Meeting Moriarty 08/05/2017
I give a relieved sigh when the train halts to a stop and the male voice coming from the speakers wishes me a good day in London. I lean back against the seat, rubbing my forehead, a dull ache forming behind my temples. I'm not so sure about having a good day; a long day is a better word for it. A very long day. It has been raining all day, the teachers decided it was a grand idea to give some surprise tests, and when the bell signaling the end of the day finally went off, there had been a massive delay at the train station. With my nerves on edge, I manage to get a train around eight o'clock. One half an hour drive later, my mood has dropped so low, a bomb could have gone off and I wouldn't even have lifted an eyebrow.
Just a while longer, I keep telling myself. Just a while longer and I'll be back in Baker Street, if Sherlock hasn't managed to burn it down yet. I manage a smile at the mental image. Knowing Sherlock, it's a miracle the entire city of London was still standing.
The train stops, and the moment the door opens with a squeal, I feel such a large weigh fall from my shoulders that I jump onto the platform into the cool air.
I quickly walk outside and go towards the parking lot to sit down on one of the benches, knowing the next bus going to London won't be arriving for another twenty minutes. I take out my homework and start copying down the questions that the teachers have given, deciding it's better to do it now when I have time because I know the second I set foot into 221B, any time for homework would mysteriously disappear.
As I write down the questions, sometimes giving the answer to the few I know already, I don't notice the black car pulling up in front of me until the driver rolls down his window and says my name.
"Are you Jennifer Van Houten?"
I look up from my papers to see a man sitting behind the wheel in his mid-thirties, wearing a tailored suit with matching sunglasses and a stubble.
"That depends. You've come to kidnap me?"
The man gives something that had to resemble a smile, but looks more like a grimace. "I was sent to retrieve you."
"By who?"
"Mycroft Holmes."
I narrow my eyes at him. Mycroft and I hadn't agreed to pick me up today. For as far as I knew, Mycroft wasn't even in the country right now.
"I was supposed to take the bus today."
"Mister Holmes sent me because the hour's getting late. The bus isn't safe for a girl right now."
"I've managed so far," I say, crossing my arms. If Mycroft had changed his mind about my means of transport he would have called. The man starts to make me uncomfortable and until I had solid proof that Mycroft wanted me in the car, I refuse to even touch the thing.
Or that is was I planned to do, until I saw the gun pointing at me and the driver now giving me a genuine smile.
"Please get in the car, Miss Van Houten."
My heart shoots up into my throat, but I manage to keep a somewhat straight face. Living with John and Sherlock have made me slightly immune to firearms being pointed at me but it was usually Sherlock that did that when he was bored or when John tried to teach me how to handle a gun. This time it's different. This man is not playing around and I don't like the idea of him pulling the trigger. I get the feeling he isn't going to do anything rash with people walking about, but testing that theory isn't on my list of experiments.
"If you're not one of Mycroft's men, then who sent you?"
"An interested party. Now get in the car."
A new train arrives and while the parking lot gets flooded with the crowd, I consider refusing. But somewhere in the back of my head, I know it's futile. I'm probably being watched from a distance, too. Whoever this 'interested party' is, they won't send just one man with a gun.
Slowly I put my schoolbooks back into my bag, feeling the gun still being pointed at me. When I stand up, I quickly look around a last time, hoping to find a way out, but there is none.
"Don't even think about it, Miss Van Houten," The man says.
With slow steps, I approach the car and when I get in and hear the door click behind me, I can't help but feel as if I've made a terrible mistake. As soon as the door closes, the man puts the gun in his lap and starts the engine. With smooth movements, he pulls out of the parking lot and onto the main street. I watch the flats and shops go by through the tinted window and wonder where I'm being taken. From the little knowledge I have of the London streets, I know we're heading to the outer part of town.
"I, uh…I don't suppose you're going to tell me where we're going?" I say.
The man glances at me through the rear – view mirror but doesn't say anything. He stops for a red light and takes the gun off his lap and puts it in the passenger's seat. For a moment, I consider grabbing it, but quickly push that idea down. While we wait for the light to turn, the man glances at me again, making an uncomfortable shiver run down my spine. "You know, you should keep your eyes on the road."
"It's still red," he states.
"Very perceptive, aren't you?"
He gives me another smile, this one even creepier than his genuine one. "Best not talk like that. The boss won't take so kindly to it as me."
"If you'd give me a name, then I'll prepare." I say.
I didn't receive an answer, nor did I expect to get one. I look out the window again; the busy shops and buildings were gone, replaced by simple houses with cute front lawns. We were in de suburbs, heading towards the country. Steadily, the houses made way for large, open fields filled with grass, plants and animals.
After a while, as I started to feel less anxious, I noticed how low the sun was in the sky.
"You know, John and Sherlock are going to notice I'm not home," I say.
"For as far they know, you're staying with a friend from school," The man replies.
"Are we almost there?"
"You getting impatient?
"Yes, to get over with it. All this secrecy involving dark vehicles and men in suits is working on my nerves."
This earned me a chuckle from the driver. "Don't worry. We're there."
I look outside and see a large farmhouse silhouetted against the light of the early moon. The car doesn't stop but drives around it and into a hidden road that goes directly underground. At once, lights flicker on and illuminate what seems to be a massive but empty storage space. The only things filling up the room are empty racks and carboard boxes spread over the ground. The driver stops, cuts the engine and unlocks the door, gesturing me to get out.
"And what am I supposed to do?" I say, feeling my heartbeat pick up again.
"Talk."
I open my mouth to do exactly that but before I can answer, I notice movement from the corner of my eye. On the driver's side, someone was standing a little further away, waiting. I glance at the driver, who's watching me and gestures again to get out, his hand far too close to the gun for my liking. Taking a deep breath to compose my nerves, I open the door and cool air brushes over my face. It feels cold against my forehead from the layer of sweat that had formed there. I quickly wipe it away with my sleeve, not wanting to show too much of my obvious fear.
I stand up and turn around to look over the roof of the car to where the person is waiting, and I can't help but make a soft gasp.
"Hello, Jennifer. It's so nice to see you again," Moriarty says, smiling at me.
For a moment, I don't move. I'm too shocked to move, and it must have shown on my face, because Moriarty's smile widens and he looks down with a chuckle as he takes several steps closer to me. "Quite the surprise, huh?"
"Just a little…" I say, unsure of what to do.
"Not so much of a talker now, are you? You didn't mind chatting when you had a gun pointed at you."
I finally snap out of my stupor and close the car door with a snap. "How do you know about that?"
"I have my ways."
He placed cameras, I think. Or microphones. But something that lets him keep an eye on the car.
I walk around it and lean against it, crossing my arms. I know I can't have stayed hidden behind the vehicle but now I feel vulnerable, almost naked.
But now I can take a good look at Moriarty. And it's like looking into a funhouse mirror. Compared to the casual and clumsy Jim that I knew, this Jim was the complete opposite with a sleek, dark blue suit and tie. His dark hair is combed back and every ounce of clumsiness was gone. This man stands in his shoes with confidence, his back straight and a smile on his face. That's what bothers me the most, the confidence. He looks like he already has what he wants, and it's creeping me out.
"What am I here for?" I ask, unsure what to say.
Moriarty tuts, shaking a finger at me. "Don't want to ruin the surprise, now do we? But you might want to take your bag from the car. He's not staying here."
On cue, the engine starts with a growl and I quickly open the door and grab my bag from the seat, closing the door and taking a step back. The car drives away towards the exit, leaving me behind. As I watch it go, I don't notice Moriarty walking up behind me. When I notice, I jump, putting a hand on my chest. "Don't do that!"
Chuckling, Moriarty gestures at a nearby wall, where a door stands open. "After you."
I glance around, looking for any excuse to maybe stall or even get away. I don't want to think about how John and Sherlock would react when they hear how I didn't try hard enough to escape. If Moriarty would even let me go.
"I assume there's more cameras and guns being pointed at me?"
"Naturally," He says, his eyes not leaving mine.
Tightening the strap of my bag over my shoulder, I go into the room. Moriarty comes in behind me and with a click, he locks the door
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