straight and in place everything was on him above the waist. Below the waist Lestrade seemed a mess. He could also see the small signs of a powerful emotion. Sherlock merely decided to note that he looked worn out.
"The ever famous Sherlock Holmes." The detective greeted with a glimmer of a smile. He shook his hand roughly like any man would. A firm manly grip. Sherlock nodded to the officer. "You've come for Moriarty then." He shook his head putting his hands on his hips. "Didn't know we had the famous Irish gangster in our midst until we found him dead of course." He tapped the file on his hip. Sherlock reached for it. The detective hesitantly handed it to him.
"Surely my brother has vouched for me." Sherlock's eyes were only on the file, the pictures.
Moriarty had been shot in the brain. It had been declared an apparent suicide though who ever had staged the crime had left purposeful clues that it was not so. The gun was in the wrong hand. The bullet wound was at the wrong side of the temple. The dead man's hands were raw and red from a fight. Sherlock quivered at the thought of Moriarty ever being terrified. He was always the one doing the terrorizing. James Moriarty would not simply be brought down by fear. He was a spider with his constant weaving of webs. He had wrapped himself in a web to grand even for him to escape. He had been terrified in his last moments. Sherlock could see those eyes widened with fear at his own demise.
That would never be him. Sherlock swore it to himself.
"He has." Lestrade stated looking Sherlock over. He flipped through the file outside the quiet loading dock. "Says you were one of the best in the academy. Could have been a detective inspector if you really wanted to, but you –"
"Yes, yes, I am a miserable failure to my family." He waved his hand before pushing something closer to his face. He snapped the file closed. He pushed the receipt under Lestrade's nose. "What's this?"
"A receipt." Sherlock rolled his eyes at Lestrade.
"Clearly." He huffed. "Was this on Moriarty? Blood is spattered in the corner. Where is this General Store?" The detective looked to it closely peering at it.
"Ah, yah." Detective Lestrade remembered the receipt. "We narrowed it down to a few places then we –"
"Yes, yes, that's all good and lovely and any other time I would be elated to hear your process," Sherlock Holmes lied pushing the file to Lestrade's chest. He caught it. The visiting consulting detective snapped cupped palms to Lestrade's shoulders. He grinned at Lestrade.
"He was at the store before he died. Last known location. Where?" The detective almost seemed frightened by the glee in Sherlock Holmes' eyes as he spoke.
He had never seen someone so happy to solve a murder.