Chapter 6- More Questions Than Answers

Mallory

The first thing I was aware of was the painfully bright light directly above me. Even though I was directly facing it, I could tell it was above me because of gravity's pull on my body, which was laid out on what seemed like a table. I could smell a recognizable-yet-unfamiliar odor in the air, but couldn't recall what it was. My arms were pulled up above my head, something metal on my wrists. I tried pulling my arms down but couldn't: the metal things must have been handcuffs. I experimentally drew my knees closer: my ankles must be handcuffed, too. I was still drowsy from whatever drug Moriarty had used on me, and it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the harsh light before I could register the shadowy figure standing just a few meters to my right.

"Good afternoon, Sleeping Beauty," Moriarty's singsong voice rang out. "You've finally awakened. Late, too—it's just turned four o'clock."

"Please tell me it wasn't with a kiss," I said, more bravely than I felt.

If I could clearly see Moriarty, I'm sure he would be wearing a smirk. "Don't worry sweetheart, I'll leave that to your Mr. Holmes."

I heaved an irritated sigh. "Why does everyone assume we're dating?" I asked.

"You two act like it," Moriarty pointed out.

I ignored his remark—it had to be to make me more prone to suggestion. "Have you put makeup on me?" I asked, finally recognizing the strange odor. I hadn't worn makeup in years, that's why I couldn't recognize it immediately. But why was it on me now?

"Yes," he replied. "I have. I just needed a few pictures. You know, for threats." He pulled out his phone and displayed a few photos of my unconscious self. I will admit, he was skilled with eyeliner: he really made my sleepy, half-open eyes look like sapphires. He made the rest of my face look like I belonged on a runway in Milan.

"Great work on my eyes," I remarked.

"I'm flattered," Moriarty replied, putting the phone away. "You're rather lovely on your own, but I had to refine you a bit—get their blood boiling."

"Tell me your whole plan?" I demanded hopefully.

"My darling Mallory," Moriarty said, a little too fondly for my liking. "You know me better than that."

"Well, if it didn't work on Doctor Who, I guess it wouldn't for real," I said regretfully. "Worth a try, anyway. At least tell me this, Moriarty: why have you brought me here?"

Moriarty smiled sinisterly. "Would you really want to hear my answer?"

"Will it be the truth?"

"I'll make you a deal," Moriarty said, bending down and putting his chin on the table near my head, so I could feel his breath on my ear. "An answer for an answer. Truthful. Deal or no deal?"

I turned my head enough to glare at him but not face him head on. "Deal," I said with finality. "You answer first."

Moriarty smiled, stood up, and began pacing around my table. "Very well, then. I've brought you here because it was convenient for my plans, and it's an infuriatingly simple location to decipher that will drive your dear Sherlock mad. My turn: how is it that you can stand Sherlock Holmes, and he can stand you?"

I shrugged as convincingly I could in my restraints. "I don't know, we just do," I answered, annoyed. Why does this keep popping up? "I put up with his rudeness, and he puts up with my quirks. My turn, now: what happened after you knocked me out?"

"Always the practical one," Moriarty said in a condescending tone.

"Answer the question," I demanded.

"Very well, Sergeant," the genius taunted. "We drove you to an undisclosed location where we handcuffed you to the legs of this table and you slept for, oh," he consulted his watch, "about two hours. Your phone's been taken out of commission—couldn't leave any tracks, could I? Your gun's been destroyed, too—sorry about that, it was in excellent condition."

"Thank you," I said. "I was rather fond of it. And clever with the handcuffs, too—I can't move from the table because of my own weight upon it."

"Thank you," Moriarty replied. "Now it's my question, then: why is Mr. Holmes infatuated with you?"

"Why does everyone keep thinking that?!" I exclaimed, straining against my handcuffs. Oh, how badly I wanted to throttle him then. "We're just friends! He's not attracted to anyone, and who in their right mind would want to go out with me?"

"Come on, Mallie girl," Moriarty whined. "Can't you see it? The way he talks to you, reveals his plans to you, even letting your annoyingly frequent literature references go without comment! He's paying attention to you, more than he would even Dr. Watson sometimes. Oh, Mallory, you should see the way he looks at you when your back is turned. I guess you'd know, though: you've given that look to him quite a few times, haven't you?"

"Stop it!" I exclaimed, unsettled. "He only does all that because…" I trailed off, not knowing what to say. There really was no reason he put up with me. Moriarty may only be trying to unsettle me, but he did have a point there. Pushing it to the back of my mind, I said, "My question now: why did you murder Anthony Hardell?"

"I didn't," was his simple reply.

"That's not possible," I said. "You or someone working for you murdered him and made it look like an accident to grab our attention!"

"Which was exactly what I wanted you to think," Moriarty said teasingly. "Would you like me to explain?"

"Go right ahead," I replied, infuriated.

Smiling, Moriarty began. "First, I'd like you to recall the day we met."

"Oh, when you threatened to blow John and me to bits?" I asked sarcastically.

"The very same. What did I tell you three I was?" I thought back to that fateful night, the one John called 'The Great Game' in his blog. Moriarty had drugged John and I and strapped bombs to us. He gave John an earpiece and sent him out to meet Sherlock alone, who had arrived with the intent of handing the Bruce-Partington missile plans over. I was only brought into the play when Moriarty made his grand entrance: he had decked me out in bombs like a Christmas tree and led me out with him as if I were his date to prom, with the sole purpose of making Sherlock uneasy. Sherlock had de-bombed us and picked my hands free once Moriarty left for a moment, but we were brought back into danger when little glowing red dots appeared on our chests: the laser pointers of snipers. Sherlock was about to shoot my discarded vest and blow up the whole place when Moriarty's phone began ringing, and he abandoned his pursuit and let us go. I always sigh with relief whenever I hear his ringtone, 'Staying Alive' by the Bee Gees, playing.

I was combing over everything I remembered from that night when I found my answer. "You told us you were a consulting criminal," I answered. "What's that got to do with Hardell?"

"He was inquiring about my services," Moriarty replied. "Had a cousin who was getting on his nerves. I heard him die on the phone, so…I decided to use that to my advantage. I prepped the entire house—burned his dirty clothes, destroyed his mobile, and made the needle mark. My question, now: why did I make the needle mark?"

I scrolled through the section of my brain that was always questioning a criminal's motives, always asking why. "You had to make it look like a crime somehow," I finally answered. "You had to make something look suspicious."

"Correct," Moriarty said, impressed. "There wasn't actually anything in the syringe when I made the mark. You're smarter than you look."

"I learn from the best," I replied venomously. "My turn: why are you doing all the legwork? When we first met, you said yourself you don't like to get your hands dirty. So why now? Why me? What makes me so special?"

"Oh, I've been waiting for that question," Moriarty said eagerly. "I was wondering if you'd ask it."

"Answer whenever you like," I said impatiently.

"Thank you, I will," Moriarty said, mockingly polite. "Holmes prides himself over figuring out a criminal's patterns. He loves being able to predict what they'll do next. So what would anyone do if they wanted to baffle and infuriate your darling detective? Easy: break their pattern. I can keep him guessing because I have no pattern; that's why he hasn't caught me yet. Now it's my question, Mallie dear: do you really think your dear Mr. Holmes will swoop in and save you?"

"Absolutely," I said, doubtless.

"I wouldn't be so sure," Moriarty replied. "You see, I'm going to make this as painful for Sherlock as possible. That day we met, I promised to burn the heart out of him—and now, I've found out how."

I glared at him suspiciously, and he continued. "I'm going to hide you from him—probably only a few hours will go until he finds you. But it will be just long enough for me to administer your slow demise, and he'll have time only for a single glance before you breathe your last breath. And then, after he realizes he's been beaten in the cruelest way possible, after he knows I've bested him in the worst way, when he realizes I've taken away the one thing that makes him human, I'll kill him when he cries!"

I was too horrified to respond. There was heavy silence for a few moments, and then Moriarty said finally, "If there are no more questions, then I'll see you later." He turned on his heel and walked into the darkness, and I could hear a door with a metal handle open and close a short distance away. I drew a long, shaky breath as I tried not to stare into the glaring spotlight above me, radiating its intense light and heat down on me.

Sherlock, John, where are you?