Anyone still read this thing lol?
Merry late Christmas and Happy late New Year!
Probably only five more chapters to go, I'm most likely ending this at 30 chapters.
I know I said I'd talk about oil but nobody (not many people) care lol and it's a lot of random stuff that doesn't have much to do with the story so it's at the bottom if you really care to humor me.
Either way, I hope you like the chapter enough to review. It's a big secret but I really love reviews, especially nice ones. Shocking, I know. And I know I'm shallow and easy to please. The 18th is my birthday. Reviews are the best present (other than hugs from my mother and grandma lol).
Also, I gave Ms. Wenceslas a first name. I don't know if she ever had one in the show, but I couldn't dig one up and so I decided to call her 'Sofie'.
And here I am rambling again.
Thank you for reading and reviewing and bearing with me so far.
I hope this chapter is tolerable although it is a bit of a necessary filler/ 'tying up loose ends' kinda thing.
Story is almost over anyway… :(
I hope you like/liked it!
:) :) :)
Molly stared in horror at John, Lestrade, and Anthea lying on the boardwalk nearby, seemingly dead.
Seemingly.
And then they all sat up.
Molly stared in horror at John, Lestrade and Anthea rising from the dead on the boardwalk nearby.
They struggled to stand as they dusted themselves off and removed their bulky gray jackets made of bullet proof material, a standard piece of uniform given to them by the private military company which Lestrade was temporarily working for and Moran used to work for (and may or may not have been continuing to work for in secret).
"…how?" Molly gasped, not yet realizing what the jackets were made off.
She was unable to stand, weighed down to the wooden floor by her boyfriend slumped over in her lap.
Unconscious and leaking blood, Jim was only ever 'peaceful' after he'd been violently struck down.
"Bulletproof vests." Moran explained, also still seated due to his bleeding leg, "They're built into the jackets."
"We're not stupid." John added, curtly but evenly, eyeing Molly from where he now stood upright and above her, "We knew who we were going after and we knew how this would end."
"Oh..." Molly accepted, nodding and looking back down at Jim unable to handle eye-contact with the judging John.
Dead silent for the first time in minutes, Molly heard the sudden—although almost inaudible—noise first.
The creak of wood on the boardwalk.
John and Moran heard it immediately after she had.
Their heads whipped around to stare at as the gates to the compound flew open once again.
Argentine police officers in full 'SWAT Team'-style uniforms stampeded into the enclosed wooden hideout, establishing a perimeter on the edges of the wooden fence and searching every wooden structure.
Their leader shouted something in Spanish at the foreigners.
It caused Anthea to lift her arms into the air, one hand holding a gun and the other hand holding her smartphone. Her thumb typed a code into the smartphone, briefly, before both items were dropped with a thud to the boardwalk below.
Following Anthea's example, John and Lestrade lowered their weapons to the boardwalk and put their hands up while Moran growled and slammed his gun down next to him.
Molly let go of Jim and slowly raised her arms, signaling a surrender that had already occurred.
Mrs. Durando gasped. She then leaped up from her husband's side and rushed past the army of police officers over to the open gates.
There she embraced her son.
Alois tensed, uncomfortable being touched by the mother he hadn't seen in over a year…until he gazed past her and saw his father lying on the boardwalk having been shot in the leg.
He then saw Jim (the assumed cause of that injury), lying half on the board walk and half on Molly, also shot and unconscious.
Alois decided that was an even better punishment for Jim than having the police called on him (and his pursuers).
The interrogation rooms at the police station in Buenos Aires were standard interrogation room fare; metal table and chairs, three concrete walls and one two-way mirror.
Separated by gender and kept separate from the Argentine prisoners, Anthea and Molly had been taken to one of these rooms while John and Lestrade had been taken to another.
They didn't know where Moran and Jim had been taken, other than to an undisclosed hospital somewhere in the city.
Phones, guns and bullet proof vests had of course been confiscated (along with all of the forged paintings found at the Durandos' compound) but because this was only a jail, not a prison, no uniforms had been issued.
Molly sat one of the cold metal chairs at the cold metal table, Jim's dried blood making her skirt discolored and coarse. Nervously, she attempted again and again to smooth it over her knees—not that she thought it would actually help, but just to keep busy.
Desensitized by her job, the sight of blood (wet or dry) didn't disgust her but the fact that it was Jim's blood made her uneasy.
(Where was Jim? His wounds weren't fatal, but how long did he have to live in captivity?)
Molly stared down at the brownish dried blood on her lap and then down at her shoes, covered with mud from trekking through the river-side swamp.
Then she saw Anthea's feet.
Sockless, she was wearing Jim's shoes (well, he'd been unconscious and carried so he hadn't needed them).They also caked with mud, too big for her and clashed terribly with her feminine skirtsuit.
Molly watched the feet in the shoes pace back and forth through the tiny cell, much like Jim had done in front of the art museum that morning.
"They'll regret arresting me when they find out who my employer is." Anthea declared, finally, then warning Molly "…if they try to interrogate you, say nothing."
Molly said nothing.
She sat there, silent and motionless, staring down at the concrete floor of the concrete room. She didn't dare look up and see herself the 'mirror' that they were probably being watched through.
Anthea stopped and Molly watched her feet (Jim's shoes) turn to face her.
"They're not listening to us now." she said, "You can talk now, if you want."
Molly still remained quiet, not looking up at Anthea.
She then saw the legs of the other metal chair pull away from the table, screeching. Anthea sat down in the chair, across from Molly.
Molly looked up and looked Anthea in the face, rather than her own reflection.
So this was going to be an interrogation, after all.
Good.
Molly wanted to talk.
She wanted to tell Anthea (and everyone) that they were wrong about Jim this time and for once in his life he didn't deserve to die for what he was doing.
"None of this would have happened, if you didn't come after Jim and me." Molly began, "Sherlock really did ask Jim to come here and get a painting. I'm not lying. And you know he's alive. Why haven't you told John and Greg?"
"Sherlock specifically asked my employer to tell no one, and we're respecting that request." Anthea explained, "You and Jim should have done the same."
"There's no reason to keep it secret anymore." Molly countered, then adding, "…and there's no reason to kill or arrest Jim anymore, either."
Anthea raised an eyebrow.
"Not his numerous crimes?" she tested.
"You all had your chance to stop him before…but you let him go." Molly reminded, "What good will killing him do now? He's helping Sherlock which is the same thing your boss is trying to do. Besides, it's not as if whatever secret section of the government you're from hasn't done just as many, well, crimes as Jim has. And Sebastian Moran killed fellow soldiers for no reason in Afghanistan—"
"'Let he who is without sin cast the first stone'?" Anthea paraphrased, snorting and shaking her head dismissively, "…John Watson hasn't 'sinned'. When my employer is finally finished with Jim Moriarty, I'm sure he'll be happy to let John 'cast the stone'. It's the least we can do for misleading him so long…"
Molly swallowed to keep her breath from catching, muscles tensing as her skin developed goosebumps. Only now she realized how cold and dark it really was in this interrogation room.
But she said nothing.
Jim awoke in a hospital room (well, at least it wasn't a morgue this time), feeling slightly drowsy and disoriented. There was a tingling numbness in his right leg (knee and below).
Laying on a hospital bed beneath a standard white blanket, Jim could see the shape of both his legs in front of him.
Because doctors hadn't amputated one (or both) in his sleep, he knew that neither Anthea's angels (Moran, John, Lestrade) nor the British government were the ones who had put him here (wherever this hospital was, probably still Buenos Aires because he could overhear the people in the hallway speaking in Spanish).
That meant somebody else had stormed in 'Dues Ex Machina'-style into the Durando's secret swamp lair, rounding everyone up and throwing them from their 'frying pan' of getting shot into the 'fire' of being arrested.
Either Molly (with Lestrade) had stupidly gone to the police or Alois had (and Alois had to have been involved in this somehow because he's the only one who could have told Molly (and Lestrade) how to find his parents' home).
Attempting to sit up in bed, Jim found that his left wrist was chained via handcuff to the plastic hospital bed. Just out of his reach was the remote to adjust it.
Only able to move one of his legs and one of his arms, Jim was essentially 'paralyzed'.
…for now.
He was sure could get out of the handcuff with enough effort—but would that even be worth it if he couldn't walk?
Jim couldn't feel the leg that had been shot, so there was currently no pain in it. The arm that had been shot, however, was a different story. A story of a dull ache in the entire limb that became sharper and sharper closer to epicenter of the bullet wound.
Both of the bullets were already gone, of course. They'd been taken out while he slept. And he could see them a little tray on the bedside table, lying there metal and red with blood like a warning (to which Jim scoffed).
Also, upon locating the door to the same side of his bed, Jim could see that a uniformed police officer stood guard.
Jim glanced over to his other side.
Moran lay in another hospital bed which he was also handcuffed to. He had no white blanket over his legs. Instead, he had a cast on the leg Jim had shot him in.
Moran looked as if he was asleep, but Jim knew he was only pretending so he wouldn't have to talk to him.
"Wakey, wakey…" Jim sang over to him, "…I know you're fake-y."
Moran didn't stir.
"Attention!" Jim shouted.
He saw Moran tense abruptly, forcing himself not to react automatically.
Jim snickered.
Moran opened his eyes and glared at him.
"How's your leg?" Jim asked, eyeing the cast proudly.
Moran snorted.
"Fine." He stated, matter-of-factly, "You missed the knee. Check yours."
Jim's smiled faded as he turned away from Moran to tentatively lift the blanket off his legs, peaking underneath.
Desensitized by his 'job', the sight of blood (wet or dry) fascinated Jim but the fact that it was his own blood made him uncomfortably uneasy.
Jim had never been shot before (unless one counted the time he'd shot himself with a cigarette lighter believing it to be a real gun) and he'd never been this physically injured before either, not even when Mycroft 'entertained' him as a 'guest' in his secret prison.
Jim was too smart for this, too clever.
People like him didn't get shot, for god's sake!
(No, people like Moran and John do. Soldiers—knights and pawns. Never kings and queens.)
Jim knew he should have known Moran would shoot him (and John would try to—if Anthea hadn't shot John, then John would've been successful in shooting him), he should have had the whole situation under control.
But then Molly (and Lestrade) had shown up, who he had not been planning for and then Anthea and her angels didn't want to fight amongst themselves while he escaped.
And nobody had even believed him when he'd threatened to shoot Molly!
(Except for Molly, of course. Bless her soul, this was why he kept her around.)
Suddenly, doubt sent a shiver through Jim's burning over-confidence (normally so well-deserved).
His tricks were old and overused. Predicable.
Boring.
There were so many of them, so much of him everywhere that he was worthless.
Gods are worshipped and gods are feared, only by mention (and the rare divine intervention).
But gods didn't get shot (except with cigarette lighters).
Gods didn't get laughed at.
Jim put the white blanket back down over his legs, swallowing to keep his breathing steady.
He then dismissed the silly, irrational emotion probably brought on by whatever strange South American drugs they'd used on him in this hospital (normal, internationally-approved sedative and pain medication), and smiled.
Laughed.
"What's so funny?" Moran snapped, after the noise had grated on his ears for too long (five seconds so far).
"Oh, nothing." Jim replied, sighing and grinning over at him, "They must really have us doped up."
"They have you 'doped up'." Moran corrected, "I don't let anybody put me to sleep."
"What did you do when they got the bullet out, then?" Jim inquired, raising an eyebrow, "Bite down on a block of wood?"
Moran rolled his eyes and then looked away from Jim, out the window (which was covered by a thick curtain).
"So," Jim continued, "I like the show you and your new 'friends' put on for me. Bullet proof vests, I'm assuming."
"You don't go to war without armor." Moran shrugged, not facing him, "…well, we don't. You did. We weren't as stupid."
"I start wars, I don't go to them." Jim dismissed, "I'm not an expendable foot soldier like you."
"You were the only one shot twice." Moran countered, turning and smirking at him.
"I was outnumbered and un-armored." Jim excused, "You four didn't play fair…but did you actually think it would fool me, shooting at each other like that? What did you even hope to get out of making me think you lot killed each other? Still, it was fun to watch. Bravo."
"It wasn't staged to trick you…everyone just got caught up in the moment." Moran informed, to which Jim smiled appreciatively, "It did fool your girlfriend, though." Jim scowled at that.
Why was Molly always so easy to trick? He was supposed to be the only one allowed to fool her. It wasn't special if she went around getting misled by just anyone.
Jim decided to change the subject.
"So what's the big breakout plan, then?" he asked, "Two sworn enemies trapped alone in a room together…there are only two things that can happen here and I'm open to either. Or both. Whichever—"
"The plan is you shut up." Moran interrupted.
"So you're willing to work with Mycroft and even John, but you don't want to team up and bust out of here?" Jim kept talking, "If I didn't know better, I'd think you don't like me, Mr. Moran…luckily I know better."
Moran didn't dignify that statement with response and so, in the silence, Jim started to shake his handcuff—not that he thought that would actually work but just to keep busy.
It clanked loudly again and again.
Jim had to be loud. Dramatic and excessive fanfare was an assertion of power. In order to react to him, first people needed to know he was there.
Jim waited for Moran's reaction.
But it didn't come. So far, Moran just lay there, motionless and eyes closed, pretending that Jim wasn't there (or didn't exist).
Jim hated being ignored.
Once bored with (and physically tired of) aggravating the handcuff, Jim let his wrist fall with a final clank and his head fall back onto the pillow below him.
He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
In another interrogation room, separate from the citizen prisoners and identical to the one that held Molly and Anthea, Lestrade and John were being kept by the Buenos Aires police.
Lestrade leaned against the metal table, tired but not relaxed, while John paced back and forth in agitation across the concrete floor.
The one-way window was behind them, they did not look at it and didn't care if anyone was looking in.
"This always happens, he always gets away…" John muttered, then stating to Lestrade, "It was Moriarty. He was the one who called the cops, got us all arrested. He's probably bribed them to let him go and keep us here so we can't go after him."
"He was shot, remember?" Lestrade reminded, "He can't have just walked away. He's probably still in the hospital."
"I know." John affirmed, "But those wounds were nothing."
Lestrade gave a halfhearted and half-offended snort at John's words, as he had given Jim one of the 'nothing' bullet wounds.
"There was a lot of blood." He commented, "Moriarty won't walk normally again, or run. He—"
"I know." John repeated, curtly, halting and turning to Lestrade, "I'm a doctor, remember? And I've been shot, too. I know how bullet wounds work. You don't need to tell me, Greg."
"I know that, John!" Lestrade echoed, taken aback, "I'm just saying it's not all that bad. We still have a chance of getting Moriarty."
('Getting'—not killing. Because that still was not certain as long as Anthea (and Mycroft) was around.)
Lestrade understood (and completely empathized with) why John was so angry and frustrated, but knew that arguing with each other when they were on the same side wasn't going to help the situation.
"I would have 'got' him…" John muttered again to himself, shaking his head disgustedly as he remembered how Anthea had stopped him by trying to shoot him…and how Lestrade had jumped in the middle.
He had specifically asked Lestrade to stay out of it when he tried to kill Moriarty, and although they were all wearing bulletproof vests (Lestrade's idea—probably because he anticipated the very shootout that indeed occurred) he could've been hit in the head (which was the body part John had been aiming for when he'd tried to shoot Moriarty) and the bulky gray jacket wouldn't have saved him then.
John was angry that Moriarty had gotten away (again) but he was also angry that Lestrade had risked his life like that (for him).
"I don't think it was Moriarty who contacted the police." Lestrade began, changing the subject, "That man in the blue uniform—"
"We found him in a car." John recognized, "He gave us directions to where Moriarty was."
"Yeah, he gave Molly and me directions too." Lestrade affirmed, "Molly told me he got tricked by Moriarty years ago and was terrified of him ever since. I think it was him who went to the police. He wanted Moriarty to get caught."
John took a breath, considering this information. It would mean that the police weren't being bribed Moriarty and he'd still be in custody (and in the hospital) whenever this mess was sorted out.
He was sure Anthea was working on that part now and they'd be released soon.
(Hopefully.)
And now, at least, John was sure that Moran actually did want Moriarty dead (enough to shoot Anthea in retaliation for preventing John from killing him) so he didn't have to worry about Moran helping Moriarty escape.
But as for Anthea and Mycroft, John still could not figure why they would want Moriarty alive…
…other than his suspicion that Mycroft was secretly working with him.
"…do you think it could be true?" Lestrade questioned, upon John's prolonged silence.
"What could?" John asked, quick and sharp, pretending as if he didn't know what Lestrade was talking about.
"You saw all those paintings the police confiscated." Lestrade maneuvered, "They looked just like that forged 'Lost Vermeer' from the case in 2010."
"So?" John dismissed.
"Well, Molly said it was Sherlock who hired Moriarty to come here and get the real one—" Lestrade explained.
"You shouldn't believe everything she says." John scoffed, bitterly.
"I don't." Lestrade declared, seriously, "But I don't think she was lying when she said that Sherlock was alive."
"You really think Sherlock could be alive?" John tested, approaching Lestrade and staring him directly in the eyes.
John did not look or sound hopeful, he didn't even look or sound vaguely skeptical. No, he just looked and sounded like he thought Lestrade was insane.
Or stupid.
(…or lying…)
"I don't know." Lestrade admitted, "…but it's possible, I suppose. He could've, you know, faked his death somehow. Like Moriarty did—"
"He didn't." John stated.
"But both Molly and Moriarty said—"
"Both Molly and Moriarty are liars. And Molly's stupid. She's not the first girl I've seen taken in by whatever Moriarty does to charm his victims. If she really believes Sherlock's alive, then it's because Moriarty's convinced her."
"All of this, everything that's been going on the past month...Mycroft avoiding us, buildings getting blown up but with no casualties, Moriarty waiting to leave the country until now when could've escaped immediately after everyone thought 'Richard Brook' was shot…it would all make much more sense if Sherlock was still alive."
John shook his head.
"No." He said, "No, he's not. Sherlock is dead."
"But—"
"You weren't there, Greg. I was. I was there when Sherlock was standing on the roof of the hospital, I was on the phone with him. I heard him tell me what he was about to do to do. And then he did it. I watched him jump, I watched him fall, I saw him on the ground…"
John paused, closing his eyes briefly and taking a deep breath. He had to maintain control of his emotions. It was the only control he had.
"…I saw Sherlock there, lying on the pavement," he continued, "his head was bashed in, he was bleeding. I ran to him, I took his pulse…there was nothing. Nothing. He was dead. So don't say this would all 'make more sense' if Sherlock was alive, because he's not—there's no way he is—and none of this has ever made any sense."
"Pulses can be faked, dead bodies can be faked…" Lestrade mentioned, weakly.
He didn't even really believe it himself at this point, he just really wanted to. Sometimes, false hope was better than none. Hope kept a person going when one had nothing else to live for—even if it wasn't real.
"No." John insisted, "If Sherlock had faked his death, he would've told me. If not before, then right after. But he didn't. He made me watch…he wanted me to know it was real."
Lestrade sighed.
"You're right…I'm sorry."
(Sorry for bringing it up, sorry for making John prove him wrong, sorry that it had ever happened.)
He pulled out one of the metal chairs, slowly and carefully so it would be quiet, and sat down at the table.
John remained standing.
Sherlock was dead, yes, but Moriarty was still alive. Until John changed that, he had something to live for…
Sherlock had taken a plane, then a train, and finally a bus to arrive at the forested mountains (Tatras in the Carpathian range) spanning the border where three countries (Czech Republic, Slovakia, Poland) touched.
But he wasn't going to wander the woods aimlessly, searching for his target (The Golem). No, Sherlock knew exactly where the assassin was hiding.
Being a very recognizable criminal, The Golem couldn't hide in a populated area and so had chosen an isolated location to live. And because it extended through three countries, if the authorities of one country caught up to him, he could just escape into another.
But despite being named after a clay monster, The Golem (Oscar Dzundza) was human. He needed food.
There were many ski resorts on this mountain range, all of them recently having break-ins in which only food was taken. The owners and authorities assumed that it had been bears stealing food from their pantries (built of wood or stone, outside in the snow as natural refrigeration).
But Sherlock, of course, knew better. He always did.
Bears were a lot messier than humans and monsters.
Bears didn't force doors clean off their hinges; they shattered them with repeated strikes. And bears tracked by smell, they didn't track by sight. These pantries were much too cold to attract a bear's attention. All the lights, sounds and human activity from the ski resorts would scare a bear away.
They wouldn't scare a human. No, they attracted them.
Sherlock knew exactly what was going on, just from the tiny articles in local papers he'd scanned while riding the train.
Although it was July (16th), the altitude of the area meant that Sherlock needed his standard long dark peacoat and blue scarf wrapped around him as usual as he traversed the path.
Tall trees surrounded him upon this tall mountain, as he followed the lone tall trail of smoke rising up above them both.
Bears didn't cook their stolen meat.
In a clearing and tunneled slightly into the side of the cliff, Sherlock found a makeshift cave.
Inside it, there was a small fire circle (the source of the smoke) with meat cooking in a frying pan overtop it along with a sleeping bag and other camping supplies.
This was not a bear's den, but the home of human hermit.
But where was the human?
Where was The Golem...?
Sherlock glanced around seeing only towering trees, dark and white snow. The contrast, and the reflection from the burning sun above, burned his eyes and he squinted.
Big mistake.
As soon as his eyes had narrowed, Sherlock heard the crunch of snow.
(Where did it come from? It was echoing through the stone cave and bouncing off the trees.)
"Golem!" Sherlock shouted, like he had before…
…but unlike before, The Golem was unable to leap out and start strangling him. Why? Because Sherlock had a gun.
Pulling it out from his coat pocket, Sherlock continued: "Come out now or I shoot. You may or may not be hit, but no matter what everyone on this mountain will hear the shot. Police from three countries will all be hurrying towards this spot, your hiding spot will be discovered and you'll have nowhere to run."
After a few moments silence, Sherlock hurt the crunching of footsteps on the snow again. He turned to see the tall man step out from behind a tall tree on the tall mountain a few yards away from him.
Dressed in a heavy black snowsuit (custom made to fit him—that meant he had money to have it made as well as more money to keep secret that it was), The Golem—or, Oscar Dzundza—stood before Sherlock, eyeing him suspiciously.
"…what you want?" Dzundza asked, finally.
He had an accent, but otherwise his voice sounded completely human and normal. Not the growl of a bear or the roar of a monster.
He spoke in English because he recognized Sherlock from England, but Sherlock recognized that he was not fluent.
"To ask you some questions." Sherlock answered, in Czech.
(Although they were technically in Slovakia, the Slovak and Czech languages were essentially the same and as far as Sherlock knew, Dzundza was originally from the Czech Republic (or had at least lived and worked there for a long time). Sherlock had overwritten Russian (which was also similar) in his it with this other Proto-Slavic language while bored on the plane.)
Dzundza was taken aback at Sherlock's language use, understanding what the Englishman said even though the accent sounded too harsh on the consonants (as if he was speaking German or Russian).
"You want to arrest me." Dzundza replied, also in Czech, "I know you're a detective."
"I'm not with the police and I'm not a detective anymore." Sherlock countered, "…I'm dead."
With his other hand, he pulled out an English newspaper from his other coat pocket and tossed it over to Dzundza who picked up and glanced at it questioningly. He could speak some English, but couldn't read it.
"It says that I'm a fraud." Sherlock explained, "You've been off the grid along time not to have heard about this."
"You said you had questions for me." Dzundza diverted, tossing the newspaper to the snowy ground where soon soaked up some of the frozen water.
"Yes, I do." Sherlock affirmed, then asking, "May I lower this gun without you trying to kill me?"
Dzundza nodded.
Sherlock lowered the arm holding the gun, but did not put the weapon away. He waited for a few seconds, to make sure Dzundza didn't make any sudden movements.
When all was still, he spoke again.
"Who hired you to kill the security guard in London?"
"I don't reveal that information."
"He was the only person you've killed outside of the former Czechoslovakia. Whoever hired you must have been persuasive enough to get you to leave your homeland and travel to a foreign country to commit murder."
"That was not my 'homeland'."
"Even so, was it money…or something else that persuaded you?"
"I don't reveal that information."
Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes and raising his gun again towards his target.
"I can be persuasive, too." He threatened "I've left my homeland and traveled to a foreign country. Don't make me commit murder."
The Golem laughed.
"If you kill me, you'll never get the information you want." he dismissed.
"Then give it to me." Sherlock insisted, "You wouldn't be protecting whoever hired you if you didn't care about her."
"Her?" Dzundza repeated, almost snorting, "Then you know already who it is."
"I had my suspicions, which you just confirmed." Sherlock confirmed, almost smiling, "…But Ms. Wenceslas isn't protecting you, even though the Wenceslas family is descended from royalty charged with protecting the Czech people."
"This is Slovakia and I'm Polish." Dzundza stated, "She owes me nothing."
"But doesn't she?" Sherlock questioned, "Did she ever pay you for the two British citizens you killed?"
"She didn't have to." Dzundza informed, "And she didn't hire me to kill either of those people. She didn't even ask me to. I chose to do it myself, when she told me about her problems. She never knew anything about it."
"I think she did." Sherlock disagreed, "After all, she knew all about how you were a hitman from the Czechoslovakian government, killing the very people you now hide amongst. She told my associate everything. Why are you protecting her?"
He expected a love story. The story of an isolated man who'd do anything for the one woman who loved him despite him being different. The story of a fool who was tricked and used, all because of a stupid emotion.
Instead, Sherlock got the laughter again.
It was Oscar Dzundza that spoke, but The Golem that laughed. (Sherlock never would have realized the difference if he hadn't experienced the forced and false laughter directed at him before from another source.)
The Golem was just an act that Dzundza put on. Monsters weren't real…
"Laugh." Sherlock allowed, "Your Ms. Wenceslas sits in a prison cell for the crimes you both maintain she knew nothing about. Do you truly want to protect her or is that all just talk?"
The Golem stopped laughing.
Dzunda's eyes widened, Sherlock saw the visible shock on his face upon hearing the revelation that Wenceslas was incarcerated. The Golem was gone.
"I'll tell you everything." Dzundza offered, suddenly, "…if you let release her. I'll even go to prison in her place, if I must."
"Go on, then." Sherlock accepted, waving a hand (with a gun in it) as a gesture for him to continue speaking.
"I know how you think it is…but you're wrong."
"Oh?"
"I was never a hitman for the government. I worked for the Wenceslas family. I was an orphan, left behind when they expelled all the Poles from the country. They took me in when no one else would, when everyone else called me a 'freak' and a 'monster' for being so tall. The Wenceslases were my family, Sofie is my sister—like I said, it's not how you think it is."
"I see…"
"And like you said, the Wenceslases were charged, long ago, with protecting the Czech people. Those that I killed in Prague—Slovak nationalist terrorists, foreign spies, criminals—all of them were a danger to the country and its native people. By killing them, I was repaying my debt to the Wenceslas family."
"So you were their hitman. But why adopt 'The Golem' persona? It's not just because of your height, is it? Or because of the local legend?"
Dzundza took a breath, closing his eyes and smiling almost embarrassedly.
It was The Golem who spoke next, answering Sherlock's question with the answer Sherlock had already deduced.
"No, it's not." He affirmed, now proud and matter-of-fact about what he had moments ago been ashamed to admit, "The legend is Jewish. And the Jews…they're a threat to the Czech people, as well."
Sherlock smirked, pleased to have been correct and especially to have been correct about the hypocrisy of a less intelligent mind (now proven less intelligent).
"And so, indirectly, they became linked to every one of the murders you committed." Sherlock interpreted, "Became further isolated and mistrusted by the rest of the population."
"Yes." The Golem stated, in bitter triumph, "Yes…" Dzundza repeated, with a sigh and a nod.
Sherlock chuckled.
(He had also enjoyed the confliction and change of emotions on The Golem (Oscar Dzundza)'s face. Something he'd only just recently learned to appreciate.)
"So, how did you go from killing 'enemies' of the Czech people in the Czech Republic, to killing a security guard and an astronomy professor in London?" Sherlock inquired.
"The Wenceslases were wealthy before the country split." Dzundza explained, "Afterwards, they had nothing. Sofie came to England to start over. She was working in that gallery when a man named Daniel Amberley from the United States visited and told her where Nazis had hidden the treasures they'd stolen during World War Two in Argentina. She thought if she found the treasure and sold it, she could make back the money her family lost."
"So she travelled to Argentina?
"Yes, and I went with her. We went to the place Amberley told us about, but the people there had nothing but forged paintings."
"The 'people there' including an old man, I assume? The painter."
"The people called themselves 'the Durandos'. We never saw any old man. Amberley said that there would be Nazis still alive there, but they had all already died. We thought we had come there for nothing, but a man and his son made a deal with us to sell the forgeries."
"The 'lost Vermeer'."
"Yes."
"But there had to have been an original painting, the one that the forgeries were copied from—whoever copied them."
"We never saw the original. But we told Amberley about what we did have and he immediately offered to buy the painting, even though he knew it was a fake."
"You didn't sell it to him?"
"No. At that point, Sofie and I realized we'd been tricked. Amberley had sent us on the wild goose chase to find Nazis in the swamp when really the only reason he hadn't gone to the Durandos himself is because they refused to even speak with him so he couldn't get the forged paintings himself. Besides, the deal we had with the Durandos was going to make us more money— that is, until you discovered the painting was forged."
"You can thank Jim Moriarty for that, Mr. Dzundza."
Dzundza scowled.
"I knew we shouldn't have trusted him. You can't trust anyone who refuses to show his face."
"So, all this to confirm that it was indeed Ms. Wenceslas who hired you—"
"She didn't 'hire' me."
"Prompted you, then. It was for her that you killed the guard and the professor, not for Jim Moriarty."
"Yes. They were going to reveal that the painting was forged and make us lose all the money. Killing them prevented that…but only for you and Moriarty to do the same thing, apparently."
Sherlock nodded, in affirmation of the statement and appreciation of being recognized.
He then asked, "During your kill, who interrupted you so that you were unable to strip the body as usual?"
"It was you and short blond man." Dzundza answered, confused to why Sherlock would ask when he himself was the answer.
Sherlock paused, holding his breath for the smallest of seconds as he tensed.
(John.)
"…No, I mean when you were killing the man." He rephrased, quickly afterwards, "The security guard."
"I don't know." Dzundza replied, "After killing the guard on the bridge, I saw someone taking pictures with of me their phone so I pushed the body into the river and ran."
"Oh." Sherlock accepted.
(It wasn't difficult for him to 'deduce' who had been the one taking the pictures. Secretly following the hitman and watching the murder, only 'accidently' revealing himself just in time for the hitman to leave the clothing (clues) on the freshly dead body.)
He was silent long enough for Dzundza to speak up.
"Are those your only questions?" he questioned, "Because you've come a very long way for information you could've gotten in England from Sofie Wenceslas whom you claim to have in prison."
"Yes it is." Sherlock agreed, "And I do have one more question."
Dzundza raised an eyebrow, "Ask." He said.
"Are you willing to do one more job as an assassin?" Sherlock did.
"Yes." The Golem smiled.
When Jim awoke for a second time in a hospital bed, he found that he was in a different standard hospital room (of the same hospital).
Alone.
The room was dark and so in the dark he easily slipped off the handcuff. For comfort only for he knew he wouldn't be able to walk yet.
He was beginning to feel the sting radiating from his knee, like volts of electricity splitting his bone into sharp shards over and over again.
And his arm now pounded pain with each of his heartbeats.
Both wounds felt as though the bullet was still inside, although Jim knew very well that they weren't.
Wondering why he'd been moved, Jim looked over to the uncurtained window beside his hospital bed. It was the only source of light into the small room, and he saw that the orange sun was setting outside.
Soon it would be completely dark.
Jim needed an escape…or at least a distraction.
It arrived in the form of Alois who, about ten minutes after Jim had awoken in the dark, opened the door to the hospital room, allowing light from the hallway to shine in.
Despite his pain, Jim smiled upon seeing his former 'friend'. He planned to charm (or threaten, if necessary) Alois into helping him escape the hospital.
But his 'friend' did not smile.
Alois stepped forward from the doorway, the door closing behind him and leaving the room in darkness once again.
"They told me they moved you here." He began, face expressionless and hard to see due to the dim lighting, "They had to…after I told them who you were."
"I'm sure they're very grateful for that." Jim drawled, "It's annoying not knowing somebody's real name, isn't it?"
"Yes it is." Alois affirmed, "Which is why I'll never tell you my new one."
He strode (in what passed in the dark for confidence) across the room to stand next to the hospital bed in which Jim lay.
"Oh, don't be silly." Jim scoffed up at him, "You'll always be bright-eyed little Ally to me. Always trying to be good, right the wrongs of this world…and feeling so guilty when you can't. You know, I really do love your kind…"
Jim smiled and sighed, sinking back into the synthetic softness of the mattress on the plastic hospital bed. He was thinking of someone else.
"I just came back from visiting my father." Alois stated, "You shot him."
"Well, you didn't like him very much anyway, did you?" Jim dismissed, "I'm surprised you visited him at all. I thought you weren't speaking to your parents anymore."
"I wasn't." Alois confirmed, "…but they've changed now. They're not going to live hidden away from everyone anymore."
"No they're not, they're going to live with the prison population of Argentina now." Jim concluded, grinning.
"The police aren't charging them." Alois countered, "It was part of the deal I made."
"You've been quite the busy businessman now, haven't you?" Jim patronized, "…is that why you're here, Al? To make a deal with the devil?"
Alois said nothing, face still blank.
…But nervous. There was some nervous there amongst all the nothing.
Jim could see it tugging at the corner of Alois's closed mouth, in his darting and widened eyes. It was flaring in his nostrils as he took deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself and keep his resolve.
Jim kept smiling.
This, this was what he loved to see. Nervousness. Fear.
Emotion.
The (second) best distraction. The best escape that everyone else always tried to escape from.
Jim didn't feel the pain in his arm and leg anymore.
"…or have you come to gloat?" Jim ventured, "Laugh at me because I was shot and I 'deserve' it? You know I do. I know I do. So go on, do it. Gloat, laugh."
Alois remained still and silent.
(Really, he was getting just a bad as Moran!)
Jim stared up at him, intently, just daring (begging) him to react.
He looked Alois and Alois, surprisingly, met his eyes and stared right back at him without blinking.
And then Jim realized.
No, not surprisingly. Not surprisingly at all. Of course Alois would look him in the eyes. It was the 'honorable' thing to do, after all, when one did this sort of thing.
…but how was he going to do it?
The medicine, maybe? There was some sort of tube jabbed into Jim's right arm, delivering some sort of liquid into his blood stream….But for that to work, Alois would've had to know something about medicine and the young man had never even been to a real school, let alone had any medical training.
A pillow, perhaps?...no, he didn't have the strength or stamina for that, even if Jim was weak and in pain. Even before Jim started fighting back, he'd lose his nerve.
He already had.
He looked away, eyes leaving Jim's to gaze in shame down at the floor.
Jim's grin widened.
"You know, I almost believed you had it in you. Just for a moment there. You really had me going. I was scared. I really thought you were going to do it…but no. You don't have it in you, Alois, and you never will."
"I'm not like you." Alois said, the standard response, still staring down at his shoes in the dark.
"Good, cause I like being unique." Jim replied.
"But you're not." Alois disagreed, "There are too many people in this world that like to kill."
And Jim's smile fell, just a bit.
He decided to change the subject.
"Do you know why, out of all the crimes I've ever helped set up, I chose to reveal yours to my dearest enemy, the detective Sherlock Holmes?" Jim asked, not waiting for an answer he continued, "…I did it for you. To solve your parent problem. Fix it so they'd be arrested and you'd never have to see them again, since you claimed to hate them so much—it didn't work out the way I'd planned, of course, but it's the thought that counts."
There. That ought to make Alois feel guilty, blame himself…
"I never hated them." Alois said, "And I never wanted them punished."
"But you wanted me punished?" Jim checked, "That's why you went to the police. That's why you came here to 'visit' with the intention of killing me."
"You were right, you do deserve it…." Alois nodded, "But punishing you wouldn't fix all the lives you've broken."
"But it would give you the satisfaction." Jim smirked, "…and trust me, Al, there are people lining up for that. You're passing up the perfect opportunity. One others would kill for—literally."
At a loss for words, Alois grimaced in disgust, turning and starting away.
"Wait!" Jim called after him, so automatically he surprised himself as well as Alois who jerked automatically to a stop.
The sun had finally set and Jim didn't want to be left alone in the dark.
"…What?" Alois sighed, turning back around to face him.
Now Jim had to say something that would keep Alois in the room. Provoking him into trying to kill him obviously wasn't working, Alois was just too non-confrontational for that...
…but not for pity.
Jim's smile fell completely, curling into a grimace of carefully-measured pain. Like most of Jim's expressions it was exaggerated, but because of the dim lighting in the room it was believable.
"….my girlfriend. Molly…" Jim said, softly, "…where is she? Is she alright? Did the police take her?"
"Yes." Alois informed, quickly and curtly, "The police took her."
He knew logically that Jim was faking it…but emotionally he heard the voice and saw the face of a person concerned about a loved one. A human being, Alois reacted. He tried to hide the pity on his face.
Jim tried to his the amusement on his.
"But she did nothing wrong!" Jim exclaimed, balancing anguish with the anger a man would feel when his woman was threatened.
"She fell in love with you." Alois commented, almost laughing bitterly to himself. He then felt bad and so added, "…I doubt you actually care about her and if you do, then you know she's better off without you."
"I care about her just not about that." Jim conditioned, returning to his standard conversational and slightly taunting tone, "…So tell me, why do you care?"
"I don't, I'm just saying." Alois answered.
"No, you do care. You do." Jim disagreed, shaking his head, "...You would've walked away by now if you didn't. There's something you care about, something you want to 'get off your chest'…confess your love to me, maybe?"
Now Alois did laugh bitterly to himself, also shaking his head.
"You think you're so smart but you're not." He declared, "You were fooled, just like the rest of them. Just like the American, just like the Czech woman and the tall man. Just like everyone in London who would've paid a lot of money for a 'lost Vermeer' painting."
"What? That there never was an 'old man'?" Jim inquired, then bluffing, "…I knew that all along."
Alois snorted.
"Of course there was an old man." He said, "He was my grandfather. He's the one who taught me how to paint, who inspired me to love it. He took care of me when I was young while my parents were busy and everyone else had already left."
"So how was I 'fooled', then?" Jim asked.
"You believed the act." Alois smirked, "And it was always all just an act, 'Napoleon', you saw it for yourself today."
"Oh?"
"My parents—the 'Durandos' like they call themselves—were never powerful people, their 'community' was never thriving, they're weak and they have nothing…and yet, for as long as I can remember, they've always put on a 'show' whenever anyone came to visit. Act like everything was perfect. Talked like it too."
Alois took a breath before continuing while Jim settled comfortably (or as comfortably as one can settle after being shot twice) into his hospital bed, knowing that this was going to be a long story.
(Well, at least he had a distraction from the pain now.)
"They hid us in the woods, acting like we were secret, but made sure that the rumors spread throughout the city about their 'influence' over the government and criminal activity. In reality, they were the ones being influenced. Corrupt officials and businessmen, even actual criminal organizations…all of them sponsored my parents, and in exchange, used the 'Durandos' as a cover for their crimes."
Jim smiled.
"Blame the Nazis, eh?"
Alois nodded solemnly.
"Yes. We sometimes attended fancy parties at mansions or state buildings or museums, dressed up in clothing we didn't buy. We always showed up late and when we walked in, a hush would fall over the room. The hosts had told everyone who we 'were' and everyone always believed…but it was never real."
Jim adjusted himself to sit upright, realizing the direction in which Alois's story was headed. His physical pain was a dull murmur compared to the pain of feeling stupid.
"Around the same time that I decided that I was never going to speak to my parents again, the people who were selling the paintings got arrested." Alois continued, "Our former benefactors had long since lost power and stopped helping us, and now my parents had no way of selling the paintings. I wanted to get away from them but I didn't want to leave them with nothing…"
"And so that's where I came in." Jim recognized, "Even though I made you look stupid in front of all your arty friends and got you kicked out of their clique, you still asked for my help."
"I didn't have anyone else to go to." Alois explained, "I knew you'd have the connections to help my parents but I had to get you interested. That's why I told you everything, about who my family was, why I didn't want to talk to them and why I'd joined the human rights group to make up for what they'd done. I'd never told anybody else before. And you believed me."
"That's because it was true."
"You also believed me when I told you that my parents were the biggest crime bosses in the city. That they had the authorities in their pocket and all the other criminals under their control."
Jim sighed, smiling dismissively (embarrassedly).
"Well, it was a nice story…" he admitted, "Rumors all backed it up, even international art dealer Amberley had already heard of the Durandos when I hired him to sell your paintings."
"We'd heard of him, too." Alois recalled, "Everyone knew Mr. Amberley was in South America looking for Nazi treasure. They told him what he wanted to hear so he'd keep spending money. My parents hated him, though. Asked too many questions. They refused to work with him or even meet him. That's why I hired those boys to work for my parents as middlemen once I left."
"Who are they?" Jim asked, "Your friendly neighborhood Neo Nazis?"
"They were dropouts with no other way of making money." Alois answered, "The tattoos and the shaved heads, that was all just for the job…They believed who I told them they would be working for because they were young and didn't know better…They weren't loyal to me, though, since I wasn't the one paying them anymore."
"That's hired muscle for you." Jim sympathized, with a laugh, then inquiring, "…but none of that explains the ruse about the old man."
"You're supposed to be some kind of 'criminal genius'." Alois stated, "Can't you figure it out?"
The realization dawned in Jim's mind as a genuine smile of satisfaction grew across his face.
Yes. Of course.
He sat up.
"Amberley the conspiracy theorist…" Jim chuckled.
"After you'd left, I met with him." Alois recounted, "We had run out of the old forgeries the old man had painted before he'd died, and although I'm just as good as he was—maybe even better—I didn't want anyone to know I was the one making them. I didn't want to be a criminal…"
Jim rolled his eyes.
"…so I told him that the 'old man' was still alive, still the one painting the forgeries." Alois continued, "Mr. Amberley already had all sorts of suspicions about who 'the Durandos' were; some true, some not…I knew what he thought, who he thought my grandfather was. And when he asked to meet him and I said that he couldn't, Mr. Amberley got even more suspicious. He followed me one day, trying to find out where my parents live. After that, I decided we couldn't work with him anymore and had the guards make sure he left us alone. But because we'd stopped working with him, we were unable to sell all the 'lost Vermeers' you saw today."
"And that's when Ms. Wenceslas and her Golem arrive." Jim completed.
"They came a month later, Mr. Amberley told them where our home was." Alois confirmed, "…but they actually helped us. Ms. Wenceslas agreed to sell the forged painting and everything was going well—until you told that detective about us."
"Sorry." Jim grinned, unapologetically.
"Don't be." Alois responded, "I'm actually glad you did. After I saw what happened to those who got caught, I felt so lucky. I knew I had been spared so that I could change my life and be better."
To that Jim chortled politely with his mouth behind his hand, nodding as if he agreed.
He then asked, "But if all the real paintings had been traded for entry into Argentina and all the forgeries had already been sold, what did you copy the litter of 'lost Vermeers' from? Was there ever an original?"
"Yes there was." Alois answered, "It was an old photograph, something my grandfather brought with him from Europe. I found it with his art supplies. I don't know when it was taken or where."
"Somebody could chart the stars and find out." Jim considered, offhandedly.
(Somebody like Sherlock Holmes.)
"That's why you should've known it was fake, that there never was an original." Alois declared, "That's why everyone should've known. An artist never would have painted the stars so perfectly—never could have. Painting like that takes time and the stars change position in the sky ever night..."
"...but not in a photo." Jim finished.
It made sense. It really did. Why hadn't he thought of it before? Why hadn't Sherlock?
At least the fact that Sherlock hadn't figured it out made it okay that Jim hadn't.
(Jim had expected Sherlock to figure out that the painting was forged, because Johannes Vermeer couldn't have possibly had painted a picture of that town on the bank of the Delft as the town had been destroyed when a gunpowder store exploded prior to when the painting was supposedly painted.)
"Not in a photo." Alois repeated, then adding "…Besides, I'm not a real artist, anyway."
"You're not?" Jim tested, raising an eyebrow at the self-deprecation.
"No, I'm just a copyist." Alois explained, "I can mimic things perfectly, make them look real, fool everyone around me…but I can never create something of my own and so I'll never be anything more than a fake."
Jim took a breath as if he was breathing in the words.
Alois hadn't been self-deprecating. No, he had just been trying to indirectly insult Jim in a way that would actually work.
Calling Jim a 'criminal' or a 'killer' didn't seem to bother the criminal killer. But calling him a 'fake'…
Alois expected to see at least the hint of a hidden frown on Jim's face. Just something small to prove that he was human and could be hurt.
So far the man had been shot twice, was sitting in a hospital bed and didn't look as if he was in any pain!
It caused Alois to wonder if monsters were real after all.
" 'Art' isn't real." Jim said evenly, emotionlessly, "…It's just escapism. A pain killer. It doesn't solve the problem, it only dulls the symptoms. People have nothing and they think that they could never have it all. They're too afraid to go out and try to take what they want. They're miserable. So they make art. They 'express themselves' all the while doing absolutely nothing to change their worthless little lives."
"That's not true!" Alois exclaimed, "Art can be used for change, like HUNGER uses it. Used to make things better, draw the public's attention to important causes."
He'd attempted to insult Jim, but now felt insulted by Jim himself.
"Shock value." Jim snorted, "The public doesn't care, they just like to be entertained. They spend all day reading and watching telly. They're bored and they do nothing. Just live their lives through other people—people who don't even really exist, half the time."
Alois opened his mouth to protest, but Jim wasn't done yet. Alois closed his mouth and folded his arms in order to listen.
This was real emotion emitting from Jim. Alois had finally been able to bait it out of him.
Now, if only he could make Jim feel as ashamed and humiliated about being tricked and committing crimes as he did…
"And artists are no better." Jim continued, "They see what's missing in their lives, in this world and instead of making it real they just draw pretty pictures and write happy stories about the perfect lives in the perfect worlds they wished they lived in."
"You can't create perfection in the real world." Alois reminded, almost wistfully, "Everybody's definition of perfect is different and trying to force one definition of perfect on the world only creates destruction."
He paused to remember a war he hadn't learned about until visiting a library in the city on his own for the first time at fifteen.
Jim smirked, taking quickly using his own voice to fill the silence he hated.
"That's what I do." He stated, proudly, "I'm not an artist, I'm better. The world is my clay and I mold it into whatever I want it to be. I mold myself into whatever I want to be. I'm a god."
Alois blinked.
At first, he'd thought it was more of Jim's jokes and lies but Alois could soon tell that he was serious.
He really believed that about himself, he really was crazy…
Alois couldn't help but laugh.
He tried to make it sound cruel and jeering but it just ended up sounding forced and false.
(And the taunting sneer looked just as strange and unnatural as it would have on another naturally kind and guilty face Jim knew well.)
"Laugh." Jim allowed, waving a hand as a gesture of blessing, "I could have you dead in ten minutes, you know."
That was a lie.
Yesterday it probably would have been true, but today it was a lie.
Alois kept laughing.
Not because he actually found anything funny (no, more like sickening) but just because he saw how agitated his laughter was making Jim.
When this conversation was over (very soon, hopefully, it had gone on too long now already) Alois knew he'd be in the nearest bathroom vomiting.
"What's so funny?!" Jim finally snapped, expecting some kind of 'oh, how the mighty have fallen' speech.
"You were lucky today." Alois said, "You'll die if you keep living like this."
"Now who says I don't want that?" Jim returned, his wry calm also returned.
Alois swallowed. He knew what he wanted to say to Jim but he didn't say it. Instead, he turned silently and exited the dark room.
Jim's laughter, forced and false, chased after him but it was gone when the door slammed shut behind him.
Alois did pity Jim. He knew that if he were Jim Moriarty he would want to die, too.
Anthea kept her fingernails polished but clear and short so she could type on her smartphone (or, occasionally, an actual computer).
But now her smartphone was gone and her normally clean fingers were polished—no stained—with it's clear, invisible blood.
Because the phone wasn't just 'gone', it was dead. It was dead and Anthea had been the one to kill it.
Tapping her fingers impatiently against the metal table at which she sat across from Molly, Anthea mourned.
"Could you stop, please?" Molly finally requested after over a minute, lifting her head up to face Anthea from where she'd had it down and in her arms, resting on the cold table.
"Sorry," Anthea apologized, continuing to tap, "….without my phone I feel…incomplete."
Molly stared at her for a moment (an expression somewhere between disbelief, confusion and exasperation on her tired face), before dropping her head back down onto the uncomfortably hard metal and arms below.
They'd been locked in this interrogation room for at least six hours.
It was probably the middle of the night by now.
Molly listened to the tapping until she fell asleep.
(In her sleep, she dreamed that Sherlock arrived and explained everything, instantly fixing all the problems for all involved, even for Jim. Everyone forgave each other and became friends. They went home to London where they all lived happily ever after.
Even in her dream, Molly knew this was too good to be true and so she woke up.)
When she awoke, she was being pulled to her feet out of the metal chair by a police officer and upon opening her eyes she saw the same occurring to Anthea.
They were dragged out of the interrogation room into a hall where John and Lestrade were also being dragged out of an identical interrogation room into the hall.
The four were then marched down this hall, through the entire Buenos Aires police station until they had exited the building.
Outside they were rushed into police cars, sirens already blaring, that rushed them through the traffic of the city all the way to an isolated airstrip just outside of Buenos Aires occupied by only one small plane.
In front of it stood Mycroft Holmes.
(Of course.)
Molly, Anthea, John and Lestrade had been careful to remain silent their entire journey and when the police sirens stopped, they heard ambulance sirens replace the sound as an ambulance joined the plane and two police cars on the isolated airstrip.
It silenced its sirens when it parked, backdoors opening so that a hospital employee could push Jim down the ramp in a wheelchair and Moran could limp down after him using crutches, pushing any employee that attempted to help him away.
Everyone stood quietly and awkwardly, for a moment, until all the Argentinians returned to their vehicles and drove away, leaving the Britons (and one man who would insist upon 'Irish') alone on the airstrip.
Without the flashing lights that accompanied the siren, and without all the light pollution from the nearby city, they could all see the dark sky above. Unclothed by clouds, it was full of bright stars.
"Say nothing." Mycroft warned the group, "Just get on the plane."
He was calm on the outside, yes, but inside there was an angry storm. Even the slightest of annoyances would draw it out now.
So before anyone could say anything, Mycroft turned and climbed up the stairs onto the airplane himself.
Anthea was the first to follow, then followed by Lestrade and then John (who took one last wary glare back at Jim and Moran before entering).
Molly hurried over to Jim in the wheelchair. Meanwhile, Moran and his crutches made their way slowly towards the plane.
Molly waited until he was inside to start pushing Jim after him. He wasn't looking at her, instead staring straight ahead into space like he was thinking (or completely braindead).
Molly was too afraid to start talking after Mycroft had told everyone not to, but she'd assumed that Jim would eagerly disobey that order.
He didn't.
And Molly knew that Jim not talking was never a good sign.
She wanted to ask about his injuries, how they'd been treated, and how severe his pain was but she said nothing and he said nothing.
When Molly had finally managed to get Jim (and the wheelchair) onto the airplane, she wheeled him to the very back and helped him into a seat far away from everyone else (who'd glared at them as they'd passed), afterwards sitting down next to him herself.
He was still staring blankly, and although all other eyes in the plane were pretending to be politely averted, Molly could see their corners watching Jim (and her).
She decided to look out the window into the dark. She closed her eyes when she saw her own reflection, leaning her head against the window and going back to sleep.
John and Lestrade sat near each other but not next to each other, in two rows across from each other.
They glanced, every once in a while, at one another almost as uneasily as their stared at those they openly mistrusted (everyone on the plane (but especially Jim)) and saw as a threat.
Their partnership to find and kill Moriarty was effectively over; their mission, a failure.
(…but what about their friendship…?)
Frustrated with the entire situation (which he had only just found out about a few hours ago), Mycroft had no desire to sit with the 'general population' of the plane.
The airplane was small but it did have a division between 'classes'. As if part of their 'punishment' Jim, Molly, Anthea, John, Lestrade and Moran had been made to sit in the cramped back section.
Anthea found Mycroft in the very first seat in the more spacious and comfortable front section….
…as well as all of the guns, phones and bulletproof vest-jackets (neatly folded) that had been confiscated by the Argentine authorities. They sat in the rows behind him on seats like passengers, each 'seatbelted' by their own plasticbag.
Anthea could see the remains of her dead smartphone in one of these clear bags.
It looked clean and normal, like most dead bodies that had been poisoned looked. All the damage was on the inside. The code Anthea had typed into her phone upon arrest, had permanently erased all its data and rendered it incapable of even ever being turned on again.
Indeed the phone was dead.
And next to its clear plastic coffin and its plane-seat grave, was a pile of mass-produced 'lost Vermeer' forgeries.
Why Mycroft had collected them, too, Anthea did not know.
Maybe that meant what Jim had said about Sherlock hiring him to get the real lost Vermeer had been true…
…or maybe it just meant he wanted to decorate his new secret prison.
Either way, it hardly mattered now.
"So how did you find us?" she asked her employer.
"The embassy called after being informed by the local police that six British citizens had been arrested." Mycroft explained, not turning to face her.
From the reflection visible in the window a seat away from him, Anthea could see that his eyes were closed.
"…and what did you have to give to get us back?" she followed-up.
Mycroft sighed.
"Do you really want to know?" he asked.
To which Anthea nodded, "Yes."
"…The sovereignty of the Falklands."
Kill me, I couldn't help it.
I'm sorry.
I'm really stupid and really sleepy. I need to sleep.
I also need reviews, please…
The stuff about the Wenceslases being the protectors of the Czech people is basically true (according to Wikipedia). There was a king or a saint (or both) by that name.
Oh no!
More conspiracy-history!
Here we go again…
Standard Oil was an American oil and gas company owned by John D. Rockefeller that had a monopoly on the oil industry in the US.
(David Rockefeller, his grandson, established the Trilateral Commission between the US, Europe and Japan.)
Standard Oil was broken up into many local smaller companies by Supreme Court order, but later those companies merged to form or were absorbed into the major companies of ExxonMobil, Chevron and BP that own them all today.
ExxonMobil is the richest company on the planet.
(Second richest is Royal Dutch Shell, Standard Oil's oldest competitor (but it's not involved in this particular 'conspiracy'.))
BP is 6th richest and Chevron is 9th.
These companies in their current and former incarnations have been drilling for oil since industrialization (1800's) all over the world—including the Middle East.
Control of the Middle East (as well as any area with oil) has been the most important objective of the richest people since modern times. Those richest people happen not to be Middle Easterners (nor of their culture or religion) and so violence to get this oil is used when necessary.
Desert Storm, the Iraq War, even Afghanistan, they were all wars fought for oil, the resource that generates money and industrialization—and keeps the people wealthy and in power, well, wealthy and in power.
That's why the Iraqis burned the oil wells when they fled Kuwait in the 90's. They didn't want their enemies to be even more powerful. Why did Iraq want Kuwait in the first place? So it could have the oil.
Condoleezza Rice, former Secretary of State for George Bush was on Chevron's board of directors.
Former Vice President Dick Cheney was chairman and CEO of Halliburton.
What is Halliburton?
It's a company that provides protection and supplies for oil companies to drill for oil.
It used to own KBR, the company that provides the private military and security support for oil companies. KBR has also been a US government contractor since World War Two and participated in every invasion of the Middle East by the US.
KBR was founded in 1901 by Morris Kellogg in New York.
Also in New York during the Industrial Revolution, Milo Kellogg bought up a bunch of smaller telephone and telegraph companies to create Kellogg Switchboard & Supply Company that manufactured switchboards.
In 1951 ITT Corporation, a larger rival, purchased it. (Remember ITT Corporation from last chapter? )
ITT Corporation was founded by US Colonel Sosthenes Behn and his brother Hernand in 1920 by buying the telephone companies of Puerto Rico and Cuba, then many European (Belgium, Britain, Germany) telephone companies from Western Electric, another American company that temporarily owned Kellogg Switchboard & Supply Company and then finally more American companies.
They made and controlled communication systems like telephones, telegraphs and radios all over the Western world.
But the Behns were Nazi sympathizers and helped the Nazis before and during World War Two by working with Hitler paying the leader of the SS and manufacturing Nazi planes.
(Yet despite this, they still won a 25 million dollar settlement from the US government for damage to their factories in Germany done during the war in the 1960's.)
Also,
Hilary Clinton was on the Wal-Mart board of directors and so was this Nigerian Scottish guy nobody's ever heard of named John O. Agwunobi who was assistant secretary for health in the US 2005 to 2007.
Just to say that everybody high up in the government and the military comes from big business, as most of these people also had military educations before going into business, then the government, and then back into the private sector again.
That really doesn't have much do with this story, it's just very interesting.
I say it's a "conspiracy" but it's really not because all the information is out there and it's all perfectly legal for this to be going on.
I hope you liked this chapter, please review!