Note: This chapter contains some BDSM references.
"Have you been a good little boy, Timmy?"
"Yes, I have."
"Yes I have what?"
"Yes, I have Mummy."
Irene Adler flashed a sweet smile, and with a caress of a finger, made the naked, overweight man look up at her from his kneeling position. He'd looked intimidating earlier, marching in to her Belgravia flat in that pristine coat and tie, but one command from her had reduced this Ministry of Defence member to a snivelling little boy.
She knew what he liked.
She licked her lips. She had to remember to thank one of the royal guardsmen for recommending her to this M.O.D. man. Moriarty had been dogging her to get to someone from the Ministry of Defence, and finally, after weeks of going through people, she got what she needed.
It wasn't as though she still enjoyed working for Moriarty. But he'd threatened to cut off her toes and turn them into earrings. Aside from the money he was paying her, living had become an incentive.
She turned her thoughts back to Mr. M.O.D.. "Well Timmy, can you show Mummy what good thing you've done lately?"
"But Mummy, my hands are tied."
She slapped him hard. "How dare you talk back to your mother like that, you filthy little brat!"
"Mummy, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Mr. M.O.D. cried out, holding up his bound wrists in front of him. "Timmy's a good boy, Mummy! I'll show you. It's in my mobile."
"Ah, now we're getting somewhere", Irene thought, but didn't make a move to get Mr. M.O.D.'s mobile from her dresser. "Okay then, show Mummy. Go get your mobile like a good boy."
The man started to stand when Irene grabbed the riding crop and gave him a smack.
"Crawl," she hissed. "Crawl like the big fat baby you are."
Mr. M.O.D. did as commanded, and Irene took great pleasure in watching the man in such a wretched state.
This was how it should be, she thought. Her, a woman, with the upper hand; not the other way around like what happened all those years ago—in those drab, dingy rooms, surrounded by cameras and a crew of salivating men.
"Here Mummy," Mr. M.O.D. got the mobile and crawled back to her. "Timmy did good this time because he will save the world."
Irene held her breath. "Save the world?"
"With these magic letters," Mr. M.O.D. fumbled with his mobile and showed Irene an e-mail.
It was a code.
Gotcha.
Irene scrolled through her phone until she found the photo she had discreetly taken of the M.O.D. man's e-mail. It had been a few days since then, but she was yet to pass on the information to Moriarty. She had suspected this e-mail to be far more valuable than it seemed. She had even tried to have it deciphered by one of the best cryptographers in the country, but to no avail.
There was some good news though. More than just the coded e-mail, the M.O.D. man had let slip that one of the British Royal Family wasn't as prim and proper as her relatives (the BDSM community wasn't exactly large, so word spread fast). She'd told him to put in a good word for her, and now, she had her most illustrious client to date tied up in the next room.
Irene checked herself in the mirror, making sure every strand was in place, every curve of her body hugged by her black see through lace dress.
She moved a tongue across her blood red lips. The thought of having one of the bluebloods at her mercy brought a thrill through her such that she hadn't felt in a long while. She'd been powerless under Moriarty for far too long, and it made her all the more eager to start this particular session.
That, and the fact that she could smell an opportunity to further her own agenda.
One way or another, she will have the British Royal Family grovelling at her feet.
And granting her the protection she needed.
Irene checked the clock. 11:50PM. There was still ten minutes to go before their scheduled session; plenty time to see if Dr. Watson had any new stories to tell. Besides, her royal sub could use a bit of neglect. That way, the girl would end up begging for her attention.
Irene scrolled through the Dr. Watson's blog and to her disappointment, found that it hadn't been updated in weeks; which was strange since there was a string of kidnappings and bombings all over the news. Big serial case like that should've gotten the attention of Sherlock Holmes. Or maybe he and Dr. Watson were already on the case, she thought.
Out of habit, she opened a new tab and typed in Sherlock Holmes' official website. She wasn't sure why she bothered. He rarely updated the website and had not posted a single photo of himself. Despite this, Irene continued to hold on to the hope that one day, he would. That way, she can finally picture a face behind Dr. Watson's blog entries.
After clicking through the pages, she found herself in the message boards. They were usually empty, but this time, she was surprised to find posts from none other than Sherlock Holmes himself.
FOUND: Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989).
Botulinum Toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker St.
Congratulations to Ian Monkford on the escape to Colombia.
Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox.
Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect.
The Pool. Midnight.
Irene sat back in her chair, her brow knitted. She was familiar with the second and third posts because they were highly reported by the media. The first post though seemed to refer to an old case and the last post...
She checked the time stamp. The last post was less than two hours old.
Irene looked at the entire message board again. Something was nagging at the back of her head. Names, names...Monkford...de Santos...she'd heard those before. Not from the news, no. From others...from...associates.
From others who worked for Moriarty.
It was at that moment when she remembered what one of her associates had told her:
"Moriarty only shows himself for two reasons. One: if he trusts you implicitly, or two: if he's going to kill you."
Grabbing her camera phone and riding crop, Irene stood up and strode to the hallway. The connections she came up between the bombings, kidnappings and cases were tenuous at best, but it all pointed to Moriarty. She'd be surprised if all these dramatic flair were not his brainchild.
Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect.
The Pool. Midnight.
Irene leaned over the railing and stared at her phone for a good while before dialling the number. She listened as it rang. And rang. And rang. It seemed to go on forever.
Then, a soft voice.
"Hello?"
That gave Irene a pause. The voice on the other end sounded too soft. Too calm. "Jim? Is that you?"
"Yes, of course it is. What do you want?" Jim Moriarty sounded annoyed. Irene thought she heard echoes of...water?
The Pool.
"The M.O.D. man." Irene managed to keep her voice steady, if not chipper. "I managed to get from him an e-mail with some sort of code."
"SAY THAT AGAIN!"
Irene visibly recoiled. This wasn't the first time Moriarty yelled at her over the phone, but she could never grow used to it.
"Say that again," Moriarty continued, "and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you, and I will sssskinnn you..."
Irene swallowed the lump in her throat. Get away, get away. She had to find a way to get away from this man.
"It's true," she insisted. "I can even send you the file now."
"Wait."
Irene waited on the line, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. She began to wonder if she'd made a mistake in calling him.
She continued to listen in and was able to make out a strange exchange of words.
"Sorry." Moriarty. "Wrong day to die."
"Oh." Unfamiliar voice. Baritone. "Did you get a better offer?"
A pause. Then, Moriarty. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock."
Sherlock! So she was right. All those posts in the message boards were for Moriarty!
Irene strained to listen but the next voice to come back on was not what she wanted to hear. "So, if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich." Moriarty. "If you don't, I'll make you into shoes."
A snap, then the sounds of water fading away followed by the loudening echoes of footsteps.
"Now, about that e-mail..." Moriarty drawled. It was unnerving how he could switch his tone from angry, to threatening, and now, bored.
"It's an alphanumeric code. The M.O.D. man said it will save the world. I tried to have it deciphered," she admitted, "but my cryptographer friend couldn't crack it. Shall I send it to you?"
"Sure," Moriarty still sounded bored, but there was an edge in his voice that Irene would rather she didn't hear. "Your job's not done yet, just so we're clear. What you're giving me is only partial information so unless you have it deciphered, don't expect to get paid."
"Fair enough," Irene agreed though she really didn't.
"Oh by the way, how's the princess?"
Irene felt as though she had been thrown into the Thames in the middle of winter.
Moriarty cackled. "Come now, pet. Do you really think gossip as delicious as that gets away from me? You're being one naughty girl right now, you should be spanked."
Irene couldn't find a retort. Helpless. Helpless. That was what she was when it came to him.
"Don't worry, Daddy's not mad," Moriarty continued. "In fact, I can give you some free advice on how to play this one out."
"Free advice?" Irene repeated. The consulting criminal giving free advice? Hardly believable. "Why?"
"I'm feeling a bit generous." Moriarty sounded like an excited school girl about to go to her favourite band's concert. "Obviously, you're going to be taking pictures of our little royal, but blackmail ugh, so passé. Be more imaginative than that. Let's make this into a little game."
"A game? How?"
A pause. She could almost feel Jim Moriarty breaking out into a cruel smile. "Let's leave that for another time. I think her highness is desperate for your attention. I'll be in touch. Bye!"
Irene lowered the phone from her ear. Her body went limp for a moment and she felt as though she barely had strength enough to press the END CALL button. But when it occurred to her that she had called just in time, that she may very well have saved the life of Sherlock Holmes, she felt a sudden surge of vigour.
And relief.
"Well now." She sashayed towards the room, where her client was bound, cracking the riding crop against the wall. "Have you been wicked, your highness?"
"Yes, Ms. Adler," came the breathless reply, and Irene slammed the door shut. Moriarty may still have a hold of her and possibly everything she did, but if there's one thing she knew he couldn't do, it was that he could never read her mind.
She'll play along , she thought. She'll play along with his little game. For now.