Chapter Six
My thanks to Ariane DeVere for her Sherlock transcripts.
Also, I was watching Star Trek VI, and Spock said that an ancestor of his used to say "If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." I stared at the screen, and I'm like, "Sherlock!" It is true! Ha ha!
Just thought I'd share that. Quite funny that Spock just gave me his approval of being Sherlock's great-great nephew.
It was about a week after Moriarty's trial ended that John got a call from Mycroft. Well, if you call abduction from the street in a sleek black government car a call. Mycroft had gone on about assassins moving to Baker Street at Moriarty's command, intent on destroying Sherlock. And then, he had asked John—yet again—to watch out for Sherlock.
The next few hours after that had been filled with excitement, especially for Sherlock, as he and John had been called in for an abduction of the American ambassador's two children. Sherlock—with the help of the ambassador's son—had been able to work out from the kidnapper's footprint that they had been taken to a disused sweet factory in Addlestone. The two children were found inside, well into the stages of mercury poisoning, and taken away to the hospital. The girl, Claudette, had eaten less of the contaminated chocolate and had been released into the temporary care of Scotland Yard. Which was where they were now.
Sherlock paced outside an office at the Yard while John sat nearby. The door to the office opened, and Donovan and Greg came out.
"Right, then," said Donovan. "The professionals have finished. If the amateurs wanna go in and have their turn…"
John stood up and walked over to the others.
Greg looked seriously at Sherlock. "Now, remember, she's in shock and she's just seven years old, so anything you can do to…"
"…not be myself," said Sherlock.
"Yeah, might be helpful," said Greg.
Sherlock looked round to John and, doing everything but roll his eyes, reached up and un-popped the collar of his coat, folding it down flat before leading John and the others into the office. The little girl was sitting at a table, looking down into her lap. A female liaison officer was sitting beside her, stroking her arm reassuringly.
"Claudette, I…" began Sherlock.
Claudette lifted her head, took one look at him and began to scream in terror.
"No, no, I know it's been hard for you—" tried Sherlock.
She continued screaming and scrambled to get away while pointing at him.
"Claudette, listen to me—" he tried again.
"Out!" said Greg. "Get out!" Grabbing Sherlock's arm, he bundled him out of the room as the girl continued to scream.
As soon as he was out of the room, Sherlock moved towards an office across the way as John and Greg followed him in, Donovan right behind them. Sherlock moved over to the window, running through the whole encounter in his mind.
Why would she scream? Sherlock wondered. What about me could have caused that reaction?
"Makes no sense," said John.
"The kid's traumatized," said Greg. "Something about Sherlock reminds her of the kidnapper."
Sherlock's head lifted slightly at that. Oh, of course…Brilliant move, Moriarty.
They wrapped up the conversation, with a parting sarcastic comment about the work on the footprint from Donovan, and John and Sherlock left the building. Sherlock got himself a cab alone, needing to think, and he gave the cabbie his address. And he immediately dove into his mind palace.
It had to be a look-alike. That's what he's doing, trying to make me look like the kidnapper. But why? I have a public reputation of being a competent detective. There has to be something more…
As he sat there, the television in the back of the front seat headrest flipped on to a jewelry advertisement.
"This is a stunning evening wear set from us here at London Taxi Shopping."
Sherlock almost grumbled at the interruption into his brainstorm. "Can you turn this off, please?"
The drive didn't respond, and the advert continued.
"As you can see, the set comprises of a beautiful—"
"Can you turn this off—" began Sherlock, louder and angrily.
The image on the screen began to fritz as if another channel was breaking through. There were momentary glimpses of someone who could only be Moriarty grinning at the screen. Eventually, the advert disappeared, and Moriarty was seen smiling cheerfully. Behind him was a pale blue wall with painted white fluffy clouds floating across it.
Moriarty's voice took on a sing-song quality as if he was talking to children. "Hullo. Are you ready for the story? This is the story of Sir Boast-a-Lot."
Sherlock stared at the screen, his face intense.
"Sir Boast-a-Lot was the bravest and cleverest knight at the Round Table, but soon the other knights began to grow tired of his stories about how brave he was and how many dragons he'd slain…" Behind Moriarty, the pale blue sky got darker, and the white clouds became grey and threatening. "And soon they began to wonder…" Rain began to pour from the clouds. "'Are Sir Boast-a-Lot's stories even true?'"
Moriarty sadly shook his head. "Oh, no. So, one of the knights went to King Arthur and said…" his voice lowered to a dramatic whisper, "'I don't believe Sir Boast-a-Lot's stories. He's just a big old liar who makes things up to make himself look good.' And then, even the King began to wonder…" He frowned, raising a finger to his mouth and gazing off to the side with a thoughtful look on his face. He frowned thoughtfully while cartoon lightning bolts shot out of the clouds behind him.
Moriarty shook his head repeatedly. "But that wasn't the end of Sir Boast-a-Lot's problem. No." He looked down for a moment and then raised his eyes to the camera again. "That wasn't the final problem."
Sherlock bared his teeth at the screen as the camera pulled back to show Moriarty sitting with a storybook held in his hands. He looked up at the camera and finished in an even more sing-song voice.
"The end," said Moriarty, a red velvet curtain dropping down behind him.
The screen then fritzed a few times and eventually returned to the advert.
"Stop the cab!" shouted Sherlock. "Stop the cab!"
The taxi began to pull up to the curb.
"What was that?" asked Sherlock, jumping out of the right-hand door and ran forward to the driver's door. "What was that?"
The cabbie, wearing a cloth cap, turned his head towards Sherlock and revealed that he was Moriarty, who adopted a London accent as he spoke. "No charge." He immediately accelerated away.
Sherlock tried to grab hold of the door and pull the cab back. Forced to let go, he chased after the taxi, but it soon sped away. He stopped in the middle of the road, glaring after it.
It was all playing out like Moriarty had planned. Greg came round the flat to bring Sherlock to the station because of the girl's scream. Moriarty had planted a seed, and it had begun sprouting roots. It could have been settled easily enough with a mind meld, but they had all agreed—Donovan and Anderson included—that it would have been proof they couldn't use without outing Sherlock's secret. Which would he rather be in trouble for: a mischarged kidnapper or an alien?
In the end, the Chief Superintendent had decided for them. Officers had shown up at Baker Street and arrested Sherlock. It would have all been fine; Sherlock would have escaped and gone on with his plan to take Moriarty down. But, of course, John just had to defend his best friend. The chief did not appreciate the act of loyalty: a punch to the face.
Now, the two of them were handcuffed together and running through the streets of London. If not for the cool steel on their wrists, it could have been like every other day of their lives. A brief pause and a look at a newspaper had brought them to the reporter Kitty Reilly's flat.
Sherlock was using a hairpin to pick the lock on his handcuff. "Congratulations. The truth about Sherlock Holmes." He freed his hand and gave the hairpin to John before starting to pace back and forth in front of Kitty. "The scoop that everybody wanted, and you got it. Bravo."
"I gave you your opportunity," said Kitty. "I wanted to be on your side, remember? You turned me down, so—"
"And then, behold, someone turns up and spills all the beans," said Sherlock. "How utterly convenient. Who is Brook?"
Kitty shook her head, refusing to tell him anymore.
"Oh, come on, Kitty," said Sherlock. "No one trusts the voice at the end of a telephone."
John finally freed his own hand from the cuffs.
"There are all those furtive little meetings in cafés; those sessions in the hotel room where he gabbled into your Dictaphone," said Sherlock. "How do you know that you can trust him? A man turned up with the Holy Grail in his pockets. What were his credentials?"
Outside in the hallway, there had been the sounds of someone coming in through the main front door of the building. Now, Kitty looked towards the door of the flat and rose to her feet with a concerned look on her face when someone pushed her door open. Sherlock turned to follow her gaze as Jim Moriarty, unshaven and with his hair messy and wearing casual clothes including a cardigan, walked in with a shopping bag.
"Darling, they didn't have any ground coffee, so I just got normal…" Moriarty trailed off as he raised his eyes and stared in terror at the sight of Sherlock, whose own eyes widened. He then dropped the shopping bag and backed away until he bumped into the wall behind him, holding up his hands protectively in front of him, his voice trembling. "You said that they wouldn't find me here. You said that I'd be safe here."
"You are safe, Richard," said Kitty. "I'm a witness. He wouldn't harm you in front of witnesses."
John, his face full of shock, pointed at Moriarty. "So, that's your source? Moriarty is Richard Brook?" His teeth were bared, and he glared at the man, breathing heavily in pure fury.
"Of course he's Richard Brook," said Kitty. "There is no Moriarty. There never has been."
"What are you talking about?" asked John.
"Look him up," said Kitty. "Rich Brook—an actor Sherlock Holmes hired to be Moriarty."
Sherlock stared at Moriarty, who was still holding up his hands and looking at everyone nervously.
Moriarty's voice was shaking as he turned to John. "Dr. Watson, I know you're a good man." He backed into the corner of the room, appearing terrified under John's ferocious glare. "Don't…don't h…don't hurt me."
John pointed towards him furiously, screaming. "No, you are Moriarty!" He turned his head briefly and yelled at Kitty. "He's Moriarty!" He turned back to him. "We've met, remember? You were gonna blow me up!"
Moriarty put his hands briefly over his face and then held them up in front of himself again, sounding as if he was almost crying in fear. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He gestured towards Sherlock. "He paid me. I needed the work. I'm an actor. I was out of work. I'm sorry, okay?"
Breathing heavily, John turned to Sherlock. "Sherlock, you'd better…explain…because I am not getting this."
"Oh, I'll be doing the explaining, in print," said Kitty, handing John a folder. "It's all here—conclusive proof."
John looked at an early typed sheet of her upcoming article and then turned to the proof copy showing the layout of how it would appear in the newspaper, with spaces left for photographs. The headline read, "Sherlock's a fake!" with the strapline, "He invented all the crimes."
Kitty looked at Sherlock. "You invented James Moriarty, your nemesis."
"Invented him?" asked John.
"Mm-hmm. Invented all the crimes, actually—and to cap it all, you made up a master villain."
"Oh, don't be ridiculous!"
Kitty turned and pointed towards Moriarty. "Ask him. He's right here! Just ask him. Tell him, Richard."
"Look, for God's sake, this man was on trial!"
"Yes…" Kitty pointed at Sherlock, "and you paid him, paid him to take the rap. Promised you'd rig the jury."
Sherlock stared at her silently.
"Not exactly a West End role, but I'll bet the money was good," said Kitty, walking over to Moriarty and putting her arm around his shoulders while he stood with his hands still held out in front of himself. "But not so good he didn't want to sell his story."
Moriarty looked plaintively at John, putting his hands together pleadingly. "I am sorry. I am. I am sorry."
"So-so, this is the story that you're gonna publish," John told Kitty. "The big conclusion of it all: Moriarty's an actor?" He shook his head in disbelief.
"He knows I am," said Moriarty. "I have proof. I have proof. Show him, Kitty! Show him something!"
"Yeah, show me something," said John.
Kitty walked across the room, and John turned to watch her as she reached into a bag for more information. Behind them, Moriarty had put his hands over his face, but now, he pulled his hands away from his eyes a little and looked towards Sherlock, whose own gaze had barely left him since he arrived. For a brief moment, Moriarty revealed his true self and smiled triumphantly at his enemy. Sherlock half-smiled back at him, but there was no humor in his eyes. Kitty took out a folder, walked over to John and gave it to him.
Moriarty slipped back into his Richard persona, sounding plaintive and panicked. "I'm on TV. I'm on kids' TV. I'm The Storyteller."
John looked at copies of Richard Brook's contact details apparently taken from an agency website and then a newspaper article showing a picture of Richard in glasses wearing medical scrubs and with a stethoscope around his neck. It was headlined, "Award Winning Actor Joins the Cast of Top Medical Drama."
"I'm…I'm The Storyteller," said Moriarty. "It's on DVD." He looked across to Sherlock again, this time keeping his Richard face on.
John continued looking through the folder at other publicity stills of Rich together with his CV.
Moriarty gestured towards John, looking at Sherlock pleadingly. "Just tell him. It's all coming out now. It's all over." His voice became more frantic. "Just tell them. Just tell them. Tell him!"
Baring his teeth, Sherlock started to walk towards him.
"It's all over now—NO!" Moriarty backed away from Sherlock and up a short flight of stairs towards the bedroom on the upper level of the flat, his eyes wide and terrified. "Don't you touch me! Don't you lay a finger on me!"
"Stop it," said Sherlock furiously. "Stop it NOW!"
Moriarty turned and bolted up the stairs. "Don't hurt me!"
Sherlock and John chased after him.
"Don't let him get away!" said John.
"Leave him alone!" yelled Kitty.
Moriarty ran into the bathroom on the other side of the bedroom, turning to grin manically at Sherlock for a brief second before slamming the door shut. With a parting comment from Kitty, they ran back out to the street in front of the building, but Moriarty was nowhere in sight.
John shook his head in furious rage as he entered St. Bart's Hospital. The nerve of him. To just say "I'm sorry" after what he did? He let out a breath through his nose, shaking his head again.
Mycroft had betrayed Sherlock—betrayed him. The man had been entrusted as Sherlock's protector on Earth and had ended up telling Moriarty his entire life story. How could the man just say sorry after all of that?
John opened the door to the lab, finding Sherlock sitting against a lab bench on the floor and bouncing a small rubber ball off the floor and cupboard in front of him. "Got your message."
Sherlock caught the ball and held onto it. "The computer code is key to this. If we find it, we can use it—beat Moriarty at his own game."
"What do you mean, 'use it'?" asked John.
"He used it to create a false identity, so we can use it to break into the records and destroy Richard Brook," said Sherlock.
"And bring back Jim Moriarty again," finished John.
Sherlock stood up. "Somewhere in 221B, somewhere—on the day of the verdict—he left it hidden." He turned and faced the bench, putting both hands on the work surface.
John walked to stand beside him, unconsciously mimicking his stance. "Uh-huh." He pursed his lips and then looked at Sherlock. "What did he touch?"
"An apple," said Sherlock. "Nothing else." He briefly drummed his fingers on the bench.
"Did he write anything down?" asked John.
"No," said Sherlock.
John hissed in a breath and looked away, racking his brains and again unconsciously mimicking his friend by drumming his own fingers on the bench. After a moment, he turned and walked across the lab, blowing the breath out again. He reached the lab doors, pausing, before turning back again. Sherlock was quickly turning around, shoving his phone into his jacket, his eyes full of thought.
John frowned at the gesture as Sherlock pulled a stool up and sat down on it, apparently ready to sit this out.
Sherlock glanced over at John, who had slumped over in his seat, his face lying on his crossed arms on the lab table. He had fallen asleep. Sherlock didn't blame him; it had been a hard few days.
Sherlock stared at his friend, wondering how in the world—if it came to it—he could ever say goodbye. And what he would do if he had to?
