Chapter 1
It was a large room locked inside an even larger mansion. The furniture was rich in color and highly expensive. Colorful lights danced across the ceiling and classical music (Beethoven's Fifth) played softly from large silver speakers. Nefarious villains, all of whom were widely known for their cruelty and brutality, stalked coyly around him as they chatted idly to one another at Moriarty's feast.
And, of course, Moriarty had kidnapped Sherlock; why throw a party and show off your wealth and power if you didn't have a shiny new trophy, right? So, he—Sherlock—was: dressed up in an expensive jet black suit, with a pale purple undershirt, and his signature scarf.
But, at least he wasn't being physically tortured. Jim was torturing with boredom, sure, but nothing Sherlock, a wall, and a handgun would be unable to remedy…
...
He saw her near the staircase.
Everyone at the ball was cloaked in wealth and in their mid-thirties to late fifties. All were well fed and living comfortably in luxury, more than happy to allow others to take the risks and falls. Among Moriarty's companions were drug lords, serial killers, mobsters, gang leaders, and high profile thieves…but this kid?
She wasn't any of them.
So, what was she doing here?
She was gaunt and thin, her pale blue dress (probably loaned to her by Moriarty like Sherlock's suit) swallowing her frail frame. Her smoldering green eyes were narrowed in a melting pot of rage, defiance, terror, and loss as she issued a silent threat to any who dared look her way: come near me, and you'll suddenly have extreme difficulty breathing. Her hand curls tightly around a steak knife. Sherlock raises an eyebrow in silent curiosity and narrows his icy blue eyes at her.
Her back is against the cold stone wall and every muscle is coiled and ready to spring away from the danger that permeates the air, but where do you run, when every person near you poses a threat to your safety? Where do you hide in a glass cell? With all the cameras and thermal detectors Moriarty had no doubt put into this enormous mansion, running would be futile if not more deadly than their current dilemma.
This teenager was like him: a prisoner.
He walks towards her slowly and pauses a few feet away: not close enough to crowd or threaten her, but close enough to engage her in conversation.
"What is your name?"
Her glare turns on Sherlock and he smiles a little in amusement. He's gone toe-to-toe with serial killers; does she honesty believe that he'll cower away from a malnourished youth? Politely, he stands still while she analyzes him, her gaze sweeping up and down his thin frame before locking once again on his eyes, but not once does she speak or attempt to answer his question.
A pang of aggravation slices through him and he watches in surprise as she flinches at the movement.
With a deep inhale, he decides to try again: "Did he steal your voice?"
Burning green eyes instantly flick to Moriarty and then back to Sherlock. A single brisk nod of confirmation answers him back.
This hadn't been the first time he's seen this. Moriarty could do anything to anyone, or make them do anything.
All he needed was to get the proper incentive.
Like a hostage.
Or the perfect threat.
Moriarty was crafty and wise in the arts of darkness. He knew that you can cage the body, but the spirit would always rebel…but to cage the heart? Once you have the heart, you eliminate all hope or desire to escape, not when the apple of one's eye is in danger of severe harm or extermination. That must have been how he trapped her and inflicted silence upon this small girl. Sherlock frowns, his blue eyes hardening. But why?
…
Dinner.
Large, circular, dark mahogany tables are covered in blood-red satin cloths that gently caress the hard wooden floors. Off to the left, one the long rectangular tables with coal black table cloths covering them, were rich and exotic delicacies. Their intoxicating aroma quickly filled the air, making Sherlock, and the other guest, pour gently into the vast dining hall. Moriarty simply smiled with prideful pleasure to see the awed expressions on his companions' faces.
They get their food buffet style. In silence they eat their meal and pause ever so slightly between mouthfuls to savor the flavor. Waiters (or were they butlers…?) bustled frantically from round table to round table to refill glasses and quietly remove dirty dishes.
Moriarty sits to Sherlock's left and the girl to Sherlock's right. She eats quickly without looking at either of them and her body still holds stubbornly to the fearful tension that she displayed earlier.
Sherlock's eyebrows turn downward ever so slightly in confusion.
Moriarty was an important man who only bothered pestering important people…this girl was not important. She was obviously homeless and hadn't eaten well in weeks, as is evident in her emancipated frame. She was at least fourteen years of age…so, it was doubtful that she had had a job that would be considered important enough to hit on Jim's radar. By the way she was eating, he could deduce easily that she was not from a rich family but from a poorer one.
So, what did she do to get into this mess?
Insult Jim?
No, he never would have let her live this long.
Maybe she's related to someone important…?
No, again, she's homeless and starving.
So what, then?
Jim's brown eyes flashed coldly in cruel amusement. "Enjoying yourself, Sherlock?" His lips curl into a venomous smile that never reached his eyes. "I think you'll enjoy this little game. But I'll let you figure it all out." The smile vanishes and his turn to granite: cold and uncaring, "I'm sure it'll be clear in a week or so."
After the meal is finished, Jim requests that Sherlock play a piece or two on a violin set up in the middle of the room. Sherlock swallows slightly and rises to move.
"Wait, you don't want to forget your little drummer girl, do you?" With a cruel grin Jim pushes his hand against the small of the girls back and propels her forward. She stumbles and quickly regains her balance. Grating laughter from the murderous crowd assaults them from all sides as, together, they approach the instruments. Sherlock plays cautiously, suddenly unsure of what to do.
What is this was a test?
If she can't find the proper beat…they could both be executed—or worse.
But she has no problem keeping up with him. Slowly he speeds up and she goes with him. Together their notes blend together and swirl gracefully across the medium of air and dances across the room. People cheer delightfully and rock their bodies to the music that cascades electrically all around them. The side of Sherlock's mouth turns up into a small, crooked smirk, and, he realizes with a start, that this girl is smiling as well.
A strange warmth floods his chest as he watches the teen lose herself in the melody, her hands a chaotic blur of color and sound. And he joins her.