Chapter 2: The Shadow Looms
It was January. He'd just turned 24 last week.
He heard the news while he was dirtying his face, applying makeup and dust to make it look worn and ill cared for. He darkened the shadows made by his high cheekbones, dusted with circles under his eyes with a purple-blue mixture to make them look worse, and tussled his hair into a bit of a mop.
The news was in the papers, of course, but it was on the telly in the next room, blaring to keep the servants company. "Our lovely leader, Professor Socrates Moriarty was found dead this morning in his rooms. There is no evidence of foul play, and it was confirmed that no one entered his rooms last night except himself. The coroner has ruled it death by natural causes."
"Oh, certainly not," the Shadow muttered to himself, finishing his eyeliner and beginning to make a bruise for his left cheek, dusting around his neck to make his skin appear more tan.
"His son, James, who was to take the throne in three days' time, had this to say."
The Shadow could envision the man who had been his target for days now. Sleek black hair, kind face, dangerous eyes, prepared to do anything. He scowled as he heard the obviously false tears.
"My father was a great man," the young James sniffled, his voice tinny with well-played grief. "He taught me so much. It's a shame that he's gone."
"My arse," muttered the Shadow, tilting his head from side to side, viewing at all sorts of angles. When he heard the maid hovering in the next room, he tightened the towel around his waist and darted out into the breakfast room, startling his brother's Siamese cat, Venus, who leaped out of the way and hissed at him from one of the couch cushions she technically was not allowed on, but Mycroft allowed it, anyway.
Sherlock hummed as he neared the breakfast table. Diana always made an atrocious assortment of undercooked eggs, soggy toast, and cold ham, served with stale biscuits, which always made him sick just to think of putting any of it into his mouth. But Diana could do one thing right: great coffee. Sherlock lifted his favorite red mug from the table and inhaled contentedly. Hazelnut, with just a touch of cinnamon. His favorite. None of the other maids got it quite right. He sipped his coffee, savoring the warm, sweet liquid on his tongue before swallowing. There were few benefits, he asserted, to living a posh lifestyle. One was education—invaluable—and the other was expensive coffee.
Sherlock sighed as the coffee warmed his throat, his chest, his stomach. He drank another sip, not realizing his towel was slipping, savoring the drink. He didn't notice that he was standing nude in the breakfast hall until Diana screamed and, dropping the vacuum, scurried away like a startled mouse.
Sherlock looked to his feet, seeing the black towel crumpled there. Smiling, he lifted it and walked back through the house. Before he retreated up the stairs again, he did his best to hiss at Venus, human vocal cords not exactly built to make the desired noise. But it had the right effect, apparently. Venus' hair stood on end and, very suddenly, she had to be somewhere else.