Although the character of Sherlock Holmes is technically in the public domain, I in no way claim to have ownership of the BBC's interpretation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's story.
A/N: I'm obscenely late to the Sherlock scene; I apologize. Here's a fic cataloging the slow spiral of insanity brought about by interaction with a certain consulting criminal. How does the story go when all the 'right' decisions are made? Not well, I'll say. Not well.
"A consulting criminal," The Prosecuting Barrister's voice echoed through the courtroom. The air was still—the room's occupants hanging on every word.
"Yes,"
I tightened my grip on my pen, eyes straining to take in every movement of the Detective. Breathing was thick work; the tips of my shoes brushed against the carpet.
"Your words," she paused, "Can you expand on that answer?"
The Detective folded his hands, posture straight and tone haughty. "James Moriarty is for hire."
Two breaths. One. Two. My head swiveled in an attempt to catch any movement from the man in the grey suit on the platform below.
The woman turned around to eye the defendant, robes swishing in the silence. "A tradesman?" A smile played at her voice.
"Yes,"
"But… not the sort who'd fix your heating?"
"No, the sort who'd plant a bomb or stage an assassination, but I'm sure he'd make a pretty decent job of your boiler." The Detective's words were quick and came out in a dry tone. The courtroom echoed with chuckles.
A smile cracked my dry lips. I needed water. Vague regrets of staying up to late hours researching his case began to rise in my mind. The seat next to me creaked, an amused rumble coming from my father's broad chest. The oppressive air of silence and formality that had hung over the room began to lift.
The Prosecuting Barrister smiled.
"Would you describe him as—"
"Leading,"
"What?"
The warm aura that had been brought on by the last joke began to cool rapidly.
"Can't do that. You're leading the witness." He looked pointedly at the Defending Barrister. "He'll object and the judge will uphold."
The judge sighed in exasperation. "Mr. Holmes…"
"Ask me how. How would I describe him? What opinion have I formed of him? Do they not teach you this?"
My cotton shirt clung to my skin, coiffed hair weighted and stiff. My notepad felt too light in my hands—pen too heavy. Heavy rain pattering on window glass. I blinked.
"Mr. Holmes," the Judge's voice was tired, pleading almost. "We're fine without your help."
"How," the woman began again. "would you describe this man," Wet shoes squeaking on linoleum. "His character?"
"First mistake." The Detective's voice lowered. Creaking door hinges. "James Moriarty isn't a man at all."
The sky rumbles.
"He's a spider."
My breathing slows—early April air stuffy inside the courtroom. Footsteps. My mouth is dry, eyes wide.
"…A spider at the center of a web—a criminal web—with a thousand threads and he knows," Fingers slide against cool wood, straining. " precisely how each and every one of them dances."
CRACK.
My eyes flashed open, spine zinging up straight as I jumped in my chair. My breaths were quick, hands trembling. Rain began to pour.
"Thought you loved thunderstorms, Cass."
Heart pounding in my ears, my eyes darted to the side. The dim classroom had been empty but a moment ago—now a boy sat at the desk in front of me, leaning on the back of the chair. I smiled.
"I do. Just not when I'm trying to think."
Thunder continued to roil through the air, softer this time, as the rain beat relentlessly on the building. A grey light shadowed his features, but I knew who it was.
"Trying to resurrect old memories?" he grinned. His glasses were slipping down the bridge of his nose, sandy hair dripping and clinging to his skin.
"Ben," I sighed. "You're going to catch a cold."
He shrugged and placed his chin on his folded arms, drumming his fingers on the chair's wooden back. "You underestimate my stellar immune system. But as I recall," his grin came back full force. "I asked you a question. What were you reminiscing about in that busy brain of yours?"
My gaze turned cold. Only then did I realize the stiffness in my bones, the irritation in my cramped nerves. I leaned forward in my seat, laying my cheek against the chilled wood.
"The Trial of the Century," I remarked drily.
"Cass, that was three years ago."
I rolled my eyes. Of course, he couldn't see them through the pile of dark hair pooling around my face. "It was a memorable event."
"All I remember was the bloke who snatched the bloody crown jewels and waltzed out of court." He scoffed. "But I guess that kind of thing is right up your street, isn't it?"
I hummed an affirmative response. The thunder grew quieter, rain replacing its brash pounding with steady white noise.
"You'd make a good lawyer." I could hear the teasing smile in his voice. "If Mr. Prescott doesn't marry you off first."
Oh the lengths Ben would go to get a rise out of me. I sent him a long-suffering look, and sighed. We both knew how much of a teddy bear my father was.
"Dad's perfectly fine with my interest in law—" I began.
"Mm, no," he interrupted. "He liked it much better when you wanted to be an actress."
I blew a piece of hair away from my face in an irritated manner. "There are higher chances of him giving me the damn company than marrying me off."
Ben snickered. "Oh no, that's Michael's job, now. In this day and age, the women get betrothed for business deals and the youngest sons get an unfair inheritance."
I raised an eyebrow. "Maybe you'd have a better chance of getting a place in the company if you worked half as much as your brother?"
He clutched his chest in exaggerated agony. "Agh, the truth—it burnsss… Cassandra the Lawyer strikes again!"
I rolled my eyes.
Benjamin climbed out of the chair and stood to his full—towering—height. His uniform was completely soaked—tie dripping water down the front of his white dress shirt.
"Do I even want to know?" I mumbled.
"What's the point of being alive if you can't live a little?" he winked.
If Ben hadn't been my practical brother, I would've bristled at the flirtatious action. But when you've known someone your whole life (been forced through the same etiquette classes, survived every fancy social) those things don't tend to bother you.
I stuck out my tongue like an irritated gecko in response. Gathering my bag, I too left my desk, muscles cramping at the sudden movement.
"Anyways," he began, striding towards the door. "You really need to stop hanging about in random classrooms after school. Mr. Prescott would hate to shell out a ransom."
I scoffed. "I'm not that high in the social hierarchy to warrant an abduction."
He opened the door for me, leading me into the hallway. "You'd probably just talk their ears off, anyways."
We both smiled.
After a moment of silence, Benjamin's happy expression faded to his usual serious mask. "I should probably head out. Got plans with Jemma this afternoon."
I nodded. "Get on with it. Don't want to keep you."
He smiled again in response and bounded down the hall. But something nagged at the back of my mind.
"Wait! Ben, wait!"
He skidded around a corner, then stopped and poked his head back around.
"What?!"
I slung my bag over my shoulder, head tilted slightly. "Why'd you come up here, anyways?"
He flashed another grin. "Us rich kids gotta' stick together."
And then he was gone.
I attended to my memories with care. They sat in collections, tucked away in synapses and grey matter. I'd pull them out to review more often than not—immersing myself in the senses of the past. But it took quite a lot of energy. Every touch, smell, taste, thrumming of emotion—all of it must be recalled when replaying the scene. And as the years went by, it got more and more difficult to relive them.
But not the Trial of the Century.
As it was so called by the press, the Trial was one of my most replayed memories. Not my most treasured, but most recalled. Ben was right when he called it 'right up my street'. It had fueled my interest in law. Shaped my plans for the future. Ironic—considering how out of the ordinary it was for a trial. Maybe it was the utter injustice that allowed the criminal to walk free… Or the blatant disregard for protocol that the star witness displayed. Either way, after the trial and subsequent death of the detective, my interest in justice turned to a passion.
However, one problem with the 'reliving' of my past was that it detracted from my experience of the future. Namely my observation. This meant that as I dutifully walked the empty halls of my school, bag hanging from my shoulder and eyes on the tile, I did not see who was behind me.
I did recall how quiet the building was, even for after school hours. I did take note of the constant pounding of the rain. I did feel the numbness in my fingers and aching in my neck...and wondered what Wendy had planned for dinner that night...and if Dad would come home in time from his meeting...and if Ben's date would go any better than the last few.
I certainly wasn't expecting to be abducted.
I turned a corner, preparing to make my way down a flight of stairs, when the breath was slammed out of my lungs, feet lifted off the ground, head spinning. Gloved fingers closed around my upper arms, the world spun painfully—I had been slung over a shoulder like a sack of potatoes. My stomach lurched, eyes bugging, air rushed past me. Each footstep my captor took was an earthquake, sending my head snapping forward with each lunge.
All I could see was the floor rushing past beneath me. Why couldn't I breathe? Oh. Right. I blinked, parting my lips. Air. I needed air. The world lurched to the side as the thief turned a corner. Why did my stomach hurt so bad? A tiny thought began to grow, getting bigger and bigger by the second.
I was being abducted.
What Ben and I had so blissfully joked about minutes before was happening at this very moment. I was being kidnapped—like all the nightmares I had in my early years. I was being manhandled by someone who planned to take me away with quite possibly very nefarious intentions.
What the hell was I doing laying here?
My endocrine system finally decided to kick in, dumping much-needed adrenaline into my veins. I took a shaky, strained breath, and began thrashing around. I tried to shout—but my voice was gone. His hands clamped around my legs, the other reaching up to smack the back of my head. I saw little twirling lights.
He turned another corner; where was he headed anyway? I tried to squirm, twisting my spinning head around. Doors to maintenance closets and offices whizzed by—the back end of the school, it would seem. Was no one else seeing this? Where were the teachers? Custodial workers?
His pace didn't slow at all as he slammed through a door; cold air rushed over me and I began to panic. This was really happening. This was real. I kicked again, rain roaring in my ears—briefly wondering why I wasn't soaking. This time he didn't hit me, his pace only quickened.
My world flipped right side-up, all falling skies and grey buildings and pavement, and I fell from a great height; fell onto leather and heard a car door slam. He'd tossed me in a bloody cab. A dim interior greeted my vision and my abdomen flared with pain as I gasped in my first breath in what felt like ages. The brute had knocked the air out of me. I was crumpled in the seat of a car, head thrown between my knees, gulping in oxygen like a fish would water if tossed back into the harbor. I felt sick. Slowly—head pounding, fingers twitching—I raised my aching head.
It was in that moment that I discovered I was not alone.
A man took up the other half of the backseat.
"A consulting criminal?"
One leg crossed casually over the other.
"James Moriarty is for hire."
Dark hair slicked away from his rounded face, stubble shading his upper lip.
"How would you describe this man?"
His eyes slid to meet mine, lids low and lip curled lazily.
"Hi," he drawled.
"He's a spider."
As this is my first posted fic, I would love to hear any and all critiques, predictions, and comments of the like.