Sorry for the wait! More of the case unfolds.
Tony Fortz was surprised to receive a visit from a Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The man was essentially responsible for putting him in prison, but he hadn't expected to see him again once the case was closed. He actually hadn't seen him since the day he confessed to him and the detective inspector in his living room.
"Why did you kill your brother?" Sherlock asked immediately upon entering the room.
"You know why." Tony attempted to sound harsh despite his confusion at the sudden question. Sherlock nodded and ignored the empty chair across the table from the inmate.
"You are a member of the Sons of Thunder are you not?" Sherlock had noted the group's tattoo when he had initially been investigating this case. It was nothing more than a simple black lightning bolt, running down the side of Tony's neck.
"What of it?" He asked irritably.
"The Sons of Thunder is a gay hate organization," Sherlock explained, "I would assume it had more than a little to do with your brother's murder." When Tony was silent, he continued.
"What happened Tony? Did they find out your brother was gay and have you kill him?"
"They didn't know about him. And they didn't tell me to do nothing, I knew what had to be done all on my own." Tony replied angrily. Sherlock watched as Tony's expression gradually grew somber.
"I knew Al didn't approve of the Sons, but I didn't think it was cause he was one of them." He grimaced in disgust.
"Then Moran tells me he saw Al with that fag he lived with, and then I knew he wasn't my brother anymore." Sherlock stayed silent as Tony continued.
"If the Sons knew I had one in the family…" He let the sentence hang unfinished. "Moran said if I took care of it he wouldn't mention it to anyone."
"You killed him so the others wouldn't think you were gay." Sherlock said simply.
"I'm no fag!" Tony yelled. Sherlock just stared at him.
"Who's Moran?" He asked finally. Tony stubbornly kept his mouth shut.
"I'll just go asking around for him. Sons of Thunder meet in the basement of St. Mark's right?" Tony visibly tensed, but Sherlock continued calm as ever.
"I'm sure they'd love to her what you've been getting up to with your cellmate."
"I'm not getting up to shit!" Tony exploded. Sherlock smiled coolly.
"They don't know that." Tony glared daggers at Sherlock.
"He's a Son alright?" He admitted. Sherlock raised an eyebrow for him to elaborate. Sighing Tony went on,
"He had only just joined a few weeks back, but he fit right in. He was the quiet, intense type. Like you knew he meant business. Said we were on a mission to purify the human race."
"First name?" Tony grumbled under his breath for a moment before answering.
"Sebastian." Sherlock nodded once, then turned and left without another word.
He dialed his brother as he climbed into the car waiting for him.
"Sebastian Moran. Find him."
"Who is he?" Mycroft asked, already somewhat aware of the answer. His people were beginning the search as he spoke.
"A gay hate radical, member of the Sons of Thunder. He put the idea in Tony's head to kill Alan." Mycroft nodded as Sherlock spoke, he was currently watching the prison footage of Sherlock's interview.
"And Mycroft?"
"Yes Sherlock?"
"I want to talk to him first." Mycroft agreed and ended the call. He sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose. He wouldn't be home for dinner again, or possibly even at all. He still had the Korean dignitary to deal with, checking in with several of his men overseas, there was work to be done on his projects in the Middle East, and now he had to review the interrogation footage of the Hansen woman's murderer.
Just then his assistant, Anthea, she chose to go by, brought in a steaming cup of tea. She set it in front of her boss with a gentle smile. He smiled back and lifted the cup to his lips.
The hot liquid burned a glorious trail down his throat. Cream, sugar, and a heavy dose of scotch, perfect for a night like this. He reminded himself to give her a raise.
"Lovely." He thanked her. She smiled again and left him to his work.
Mycroft sipped at his tea as he kept his eyes locked on his computer screen. One of his men was in the process of questioning Victoria Hansen's murderer, and luckily for them, the man wasn't opposed to talking.
"I wasn't about to turn down that kind of money, and besides, I don't mind getting my hands dirty." This man was clearly not ashamed of his crimes.
"Look, all I know is I was supposed to sleep with this brawd until her husband found out, and when he did, I get rid of her according to his instructions."
"The message?" Mycroft's agent asked.
"His idea. Everything was his idea. He promised me I would never be caught. Said you would arrest the husband. Yeah right. Bastard." The man grumbled.
"Who?" The man lifted his eyes to the camera, sending a wicked smile in Mycroft's direction.
"Moriarty."
Mycroft was about to send his younger brother a text when Anthea entered his office and laid a manilla envelope in front of him. He nodded his thanks and hit send before starting in on the files.
"Yes?" Sherlock answered his phone brusquely.
"Sherlock," Lestrade responded. "What can you tell me about the case? Anything new?" Sherlock huffed a sigh of annoyance.
"Ask Mycroft, you're at his place aren't you?"
"He's not home-how did you-?" Lestrade stumbled over his admission angrily.
"Oh please." Sherlock chided before promptly hanging up. His phone beeped almost immediately after.
Moriarty arranged Hansen's affair and murder. –MH
Sherlock was sitting in his chair. He nodded as the text confirmed what he already knew. This was all Moriarty's doing. But what was his end game?
Waiting for Mycroft to get back to him about Moran was driving Sherlock insane. He liked to solve his own problems, and he was loathe to rely on Mycroft for anything. Especially when there was nothing he could do now but sit and think and wait.
Sherlock growled and threw his phone across the room. He began pacing, frustrated that he was becoming so easily frustrated. Normally a puzzle like this would thrill him, but with this threat looming over John's head, Sherlock couldn't calm down enough to enjoy the game.
"Sherlock?" John's question came from the kitchen. Sherlock ignored him and continued to pace. John entered the room, leaning on the doorframe and watching Sherlock with a concerned expression.
"What is he playing at?!" Sherlock nearly yelled. "Why these strangers? Why doesn't he just come after us already?"
John didn't know what to say. He had no idea what Moriarty was up to, and no way of finding out. So he stayed silent, and calmly held Sherlock's gaze.
Colonel Sebastian Moran. American. Ex Special Forces. Former Navy Seal. Honorably discharged two years ago after twelve years of service. Quite decorated. Mycroft's eyes slid down the page and came to rest on the man's picture. He froze, eyes wide, and dialed his brother without a second thought.
Sherlock and John were still staring at each other after Sherlock's outburst, when the detective's mobile began to ring from its place on the floor. John was surprised the thing was still functioning. When Sherlock didn't move, John sighed and went to answer the phone himself.
"John?" Mycroft answered. "Put Sherlock on. It's important." John walked slowly over to where Sherlock was standing and held out the phone. Sherlock's gaze didn't leave John's until the phone was at his ear and Mycroft had begun to speak.
Sherlock turned his back to John, but he could tell it wasn't good news by the way Sherlock's whole body became still.
"And you're just figuring this out now?" Sherlock's voice was low and deadly. John braced himself for the explosion that was sure to come.
"What good are your people if they can't even spot a fake ID!" John reached out to comfort Sherlock, but held back knowing he would lash out. John could just barely make out Mycroft's muffled voice through the phone, as Sherlock began hastily pulling on his coat. He grabbed John's off the hook and threw it to him.
"Where?" He asked tersely, hanging up as soon as he received an answer.
John followed Sherlock without question, outside and into the black car waiting to pick them up.
"Apparently, Victoria Hansen's killer 'Thomas Jones', is actually Colonel Sebastian Moran, Ex Special Forces, also supposed member of the Sons of Thunder, and the man who convinced Tony to kill Alan.
"Because of the blatant incompetence of Mycroft's people, Moran has already been interrogated under the guise of Thomas and sent to a holding cell. How they went through that entire process without realizing the man was a fraud is beyond me."
John reached over and gave Sherlock's hand a reassuring squeeze. The stress of this case was getting to him, and John knew that what little comfort he could provide was not nearly enough. Sherlock sighed and leaned into John. He was still unable to relax, but being close to John helped calm his temper.
"Mycroft was already on his way. He should be there by now." John nodded and placed a kiss on Sherlock's knuckles.
"You think he's one of Moriarty's men?"
"He told Mycroft's men that Moriarty paid him to murder Victoria, but that could have just been part of the lie. He could be part of the web, or he could just be a hired thug."
And then they were there, and John was practically running to keep up with Sherlock as he rushed ahead. There was commotion everywhere. An ambulance, several fire trucks and the whole police department seemed to be outside of the station.
Sherlock ripped right through the caution tape as he hurried inside. He spotted Myrcroft and Lestrade right outside the hallway that lead to the holding cells. Firemen were coming in and out. The whole place smelled like smoke.
"What happened?" Sherlock asked in a huff. John caught up, eyes wide as he looked around, just as Lestrade began to answer.
"There was an explosion in the holding cells. Only guy we had was the one Mycroft just sent over. He's in pieces." Sherlock nearly screamed in anger. He stormed into the cell area to survey the scene. EMTs were gathering the remains on a gurney and preparing to take them away. He swore under his breath and headed back over to John.
"There goes our only lead." He growled in exasperation, shoving his hands in his pockets. He really needed a cigarette. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Lestrade and Mycroft several feet away, talking quietly to each other. Lestrade started to reach out but quickly thought better of it. The movement didn't go unnoticed by either Holmes.
"Gregory please," Mycroft chided lightly, "I have to go back to work." Lestrade sighed and nodded.
"Yeah, I should probably stay here and get this sorted; start working on who the bomber is." He said dejectedly. He was already tired of Mycroft's work schedule. The man was never around, and more often than not, Greg was left to sleep in an empty bed.
"Don't waste your time, Gregory." Sherlock added snidely. "This was Moriarty. Maybe not directly, but this was his doing." Lestrade and Mycroft both turned to look at Sherlock, unaware that he had been listening to them. John took Sherlock's hand and held it tightly, desperate to calm him down before he started throwing punches.
"Is there anything we can do?" He asked, looking between the detective inspector and the British government.
"I'm already looking into it." Mycroft answered calmly. John felt Sherlock tense beside him.
"Try not to screw up again." He hissed at his brother.
"Sherlock-" Mycroft started to argue but John interrupted him. He knew what the Holmes brothers got like when they fought, and it was not pretty.
"We'll just wait to hear from you then." John said quickly as he pulled Sherlock away.
"This is just perfect." Sherlock growled. "Am I the only one that can do anything right? They can't even keep one prisoner from being blown up." Sherlock was ranting at this point.
"He probably just walked right in and planted the bomb. It's not like any of them would have noticed."
Out on the street, John turned to face Sherlock, holding his coat tightly so he couldn't move away.
"Hey" he said softly, waiting for Sherlock to look at him. When he had his attention he continued,
"We'll figure it out. You're smarter than him Sherlock. He can't hide forever. He won't win."