Sherlock Holmes did not believe in ghosts. He did not believe in souls, angels, gods, demons, folk legends, religions, or myths of any kind. But if he were inclined to allow himself to indulge in the fanciful for a moment (which he decided was not), it would not take a great stretch of the imagination to picture himself as a vengeful spirit, a dark shadow stalking the streets of Milan to bring down the tormentors and wrong-doers of the living. He always did love a touch of the dramatic.
It was certainly better than hiding out in disgrace, this cat-and-mouse game of hunting out the remaining threads in Moriarty's network. The spider may be dead, but the web remained, and some of the strands were surprisingly strong. The veins of Moriarty's network were more widespread than Sherlock had ever imagined during life, and the more he uncovered the more arose from the shadows. It seemed that no areas of crime were untouched by the late mastermind, no corruptions too despicable or eccentric or perilous. Stolen artifacts in Venice, drug trafficking in Brussels, money laundering of all sorts from Paris to Vegas to Mendoza, and those were only the beginning. Some of which were news even to Mycroft; Sherlock had found he needed surprisingly little direction from the elder Holmes, since each piece of corruption uncovered seemed to lead to others. It seemed as if he could spend the rest of his life hunting down the pieces of Moriarty's puzzle and never find them all. It was exhilarating, dangerous, challenging, solitary. And occasionally bloody.
Sherlock found no enjoyment in murder, no matter how despicable the villain, but if necessary it was an inconvenience he was willing to carry out. He had seen so many killings in his line of work that it was not a great difficulty to perform one himself. So far, only one had been necessary, and even that one had not been foreseen; an unexpected encounter in an alleyway after his quarry had gotten wind of being searched out, the quick flash of a knife and understanding that death was imminent for at least one of them. Not that Sherlock felt any remorse at the man's death; even if his own life had not been in danger, this was not a man who brought benefit to the world by any means. In general, however, the criminals he was tasked to find had plenty of enemies of their own who were more than happy to carry out a murder or two. All Sherlock had to do was acquire the appropriate information, the right secrets, maneuver them and reveal them to whomever necessary in order to bring about arrests or killings that would effectively end the careers of his targets. This was more of a challenge, took more planning and finesse, and in general was more fun than murder anyway.
Paolo Bortoletto, however, was an exception. Wily and ruthless, he had intimate connections with prominent names in political, economic, and criminal circles (many of which, as is often the case, were prominent names in all three). He was widely known not only in Italy, but in cities throughout the European continent, and likely further. His propensity for crime was matched by his skill at distancing himself from its repercussions, despite the depravity of his dealings. Nothing was too vile for his interests; he had quickly graduated to dealings in human trafficking when the transfer of drugs and capital proved too mundane, and all that was left of those who got in his way would be a strategically exhibited corpse to serve as a warning to anyone who thought to follow their example. His criminal activities, however, were known only to those who were deeply involved in such circles already; to the general Italian public, he was a model citizen, a family man with a lovely young wife, two charming daughters, and an adolescent son who was already showing great promise for following in his father's footsteps. His humanitarian activities were widely lauded, and a number of churches and hospitals throughout Italy lavished praise on his name for his selfless donations. It would not be surprising if a number of the corpses he left behind had ended up in a hospital with a wing bearing his name. Despite the allure that such a difficult and multi-faceted challenge held, Sherlock realized that trying to take Bortoletto down using the methods he had on previous targets would be ineffective at best. At worst, he would end up getting himself killed; knowledge was dangerous, and even hinting at knowledge of Bortoletto's shady activities was nothing short of suicide.
This was why Sherlock found himself strolling inconspicuously down a busy sidewalk in an upscale district of Milan on a cloudy autumn afternoon, making his way towards a row of chic flats overlooking a courtyard. He didn't stand out in any way from the shoppers and tourists hurrying home before the coming rain; although his distinctive appearance would seem to be hard to mask, much could be said for hiding in plain sight. His hair was a shade lighter than his natural color, the curls tamed into a sleeker, more modern look. Although he missed his Belstaff, such a warm coat would have seemed out of place in mild weather anyway, so he had settled for a slim-fitting black jacket that reached his thighs. In places nearer London, where his popularity was more widespread, he would have had to resort to contact lenses to mask the blue of his eyes, makeup to darken his pallor, and perhaps even cosmetic measures to change his facial shape, but so far none of that had been necessary. No one noticed him as he made his way through the streets, his fingers brushing the small pistol hidden in his jacket pocket.
When he came to the flat he was looking for, he hesitated a moment, his eyes scanning his surroundings to check for any suspicious onlookers. He was one of a select few who knew Bortoletto was staying here, a short stop on his way to some meeting or other, political or otherwise. Breaking and entering should not be necessary, although Sherlock was willing to take that route; he would simply ring the bell. His last target had, after some rather forceful coercion, revealed that Bortoletto was expecting some sort of shipment from the East, perhaps Russia, and was awaiting further information from an anonymous party who would announce their intention using a codeword. Which Sherlock now had, thanks to the practical implementation of his knowledge of human nerve clusters and painful stimuli.
However, upon glancing at the door, Sherlock discovered that even ringing the bell was unnecessary. It was not only unlocked, but open; just a crack, unnoticeable from the street, but open nonetheless. Sherlock's heart rate kicked up a notch; the game had just gotten much more interesting. Taking one last glance at his surrounding and finding nothing out of place, Sherlock took a steadying breath, gripped his hidden pistol a little tighter, and pushed his way inside the ornate foyer.
Nothing seemed out of place. He closed the door behind him, the background noise of human chatter and busy streets giving way to an eerie silence. Stained-glass windows overlooked the courtyard, but the sky had clouded over to the point that no sunlight penetrated the room, leaving the marble floors and pristine white walls a sickly, ominous hue. The place looked almost uninhabited, which was not unusual considering Bortoletto had only been staying here for the past three days. The only exceptions were a hat hanging on a peg by the door and a light on in the kitchen attached to the foyer. There was an incongruous smell hanging in the air, however, distinctly feminine and strangely familiar, perhaps some type of perfume; it tugged at Sherlock's memory and made him vaguely uncomfortable. A sense of unease settled in the pit of his stomach as he made his way down the adjoining hallway, stepping silently and always ready to pull out his pistol.
It didn't take Sherlock long to find Bortoletto himself, although it hardly mattered; his job had been done for him. The man was dead.
Bortoletto – renowned politician, ostentatious philanthropist, merciless murderer, criminal mastermind – was stark naked, spread-eagled limp and prone on his four-poster silken bed, his arms and legs bound with intricate ropes to each corner. He lay on one cheek at an unnatural angle. A silken red blind fold covered his eyes, and his face had darkened to match it, broken vessels snaking across his cheeks. A thin cord was wrapped around his throat, crushing his windpipe, a few red lacerations standing out against his pale skin. He had not struggled for long; whoever had done this knew what they were doing.
Sherlock wrinkled his nose with distaste. He could not help but feel a bit disappointed in the man; his criminal activity had been despicable, but brilliant and nearly flawless in its own way. He had proven to be the greatest challenge to track down thus far, and to end in such a way . . . . well. At least it made Sherlock's job that much easier. Fitting, in a way; a classic example of how alike all men were in death. Feared by his enemies, capable of ordering the most gruesome deaths without getting his own hands dirty, nearly invulnerable to the consequences of his actions, Bortoletto nonetheless looked quite pathetic in death, pallid and feeble and, quite frankly, ridiculous.
The man had not been dead long, less than an hour. Sherlock could feel the residual heat of his skin even through his gloves, and his limbs were still easily malleable. To whoever found his body, whether it be in an hour or a day, it would appear to be a case of breath play gone wrong, the lover fled in a panic. The details of the death would be glossed over, muttered to the wife by some embarrassed officer with downcast eyes and a regretful tone, and then promptly buried under the rug. Why ruin the memory of a lifetime of benevolence with the sorry circumstances surrounding his death? Politicians were always particularly vulnerable to the allures of the flesh, it seemed. Although, if Sherlock's suspicions were correct, they would find it a bit strange that the perpetrator had left no prints . . . .
Just as these thoughts were forming in his mind, a square of red sitting on the dresser caught Sherlock's eye. He was not surprised to find that the package was familiar; a simple red box, tied shut with an intricate knot of black silk cord. His mouth quirked slightly into a grim smile as he opened it. Nothing but a slip of paper was inside, a few sentences composed in black ink in a delicate female hand.
Death is boring. It's all around us now, isn't it? I suppose it's fitting that I can see it from my window, but unlike dear Carlo I would rather devote my time to living. Come find me. Let's have dinner.
Sherlock resisted the temptation to laugh, considering his surroundings, but allowed himself an amused smirk as he slipped the package into his pocket. Forget corrupt politicians and blackmail and criminal networks; the game was on.
