Chapter 2 has begun! Enjoy!
CHAPTER 2
Too Recognizable
[John]
I'm frozen where I sit. Internally, I am a cacophony of fear and anger. They're in the middle of a shouting match, one trying to overcome the other to conquer my mind. Externally, I look mildly confused, trying to fool a man who can never be fooled into thinking I don't know what's happening.
I'd known it the minute his face had turned to stone, his amused expression gone with the wind. I'd known it the minute I saw his hands freeze mid-gesture. I'd known it the minute Sherlock stopped breathing.
It's Moriarty.
"John, answer it."
I don't move an inch. I'm too terrified. The mobile keeps ringing.
"Answer, or so help me, I will tape it to your ear!" Sherlock whisper-yells through gritted teeth. I look up at his face, and upon finding impatience written on it, I promptly get out of my chair, pick up the mobile, and put it on speakerphone.
"Hello?" I say, heart hammering in my chest.
A surprisingly familiar and stuttering voice manages to squeak out a "h-hello".
This voice is almost too recognizable, but I can't quite pin a name on it. How do I know that voice?
Sherlock answers the question for me. "Mike Stamford."
The man who introduced me to Sherlock, that fateful day. He's in danger.
[Sherlock]
We've got twelve hours. Twelve hours until Mike Stamford lights up like a candle. No time for similes, Sherlock, get to the point! I shouldn't be as anxious as I am; I figured out how that Vermeer painting was a fake in ten seconds. But this is different. Moriarty (or whoever's pretending to be him) is repeating the case that John so lovingly calls "The Great Game", but in four very special ways, he isn't.
Way #1: We are not dealing with the real Moriarty. This is an imposter, a pretender. Moriarty is most definitely dead. I have proved that over and over again to myself.
Way #2: Moriarty's pretender told Mike to call my mobile. He'd originally used the fake pink phone that was supposed to look like the phone from my first case with John. He either doesn't have the resources to get the phone, or is trying to send the message that he's more familiar with John and me than Moriarty was.
Way #3: There are no pips. He did send me a photo, but after the call, not before, like the Moriarty of old. But there were no pips, leading me to believe that the imposter is separating himself from Moriarty. (Or telling us that this isn't a threat, as pips usually are, but that's the least likely possibility.)
Way #4: He's targeting someone we know. Mike is stuck somewhere in the labyrinth that is London, wrapped in semtex. He's sending the message that he knows me. He doesn't know me personally, but is familiar with me.
So, my deduction is as follows: Someone who is acquainted with me (or John) is trying to recreate Moriarty's first encounter with us, but believes that they can do better, or that Moriarty missed something important, even though they are obviously much less than the criminal mastermind that he was. They couldn't do something original? They had to steal from Moriarty's past? Other than that, they are well-educated, smart but not worthy of the title of "genius". It's possible that they worked for Moriarty.
I say that the imposter may be acquainted with John as well, because we both know Mike, and to know me practically means to know John. Most importantly, I deduce that the imposter knows John, or both of us, because of the picture I'd been sent after the missing pips.
It was a picture of the exterior of John's flat.
[John]
Sherlock and I hail a cab and I scramble inside, Sherlock following with less haste than he should have. My voice is rushed and distressed when I tell the cabbie where we need to be, adding "and fast" to the end. Sherlock notices my anxiety indifferently before turning away to stare out the window to his right as London flies by. Tucking himself away in his mind palace, no doubt. I could use his support, and feel somewhat betrayed in his lack of interest. My life could very well be going to hell, in case Sherlock hadn't noticed.
When I first saw the picture, my first and only thought was of Mary's safety. My hands started shaking the second after I called her and got sent to her voicemail after it rang out. I tried to think rationally, if only for her sake. She might still be sleeping. She might be at lunch with a friend and didn't want to be disturbed, so her mobile's off.
Or she might be dead.
I can't stop myself from thinking of the possibility, and once it's there, I'm gripping the edge of the cab's seat like my life depends on it, trying desperately not to scream. I can't decide if the quiet whimper that comes out of my mouth instead is one of fear, anguish, or anger at myself for letting this happen. Mary might be dead because I left.
A twisted part of me blames Sherlock for all of this, but I try to silence that part and tell it that Sherlock wouldn't have known. The twisted part retorts, Sherlock had said that he knew what Moriarty was going to do next, after his drug overdose. So why, then, had Sherlock allowed this to happen? Why hadn't he warned Mary and me that this would happen?
Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. I don't know for sure that… that Mary's gone. All I know is that they took a picture of our flat and sent it to Sherlock after the call. Yes, that's all I know. Maybe they're just trying to give us a little scare and will send us a new photo later tonight, with someone else's flat in it, with someone else's wife inside. Who knows?
Now that I'm the tiniest bit calmer, my hands relinquish their tight hold on the cab's seat. I take some deep breaths, and my rapid pulse starts to slow bit by bit. Mary's fine. I'm fine. Everything's okay. No one's hurt.
What worsens my fear yet again is Sherlock. Sherlock says nothing on the way there. His face says it all for him: he expects the worse.
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