A.N. Okay, so I don't actually like this chapter. It's shorter than most and I feel like it's a lull, but it's necessary for what's to follow, so bear with.
Thanks to Lexicon, Pachax, 104Arianna, and Irene Holmes (multiple chapter review :) ) for their lovely words. They always make me so happy. I'm glad you're still enjoying this story and hope that this lives up to expectations.
And to all my readers, read ahead.
Chapter Ten:
Sherlock stood dumbfounded—a characteristic not normally used in defining the great detective.
He would not speak; he could not bring himself to respond to this latest news.
Lestrade was watching him intently, wanting him to react, but it was John who broke the silence first, unable to withhold.
"Moriarty's dead? Are you sure?"
Sherlock watched Lestrade's expression with keen interest as he stammered a response. "Well, Donovan says…"
"Donovan says?" Sherlock interjected cruelly. "What, are we taking Donovan's word for law now?" It struck him now that he had never believed Lestrade's words, had been stumped rather by the significance of it. As he learned now that Sally Donovan had made the call, his certainty in the matter was set. "She is mistaken, Lestrade. She does not even know the man."
It was only at the sudden sound of shuffling feet that Sherlock recalled Molly's presence. Inclining his head, he saw her face frozen in fear, her lips pursed in uncertainty. So she did still care for the man.
Noticing Sherlock watching, Molly squeaked and turned away. He would pursue her later, for at the moment Lestrade looked on the verge of reprimanding him,
"She says she's pretty sure…"
"And pretty sure now accounts for absolute certainty?" Sherlock countered snidely. He was being colder than he should have been, but his mind was in the process of trying to understand Moriarty's latest move and his temper was short. "This must be part of his ploy, his next move. He's trying to draw my attention elsewhere, trying to play with your mind."
Lestrade's head shook with fierce impatience, his hands rising up in defeat. "You believe what you will. We'll know soon enough." With that, he turned on his heel and stormed angrily from the room.
"Do you really think it's just a…a fake?" Molly stammered as Lestrade disappeared from the room.
Sherlock made no attempt to respond as he turned to John now. "Do you believe him dead?"
John scuffed his foot against the floor, looking slightly discomforted as his eyes passed over Molly. "I think I'll believe it only when I see his body dead before me."
Molly gave another squeak before hurrying from the room.
Sherlock did not even flinch, his gaze resting on the doctor's face. "I do believe Molly has been rather taken in by James Moriarty," he mused.
"Is that what you think?" John returned with a sharp quip of sarcasm. "I'm amazed she feels so strongly about him. I would have thought that a month of no talking would turn a girl off."
The thought provoked a new one in Sherlock's mind, one that grew in aggressive fervour. "Unless he hasn't been gone for a month." These murmurings aloud caused John to cast him a dubious look.
"What? You think he's been keeping up with her, arranging dates. Why would he do that? Because he loves her?" John's voice reeked of even more doubt, saying it as though it was a most ridiculous suggestion, too preposterous.
Sherlock was in accordance with John's latter comment, though the rest of it did not seem so foreign of an idea in his buzzing brain. Why would Jim Moriarty attempt to keep a relationship going with a woman like Molly? There was obviously no real attraction, no real connection between the two. Molly might be deluded into believing otherwise, but Moriarty…? He could not begin to imagine why, and so wracked his brain for possibilities as the minutes dragged on.
C H A P T E R T E N
Close to an hour passed before the body arrived.
John was downstairs getting a coffee, hopeful that the caffeine would help him stay awake, when the ambulance arrived. Seeing the body atop the gurney, his stomach churned in disgust. It was amazing how death still had an impact on him, though in all fairness these latest murders had been rather gruesome in nature, so much so that most people would have turned at the sight—Sherlock not included. But this body now being wheeled away before him was grisly in a way far different than the others.
For one, the flesh had been nearly completely burned off, leaving patches of charred skin. Black and red, the body was destroyed to the point that John was doubtful that anyone would be able to identify it with any certainty, which made him question Sally's insistence on the fact that it was Moriarty. It did not help that what little had been left of the body showed clear signs of having been gnawed by various forms of life as well as the clear indication that the decomposition process had already begun. Whoever it was, they had been dead for a long time.
Cringing, he set aside his cup, unable to drink it now. He could only imagine the look that would cross Sherlock's face when he saw this body presented to him. In fact, he would very much like to hold witness to the detective's reaction.
Rushing to the stairs, he made it to the mortuary just as the lift doors opened. He went in first to find Sherlock bent over the teacher's body, an expression of intrigue on his face.
He began to call for the detective's attention, but was briskly cut off by the sound of doors being flung open. Lestrade's voice came through now.
"…over there. Anderson, I'll leave you in charge of this."
Sherlock's gaze snapped up in attention, his eyes falling first on Lestrade and then to the body. His orbs seemed to darken as he did. "This is the body?" he enquired slowly, as he swept forward in two long gaits. His expression was one of disdain. "This is what you believe to have once been Moriarty?" He sneered. "I would love to hear your reasoning, Sally."
Donovan flinched ever so slightly as Sherlock's sharp gaze fell on her. She crossed her arms as if to defend herself. "Why don't you tell me," she snapped crossly.
John's stare fell onto the body too as Sally pointed. He had not seen it before, but as he stared now at the full body, he could not mistake the giant M carved into the man's torso.
"Of course! He must be Moriarty!" Sherlock exclaimed, his sarcasm overabundant.
Sally scowled. "Anderson's certain he's been dead about a month, and we did always think that the explosion could have killed him. My reasoning is sound."
"Oh, yes, most definitely."
John took a deep breath as the anger in Sally's eyes raged with a burning ferocity. Sherlock was not doing himself any favours by picking an argument with this woman. "It could be him, Sherlock."
As the detective's gaze fell on him, John realized he'd said the wrong thing. There was something akin to hurt in his eyes, as if this was some betrayal. "This cannot be Moriarty. He's been leaving us bodies these past days. How could he do that if he was dead?"
"Because it's not him," Lestrade said now. "Sherlock, we have to cater to the possibility that it might be someone else."
But Sherlock would not hear a word. "You're all so blind. This is not Moriarty and I know how to prove it."
John stared again at the disfigured face. There was no way to tell. He seemed the right height, the right build. In truth, he did not believe it to be Moriarty either but, unlike Sherlock, he was willing to hope that perhaps the man was gone.
"And how do you intend to do that?"
Sherlock offered no reply as he hurried then from the room, leaving a dismal pall to fall over the room.
Anderson broke the silence first. "Well I would like to get started if you think it won't upset his highness."
"Do it," Lestrade ordered, looking then to John. "Where's he gone off to, then?"
John shrugged. "I have no idea." He did not know if he should leave as Anderson prepared to cut into the form. It was late and his mind was begging for rest. Perhaps he should leave.
"Probably gone to murder some poor woman," Donovan mumbled from the corner.
John turned to her with hard eyes. "He's not a murderer," he said curtly. "He's doing his best to help you lot."
Sally made no attempt to respond and silence fell again, broken only by the sound of Anderson rummaging through his tools. He definitely should leave.
But he was stopped before he could even try as Sherlock re-entered the room then, dragging a frightened Molly behind him.
"Oh Sherlock, don't," John protested, stepping forward. He could not do this to the girl.
Sherlock did not hesitate, though, as he pushed Molly forward, prompting her to glance at the corpse. "Is this Jim Moriarty?" he hissed.
The girl stood frozen as her eyes fell upon the burnt body. For a second John though she would retch, but she did not. She just stood there, staring.
All eyes were on her, but Molly said nothing for a few minutes. A single tear dripped down her cheek. John was the only to see.
"I-I d-don't know," she stammered. "I c-can't tell."
Sherlock frowned impatiently. "Do you think it's him?"
Molly stared at him defiantly then, her eyes shining. "I don't know. I haven't seen him in a month. How should I know?"
"Maybe this will help," Sally spoke up suddenly. In her hand she held a bag of possessions, a bag she had not told them of.
Sherlock seemed to bristle with anger. "What is that?"
"They were found on his person. Didn't I say?" Sally acted the innocent as she moved forward, laying the items on a tray before them. "Take your time Molly."
John stepped closer to discern them for himself.
There were four different items. A watch (gold with a crack running through the middle of the face), a wallet (black leather, ripped and empty), a lighter (silver with a black emblem on one side, a symbol John could not decipher), and a ring (a plain, gold band).
He could not see Molly's face as she perused the items but he could sense that something was amiss as her hand reached out for the ring. Sally passed her a glove prompting Sherlock to mutter something about there being nothing to contaminate. No one paid him heed as Molly lifted the ring, her gaze fixed on the inside.
The ring fell from her hand, clattering against the tray as she retreated a few steps in shock. "I…that…" She said no more as her tears came in a rush.
Glancing at the others, John rushed forward to comfort the girl, leading her from the room, vaguely aware of the triumphant grin on Sally's face and the rather vacant expression on Sherlock's.
C H A P T E R T E N
Three days passed and nothing.
They were all convinced that Moriarty was dead: Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, Molly, even John. They had all been taken in, but he knew better. They could not convince him, try as they might, to believe that the man was dead. What did it matter that they were possessions? What did it matter that they'd been able to confirm that the body was Moriarty's, or that the DNA matched? It was all part of the grand scheme that they were all too stupid to see. He was not ignorant.
The case had taken a turn for the worse too. Lestrade had tried to retrieve phone calls and emails, but the records of all three women had been wiped clean. No one knew anything, ask as he might. He'd tried everything to get someone to admit it, but the trail had been wiped clean and he was at a wall again.
John was gone, working at the hospital with Sarah. He did not expect him back before morning, but he talked nonetheless as if he were there, just musing aloud. It helped sometimes to voice his opinions regardless if someone was there to listen or not. The silence threatened to drive him insane.
"Are you talking to yourself again?"
Mrs Hudson entered the room so quietly that Sherlock flinched slightly upon the sound of her voice. He was at the end of his nerves, his mind reacting badly to this business of 'Moriarty's death.
"If it bothers you, leave," he told her sharply as he settled back into his couch.
"Now really, Sherlock," she chided. "What's gotten into you?"
Moriarty. He did not respond to her question, closing his eyes in hopes that she would leave.
She did, clicking her tongue as she went.
He laid there as time passed him without meaning. Moriarty was not dead, but he wanted the world to think he was. But why? And how on earth did Molly fit into all this? He could not find an answer, but he should have by now.
What was wrong with him? Why was this case proving so difficult to find a resolution for? He had tried everything now, everything he could think of to find the linking factor, and yet it still evaded him like the wind evades the hand of a grasping child. But he was no child, and he was not chasing the wind.
Hours passed as Sherlock lay still, letting his mind carry him. He had used John's laptop to peruse a variety of call girl sites, but none had shown any evidence of having lost any women recently. But he was certain that he should have. It made him believe that this was all part of some bigger plan, much bigger than just a simple attempt to recreate a string of unsolvable murders from the past. But what?
He had ideas, but no proof, and no solid reasoning and it was frustrating. There was something he was missing, something he should not have missed. He had already retraced his steps almost a dozen times, taking into account everything. But there was nothing to be found, not even the smallest smudge. The cleanliness of it all made him extremely suspicious. It was all too perfect.
The door below opened but he did not move, even as footsteps echoed up the steps.
"Have you moved at all since I left?"
John was standing before him, looking rather frazzled.
"Bad day at work?" Sherlock enquired instead of giving a response. He let his eyes fall over John's being, able to discern in only a few seconds that he'd had a row with Sarah and diagnosed a patient with some possibly incurable ailment. He also knew that he'd walked some of the way home. He voices these to John who stared at him with wide eyes.
"Really, Sherlock?"
Sherlock did not grin as he normally would. His mind was still working, this was a clear sign of that. "Ink splatter; right wrist. You pressed too hard when writing a prescription. Your hair is all ruffled, clearly from the wind and clearly not from just waiting for a cab or crossing a sidewalk. You also have a splatter of water on your pant. Car drove through a puddle nearby. And as for Sarah, well, it was quite obvious that you intended to go out with her. Why would you be here then unless you'd gotten into an argument?"
"Shove off," John said angrily, storming into the kitchen.
Sherlock watched him grow, his frown deepening. It was rare for John to react with such vehemence. He sat up then as John came back into the room. "Do you want to talk about it?"
John came to a sudden halt, regarding Sherlock with curious eyes. "Are you really trying to be compassionate?"
He hesitated. "Perhaps," he said finally. "Do you want me to try to be compassionate?"
"I don't know." John took his usual seat. "Can you pull off compassion?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Why don't you talk, and I'll pretend to listen?"
John scoffed. "We fought over you."
This did not come entirely as a surprise to Sherlock. In the past month, many of the couple's arguments had stemmed from debates over the detective's methods. "What about this time?"
"About whether I should keep living with you or not," John answered after a brief pause, eyeing the detective with wary eyes.
Sherlock said nothing for a while. "She was trying to convince you to leave?"
"Yes."
"And do you want to?"
There was no hesitation. "No, I don't."
It lacked sincerity though, and Sherlock's eyebrows rose suspiciously. "I don't mind…"
"Sherlock, it's fine," John interrupted. "Look, I feel as though we're constantly having this discussion and it needs to stop. I'm not going to move out, yet. Sarah and I aren't that serious yet, and you still need my help. I'll think about it once this whole thing is solved. So, let's drop it."
"It's dropped," Sherlock said.
"Thank you."
They fell into silence now as John opened his laptop and Sherlock reached for his mobile phone.
There were ten missed messages. Eight from Mycroft, two from unknown. Curious, he opened the first.
Come and find me if you can – JR.
He stared at it wonderingly before opening the second.
Dusk has fallen on this place
The rising moon incites the chase
The streets are mine to stalk at will
As a predator pursues its prey to kill
A woman tonight will suffer my wrath
As she stumbles unknowingly into my path
Her body will be yours to find
This game will test your body and mind
The question is can you succeed?
You poor foolish man without a lead
Can you play the game and come out alive?
The chances are slim that you will survive.
You're already beginning to rip at the seams
This case doth haunt your waking dreams
The harder you try, the more you will learn
But beware those that you leave to burn
At the end of this game, a price must be paid
You cannot escape without loss in this trade
The line between good and evil is thin
You must sacrifice your heart if you want to win
-JR
It was poorly written. Such was Sherlock's first thought. His second was one of infuriation. He did not like riddles and this one was proving to be quite an aggravating one. He glanced over it a few times, trying to decipher the clues he believed to be there.
Moments of searching proved futile as he could not pull from this garble of words any true message.
Placing aside his mobile, Sherlock glanced towards the window. It was beginning to rain again, the downpour falling upon the window panes with some great force. He should be trying to stop it but where was he supposed to start? The man was toying with his dead.
And then the call came. So it had already happened.
He reached for the mobile. "Yes, Lestrade?"
"We found another one."
There was something different about Lestrade's voice. It sounded almost…excited. It was quite unlike the detective inspector.
"What's different about this one?" he questioned, his own heart beginning to race in anticipation.
"She's still alive."
A.N. Yes, I know, another cliffhanger. And that poem? I still cringe when I read it, but I don't know, I kind of like it. it seems like something this JR person would do. The question is: is he Moriarty or not? It doesn't seem like he is, and yet Sherlock is so sure. All will be resolved soon, I think…
Please leave me a comment to let me know what you think. This marks a thrilling change in our story as we're thrown into what I like to consider ACT TWO! So prepare for new twists, new characters and more murderous.
Next chapter: Can this woman provide answers for Sherlock? Is the body they found really Moriarty's? And what does Mycroft want? Stayed tuned to find out.
Reviews are always lovely.
Love,
Faith
