Chapter 11
Peter S. Harrison stepped out of a cab in front of a very important looking building in London. He then walked through some very important looking doors, swiped his card through the security gates and squeezed his tall figure onto an elevator with ten other equally important looking people. They all muttered a business like good morning and adjusted their black suit jackets and ties nervously. Being sociable was obviously not their strong point. On the twenty-first floor Peter Harrison got out and proceeded through the tangle of cubicles to an important looking wooden door with Peter Harrison, Attorney at Law painted across it in big, gold-leaf lettering. Peter entered and set his briefcase down in the small space that was reserved for it beside his desk.
He sat down in his posh and important looking swivel chair and switched on his computer. As he waited for it to boot up he ran his hands through his thick dark brown, almost ginger in the right light, curls; his icy blue eyes steadily following the green bar moving across the screen. When his desk top finally loaded he was met with a comforting sight, a picture greeted his tired eyes of himself and two other people at a Christmas party. The three of them were laughing, each with a glass of Champaign in their hand. He was in the middle, right hand holding his glass, left hand in the pocket of his suit pants. To his right was a woman in a black dress, her mousy brown hair done up in a flattering way; drink in left hand, right hand on Peter's arm. To Peter's left was a shorter gentleman with a hideous black and red reindeer sweater on. His right hand raised in toast, his face frozen in a joyous, laughing smile.
Peter sighed; he missed that life, that wonderful life that he had a year ago. God has it really been a year? He wondered how the woman to his right was; did she still smile and wear that gorgeous black dress to parties? Did she still enjoy working with stuffy inspectors as they carted in bodies to her morgue? And the gentleman to his left, oh god… Peter couldn't bear to think of him, he couldn't even bring himself to wonder how his dear friend was doing. He knew that he was still living in the same flat, and that somehow he managed to get through every day. Oh when will you forget me? Peter thought with a longing look at his friend's faces on the desktop background. With a sigh, Peter loosened his tie and opened the internet that connected automatically to his e-mail.
UnknownSender Subject: IOU- M Sent 05:40am
Peter recoiled at this first email. That subject line, he hadn't seen that message since… could it be? Peter shook his head. No, he was Peter Harrison, no longer that man from the Christmas party. He was just starting to establish his career as a lawyer. He was Peter Harrison; no one had any debts that they had yet to pay to him. He had no IOUs from a person named M. His face hardened as he hovered the mouse over the delete button, he didn't need some useless spam message jamming up his inbox. But his mind was screaming, the detective in him coming back out, as it sometimes did, it could be something. Against his better judgment, Peter clicked the message open.
Mr. Harrison,
It has come to our attention that we owe you a little game. We apologize that it has taken us some time to repay you, but after a year we have finally deemed our game ready to be played.
Don't deny us of the pleasure of seeing you play with us Mr. Harrison! Although, how could you? An important, fine standing man like you would never go back on his word and refuse us in our offer of a game. We even spent a year in creating it especially for you! Or will you refuse because you have finally grown up and have forgotten how to play? If this is the case, let us take this moment to remind you how to play.
At 5:30 pm exactly, you will exit your office, using the excuse of a doctor's appointment. There will be a car waiting for you, one very similar to the ones that your dear brother used to send 'round to you and your flatmate. Get in and do not ask any questions, for you will not get any answers. The car will take you to where you need to be and at that point our game will begin. You will have a choice then; will you like to meet the doctor, or the lab assistant? No need to answer now, but a choice must be made when you arrive at aforementioned point. More information will then be presented based on your choice.
We look forward to your decision Mr. Harrison.
Sincerely,
M
Peter blinked and read the message again and again. Moriarty, the word flashed across his mind like fire. He shook his head, this can't be serious… this isn't happening, it must be a joke. That's it, it must be hate mail! Some rival attorney that got burned in a recent case thought it would be funny to make him squirm. Peter couldn't think of which one it could be, there had been so many cases that he had won recently. He hit the print button on the e-mail, the IT department and police could certainly track this bastard down. The printer buzzed as the paper spat out of the machine.
Nice try Mr. Harrison, but we require the services of SH.
Peter, sputtering incoherently, printed out another copy of the email, willing the machine to behave this time.
We require the services of SH
Crumpling the paper Peter tried again, and again and again the same message, "We require the services of SH" continued to show. Cursing Peter slumped into his important looking swivel chair, feeling less than important and utterly defeated.
After a few minutes, he begrudgingly hit a red button on his phone that resided on one corner of his desk. "Yes Mr. Harrison?" a voice replied from the phone. "Susan? Remind me that I have a Doctor's appointment at 6, so I must leave at 5:30 today." "Yes Mr. Harrison, will do. Will that be all sir?" "A very strong cup of coffee, black, would be greatly appreciated. Thank you." God knows I'll need it, Peter thought as he disconnected from his secretary.
Five minutes later Susan walked through Peter's door with a very strong cup of coffee, black. Peter Harrison thanked her, grasped the standard office white mug firmly in his hand and took a long drink. He took the mug away from his lips and looked pensively into the depths of his coffee. Peter swirled the liquid aimlessly around the mug as he turned in his chair and looked out of the floor to ceiling windows. He got up and began pacing the room, his mind swirling as fast as the tornado of caffeine in his mug. Could he go back to that life as easily as he left it? There were so many questions and problems to be faced, and it would be easy to refuse, but could he? Could he run? Could he refuse?
Finally Peter turned, paced back to his desk, and took another long swig of his black coffee. Sherlock Holmes put the mug down on Peter S. Harrison's desk with a satisfying thud, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. How can I refuse indeed? The game is on once again. And this time, I am going to win.
