Chapter IX
false names
The interview she makes with him is surprisingly quick and yet thorough. She asks him for the relationship they have (of course they're friends, who would dare to think otherwise?), Moriarty's family status or any relatives living close (he's an orphan and Sherlock is the only one close to him, it's simple as that), any drug or food related allergies and finally names of the two. Sherlock looks at her dully, he's mind already racing, thinking out a good solution.
"We went to a bar when all of this happened" the lie goes silkily past his lips, he's eyes full of doubtless sadness. "He caught himself in the middle of one of those fistfights and I rushed to his aid the moment I noticed everything. My pockets have been empty ever since I rushed with him onto the street so I can't provide you with my ID at the moment. I'm really sorry for the trouble and God, it just couldn't get any worse, could it?"
He tries to think it's John he's talking about and it goes easier, lies tangling and creating an invincible, tight web across the eyes and heart of the girl. He can almost see her throat clenching with sympathy and anger. "I'm sure you won't lie to me, sir. You're one of the good souls out there, I can see it easily. It must've been awful to deal with a street-gang, those young people can more frightful than true habitual offenders these days! Just give me your full name and actual address. We'll get the rest later when everything will be less hectic and painful. No need to worry, sir."
He nods his head, staring at a small coffee table in front of him. It's quite old and a bit dusty, ornaments on the top a bit clumsily made and yet quite interesting. It seems most of the things in this room (fist a day room, then a hospital room and now an office for walls are too bright and cheerful, the smell of the chlorine still lingers in the curtains and documents haven't been really sorted thoroughly, postcards mixing up with statements and charts) have been cheaply purchased, perhaps in the last moment available. There are two old looking cabinets full of neon green box files, two classically looking dark arm-chairs and a couple of shelves filled with various porcelain or clay figures. He eyes them momentarily, looking then square into her eyes, pupils a bit enlarged.
" My name's Daniel Bams and I don't really have any fixed address nowadays," he shrugs his shoulders, tension slowly wearing off with each word, with each promise of stripping off with a new identity. Things go smoothly, her eyes shining with understanding. He sighs, clenching his elbows and the charm works just like he thought it would, her fingers trembling on the paper she fills with his answers. The more details he'll let slip, the more believable and yet implausible the tale will sound. It's always like that, with Mycroft, with the Yard, with everyone. Lies, lies, lies. Her hair shines in the dimmed light and he closes his eyes for a moment, not stopping in his talk. Perhaps a nice change in the accent will be just the thing doctor orders? "I'm still lookin' for a nice job in here, to tell the truth. Wanna change my life a bit, you know. Things got dull where I previously lived so now time for the capital city."
His smile is strained and it nearly leaks with false sweetness but she seems to accept it as a sign of nervousness and brushed emotions and just smiles back. Her teeth are dazzlingly white and so shimmers in the light just like her hair. She smoothes out the creases on her uniform less awkwardly than before and tugs a few stray strands of her hair behind the left ear. "And what about your friend? Has he come with you to London?"
Sherlock looks at her for a moment, feeling emotions swirl and tangle inside of him. Just what exactly should he say to have an easy access to Moriarty round the clock? It's a matter of life (of the most dear one) and he knows he can't miss. He swallows thickly, the wind swaying various branches with a howl behind the window. He can't help a small chuckle escape his lips after a minute or two, each sound higher and less sane than before.
"I've met him a couple of months ago here but really, it's been just a "hi, how are you?" type of a relationship then. Just yesterday we met again because of our mutual friend and I must say it was a breakthrough." He looks at her thoughtfully, his eyes misting over for a moment and he can almost feel her eagerness for details, the air getting warmer and thicker with each passing second. But not now, dear, not now. He glances at her through the eyelashes, lips puckering for a split of seconds but she doesn't seem to notice. It all feels like an audition to a play or already a premiere. A good actor can't forget his lines. And so, Sherlock utters, with embarrassment well hiding his anger and self-pity. " His name is Harry Tigapac and we were supposed to start looking for a flat round the city this week."
"So you're a pair then? I bet the two of us would look lovely together!" She runs her eyes over his face, beaming.
Sherlock stares at her, not understanding. When exactly has the talk took such a direction? He can't even begin to describe the horrible wave of loathing and disgust he feels swelling his insides the moment he hears those few words. He can't help but stare daggers at her, half wishing to be able to kill Moriarty already so he won't have to go through such humiliating things like this. He and Moriarty of all people! Just fantastic! "Pardon me, miss, but I can't really see why that should be any interest of yours, even if it was true."
The girl blinks, surprised at his harsh tone. She back off slightly, nuzzling almost into the back of her armchair. "No need to get nervous, sir. I'm really sorry for the last bit, sir. It won't happen again."
Her eyes glitter though when he doesn't look straight into them and soon the interview ends, all the needed date already gathered.
Sherlock can't visit Jimmy boy until next few days and it's only half true that he's enjoying the little freedom he might get because of that. Moriarty's phone's casing feels like liquid metal onto his skin when he sticks his hands into the pockets roughly, having previously ensured which room that blasted son of a bitch will be lying in.
217th. Hope some ghosts will start haunting him there soon, Sherlock smiles to himself grimly, not even waiting for the girl to say anything more.
Some research must be done in the meantime and he's fairly sure who might be able to help him at first with a couple of details.