A/N: Great Thanks to those who commented: Zonya, NotQuiteBezerk, and 8D, thank you very much! :D You're getting a cookie... damn. It doesn't fit in scanner. Oh well. :P
As you can see it's not really finished - I plan 2 more parts. :D Once again - please revewe, any feedback is appreciated, I REALLY WANT TO KNOW HOW TO IMPROVE THIS. Thank you in advance. (Or, as we say in Poland, from the mountain...)
PART 2
"So. A chair." said Sebastian slowly and carefully, taught time after time that Sherlock working on a case is as much fun as a homemade minefield in the night; you just never knew what could blow up in your face and what would set it off. Last time it was anchovies, which smelled 'thoughtless and idiotising', so pointing out to the consulting detective that he somewhat missed a chair that stood in the middle of the room could be a bit tricky. Really, it seemed that Sherlock examined every flake of dust in that damned flat C of their house, but never even looked at the damn, big, obvious, noticeable chair. "It was on the photo, you know."
Sherlock huffed in annoyance while running around the window and checking what he could see outside at different angles.
"Sebastian, your deducing skills will soon outshine mine, you truly outdid yourself this time." he sneered, tapping furiously on his phone while sniffing the curtains. Moran folded his arm, taking another good look around, and finding really nothing except the chair to lay his eyes on, much less deduce.
"I find your sarcasm disturbing" he settled on saying, walking over to examine the chair (ah, well, someone had to do the hard work while the other made an idiot out of himself, right?), which had a strange stain on the seat, as if muddy or...
"Yes, Sebastian, that is blood on that seat. Please be so kind and do not touch it, we'll waste some time doing useless DNA tests, just in case Moriaty wants to be obvious. The real question is why and where"
"And how he or she died", muttered Sebastian, frowning and bending down to examine the stain. "I can't think of any..."
Sherlock grabbed him by the arms, and forced him down on his knees in one swift movement that didn't even give Moran time to react. His face got shoved into the chair, and when his all muscles braced, getting ready to fight, Sherlock let him go, and went back to examining the window, pointedly this time.
"No one died, that's the problem. Nosebleed, Sebastian, that is nosebleed, notice the..."
"I'd rather not. You mean someone was thrown on the ground, but there was the chair and he smashed his nose? That's our mystery? Sounds lame as shit." Sebastian sighed in resignation. "And that's with the damn window, anyway?"
"Oh, we're being watched since we left the Yard, I'm just trying to see if I can make out who is this. And your memory is astounding, Sebastian. This chair belongs to Molly Hooper from the Bart's morgue; on her desk she has a photo of her cat sitting on it."
"Molly? Molly was kidnapped with a chair that she has a photo of and that was our clue? Jesus, that's crazy. The chair? Why the fucking chair?"
"I'd rather know where does it lead us next. And why Molly Hooper?"
John woke up to the sight of Jim hovering above him with his sweet little distraught expression he usually wore when some petty criminal started threatening him (in this case it was rather complete incomprehension) or when the oven didn't work.
"Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper are not a pair" said Jim, shaking John awake. "Do you understand? They are not shagging. You know what does it mean? Do you?"
"That I'll have to patch up several of your men who were responsible for data on Holmes?"
"Yes. No. That too, but that means we have just made idiots out of ourselves. I – DIOTS. Oh God, save me, John, you're used to that!" Jim looked panicked, what wasn't really a surprise; it was a maniacal stage of Moriarty's month, and if it weren't for the stability and normalcy John provided as Jim's right hand man the carefully built crime organisation could (and probably would) crumble. Normally collected, composed, reasonable man with dozens of plans and thousands of scenarios flying through his head every minute, as he dived into depths of business and deception, changed into overly emotional, driven by whims little brat with an attention span of goldfish with ADD. John pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the headache coming any second now.
"Okay. Where is she?"
"In our living room, I had her dragged here to make my awesome villainy speech, but why should I waste it on some mousy lousy morgue girl, not blessed with Sherly's semen daily ?" asked Jim, throwing some clothes at John, who made an effort to stand up. "Really, horrible, wasting my time on this. She's crying and that's completely disgusting, those little humans are so idiotic and... Oh."
John paused with one leg in trousers and the other in mid-air. 'Oh' was one of the things you didn't really want to hear from criminal mastermind, especially not when he was looking at you intently and quite cheerfully. There could be numerous reasons for that 'oh' but John suspected that this time they had a little to do with 'oh, let's go to some fancy restaurant, you must be hungry' or 'oh, I just remembered I've bought you entire 'The Office' on DVD', and much to do with cleaning after Jim's little plans.
"No, Jim." he said calmly, as if speaking to a dog or child. "I will not kill her. No. Not in our living room."
"Oh please" Jim took matters (or, rather, trousers) in his own hands and started dressing John up, hastening him. "I want you to talk to her, ask who is the significant other of Sherly – boy, get as much as you can, and then let our boys dispose of her somewhere– you know I hate body fluids of any kind in the living room. A little murder will cheer Sherly up, our A – team is getting a bit restless and some fun with a girl will do them good, we'll have information and I'll have some free time to learn Chinese. Perfect."
John opened the door, casting a glance in the direction of the couch, where sat small, thin blonde with her hands shackled with ridiculous pink and fluffy handcuffs. She was sobbing quietly, trembling in fear and despair; he also noticed, mostly because he really knew where to look, red marks on her upper arms, unmistakably made by unnecessarily rough grip.
"You'll waste you precious time with the arrangements, Jimmy. Just leave me the car keys and I'll settle this. Our A – Team won't be up to this kind of fun, with the amounts of alcohol they consume daily" he said finally, a bit flippantly, winking at Jim who busied himself with looking expectantly at bed, as if surprised it didn't made itself under his commanding gaze. Jim just hummed appreciatively; he loved when John killed, love the blood, the power, the thrill of hearing sighs of agony from his victims. 'I'm shagging destiny' he would say, or sing to any tune he could think of, draping himself over bulky frame of John's.
John took his gun from the nightstand and shoving it behind his belt (this was one of the fights Jim would never win, no matter how many holsters he would buy) walked over to Molly Hooper, closing the door behind his loudly, so that she would have time to prepare herself for the talk. She raised her eyes, watery, bloodshot, red-rimmed from the sobbing, and he smiled.
"Hello, you're Molly Hooper, right?" he started pleasantly, walking over and trying to look as non threatening as he could; as a doctor and just generally quite decent bloke (well, if you don't count those jobs he had, but they were not really his thing, now were they? It was just for Jim, he rally could do without) he managed that quite well for people in worse situations than sitting in nice, domestic living room scattered with papers, computers, magazines, medical journals and dvd's. Molly's breath hitched, but she stopped sobbing, as she nodded her head nervously, unsure what was in store for her. he came closer and tried to take hold of her hurt arm, but she flinched away from his touch almost falling down from the armchair.
"Don't! Please, don't!" she sobbed again, and John raised his arms so that she could see them.
"I don't want to hurt you, just to take look on those bruises; I'm a doctor, and I'll check if there is no real damage, those men just don't know their strength" Oh, they very much did but she could live without that knowledge. Reluctantly, she held her handcuffed arms up to him, showing the bruise. "And we'll do something about those handcuffs, if you promise me you will not do something stupid as try to escape or hit me. If you do, many painful things could happen, believe me, there are armed men everywhere, and they are more competent than those evil minions in Bond movies. If you comply, you'll probably be home this evening. Okay? I just want to talk."
Molly nodded her head in sharp, broken movements; after opening the cuffs John sat on the armrest and massaged her wrists (also bruised; he should really have a nice little chat with those stupid dicks with bog guns and no brain).
"So, you know Sherlock Holmes, yes?" he started when her breathing resembled normal. "Listen, all I want to know is who he associates with.."
"Why did you kidnap me?" she asked suddenly, raising her teary face, looking straight into John's eyes. "Why. Me?"
"Well, you see... We had those information you and Sherlock were... close." before he could say anything else, she started giggling, then laughing and at the end sobbing hysterically; John could think of many reactions, but this one left him completely baffled. Inside jokes were no fun during those little talks. Molly straightened up, as suddenly as she indulged herself in a fit of sobbing laugher, he eyes shining dangerously and John felt suddenly glad that he still held her hands in gentle but firm grip.
"It's like this, huh? Me and him – together? Because we'll sit in that damned cafe every Sunday, yes? He just comes there, sits and sends text messages, sometimes he doesn't even speak. If he does, it's usually something completely horrible, he insults me all the time and I'm stupid enough to sit through it all. I love him! I love Sherlock Holmes!" she screamed at John, who just looked at her, still caressing her wrists with his thumbs in soothing manner. "I love him and he takesme to the cafe just because this stupid flatmate of his thinks it's only fair to me after all I do for them both, showing them bodies and letting them take body parts and... And I feel so stupid but when he looks at me I just can't... I hate them, I hate them, I HATE THEM!"
She started crying again, and John just held her close, allowing her to cling to his favourite jumper (not minding the tears and saliva that would eventually end up wetting it; somehow it didn't really matter). And she clung to him as if he was her last lifeline, her fingers digging deep into his chest, her entire frame pressing against him, in search of the warmth and comfort he was not sure he could give.
"I'll tell you everything, everything you want to know" she whispered between the sobs. "Just take me home, please. Please."
With the corner of his eye he noticed Jim, who looked through the partially open doors and gave him thumbs up and several kisses. Something deep in John's guts twisted and burned unpleasantly; something eerily similar to disgust, but he was not quite sure if it was directed at Jim, or at himself.
She told him many things, clinging to him as if the world would crumble and fall the minute she let him go. It was mostly about the Sherlock's fascination with bizarre experiments (if John was any ordinary man, he would probably be disgusted), his cynical manner, his hurtful comments, his brilliance, and how his eyes shine when he thinks and, last but definitely not least, Sebastia Moran, the only important person in his life.
"He uses others like cheap Kleenex. Only with Sebastian... He listens to him. They make it a game, the whole crime solving, their playground where they can show how clever they are" she said, sniffling soundly and John choose not to think about the state of his jumper right now. "And he says his name, all the time, as if it was... lucky charm, I don't know. If anyone ever said my name like that..."
John shifted uncomfortably, thinking of that bloodchilling and heartwarming 'Johnny' from Jim and how he loved that. Oh god, they were sickingly gay, weren't they. She babbled something about epic bromance, John was not really in the mood, thinking of the gun, the ride and what he had to do. What he chose to do, which was making it only slightly better but ten times worse, at the same time. When she finished, Jim went out of the room and waved to them goodbye; Molly, much calmer and collected, clutched John's hand reflexively and let it go only when they had to get into the car. First five minutes passed in silence; she looked outside the window, on the fields that surrounded their apartament in the middle of nowhere.
"Are you really going to let me go?" she asked suddenly, her voice choked; she probably realised by now that she knew tad too much about the kidnappers to go free and spill everything to the police. John took a deep breath, concentrating on the road. She took hold of his upper arm, clinging to him again as if in those waters he was her lifeline rather than killer shark. "You're going to kill me, yes? Is there anything..."
"No, not really"
"Oh. I thought so." she said tearfully, drawing in a shaky breath. "You were too nice for it to be true, stupid me..."
"I'm not going to kill you, Molly." said John. "I know you will go to the police, give them my description and tell them about the hideout... I'm not stupid. And I'm not a good man, either. But killing you... You really think I'd let you blow your nose in my jumper if I intended to shoot you?"
"Sorry about that. And I have absolutely dreadful memory, you know?" she giggled in elation, a bit giddy from the adrenaline, he could tell. "You'll be in trouble, won't they... I don't know, kill you?"
"That's my problem. Look..." he pulled over near the phone booth. "There's a phone so you can call your seven dwarfs, princess. I'll wish you prince, but that would require rather nasty apple and you had your share of excitement today."
She threw herself on his neck, holding him close; before she drew away, she place a rather messy and teary kiss on his cheek.
"Thankyouthankyouthankyou... Oh, God. I won't tell them how you look like, I won't, really! And I think you're not a hunter in this fairytale, but a real, true, good prince..."
"John, by the way. I'll be all over the news any day now, so you might as well know now. And I wouldn't be so sure about that good prince part. "
"You'll be Prince John for me." She climbed out of the car, and stood in the middle of the street watching him go. She thought about calling police, but... No, she would go to Bart's first, here she will find someone, Mike or Dave, who will see to her arm (she was pathologist, and wanted a second opinion) and then she will go back to her flat and have long, hot bath. And she will forget about John, one of few really good men she ever encountered. She was a reasonable woman, after all.
And John went home, thinking of things Jim might do to him for such a stupidity and how similar he and Molly were. Under the spell of this utter brilliance and that shining.
Moran never liked going to the Bart's. He was a soldier, and white walls that smelled of chemicals, death and antiseptic were hardly appealing; besides, sitting and toying with his phone while Sherlock took blood samples was hardly his favourite way of spending time.
Lestrade called for a dozenth time, and, as before, Moran just ignored it in favour of building a tower from some sticks he found in the top drawer. For God's sake, DI had really nothing to do in this fucking job of his if he was calling every five minutes. It might be a bit unfair on their part, Sebastian thought, because texting him that Molly Hooper was kidnapped and they were going to Bart's to run some blood test's might be a bit... brief, but Lestrade and his team never did any good on the cases, did they? What was the point in including them, then?
Sherlock murmured something incomprehensible. Then drew in a sharp breath, his entire posture rigid for a moment, as always when the inspiration came. Moran loved to watch those small moments of true brilliance, because, really, the man was a wonder. If he would only let Sebastian do some things his way... Well, they would be perfect. And Mycroft would cover unlimited number of bodies, that was for sure.
"Molly's office" said Sherlock, and leaped to the door, the same time getting to a lengthy explanation "This is not Molly's blood, it was frozen, the lead is Bart's and chair is for her office. There is our second clue, and in twenty minutes we will know how he intends to kill and who would it be. Molly? Unlikely, the threat would me much more straightforward, no, there must be something else entirely. There must be... Molly."
Sebastian, who followed Sherlock like a puppy (and hated himself for that; on the other hand, not following would mean no fun, and self – respect could go to hell for all fun cared) almost smashed into his back, as the consulting detective stood abruptly.
There was Molly, her face red and eyes bloodshot, hair and clothes dishevelled, and it seemed that unable to stand straight, as a fat bloke in round glasses had to held her up.
"Sherlock, please talk some sense into her, she comes to me with clear signs of the attack, look at those bruises, and she doesn't want to go to police!" Round man practically screamed, his big face reddening in frustration. Moran, always a gentleman, moved to support Molly from the other side, but she, swaying slightly, snatched her arm from his grip.
"NO! Nothing really happened, and..."
"You were kidnapped by Moriarty. I doubt that 'nothing really happened'" said Sherlock, watching her as if she was one of his crime scenes. Moran looked at her face, tightened in anger, but before he could propose anything rational, like calling Letrade or just seating down, dammit, the girl could barely stand, when the round guy in glasses made a strange, choked noise, which was followed by:
"Moriarty? Jim Moriarty? He worked here in IT... Oh God, my friend from med school worked for him, John Watson... "
"John? John Watson? No..." shrieked Molly suddenly, swaying and if it wasn't for Moran's reflexes she would end on the floor surely. "Don't say that name, please. You can't say that. Sherlock will now figure this out!"
And she fainted right into Sebastian's arms. Sherlock didn't even look in her direction, his eyes transfixed on something too far in his mind to notice the ongoing events.
"John Watson" he whispered, as if tasting the words. "That name... I..."
And the telephone rang.
First victim was female, age 22, with curls of blond hair around her pretty face. She lied in a pool of her own blood on the sidewalk right outside the Baker Street 221b, shot one time in the head by a sniper. ("Well, it hit close to home" muttered Moran, after hearing this, and Sherlock had to hide his smile.) All important data, but not as important as the next clue; or rather, the next mystery, connected with a body on Molly's desk, lied neatly as if prepared for the burial.
Man, 30 – 40 years old, hard to determine, sitting lifestyle (banker? office worker? more probably, insufficient data), no tattoos, scars and – oh, yes, injection marks on abdomen, diabetic, left handed, traditionalist to the point of snobbism (chin! look at the chin!)... Sebastian (quickly returned, not interested in Molly, good) was searching through the drawers; pointless, would keep him quiet. Dead man's chart, John Powers...
That name, John Watson, sounded familiar and Sherlock realised, with disdain and irritation, that some part of his brain devoted itself to searching the name, mulling it over, turning over and over, getting something out of it.
Still. John Powers, age 35, allergic to the bees and after the sting... Not the wife, too obvious and even the police would check; Sebastian stares: bad? good? insufficient data, no matter. The man had a lover, obvious, and it was...
Yes, the lover is the next clue, bee sting is legitimate. There is something else, unsettling and just not right about the body. If he just could think properly, he would... No, talking to Sebastian is bad idea, he would joke, threw Sherlock off the track, the skull then; home and second crime scene, better take the gloves.
John Watson was the boyfriend from the letter, yes, this must be it. Must talk to Mike, take a description, Molly's not to be trusted. Stockholm's syndrome unlikely, just plain stupidity.
John stood in the middle of their London apartment, trying not to show the agitation he felt. He went back to the safehouse trying different scenarios in his head, all rather painful and not very nice; however finding out that Jim went to London to take the game with Holmes a step further, make it personal now that it didn't work the first time, was not among those. For a moment he considered throwing out the note stuck to the fridge, the one with "Come to London, got a job for you, take shower and your little Mary, XXX Jim" written, but then, as he took out 'Mary' (Jim named her; said it was knight – like and awesome, and the rule of awesome was one of the few he would stick to), his sniper rifle, from the cupboard, he realised that by sulking because he botched up the job and endangered dozens of Moriarty's man (Jim was not in any danger, never) he would achieve nothing.
"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny" said Jim with a smile, hugging him close and patting his back. "I'm watching live feed of Sherly – boy, isn't he just cute? Look, jumping over this dead body..."
"What did you do?" John tried to look everywhere but the monitor, where the feed from HD camera was showing Sherlock Holmes during examination of the crime scene. It was bad enough John had those eyes permanently stuck in his brain now, just from the damned photo, he was not about to see whether the man had those feline, sharp but fluent movements John wanted him to have. Jim tutted in annoyance.
"Oh, Johnny, you're such a spoil – sport. I just had Bernie kill some passer - by on Baker Street, and while he tries both to solve those nonsensical riddles and get my snipers off his back, we'll have time to do what we came here for."
"Meaning?" John had a bad feeling about this. He had heard too many of Jim's plans in the night, as they spooned on the bed and it was all fine, great and calm. Plans about contaminating water in USA to show those dicks they were just annoying, stupid, full of puss spots on the face of Earth. The ones with small nuclear war in Arabia, to make the climate right (that one John read later in some science journal; this sent chills down his spine, but he didn't dare to ask). The ones with blowing up the London, just to see it burn. Like Nero burned down the Rome to make a poem, Jim wanted to blow up the London to make a symphony of screams in his head. "I rather like London, I'm quite attached to it, and I know on the good authority you are, too."
"But people tend to ignore me. People don't know about me, and I want them to say my name with respect, with fear, with so much fucking disgust it hurts their delicate tongues" answered Jim with spite. "Nevermind, it's my game and you don't need to worry your pretty head about it, especially now that I've got a job for you, Johnny, and you're going to love it! You've got to kidnap Sebastian the sidekick, and secure this pool... Take how many man you'll need so that Sherly and Sebby won't have a chance to escape, rig the place with explosives maybe... No, we'll put Sebby in some explosives... Semtex, look how it matches: Jim and John love Jam, Sherlock and Sebastian hate Semtex!"
"Don't use 'matches' with 'Semtex' at home, Jimmy. There's bound to be accident" said John with a grin. The prospect of organising the 'Pool Party', as he immediately called it, significantly improved his mood and he could (almost) forget about Molly and Sherlock, who managed tofind nice, visible spots in his brain and refused to leave it as much as he tried to throw them out. Jim giggled and clung to John in hasty, wet and, God, intense kiss.
"Take care of this pool, it was my first case, sweetheart. There, with a little help from botulinium toxin, I disposed of Carl Powers, bully and downright idiot (honestly, I don't know what hurt worse, his punches or ignorance), and it was beautiful, oh, I wish you could see it! So much commotion, but no one even suspected murder... Except for Sherlock Holmes." He said, his lips almost touching John's earlobe, the hot breath sending chills down doctor's spine. "I'm starting the new era of crime, Johnny, and closing first part of my life is only suitable, don't you think?"
The body on their doorstep was clearly a random victim, and both Sherlock and Sebastian left it to Lestrade after ten minutes of staring (on Moran's part) and looking around to determine from where the shot was fired (Sherlock, of course). Not important, or at least not as important as John Powers (and John Watson, oh yes) and his lover; the name (names) slipped through Sherlock's consciousness, hid in the corners and shadows of his brain and managed to evade any direct encounter, what was even more frustrating than the lack of ideas as to what was the main reason for all this; the sniper, the bodies, useless clues and, in the beginning, Molly.
Oh. The coffee sessions.
"Sebastian, your advice was, as always, invaluable." exclaimed Sherlock in irritation, and heard a groan of irritation, with muffled with a biscuit 'What the hell did I do now?' which was one of 27 sentences most frequently used. Sherlock was always comforted by idea that if Sebastian ever lost his voice, he would need only several boards with phrases: 'I'm hungry', 'What is that? No, don't tell me!', 'What the hell did I do now' and 'Insert bad joke here' would practically cover it. But he was one of the few (only one?) who treated Sherlock as a human being (not a freak, not a genius, just... another man with strange hobbies) and that called for cutting a lot of slack.
"My meetings with Molly were taken as a sign of developing relationship of romantic nature" explained he calmly, flipping through the folder with information about John Powers, trying to find what exactly was so unsettling about the man.
"Good thing. He rather showed his hand with that one... and his stupidity. C'mon, you and dating?" while speaking, Sebastian wrestled with a beer bottle trying to open it with a knife; opener was, as Sherlock recalled, used in the experiment a few days ago and somehow managed to dissolve in acid. "Speaking of dating – today I've got a hot date with Sally D., so you'll have to look after your sorry butt all by yourself for a while."
Sherlock nodded fervently, smiling as the problem solved itself. Moriarty wanted it personal, so after kidnapping Molly he might try to kidnap someone else (high probability, Moriarty's thinking is usually similar to Sherlock's)... He'd just have to spread the word that Moran is going out, so that Moriarty's men would pick it up. Having him as a hostage would be much more acceptable than having Lestrade (higher chance of severe psychological distress, reflexes not personally tested) or... Well. There was really only Moran and Lestrade. And he knew exactly what to expect of Sebastian, so having him kidnapped... yes. Perfect solution.
One hour fifty four minutes to the next victim, he thought suddenly, standing abruptly and grabbing his coat and running down the stairs, thinking of all possible scenarios of meeting with John Powers'es lover. What he didn't expect, was that he was expected, and not because the police fatigued itself.
"He was really nice, this man" said rather attractive blonde, Jennie Munch, busying herself with making tea(unnecessarily, of course, Sherlock had no intention to stay any longer than absolutely necessary), as they sat in the kitchen. "He smiled so sweetly, asked about my dog, and then gave me those papers and warned me you would come to get them. I... I am not sure why I really agreed, this is all so hazy... He was just so nice, y'know? "
Sherlock tuned her out, as he examined pages full of numbers (basic substitution? no, not possible, wrong distribution, wrong direction...) knowing that if the woman had anything relevant to say, Sebastian would pick it up. Having an assistant who could force himself to listen to those boring little humans was really useful.
Fifteen minutes to the next victim and a cipher. And he must call Mycroft to get information on John Watson; the man was so unsettling that even prospect of asking his horrible brother for, how disgustingly pedestrian, help was acceptable price for any particulars. And maybe then this treacherous part of Shelrock's brain would stop trying to bring it up on every occasion.
Jim Moriarty was a busy man. He ran seven legal businesses, all unimaginably successful and dull, and one criminal organisation that was a fungi on the soft and juicy tissue of society. Not a cancer; whoever said crime was a cancer had a little to do with biology or crime (probably both). There was nothing mindless about the destruction; there was nothing really fatal in his doings, because once the tissue is dead, the cancer is even more so (okay, exactly the same, but... feel the drama of the metaphor!). Jim, like some fungi, could commit crimes on his own and make a living of that: he occasionally delegated his men to rob some bank, steal some jewels, make a revolution in some tiny country, easy things so that they had something to do. But it was leeching off on crimes of others that counted; that was fun, the planning, the negotiating, setting up traps within traps so that he would have those pitiful little creatures under his thumb.
In his line of work he learned how to spot the right man for the job - that's how he knew John Watson would be so useful (so sweet, fascinating unpredictable and uncommon in his ordinariness), how he enlisted the best snipers from around the world, and the main reason why, despite 200 other things he should be doing, he was staring at the files of colonel Sebastian Moran.
The right man for the job, screamed at Jim every page of the file, this man is dangerous, deadly and has his own take on moral code. He collected knives and firearm, for FSM's sake, shoot like a pro, had something about 20 kills on his official record, and Jim didn't have to read between the lines that there were many, many more.
Fascinating guy, thought Moriarty as he skipped through the pages impatiently, and it might be wise to warn John about... Nah. Jim will take care of it himself, he would talk to Sebastian... (he rolled the name on his tongue for a while, quite likening the taste) and give him the offer he can't refuse. If he's really fit for the job, being kidnapped won't shake him too much and he will be able to think logically, or, at least, as logically as any of these little idiots can.
Jim dropped the papers in the pile on the floor, and went to solemnize the grand 'taking the trainers out of the box' event. He wanted to do it after John came back, but then it could take hours and Jim was sure Sherlock won't take long with the cipher. It was amazing that the consulting detective could so easily forget his first case. Throwing him John Powers in the face should raise the alarm; apparently something else was on Sherly's mind.
The shoes, kept in vacuum container, carefully hid so many years ago, haven't really changed. Still a bit dirty, with the shoelaces that held the last clue Sherlock will be given...
Oh, it will be a blast. First disposing of Sherlock Holmes, then – destroying London. Perfect, thought Moriarty stroking the trainers lovingly.
Preparing the pool was a piece of cake, and even knowing what happened to Hannibal Smith's plans every time he said that, John didn't feel discouraged. He took four men, he would be the fifth. There was no way he would leave Jim's safety in the hands of those half – assed snipers who thought holding a branch in front of your face was a camouflage. John could take better ones, of course; but there was really no need as the point of the plan he came up with Jim was not to shoot.
"Boss, when will we know Holmes and Moriarty pose a direct threat to Mr. Moriarty and it's not a part of the plan?" asked one of the brightest sharp – shooters from the lot, as they were preparing their posts. "Because that's the hazy part, we've got to keep Mr. Moriarty safe, but not to shoot?"
"You'll know when I put a bullet in Holmes's brain" smirked John, feeling the rush, the adrenaline pumping through his system, as he stood on the gallery of the pool which was right now the top of the world for him. Oh, he felt so much alive... He felt luck pumping through his veins. Stupid, really, and if he was in his right mind, he would leave that mission to someone else... But meeting Moran face to face before kidnapping him, to get the impression how hard it would be, had this air of absurd and insanity John sought for. He raised the walkie talkie.
"Doreen, sweetie, could you tell me if there's any sign of Mark One on the cameras?" he asked, as always feeling a little uncomfortable talking to her. The girl had a crush on him and well, it made things a bit embarrassing for the both of them, as John couldn't bring himself to tell her he was not interested. Her answer was a happy giggle (cute, really), and, after a while:
"Mr Watson, Mark One is in the Scotland Yard with Big Damn Hero, or at least that's the last place they were spotted. Oh, and how are the preparation's going, if I might ask? Is there any need of assistance, because the team assigned to Trafalgar Square finished early and..."
"Thank you Doreen, just what I wanted to know" she was saying something more, probably about the new restaurant nearby, but John's brain stopped after 'Trafalgar's Square'. There really was something Jim was not telling him, and he had an idea what it would be... but, now, he had his own problems. "You're a real darling, you know that? I've got some errands to run, could you screen me out of the picture again? Thank you, Doreen!"
And, with several tips and pats on the back for the snipers, he left for the Scotland Yard.
"Two victims this time, Sherlock. I really hope you know what are you doing." said Lestrade, as they made their way from his office. Moran shook his head, leaned in and managed to whisper so loudly everyone in the room heard him perfectly.
"Don't talk to him, Inspector, he's having trouble with the cipher and that's taking 99% of his brain capacity... And that's quite funny that your team couldn't really pin point things he did with his 1%. Oh, Sally, how nice to see you. I hope you remember about our date, don't you, sweetheart?"
Sally, buried under the pile of reports, beamed at Sebastian, what was such a rare sight that Lestrade stared for a whole minute before he could carry on with his verbal hammer to Sherlock's thick skull.
"Sherlock. What is it all about? What is Moriarty trying to do, with this killings and ciphers?" he demanded, with the little regard for Sherlock's sulks (taught after years and years of their acquaintance, that the regression to the five year old was usually a call for attention). "We've got one and a half hour for the next victims, and I don't want to sit here doing nothing but answering calls with 'Sherlock Holmes is sitting and solving some damned puzzles, sorry, just don't go near the windows'!"
"Look, Moriarty just wants me to SEE something, Lestrade, you probably won't comprehend it, but in fact..."
"Hey, watch it!" cut in Moran, and both detectives, consulting or not, turned to see him on the floor, with a stack of papers and a short man all on the top. The man, short, sturdy, blonde, was clumsily getting back on his feet, repeating the word 'sorry' every two or three seconds, gathering papers and obviously trying very much to disappear. "Shit, man, look where you're going okay? If I wasn't really busy..."
"You'd what?" asked Sherlock, extending hand and helping Sebastian get up, smile creeping up on his features... and getting frozen the moment his eyes fell on the second figure, the man (precise movements, steady hands, good with the gun, then, and...) who, still sprouting 'sorry's' from left to right, raised his head to meet Sherlock's gaze.
They stood, unmoving, Sherlock still holding Sebastian's hand and the man bent over the papers; and the more consulting detective looked, the less he could deduce, think or tell. Those blue eyes, full of (what? embarrassment? that would be correct emotion for such a development, yes?) life, just burned into Sherlock, and he found he yearned to leech off this gaze, to claw his way into that (probably quite empty... oh, who was he kidding!) skull, to rip this man apart in search of the clues as to what and who he was.
"Well, I hope you're okay, I'd hate if anything happened to you..." said the man, regaining his senses much quicker than Sherlock; Moran snarled something about today's date (not that the consulting detective noticed, the words were logged by his brain but it neglected to translate) and then, as suddenly as he appeared, the man was gone. Sherlock shook his head to clear this dreadful emptiness, paralysis that overcame his senses, and became aware of Lestrade's calls (desperate, now).
"... erlock, Sherlock! For God's sake, do you know this guy? You look as if you saw the ghost!"
"Know him? I have never seen him before in my life" said Sherlock, and as much as it was true, it was not really the answer to the question, not that any of those idiots would spot that. He didn't exactly know the man; no part of his brain connected him with past cases, but that nagging feeling of rightness and understanding was still lingering. Lestrade and Moran were talking (about him? at him? irrelevant), but he knew what he had to do.
"Lestrade, no need to pursue personal files of the people murdered, concentrate on the sniper, go and fetch me ballistic reports. Sebastian, get us a cab, I'll be with you in the moment." he ordered, and before anyone could say anything (irrelevant, irritating) he disappeared to the nearest toilet. Fumbling with his phone, he once again tried to deduce the man (THE man, from now on, there will be people, The Man and The Woman... creativity in naming was not something he valued), get anything from their short encounter.
"To what I owe the pleasure, Sherlock?" asked Mycroft Holmes in his annoyingly cheerful manner. Sherlock could feel his teeth itch.
"Hello brother, I need a file on doctor John Watson, he was in RAMC and..."
"Now he's working for Moriarty, yes. Is there any point in asking why you changed your mind, or should I guess?"
Sherlock remembered their last little talk, on Mummy's birthday, when he refused Mycroft's help, in any form, with Moriarty and his organisation... But John Watson was a separate case, and mentioning him in the same sentence as 'Moriarty' was a misunderstanding. Before he could ask his brother about the diet, Mycroft continued.
"I can give you the official file now, the full one will be available tomorrow. No need to thank me, dear brother."
"I never intended to thank you." said automatically Sherlock, but, realising that the files might 'accidentally' loose a few pages if he's too arrogant and ungrateful, he quickly added "And I'll solve one of your tedious, boring cases, if you wish..."
"The particulars of the case will be delivered with the files tomorrow. Goodbye, Sherlock, try to eat and sleep more." before Sherlock could disconnect the call ending it with angry silence, Mycroft added "Remember what you're doing, dear brother, who are you pursuing and why."
And HE hung up. How rude.
Next part: THE POOL. And someone gets shot...
Of course, a comment or two would probably make me write faster... wink, wink, nudge, nudge