"Sherlock!"
He awoke slowly, having slept a full night for the first time in weeks. His robe was in a strangling disarray about him, and it took him a good twenty or so seconds merely to disengage himself from it. He sat up and yawned heavily, simultaneously shivering from a decided draft and suddenly wondering why he was awake at all.
"Sherlock!"
He found himself then leaping out of bed and taking the few long strides into the main room of the flat, to where John's voice called him. The doctor was standing, very still, in front of the desk and left window - the latter of which was all the way open and letting in the draft he had felt in bed. This struck him as odd. It was in the middle of winter; why would John have opened the window?
John was still staring at the desk when Sherlock moved to close it.
"Wait, Sherlock," said John quietly. "That's evidence."
Sherlock raised a brow and, without comment, went instead to examine what had his friend so enthralled.
It was a scrap of white paper, haphazardly torn from what Sherlock recognized to be one of his biographical journals. The journal in question was now on the floor, as if thrown, on the opposite side of the room from the shelf it belonged in. The scrap on the desk, upon closer inspection, was a note. In a spidery mix of print and cursive, and in the black ink of his favoured pen, was written this:
"Surely the game is
hardly worth the candle.
- Thalia"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, before he realized why she had left the note in this particular spot on the desk. Her passport, which he had left there only the night before, was gone. He looked around the room for a moment, but it was indeed the only thing missing from the flat, and nothing had been planted either. He frowned.
"Sherlock," said John, still quiet, thoughtful. "She broke into our flat while we were sleeping."
"Yes, John," Sherlock retorted. "I can see that."
"And all she did was leave a note?" He turned to the detective with a crossed brow.
"Obviously."
"Does none of this worry you at all?"
Sherlock gave him a sideways glance before going to the open window and looking down. He could easily distinguish her route into and out of the flat.
"Sherlock."
The detective smirked to himself, dimly noting that the only evidence of her being there were the note, the open window, and the missing passport, at the same time that he thought through her situation. The only reason that a person would notice their passport going missing is if they needed to use it, even if they were someone who traveled so often that they kept it close to them, as she had kept it in her purse. So she was traveling soon.
"Sherlock."
He whirled around to look at John, annoyed at the interruptions. "What?" he snapped.
John gave him a level look and folded his arms. "Please tell me you're worried about this," he insisted.
"Worried about what?"
John's face betrayed a flash of anger. "Christ, Sherlock - I know you're rather acclimatized to danger, but this is our home, for God's sake!" John's arms fell from their previous position and gestured to the window. "How could this not worry you? She broke into our flat while we were sleeping, and neither of us even suspected!"
Sherlock stared.
"She could have killed us, Sherlock," said John firmly. "She could have killed us in our sleep. Please tell me-"
"I'm perfectly aware of all that, John," said Sherlock, suddenly detached from the conversation. "Yet, we're fine."
Now John stared. He seemed to look at Sherlock in a way that one might look at a two-headed dog, and it was all he could do for the next moment before he spoke. "Sherlock, listen to me," he said, and the other complied. "You've got to stop this. Take this warning here." He picked up the note. "And just - just let her be until we can catch her."
"That's what I've been doing, John-"
"No, it's not," he interrupted, his eyes demanding. "No - I may be an idiot to your standards but it doesn't take much of a brain to figure out that you've been doing a lot more than what you tell me. You've been running around her and doing all this research on her - I know you have, don't give me that look - and she knows it, too."
Sherlock returned to the window and glanced out at the street. There was a long moment where neither one of them said anything.
But suddenly, as if shattering a pane of glass, John proclaimed, "I think you're obsessed."
Instantly Sherlock shut his eyes to Baker Street and thought, forcibly, No. Not obsessed - determined. The game was more than worth the candle; if there was anything at all that could incriminate her, he would find it, had to find it, and he would put a stop to her and her little business. There had to be something, and he was so close to catching it that he could feel it (though really he felt that he was just taking shots in the dark.) But it wasn't obsession. He knew the difference. He would solve this puzzle.
"No," he voiced. He walked up to John and snatched the note away before heading into the kitchen to analyze it.
He followed him. "Just give it a rest, Sherlock," John said, almost pleading. "We can-"
"When I'm done with this," said Sherlock, motioning mildly to the microscope and note, "then I'll stop. We'll let her think we've given up and wait for her to mess up. Alright?"
John nodded after a minute.
Sherlock sighed.
She woke up, sore all over. This wasn't right, though - she hadn't had a job since she'd returned from the one in Ireland the previous morning, so why was she sore? She remembered messaging her boss to give her a new assignment, but he didn't answer. Nor did he answer her texts or phone calls, even though his status on IM told her he was online. It was strange, but she'd blown it off and went to sleep. Yet, her back throbbed, her neck was stiff, and her shoulders ached.
And it was dark. She could tell even with her eyes closed that there was a little light flooding in from the window, but that was it. She was sitting with her arms in her lap in a soft chair. When she tried to pick one arm up to run her hand over her face, she realized she couldn't. Handcuffs.
Thalia opened her eyes.
It was her hotel room, with the giant bed and all. But one abnormality revealed itself almost immediately: she wasn't alone.
"Oh! You're awake," said the other person in the room. Male. Something unsettling in his voice. Too casual. "Did you sleep well?"
She noted dimly that the man was hiding in the shadows in the corner furthest away from her - dramatic, theatric.
"I'm sure you had a very restful sleep, all things considered," said the man. It clicked in her head that he had an Irish accent. It also clicked that he was indicating that he had drugged her enough to move her without waking her. "I suppose you're expecting me to introduce myself."
She didn't reply. She was fully awake now - any person who knew how to play with sedatives instantly put her on edge.
The man stepped out of the corner, moving to where the moonlight from the window shone on his face. His features by themselves were innocent-looking - baby-like, even - but it was already apparent that he was far from innocent. Something in his eyes spoke of an evil that she was not accustomed to. "Jim Moriarty," he declared, smirking and staring into her eyes unblinkingly. "I'm your boss. Or, rather, the boss of your boss. It's all a little convoluted."
She stared back at him.
"Never heard of me before?" he asked, still casually, as he began to saunter in her direction. She kept the answer to his query to herself. "Good. That means Burns did his job."
Burns. Her boss. She did not let her eyes leave the man before her, perpetually wary of his potential.
Moriarty smirked at her. "I drugged you, yes," he admitted. "Not so much for practicality, but more to get your attention. You're a chemist, after all."
Her brow furrowed unintentionally.
He lifted his brows in response, now standing directly in front of her. "Well, used to be. Now you do my dirty work." His reptilian smile was almost giddy.
She started to shake her head, but stopped herself.
He didn't miss it. His smile fell. "Yes, you do. Your - my, actually - little business got too much attention; too many jobs, too much incompetence. Don't worry, though, I don't blame you. I knew Sherlock would find out eventually."
Her eyes narrowed.
"So I shut it down. Got rid of Burns and took care of all the other itty bitty workers. Now you're the only one left."
The entire company, gone. She swallowed, then finally she spoke, her voice hoarse with sleep. "What do you want?"
"Blood."
"Mine?"
"Nah," he said in a mock-American accent, his head oscillating slightly from side to side and a sinister smile gracing his features. She wondered, this time, if he was just being overly dramatic or he was acting like his natural self. "Everyone else's."
She stared. It was hard to think properly when the sedative hadn't worn off yet. "You mean… you want to hire me?"
He shrugged and stepped closer until his trousers grazed her knees. When he spoke, his voice was very nearly sing-song. "You've worked for me all along, really - all that would change is who you take orders from and how often." His head tilted to the side and his eyes were energetic. "Better pay, too. Unfortunately, there will also be worse consequences for failure. Whaddaya say, hm?"
He smiled sweetly, but she knew what it all really meant. She couldn't refuse the offer or he would have to kill her; she'd taken the risk before on hiring new recruits for the assassination business. One could only tell a person so much before their refusal would become a death sentence - otherwise the whole company is jeopardized. It was never anything personal, just the mechanics of an economic machine, but being on the receiving end of the deal made it almost feel personal.
But it was a gamble on the employer's part, too. If the potential recruit could figure out their real options - new job or death - then it created the possibility of disloyalty and betrayal once in the new job. Only the truly powerful employers could take that risk. If disloyalty and betrayal became an issue, most would threaten them with more death, which eventually becomes inefficient all the way around. A good employer, however, knows how to balance his threats. Betrayal with them becomes a game of Let's Find Out What's Worse Than Death.
Moriarty gave her the impression of being the latter type. And, like any person in her line of work would, she immensely respected that as much as she feared it. She swallowed down her fear, however, as it was pointless. He wanted her alive.
He raised one delicate brow and sighed, "You should know that I'm wonderfully impatient."
She swallowed and shifted in her seat. "Same work?"
"With adjustments," he sang.
She nodded. "I'll take it," she conceded. And she decided that she would treat it as she treated her last occupation - as if anything less than perfection was failure. It sounded fun, anyways.
The reptilian grin grew wider still. "Good. Your first assignment is in your top drawer. When you've finished it, find Sam. Good luck!" He gave a nod in the direction of the drawer in question and then promptly turned to leave.
As her door shut behind him, she realized this was her first test of ability - she was still handcuffed, and the chain was attached to the chair.
