Milverton is in a cab. He's on his way from Mayfair all the way down to the Old Kent Road of all places. There, he'll collect the pitiful sum of two-hundred pounds (barely covering the taxi fare).
Along the way his phone rings. This, officially, is the moment when he passes Go.
The irony will not be lost on him, later on.
"Hello?"
"Have you topped yourself yet, Charlie?"
He winces, shuts his eyes. Somebody must have told Jim about his recent run of hard luck. "I'm not in the mood for this."
"I know you're not," comes the Irish grin. "Hard to blame you. Moran and Dani told me all about that nasty big Scandanavian writing you out. Poor Charlie, not allowed to join in any reindeer games anymore." That's it. Milverton's going back to America. His bridges are burnt in New York, but there are other places. Better places. Atlantic City, perhaps. No; he'll try Florida again. Get back to the heat, out of this miserable rain. "So, y'know how you're depressed and we're all bored as hell? Come on over. There's a game here we'd love to have you for."
Far away, from over Moriarty's shoulder, he hears the bitch Mies cry out, "Not all of us loving it."
"-Dani, shut up."
"It's our thing, Jim."
"Look, he's either going to leave the country or shoot himself; it's this one time and-"
Over the sound of Moran getting in between them, Milverton says, "Oh, it'll annoy her, will it? Driver! Change of plan."
This, Milverton thinks, had better be worth it. Given his recent misfortunes, his finances are on decidedly unsteady ground, and that taxi just became much more expensive than he'd intended. But he's here now. Sighs. Better make the most of it. Better be bloody worth it.
Mies meets him at the door. Instantly, he knows that something about this is different. This couldn't be work of any sort; she's wearing flat shoes. Dressed for comfort, rather than style. "Afternoon, Charlie. What kept you?"
Just out, he thinks at her, trying to salvage the last of my business, scrape up a plane ticket and a start-up stake. Talked to a man about selling the Jag, that sort of thing, looking over my shoulder for police and journalists the entire time now that that's what Magnusson's threatening. "I had to come up from town."
Mildly, looking ever-so-very-concerned for his welfare (and impending welfare-state cheques), "You should've called for a lift."
Moran steps into the hall behind her. Picks up a strand of her hair and yanks her away out of the door. Milverton finally gets to step inside, off the cold doorstep where he was starting to feel decidedly like a beggar. "Long day, mate?" One of those long, muscular arms slings itself around Milverton's shoulders. This, in itself, is a very strange thing, and he looks around to the hanging hand only to see something stranger yet; Moran's first two fingers are dropping a folded slip of paper into his breast pocket. Then, as if nothing ever happened, Moran slaps him on the back. "C'mon. Kettle's on for coffee. You'll want one."
In the kitchen, Moran pointedly keeps his back turned. Behind it, Milverton fishes out the note and unfolds it. It reads, rather bizarrely, You'll want control of the Top Hat, the Race Car and the little train engine thing. Best I can do for you.
It is just then that Mies decides to join them. She stops midstride when she sees him reading. Points at Milverton, but addresses Moran, "What are you telling him? Why is he getting help?"
Moran turns, looking caught and guilty and protesting his innocence in broken, stammering fragments. Deliberately patronizing in order to distract her, Milverton coos, "Don't be paranoid, dear. It's a phone number. I was just putting it away safe, so that I can give you my jacket to go and hang up somewhere, there's a good girl."
This approach backfires, somewhat. She gives him an easy smile and says, "Of course, Charlie," and holds out her hand to accept it. Quite apart from the fact he doesn't want to give his jacket to a thief, he can't fathom why she's being so nice about it. Still, he talked himself into this; he shrugs it off and passes it over.
It's all starting to feel very strange. Milverton hasn't the stomach for mysteries anymore. The last mystery he felt creeping up on him turned out to be his ruin. "Where's Jim?" he sighs, looking for one straight answer.
"Just finishing setting up." Down the hall, a door opens and closes, "That'll be him now." He stops in the hallway and gives something to Mies, for which she thanks him. Then wanders on down to them.
If Milverton wasn't worried before, he is now. Those are Rich Brooke's clothes, not Jim Moriarty's. Whatever he's feeling must show on his face, because the greeting he gets is a laugh, "I know, I'm a tramp. But Christ knows how long we'll be here for, and this is quite comfortable."
Cautiously, "How long we'll be here for?"
"Oh, it runs until it's finished. What was the longest one, Seb?"
"All three of us? Six days. Dani says you and her did nine while I was in Marrakech."
Jim nods wisely, "And very nearly slaughtered each other over it." Yet this seems to be a fond memory, and distracts him for a wistful moment. Then he feels Milverton staring at the three small slips in his hand. They appear to be cards, a little smaller than playing cards, wrapped in plain brown paper. The wrappers have been put to this purpose before; the creases are soft and white. Jim remembers himself and holds them out in a fan, "Oh, here. Pick one. And know what it is and then hide it somewhere until it's useful to you."
Finally! Finally, one of them has said something that Milverton understands. Here is a piece of leverage, please be smart about it. Wonderful. Oh, it's like coming home, hearing Jim say that. He takes the card on the left and shields it with his hand while he pulls off the paper, expecting it to have something written on it; an account number, perhaps, or the contact details of a politician's mistress or…
…Pay a £10 Fine or Take a Chance.
He is beginning to suspect what might be happening. He is beginning to suspect it might all be some elaborate joke at his expense. He is beginning to suspect they might have money on whether or not he kills himself after the Magnusson debacle, and may be trying to drive him to it. Or they're in league with the Norse prick that has so recently slipped in, like a doppelganger, and taken over every part of Charlie's life that actually meant something to him.
But now who's being paranoid? And from the absolute seriousness with which Moran and Moriarty split and study the remaining cards, well… he's not sure Moran's that good an actor.
"Don't look so worried," Moriarty laughs, pushing the card into the back pocket of his jeans. "Where'd Dani get to, so we can start?"
"No idea. She only went to hang up Charlie's jacket, but she's been gone-"
Moriarty leans out the door and bellows down the hall, "Get your nose out of that folder, y'snooping trollop!"
"Damn!" echoes back to him.
"Trust no one, Charlie boy," he grimaces. "You'll pick up the rules as we go along, but there's one to start you off – trust fecking no one."
Moran concurs. "It gets pretty vicious. Just watch yourself." He says this on his way out of the room. Passing out coffees, carrying Mies' until he meets her standing sullen and defeated in the hall.
"You'd do the same," she hisses when Moriarty glares at her. "If you didn't already know everything in there, you'd do the same."
"You know most of it," he chides, "Don't be so greedy."
The folder they're talking about is sitting on the coffee table in the living room. A standard black ring binder, splayed open to show the pages and pages of neat, dark writing inside, all of them inside colour-coded plastic pockets. They go brown, to blue, to pink, to orange and so forth, mildly familiar and bringing up the stench of Christmases and children's homes and the elderly aunts of smiling foster parents. Milverton shakes all that off.
The folder is the only thing that really looks out of place. The rest is self-explanatory. The little silver tokens are set out in a row. The two stacks of cards are in place. The bank is made-up and ready and rainbow-bright. The board itself is very old, starting to split in half along the centre fold, showing its cardboard innards. It has been annotated in black felt tip. But it is still recognizably…
"Monopoly. That's the great big plan, is it? That's what can take six to nine days?"
Moriarty smiles, letting his derision slide. Tosses his head and admits, "It is… and it isn't."
"Sort of Monopoly Extra," Mies adds.
"Have a bit of faith, Charlie boy," and Moran slaps his back again, putting him down into an armchair. "We wouldn't have called if we didn't think you'd be good at it."
"Not like you've got anything else on, this week."
"Dani, you said you were going to be nice."
They mutter at each other about who's nice and who's a prick and what being nice has to do with anything when there's a prick about who it's obviously very difficult to be nice to. And in behind all of this, Moriarty takes a seat behind the bank, and leans over. "Charlie, if you want to walk out, be my guest."
That sounds quite sensible, actually; walking out on this madness sounds like a very bright idea indeed. But as much as he hates to admit it, the bitch is right. What has he got left to lose? And if nothing else it will keep him here, away from Fleet Street and Pentonville Road, for a day or so.
Alright. Fine.
"How do we start this?"
[A/N – You're laughing now, but just you wait; all of y'all are going to want one of Jim's doctored Monopoly sets. I'ma licence it and make a mint, you see if I don't.
Inspired in part by the Holmes boys and their unique approach to Operation and the Baker Street Cluedo Incident. Inspired massively by a piece of art that can be found at the tumblr of snarkyswordswoman. Please find it and give a lot of love. I promise this fic will go on and be hiliarious, and hiliariously believable, and that gorgeous picture was the source.
Much love and keep laughing,
Sal.]