Just over four hours later, John and Sherlock found themselves called to a crime scene on the bank of the Thames. They looked at each other then walked out of the flat as neither man was really wanting to go to this crime.
'Don't give anything away. They'll suspect something is off if you do. Just don't speak at all.' Sherlock commanded in hushed whispers. The doctor huffed in annoyance.
'Did you think I was just going to waltz up to them and say Hey, you don't need to go searching for the killers because we're right here! I'm not that stupid.' John said defiantly. He then realised he still hadn't gotten an answer out of the man when they were still in the flat.
'The horse. Why?' He asked, more forcefully than before in the hope of getting an answer. For some crazy unknown reason, it worked.
'When made in plain paper, it's called the Day's Mare. Mine is in black paper.' He answered, looking down his nose, waiting for the moment that his friends mind figured it out. When he finally did, John 's face was a picture.
'Night's Mare. Nightmare. I see. That's brilliant.' He smiled happily, he'd worked something out for himself. Ok, so a seven year old child could work it out in half the time but the fact still stood. The detective chuckled as the car pulled to a halt and they got out.
DI Lestrade came to greet them and ushered them to the body. John kept his distance and his face straight, Sherlock was right-when was he not?-giving anything away would land them both in it. They suddenly saw the boat which had been dragged to shore. The bottom had a small puddle of black and the body seemed neatly nestled between the seats. The detective did his usual display of prancing around the body-inspecting fingernails, clothes and shoe- before finally pulling the origami horse out of the mouth. He put it in the evidence bag and gave it to John.
'It's like the lotus.' The doctor said naively. Sherlock gave him the famous 'you're an idiot' look and sighed.
'Yes, but it's not. It's different paper, English.' He sniffed. Anderson seemed to creep up out of nowhere.
'Why the dog?' He asked. John carefully controlled his features. He hadn't minded the forensic detective at first, sure the guy was a prick but he did do his job and have at least enough intelligence to be deserving of it. It only took a week for the doctor to change his mind.
'Anderson, your continued insolence has reach new heights. It's not a dog. It's a horse, the Journée de Mare if I'm not mistaken. A French pattern. How it links, however; is a little more tricky.' John almost scowled as he realised the detective had translated it for him so it would be easier to work out. It seemed that Anderson didn't know a word of French as he sniffed and left them alone. The DI walked up to them, looking at the body.
'So what have you got?' He asked. Sherlock pointedly ignored him, instead turning to his partner.
'John, there's something wrong with the bullet holes.' He said. John made his way over and leant by the body, Sherlock gave him gloves again and the doctor put them on.
'Holes? But there's only one!' Lestrade called, trying to grab the detectives attention. The doctor looked round the wound for a small length of time before stopping.
'There's no bullet in here, Sherlock.' He said, putting as much confusion into his voice as he could muster.
'Try the other one.' Came the impatient reply. John shot him a glance.
'What other one?' He had to admit, he was playing his part perfectly. Sherlock made a frustrated noise.
'I thought you were better than this, John. It's obvious. Turn him over, back of the head. John complied, already knowing what he'd find. The second bullet hole was just as messy as the first, he made the metal note to never again try to remove a bullet in the dark.
'There's no bullet in this one either. Whoever took the bullets out, wasn't very good at it. Or they didn't care.' The soldier said, standing up and taking off the gloves, putting them in the bag that Scotland Yard had provided for its employees.
'So, can you tell me what we've got?' The DI asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
'It is quite clearly a dead body, Lestrade.' He drawled. John shot him a glance and he continued. 'Your killer, however; was a crack shot and intelligence. He, or she as the case may be, must have dragged him on to the boat after death. He's been dead, what, a day tops. You need to find where he was killed.' Sherlock said, twirling his coat and calling for his flatmate to follow. John gave the DI an apologising glance before taking off after his flatmate.
'I think we fooled them.' John huffed as they got in the cab that Sherlock had hailed. The detective stared at him and they both smiled.
'Lets get back home.' He replied. The doctor smiled slyly as he slinked toward his flatmate. While the detectives back was turned he quickly took out the lanky man's knees, laughing as Sherlock hit the ground.
'Why?' The detective asked hurt. John sniggered and helped him up.
'Because I don't like being treated like an idiot, even if it's part of the act, next time I'll sprain your ankle.' The soldier replied. Sherlock glared at him then tried not to hobble as he hailed a cab.
Ten minutes into the journey, John noticed that Sherlock was signing. He also knew that Sherlock knew he could sign, it was a good skill to have for a doctor.
Don't be alarmed. Cabbie not taking us home. Not sure where. Act normal. He faced forward again. So much for a nice easy day. As far as the doctor could tell, the cabbie hadn't noticed their mute conversation. Of course, it could just be that the cabbie didn't care. A few seconds later, Sherlock cleared his throat.
'Do you mind telling us where we're going?' He drawled.
'Course, Mr 'Olmes sir, but I'm 'fraid I can't. Don't worry, You'll find out soon enough.' The man said in the usual cockney accent. Sherlock sighed dramatically.
'You'd have thought we'd be more careful with cab drivers now, wouldn't you?' He said bitterly. John had to laugh.
The cab pulled in to a private school. All the lights were off so it seemed that the kids were currently on their holidays. The two Baker Street lads glanced at each other and waited for the door to open. When they got out, red lasers glittered on their chests.
'Oh Shit.' John muttered.
'My sentiments exactly.' Sherlock replied in an equally quiet voice.
They were led into the main hall where they found the consulting criminal waiting for them. He smiled brightly and beckoned into the room.
'Come in, Shirley dear. Bring Johnny too. I so do like having guests.' He almost sang. John couldn't control the shiver, causing the psycho to giggle again, give him Afghanistan any day of the week. Surfing on lava was better than this. Anything was better than this. The two men walked in anyway, they didn't have much of a choice. Jim pulled out a few chairs then sat in on and patted the others.
'Sit, sit.' He said in a scarily friendly voice. When they did, his smile lit up brighter. 'Now then, who's been a naughty boy? Then helping the police as if nothings wrong, I don't know why I didn't think about that? Oh wait, I did!' He laughed maniacally before turning to the blond doctor. 'And you drag you pet along. I couldn't quite believe it when he shot that nasty cabbie for you but I guess you've chained him pretty tightly. He looks like he'll do anything for you. It's so sweet.' John glared at him.
'What do you want, Moriarty?' Sherlock asked, forcing himself to remain calm. The criminal laughed.
'I just wanted you to see how alike we are. And offer my services if you ever required them. I see neither of you are apt at the art of disposing a body.' He said, inspecting his fingernails and flicking imaginary lint off of his suit. John stared, just barely managing to keep his jaw from hitting the floor.
'So, we can go now then.' Sherlock said, standing up. The lasers appeared again and he sat down with an annoyed sigh.
'No. You can't.' Jim growled. His voice suddenly became sweeter 'Now then, Nightmare, lets talk terms.'
John quickly found himself out of his depth. It seemed the two men were talking a completely different language. He hadn't expected his flatmate to even think about this 'talking terms' stuff since he didn't plan on killing anyone else any time soon but it seemed the detective had other ideas. An hour later, John had given up all pretences of listening to do something more interesting, liking trying to find the positions of the snipers. He was brought back into the room by the Irishman stroking his chin.
'Found them all yet, Pet?' He asked.
'Uh?' Oh well done, so much for sounding intelligent. The doctor thought to himself.
'The snipers, silly. Have you found them all?' Jim replied. John nodded. 'Good. Now that you're with us again, we'll just fill you in on the terms.' The doctor inwardly groaned.
'Ok. 1) We have to contact Jim if we plan to kill someone or if we have accidentally killed someone. 2) He'll dispose of the body. 3) We can only work on the cases he allows us to. And 4)-' Sherlock coughed and muttered something. John raised an eyebrow but didn't question it. It was something Sherlock didn't want him to know. Meaning it was something about him. Jim giggled.
'He's smarter than I give him credit.' The psycho chuckled. 'Yes Pet, think of this as part of my payment for not killing you both. That assassin was very expensive.' John felt the tinkling in his spine. He stared at his flatmate.
'Are you going to tell me what I'm going to have to do?' He asked. Sherlock looked away.
'Shirley, you don't want to tell him? I will then.' Jim pulled the doctors chair to him. 'You have to spent two days a week with me. Two whole days.' The infamous Cheshire cat smile was firmly in place on Moriarty's face. John was surprised that the creep didn't have pointed teeth. The doctor steeled himself and glared at the psycho.
'And what makes you think that I'll agree to spending any time with you? You're a nutcase.' He growled defiantly. Jim slapped him hard.
'Be very careful, Johnny.' He hissed. The consulting criminal brought his hand back up to the doctors hand, sniggering as the soldier flinched, before placing it softly on the stinging flesh. 'You're too delicious to waste.' He said softly. John cast a panicked glance to his flatmate who mouthed 'sorry' at him. His shoulders sagged.
'Which days?' He asked defeatedly. Jim smiled.
'Tuesdays and Saturdays. And don't worry, you can keep your dull job at that clinic. Just let the woman know if she touches you she'll lose her hand.'
