12. Fall from heaven
Sherlock was grateful when he managed to 'fall through the hole'. He'd read the phrase once, in a horror story about an kidnapped author, who, forced at gunpoint to write a novel, found his only respite in concentrating solely on his story, deliberately shunning the outside world until he could forget it for a few precious hours.
Although he'd found the sentiment idiotic at the time, the biography of Sir Francis Walsingham did the same for Holmes now – take him away from these walls, this place, these people, if only for the time being. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that the book was one of Mycroft's favourites.
Indeed Holmes was so absorbed in the spy master's machinations and tribulations that he almost overheard the door being unlocked. And why not? It would be Jenkins with a few gloating jibes and a platter with food Sherlock could well have done without. Not an event to revel in, not even on day 60 of his confinement.
However, today the factotum didn't bring lunching. "Get up. Now!" And a flabbergasted Holmes found himself grabbed by two of Moriarty's 'private guards' who forced him on his feet and twisted his arms behind his back. Sherlock only struggled when he smelled the chloroform, but by then it was too late.
He awoke with a terrible headache, disoriented and still shaken from the sudden attack but the sounds were unmistakable: He was in a plane. Why was he suddenly in a plane?
"Sorry for the rough wake-up call, my dear. Michael was a bit overzealous."
"James" Sherlock managed to get out "you're back."
"We both are back. Or will be in an hour or so. Back to good old England."
This took the last of the sedative's cobwebs from Sherlock's mind. "What?"
"You and me, we're going to spend some time on the outskirts of London for a change. Some months, at least. Aren't you looking forward to it? Here, let me help you." The later referred to Sherlock's attempt at sitting up although his hands were cuffed behind his back and he was strapped to the flapped down seat.
"Is restraining me meant to be the beginning of the fun?" Belatedly the captive realized his counterpart's dishevelled state. Moriarty looked a mess, tired, exhausted actually, and distraught when he answered. "Sorry for that, too. It'll keep you out of mischief and I take it you're not interested in another dose of sedative before we arrive."
"But afterwards?" Holmes asked sarcastically.
Moriarty smiled with genuine regret "It can't be helped; you're to play the unconscious patient again and perhaps you'd not cooperate voluntarily. So the needle it'll be, as much as I deplore it."
Sherlock forced himself to sound calm and reasonable although the perspective of being brought to England made his head reel. "There's no need for that, remember? I said I won't run and I won't fight as long as you keep your side of the bargain. Where are you taking me?"
"I wasn't kidding when I said we're going to England. Some surgery, a few weeks of convalescing, new passports for our new faces and we can start afresh. Some place nice. How do you like the Caribbean?"
"You can't be serious!"
"Don't be such a girl, Sherlock. It won't hurt that much. And you're going to like your new face, I promise."
Instinctively Holmes tried to get up, but Moriarty gently pressed him back on his seat. "No use struggling. You'll hurt yourself for nothing."
Insidious, sickening fear crept up Sherlock's throat. He'd known from day one that Moriarty wasn't sane, that his fiendish appetites and desires were more than the emanations of a selfish and greedy character. Some psychotic, lunatic alter ego was hovering behind this brilliant mind, biding its time. Some Frankenstein scheme to demonstrate his absolute power over his prisoner – it was well up this alter ego's street. "James, please. Can't you at least tell me what this is about? Why are you doing this to me?" Holmes didn't dare pushing the man further by voicing his suspicions: "What went wrong in Macao? Who's scared you out of your wits?"
"I'm doing this to both of us, my dear. Even Michael has to undergo surgery." In a weary, defeated gesture so uncharacteristically for him that it brought a shiver down Sherlock's spine, James rubbed his forehead. "Give me your word to keep this to yourself!"
"Keep what?"
"I'm done for, Sherlock. My fortune, my possessions –gone, most of it. Poof! Just like that!" He threw his hands up to indicate a dispersing cloud of smoke. "I'm a man on the run. From the big, big monster that wants to devour me. Devour us. You can't leave me now, I need you." James' voice was small, fearful, his dark eyes wide and shining. "You will stay with me, Sherlock. You must!"
"I will. I won't leave you, I promise. Just tell me what happened."
"These Americans – they gambled for the highest stakes possible and they lost. They wanted to make some money from these mishappened plans you see. They sold those useless, stupid weapon system plans to North Korea. Or so they thought." James chuckled hysterically. "Can this amount of idiocy be possible? They thought who cares about North Korea, if they want to spend a real fortune on some scribbled nonsense, why not? Only that it wasn't North Korea who lost her face. No, it wasn't North Korea at all."
James laughed even harder; tears streamed down his cheeks, he couldn't restrain himself. "Imagine the scene, Sherlock, the drama it must've been. This high ranking Chinese Secret Service bigwig, the boss of the whole military intelligence department, takes a King's ransom from the public budget; most solemnly and proudly presents those shitty good-for-nothing papers to his superiors in Beijing and makes a fucking asshole of himself in front of the whole goddamned Central Committee. Christ almighty, it must've been the sight of a lifetime, the man's face in the moment he realized he'd lost it."
Sherlock whistled sharply under his breath. Christ almighty, indeed. "They don't like losing their faces" he said. "Especially not like that. How come you know so much about it?"
"My American friends tried to save their dirty, worthless skins by naming and shaming me as the man behind the deal. And my, the Chinese are well connected nowadays. Took them 24 hours to wipe clear or lock up most of my bank accounts, at least those for which they knew the aliases. Unfortunately that included the whole, bloody Midair fortune as well as the 30 million Pounds I had in one of the other Macao accounts."
Sherlock couldn't have cared less. Apparently there was still enough money left to pay for this little health cure trip to London!
"And you know what?" James rattled on "they set every bloody secret service on me they could think of. Even the German BND owes them a favour or two. Twelve years Mortimer Harrungate had that house in Berlin, twelve years he's been a hard-working, law-abiding, tax-paying citizen of the Federal Republic of Germany by all accounts and suddenly they hunt me down like some poisonous vermin!"
Moriarty's fist hit the armrest. "After I'd been tipped-off I had hardly time to get away from Macao, contact Michael and arrange our little vacation in the UK. They were that hot on my heels, I thought I could hear them breathing down my neck."
In Sherlock's belly was an empty, hurting hole. "Who tipped you off? Who got you out of Macao?"
For the first time ever Sherlock saw the criminal blush. James fingered the seat nervously. "What does it matter? It changes nothing."
"Damn you, who warned you?"
"Well, if you must know, it was Watson. Obviously your brother is not as dead a cat as I thought. It must have been Mycroft who got wind of the Chinese scheme to get me, contacted your doctor-friend who in turn came to me. End of story."
Sherlock was winded. His headache was back with a vengeance and he felt sick to the bone. "Your American friends knew that I stole the plans from my brother's office!" It wasn't really a question. "They blamed me, too."
"Well, yes" Moriarty replied, quite uncomfortably. Clumsily he poked Sherlock's ribs with his elbow. "Seems old Mycroft couldn't stand the idea of his Chinese colleagues hunting you down. He is convinced we are in this together!"
"What did you tell John?"
"About you?"
"Yes, about me."
"Well, that you're well and happy, of course. Gave him your regards and said what a hell of a team we are. No sense in keeping my mouth shut in that situation. I told him about all those fine schemes we worked out together. What a shame if a man like Sherlock Holmes would end up in a Chinese prison camp. Or face an execution squad."
Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head against the cold window. James talked and talked, as if a dike had been cut open, but Holmes no longer listened. "Mycroft, I was so sure you'd hate me now."
Suddenly Holmes darted upwards as far as the restraints would allow. "Did you contact your associates?" he blurted, ruthlessly cutting James' sermon short.
"You mean the ones who have the remote control for Mycroft's chip?" James grinned happily. "I have. What do you take me for? Can't let your brother die so horribly after what he's done for me. That is…" his fingers stroked lazily about Sherlock's shirt collar "… as long as you do not forget your manners and obligations to me."
It took a load off Holmes' mind and for the rest of the flight he kept silent, dreaming himself away as he'd learned to do.
On their landing he saw an ambulance waiting by the runway. As always, everything was meticulously planned and arranged. Under different circumstances the one big blunder would have been a good laugh. James Moriarty, the fusspot, the opsimath, lost almost everything because he'd trusted a few dumb-asses in Detroit with a few details too many about a plan.
As the plane slowly came to a halt, the doctors left the ambulance. One of them, a not very tall, lean man with blonde hair looked at the approaching machine.
Sherlock strained against his bonds with all his might "JOHN!"
Holmes fought Jenkins' hand on his mouth until the injection took effect and he knew no more.
"You shouldn't have wakened him" the 'butler' said nervously. "Why tell him everything? And whose idea was it to have his friend here?"
"It was Watson's idea. I had no say in the matter, as he arranged for my flight from Macao to Brussels once he'd warned me. He insisted on being here for the surgery and I had no a chance to make other arrangements."
Jenkins clearly wasn't satisfied as he freed Sherlock's hands. "What will you do to keep them apart? Keep them from talking to each other? This is madness, Jim, plain barmy."
"Holmes will guard his tongue, with or without me sitting by his side. He fears far too much for his brother's life. Besides, Watson thinks Sherlock's become my partner, willingly and for that the good doctor loathes him. I know our dear tiger, old man. As I've made him a villain, he'll be a villain. He's got Satan's own pride; he'd never degrade himself by apologies, justifications or any attempt to arouse pity."
Jenkins took his master/friend's arm. "Leave him behind, Jim. I beg you, let they have him back. He's all they want. Let him go and the British will kick you out of the country with a new identity, a fresh chance, no questions asked. I'm sure of it. Please, James."
For a second Moriarty hesitated, looking down on Sherlock's sleeping face, but then he shook his head. "You're wrong. They'd feed me to the dogs. As long as he's with me, they'll tread carefully." James sported his old, confident grin "Besides, I'll never give him up. He's mine. Fuck them all."
"You were also sure his brother and friends couldn't stand the sight of him!"
"Well, apparently I was wrong and thank God I was. The chinky eyes skin me, they skin Sherlock too. That's my life insurance. And yours!" With a rapid, furtive movement James showed Michael what he held in his hands. "Two nice little black babies, are they not?"
The alleged butler winced in sudden recognition. "You've got them? But I thought….what use were they in Germany? The signal's range is 100 km, not more."
"I'd never leave the remote controls out of my sight. Why should I? As long as our tiger believes his brother to be at gunpoint, it's enough."
"Jim, you'll be the death of me one day. I say again, holmes has done wonders for you, just by being there, and yet..."
Moriarty's grin broadened as he took up his bag. "Never mind, I always planned on going back to the UK sooner or later. Now both targets are neatly in the 1oo km range. Why fret, old man?"
Jenkins had a lot to say to that but as the plane's door opened he kept it to himself. Instead he stood defiantly at Moriarty's side while a wary John Watson approached them both.
"Are some other ….. associates with you?" Watson asked crisply, his attention focused on the self-styled 'Consulting Criminal'.
"They'll wait until we're gone before they make their own arrangements for a connecting flight. That was, I think, the deal" James answered most pleasantly. He cocked a brow when John visibly pulled himself together before he swiped the plane's interior with one gaze. "Looking for the prodigal son, Johnny doggy?"
As expected Watson winced at the sight of Sherlock and his tone was sharp, but also a bit relieved. "Any special reason for him being unconscious?"
"Does it matter?" James asked back "perhaps he preferred it that way. He certainly had no wish to speak with you."
Watson swallowed that down with a visible gulp but he let the insidious remark go unchallenged. It was only when Sherlock was brought to the waiting ambulance that John dared looking at his one-time friend again. That was when he saw it. Two unremarkable, inconspicuous marks on Holmes' wrists, where the shirt cuffs had slid upwards. Nothing to worry about, one couldn't really call them bruises and come nightfall, they'd be gone.
Yet they gave Watson a hell of a lot to think about.
