And the fun begins...
Chapter Six: Once Upon A Time
Every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain.
Sherlock woke early the next morning after what felt like only a few hours of restless sleep. Fully alert as soon as he opened his eyes, he lay in bed for long minutes, his brain already at work. John's observations of the night before had not been nearly as wide of the mark as he would have liked, and it made for frustrating thinking.
Unable to reconcile such restless mental energy with staying still, he finally got up, pulled on his dressing gown, and headed into the living room. John was not yet there, though the sound of movement could be heard faintly from the upstairs bedroom. Choosing to ignore this, Sherlock moved into the kitchen and put on the kettle for tea, an automatic reflex which thankfully required no thought, as his mind was otherwise occupied.
John was fully dressed when he emerged from upstairs and came into the kitchen. For a while, he said absolutely nothing as he reached for a mug from one of the cabinets and set it next to the stove. He shot a glance at Sherlock every once in a while, but couldn't be sure if the man noticed or not.
"So." He said it shortly, without looking up. "Are you - feeling better, then?"
Sherlock gave him only the most fleeting of looks before replying. "Fine," he said mildly, his expression bland and unreadable. He took his tea over to his desk, sat down, and began fiddling with his laptop in between sips.
"Right. Good." John poured his own cup and started to rifle through the mass of papers that inevitably covered the small kitchen table. "I'm going out in a bit."
"Mm," was the most Sherlock felt like saying in acknowledgement of John's plans, though inwardly he was somewhat relieved. He needed time on his own to consider his next course of action, without the distraction of his flatmate offering to help every ten minutes or so.
John allowed himself a bit of an eyeroll when he was fairly certain his friend couldn't see, for it looked like Sherlock was bound and determined to be difficult today. "You got any plans, then - for today?" He glanced up over the rim of his mug, and could vaguely see Sherlock through the tendrils of steam rising from the tea.
"No," came the slow reply, sounding as though Sherlock was reluctant to speak at all. He let out a long breath, mentally encouraging John to finish his tea and leave before the lack of conversation got any more strained.
Well that certainly got them somewhere. John gulped down the rest of his tea and laid the papers flat on the table again. "Right, well, I don't want to see the ceiling shot up when I get back, OK? And - please - nothing new in the fridge for a while."
"I'll try to restrain my creativity," Sherlock replied with a laudable if forced attempt at politeness. He glanced out of the corner of his eye, watching John, waiting for him to grab his coat and leave.
John sighed. He knew that look; it was the "get-the-hell-out-because-you're-distracting-me" face, and Sherlock would keep responding in terse, falsely polite phrases until he left. In other words, there was no point in hanging around. John banged his mug down on the counter, pulled on his coat, and headed for the door. At the last moment, he turned and looked back.
"I'll, erm - see you later, then."
"I expect so, yes." Sherlock's tone indicated that in his mind, John may as well have already left; but his eyes followed the other's back as his friend headed out, leaving the door half open behind him.
Sherlock breathed out a low sigh as soon as he was certain John hadn't forgotten anything and would come tramping back in. He couldn't deny that it pleased him to have his friend back in his life after six months, but at the same time, each had a particular knack for getting on the other's nerves on a rather frequent basis. Thank God that John still went out and attempted to cultivate a social life - it left Sherlock to his own devices back in the flat, a situation which suited him perfectly.
He rose from the computer at which he had been doing just about nothing and walked over to a pile of boxes in the corner - things John had brought back to 221B but hadn't got around to unpacking. Sherlock nudged aside the angles and corners until he found the curves of his violin case. He gently lifted the instrument from its resting place, took up the bow in his other hand, and immediately began to play. Sometimes he would just stand by the window, but now his brain was still overly active; so instead he paced the room as the easy notes floated through the air around him.
Footsteps - soft, subtle, easily quiet - slipped up the stairs of the building. They paused for a moment, almost in mid-stride, when the sounds of the violin drifted out from the flat. Seconds turned into nearly a minute, but still there was no more movement, nor indeed any sound of breath.
Then - slowly resuming, pacing up toward the landing, quiet as the paws of a cat despite well-cut, shining shoes and the hard surface of the stairs. There was the door. One hand eased it open a bit further, but softly, ever so slowly, so that it was barely noticeable.
And then he stood there, arms folded loosely over his tailored jacket, feet set apart in a stance that was firm, yet oddly casual, as though he had walked in late to a recital and didn't want to disturb the artist at work. A smile, tinged ever so slightly with mockery, touched the corners of his lips, and with amused eyes he followed Sherlock's movement for a long while.
"I hate to admit it, Sherlock," said Moriarty in his soft, drawling voice, "but you are rather good."
The music stopped abruptly, as did the sound of Sherlock's footsteps pacing the room. His back was to the door, but he didn't need the tingling on the back of his neck to know that someone was standing there, watching him. No... the voice had done that for him.
He didn't dare look round; he couldn't. His eyes widened slightly as his brain tried to catch up to his senses, and his memory scanned those few spoken words over and over, trying to understand, to re-evaluate them. Inevitably, however, at the end of every pulse of analysis, he came to the same conclusion.
The same impossible conclusion.
Sherlock lowered violin and bow in one slow movement, his entire being tensed, like an animal which senses it is being stalked. For once, he didn't want to turn and face the danger. So he simply stood there, the only sound being the echo of his slightly quickened breathing.
Moriarty raised one eyebrow and took a few easy steps into the room. "What, you're not even going to look at me?" he asked, sounding disappointed. "Oh, I know you don't want to, obviously, but it's not like you to run from reality, Sherlock." His tone was patronising now, as though he were a teacher who couldn't believe one of his best students had made such a mistake.
Mentally, Sherlock was shaking himself violently in denial, but the physical reality of the situation was far more difficult to ignore. His brain was struggling to figure out how this was possible, while his inner pride had also kicked in and was reminding him to stay calm. He could not show confusion, let alone fear, in front of this man.
He drew in a long, slow breath, and turned.
Sherlock felt his features twitch slightly as his eyes confirmed what his mind did not want to believe. Moriarty, here, alive and condescending as ever, when by all accounts he was legally dead. Sherlock couldn't stop the question falling from his lips in a harsh whisper.
"How?"
Smiling, Moriarty shook his head. "No, no, Sherlock," he said quietly, "I thought you prided yourself on asking the right questions. How... well, that's not quite it."
He walked forward a step or two, glancing in a deceptively casual manner about the flat before flicking his eyes back to Sherlock's. "How... is for me to know, and you to - not know."
Sherlock's face twisted a bit at Moriarty's words. He bent slightly, depositing his instrument onto a chair beside him. One hand twitched almost imperceptibly towards the pocket of his dressing gown, and when he straightened, he seemed slightly more composed. It was partially an act, of course - one he hoped would be able to fool the other man. But there was no way to be sure.
"No tea this time, I'm afraid," he said then, his tone as neutral as he could make it. "Let me try this question, then - what are you doing here, besides showing off?" The last two words came out in a soft hiss.
"Why am I here..." Moriarty's tone was musing as he paced a half-circle around Sherlock. "I'm sure you can figure it out if you take a moment." He suddenly caught Sherlock's gaze, holding it through the intensity of his own, and his next words were low, almost whispered. "There's still a game out there, Sherlock, and it needs two players. You and I both know how monotonous things get with just the one of us."
He paused, looking thoughtful, then jerked his head toward the window. "Aren't you glad I waited until dear John had left? I know how he loves your little surprises, and this will be a good one, don't you think? Bring back two dead men instead of one."
Sherlock lifted his head, turning it to keep his eyes on Moriarty as the other moved around him, like a stalking cat; he drew in his breath sharply at the the man's mention of John. "That game is ended," he said after a moment, rather more loudly than he had intended. "Find yourself another distraction, Moriarty - I'm sure you'll be able to come up with something if you think hard enough."
"Ended?"
Moriarty stopped short, looking hard at Sherlock as though unsure he had heard correctly. "The game doesn't end until someone wins. We both came very, very close," he added fairly, with a slight tilt of his head, "but we're also both still alive, and that makes it a draw." He was smiling again, knowingly.
Sherlock clenched his teeth. "I have no further interest in playing with you," he said harshly. "I'm not going to dance to your tune again. The games ends when someone wins - or when both parties acknowledge a stalemate. You have just acknowledged it, and now I do as well. So go and find a new game to play!"
Looking hurt, Moriarty pressed a hand to his forehead. "No, Sherlock, no, you've got it all wrong -" He looked up again, and his expression was bizarrely sympathetic. "My talking to you, my very presence here" - he threw his hands out, turning slowly on the spot - "means that the game goes on. Oh, I suppose you can try to ignore it, but in the end, it will be so easy to get you involved again. Almost... like taking candy from a child."
Something in Sherlock's eyes tightened at Moriarty's callous reference to their previous encounters. "No," he said, as calmly as he could, staring down at the other's wide-eyed face. "I've got it exactly right. This game of yours requires two players, yes? But if I refuse to participate, then there can be no game."
It was perfectly sound logic, but logic, unfortunately, didn't always work with Moriarty, and Sherlock knew that the other man could easily upset the delicate balance of power which he was trying so desperately to maintain.
"Oh, but you won't be able to refuse," Moriarty returned softly, looking annoyingly sure of himself. "What do you live for, Sherlock, if not the game? All I have to do is make the right move, with the right piece, and you'll be right back where you were before - though," he added almost as an afterthought, "perhaps a bit wiser about things, I would hope."
"No," Sherlock said again, this time more forcefully. "You already heard my answer. I canlive without all of your puzzles, and you'll have to learn to deal with my absence. After all, you've had six months of practice."
He continued to hold the other man's gaze, but inwardly he felt a twinge of unease. The right move, with the right piece...It sounded ominously as though Moriarty had already begun to set another scheme in motion. Sherlock's eyes flickered to the door, then over to the window, and his mind reached out to John. His only friend, alone out in the streets, probably surrounded by half a dozen of Moriarty's lackeys without even realising it...
Moriarty let out a soft, slightly surprised laugh, following the other man's glance. "Oh, don't worry, I haven't gone after him - not yet, anyway." He stretched his neck absently, though his gaze remained on Sherlock. "Don't make the mistake of thinking I've become careless, Sherlock, just because you're still around to make things soentertaining." He began pacing again, circling, and then went on.
"I won't deny I was surprised - yes, surprised, but quite pleased. For quite a few months I was convinced you'd found a new home ten feet underground. I almost cried." His mouth turned up suddenly. "But now you're here again, and the fun begins all over."
Sherlock found himself turning slowly on the spot, keeping Moriarty square within his frontal vision. He didn't at all care for the feeling of vulnerability now grasping at him, the fact that he had been taken completely by surprise. With no time to prepare for this meeting, his instinct was to put up walls while his mind worked to pull itself together. But at the same time, just the sight of Moriarty here, now, and with the upper hand, was enough to make Sherlock want to go on the offensive. Anything to shake that smug smile.
"That's all you want, isn't it?" he said, his voice quick and low as he tried to find a chink in the other man's defences. "The fun, the thrill of the game is all that matters to you. We both nearly lost, and still you don't think anything has changed. But that's your mistake, James Moriarty. Because things have changed. I know you better now, and I have learned. You can't trick me into playing with you this time."
His words seemed to be part truth, part bluff. He had indeed learned from his last encounter with Moriarty, far more, perhaps, than the other man expected. But at the same time Sherlock knew that there was still that same weak point in his own armour as before, and it wouldn't take much for Moriarty to exploit that.
"Please, Sherlock, let's not be formal here - it's Jim, remember? Jim Moriarty." He was still pacing, with that faintly amused look on his features. "At any rate..." He shrugged. "I'm not going to try to trick you. I won't need to. You will look me square in the face, and you will play, because I know how to strip away all your other options one...by...one."
Sherlock forced himself to continue to stare down into the eyes of that strangely emotional face. "But you only have two options, don't you, Jim?" he replied softly. "To play the game, or to die trying. And I'll say this now -" His eyes suddenly seemed dark and hooded as he finished: "I dearly hope it's the second one."
Looking puzzled, Moriarty frowned back at him, and then the expression abruptly cleared again. "You know," he said slowly, "I hope you're right. But you know what else?"
He took a step forward, leaned in toward Sherlock, and whispered, "By then, you'll just be a name - another name on the grand trophy of players who couldn't quite make it to the final round."
Sherlock turned his head, glaring into the other man's cold eyes, only inches away from his own. He found that his hands were trembling slightly. "There will be no final round," he gritted out, his lips forming each word heavily and distinctly, emphasising his point.
Moriarty smiled his cat-like smile. "Only the people who get to it know, Sherlock," he whispered. "I'm willing to believe you might be that clever, but I don't think you're that lucky - which is rather a pity, since we're having so much fun."
There was a long pause. "Are you trying to scare me?" breathed Sherlock finally, his eyes narrowed in calculation.
"Maybe. Why, is it working?"
"No." He continued to hold Moriarty's gaze.
A shrug then. "Oh, well, not to worry. I'll have to let you do it yourself, then." Moriarty leaned in closer, as though about to divulge some dark secret. His voice was very soft. "You'll start it, Sherlock, and I'll continue it... and you'll finish it."
Sherlock lifted his chin slightly, as though in reaction to a challenge. The expression on his face was almost disdainful. "You think I'm going to scare myself?"
The look that Moriarty flashed back to him aroused the direst of forebodings. "That's right - although," he added thoughtfully, "you may have some help with that. We'll see how things work out."
"I'll probably need it. Scaring myself isn't something I've had a lot of time to practice."
"Not to worry," Moriarty said, stepping back again, "I have every confidence in you. Not that you should jump to conclusions now, Sherlock," he went on warningly, and his voice dripped condescension. "There will be things to come, but I'm not telling you where or when." He had begun backing toward the door - slowly and casually, in a manner that was much more a graceful exit than a retreat.
Sherlock watched him calculatingly, his eyes narrowed. "I could say I look forward to them, but we both know I'd be lying," he said softly.
It was costing him immense effort to keep up his appearance of calm rationale - he wasn't entirely certain he had fully recovered from the shock of seeing Moriarty alive in the first place. As the other man got closer to the door, Sherlock's restraint snapped slightly; he moved forward and grabbed Moriarty by the front of his elegantly tailored jacket, both hands clenched tightly around the fabric.
"Do give me a warning next time you decide to kill yourself," he breathed. "Then I'll be able to ensure that the state is permanent."
For a second, Moriarty seemed to actually be surprised; he cringed, flinging his hands up between himself and Sherlock as though being physically hurt. But then all tension vanished, and his hands came down again, to reveal features wide with amusement. He let out a sharp breath of a laugh, allowing the other man to hold him there with no visible consternation.
"Is that all?" he asked mildly, widening his eyes in theatrical shock. "If you're going to make a threat, at least convince me you're capable of it, Sherlock." His tone was expectant.
Sherlock glared at him for a long moment, his eyes burning. Then abruptly he released him, shoving the other man backward towards the door.
"You know I'm capable of it, Moriarty," he whispered. "Consider that a friendly warning - rather like the one you once gave me."
And despite his confusion, his anger, his barely concealed fear of what Moriarty could and might do just to keep him playing the game - Sherlock at that moment meant every deadly word.
A pleased expression spread across Moriarty's face. "Good...very good," he murmured, as though half to himself. "I think I can live with that answer - at least for now. It's good to know death hasn't made you apathetic." He stared at Sherlock for a long moment, his eyes relaxed and challenging. Then, very deliberately, he turned on his heel and left. The echoes of his footsteps slowly faded down the stairs.
Sherlock watched the other leave, his jaw clenched, and long after he knew Moriarty had disappeared from the vicinity he remained standing where he was, still with his eyes trained hard on the doorway. He wasn't sure he had completely processed the change in his current situation - or rather, the regression back to a former one. This encounter had been the last thing he had been expecting, and he didn't like the feeling of unease which Moriarty had left him to wrestle with.
Digging out his phone from the pocket of his dressing gown, Sherlock began thumbing a text to John, but then quite suddenly stopped in the middle of a word. His instinct had been to contact his friend and make sure that the other was alright. But the question was - should he even tell John about this? His flatmate was already shaken from being shot at, and by Sherlock's own unanticipated return from apparent death. The visit and subtle threat of the person whom John considered to be Sherlock's nemesis might just push the poor man over the edge.
Trying to give himself some time to think, Sherlock instead sent a different text - this one to Mycroft.
Does John know that you and Lestrade never recovered Moriarty's body?
SH
It wasn't long before a reply came back - and it was, typically, terse and to the point.
Come discuss in person.
M
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother's reply, then typed back an irate response.
Just answer the question. I'm sure it won't be a MAJOR breach of state security.
SH
In person.
M
Sherlock stared hard at his phone for several long moments, then snapped it shut. Without bothering to change into "proper" attire, he pulled on his coat and scarf and quickly left the flat, slamming the door behind him.
Much as he disliked seeing his brother in person, Sherlock really wanted some answers. Just this once, he would deign to answer Mycroft's call.
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