The Score of London
When you dance with the devil, you wait for the song to stop.
J
No.
Nothing is happening anymore-
No. There is always something, or have you forgotten that already? Tell yourself that lie enough times and it should become truth soon enough.
Okay then, wake up and get back into the cycle of normativity. Do the staying that you hate so much.
Open. Your. Eyes.
He opens his eyes, one at a time, and blinks through the brightness until everything comes into focus. For a single fleeting second, he feels calm. Groggy and freshly-woken, yes, but calm. Nothing to bother him. Then his eyes settle on the top right compartment of the dresser, and reality snaps back into place, leaving Jim Moriarty with the increasingly familiar sensation of frustration. And boredom. Always boredom, it seems. Hopefully it would never go quite so far as to have to resort to the final contingency, he has to tell himself on a day-to-day basis, even now. But the temptation is always there, living in his skull.
He sits up in the bed and looks around his hotel room. It's not exactly as luxurious as he is used to - forty seven is pretty far off from sixty two; he likes being high up - with his endless options, but he was in absolutely no mood to either argue with, manipulate, or threaten hotel staff. His patience truly was wearing thin.
Four days. Four. Fucking. Days.
His visit here had mainly been for personal reasons, consisting of "correcting" historical records that he took high offense to. Art history in Paris should not be so idiotically incorrect, but it was, and something had to be done about it. Again, purely out of the boredom that Jim is always experiencing. It really is a part of him; he cannot recall a time at which it was not. And then, right as he was strolling out of the Louvre, he got news that seven of his men got picked off while carrying highly sensitiveinformation. True, nothing physically revealing could be found on their persons, and they never found out exactly for whom they were carrying (or what, for that matter), but it would still be rather conspicuous if seven recently-deceased bodies went floating down the River Seine. Again, Jim's eyes flicker over the dresser, imagining what it would feel like, imagining the means to a blissfully obtained end.
He is still locked in these alluring daydreams when, for the second time this morning, he is snapped back to reality, this time by an annoyingly chirpy tune - a tune that reminds him of why he needs to stick around. He doesn't answer it right away, though. Instead, he lets the first few bars run out, cracking a smile when the song comes to a certain line. He himself has perfected the art of looking the other way.
And on comes the mask of nonchalance as he picks the phone off of the nightstand. Things must sound as if they had gone well. Which, in a way, they have. No dead bodies lying about-
"So, no stiffs on the news, then? Did your job well."
Irene. He has a terrible habit of not checking his caller ID. Jim was expecting to have to play careless and even a little bit upbeat, but now he drops the upbeat part. After all, she really does know how to get to the point, that one. "I think I can dispose of several bodies. Retrieve information." He pauses for effect. "Does that shock you?"
"We wouldn't be talking if it did." On her end, she began tapping. Likely just a nervous habit, but this woman isn't the type to get nervous. Not even when talking to someone as powerful as him, who could end her life and erase her existence with hardly even a lifted finger. Three taps. Code. All of this takes less than a second to work out, and he starts putting it together. "Why-"
"Come on, work all the time? How are you not dead by now?"
The tapping has continued; three and a half lines of Morse code were already decoded in his head. "I know I'm wanted back, no need to tip-tap-tip it out." The nonchalance is now overlaid with annoyance, or has the nonchalance disappeared? Sometimes, even Jim cannot heads or tails of his multiple masks.
'You didn't let me finish." Clipped and...cautious? He can almost see Irene walking around her bedroom, closing unseen windows, running unseen radiators, turning on unseen music - Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture? Odd for her - Loud. And a command - a single "Leave." A pair of feet can barely be heard scuttling out the door. The lock clicks in place, and the cannons start to fire.
"He's back in London. He's back in London and you need to fix that."
"Who's asking?"
"Oh, just about everyone." The last cannon goes off and Irene is quiet. It's what tips Jim off to the name, and it takes everything he has not to hang up the phone right then.
"Five hours. And you'd better be absolutely sure you're right about this."
He hung up the phone before Irene could add more and tossed it onto the far end of the bed.
Six minutes of silence. That's his personal record this month, and he wishes it had been less. He wishes Irene had called him upon the second of his waking.
He glances at the dresser again. Wrong day to die.
S
It's a few hours after sunrise. He knows that much from laying on the couch all night, so he would take the liberty to say that it is currently nine 'o' clock, maybe eight. He knows he has to make several errand runs for several different clients. He knows his supplies are running low – surely this means another stop-in with Victor. He also knows that, while still blurry around the edges, the world around him has come back into its proper focus. It's about time, he is telling himself. It does no good to be on a high when someone is on their way up at this very moment.
As Sherlock is getting to his feet, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. There's a spot of blood on his face, but given what states Hudson has seen him in, it does not require his immediate attention. He does, however, take the time to walk to the kitchen and pour himself a glass of water. He's going to need it if what Victor told him is right-
Four sharp knocks on the door pierce the quiet of the flat. He sets the glass on the counter and goes to unlock the door. A young man, nervous and fidgety, shuffles his way inside.
"Thank you, sir." Nervous, definitely. "Mister Holmes, right?" Flitting eyes about…sneaking out…avoiding? "Or did-did he send me to the wrong-"
"No, I assure you, you're where you need to be." Anxiety disorder – unchecked? "I assume it was Victor who sent you." He motions for the man to sit in the fluffy chair on the other side of the room; it is vacant, after all.
The man looks surprised but nods, in a rather choppy way. Unchecked for sure. "Yes, Trevor sent me. Said you could help me get out of here?" He sits, and begins twisting a previously-unnoticed ring on his left hand. Two years old – tarnished – forgets to take it off- It's halfway off his finger – it doesn't fit properly limited means and he keeps hiking it up to the base of his palm Unhappy marriage, planning to leave-
To Sherlock, the decision is immediate.
"Not interested in a marital spat. Boring." The man simply blinks, confused. "Take what's yours and leave for the Scots. Everyone does it. Good day." He begins to point to the door when the man shifts his collar nervous tic and a purplish-blue mark is revealed, stretching along the side of his neck.
"Abusive wife, this is new. Oh, this is interesting."
"Hey!" The indignant cry fell upon over-excited ears as Sherlock stood up. "How did you-she doesn't-"
Island? Destress, yes. Island.
"Shirt collar down. Marks are pretty clear still, your attempt to hide it. Scratches on the end of the mark; not many men have fingernails sharp enough to leave marks while hitting someone. There's a plane leaving for Fiji in forty-eight hours; it can take you to Micronesia from there. Victor can get a speed order from Jackson. Wallet photo?" He sticks his hand out towards the man, who is so confused that even the fidgeting has stopped.
He hands over his I.D. instead, and pauses. "How do you do all this?"
"Not important." He takes the card in one hand and takes his phone out of his pocket with the other. There are three missed calls; one from Victor dated two minutes ago and two from Irene. Later, he decides as he taps the Victor notification.
He picks up almost immediately. "His name is Alex King. January 5th, 1984. Forty-eight hour order."
Victor cuts in. "Jackson's missing. Sherlock-"
"Best guess is he's stuck drugged up somewhere. Wouldn't be the first time. You can do it then?" Behind Sherlock, Alex raises his eyebrows in interest.
"Yes, but-"
"Oh, stop telling people to call me Mister Holmes. Bye-bye." He hangs up before Victor can add any more, and turns back to Alex. "Anyways, island."
"What do you mean, 'You can do it then?' He's not going to do it?"
Sherlock smiles, a creepy, too-wide one that puts everyone off. In this case, the effect is intentional. "Victor's taking over your info from here. Two days, same time. Just be sure to place your thumb over the left-hand side. Good day." He snaps a shot of the I.D., and hands it back to Alex.
"But…the printing-"
At that moment, a notification pops up on Sherlock's phone. It's a text from Victor, which he nearly ignores, except there's a line of all-caps that catches his eye. Two words.
"Excuse me? Mister Holmes? Excuse me?"
Sherlock barely hears Alex but does point him out the door. "Good day," he says again, not particularly focused on anything. The man shuffles out the door in the same way that he did before, leaving the door open.
He doesn't care. Hudson will come around and close it soon enough. There are more important things to think about at this moment.
I do hope you enjoyed. Trust me, chapter one is usually a dull little thing but it will not be so later on.