Chapter Fifty-Four: The Best Laid Plans
"Brother?" Molly exclaimed, incredulous to what she was hearing. Her mind scrambled, unable to comprehend this new development. "You're … you're …"
"James Henry Moriarty." The man across from her gave a courtly, yet mocking bow of his head. "At your service, ma'am."
Molly downed her glass of wine in one swallow and then blurted out the first thing that came in her head. "How is that even possible?"
Henry took the time to refill his wineglass and Molly's. "People have multiple children all the time. Is it really such a shock that the Moriarty clan would include three sons?"
"Are there any others? Perhaps a sister I should be aware of? A second cousin with a grudge?"
Henry gave a crooked grin. "No, just the three boys, I'm afraid. And, unlike my brothers, I choose to go by my middle name. Much like your Sherlock." He winked in a confident way Molly wasn't buying for a second. She'd gotten through to him when she'd told him murder wasn't noble. She knew it.
Henry continued, "Dr. Moriarty—as he calls himself—is the eldest, I'm in the middle, and Jim was the youngest."
"And you're all named James?"
"Indeed. James Thomas, James Henry, and James Richard. A bit unorthodox, I'll grant you. But, then again, we had an unorthodox upbringing."
Something clicked into place. "Richard? Like Richard Brook?" Molly asked.
Henry pulled out a cigarette and lit it before answering. "Most lies typically conceal a kernel of truth. Plus, Jim's sense of humor could often be a bit twisted."
Molly said nothing to this. What could she say? It was all too much to believe, much less absorb. At last, she said, "I don't understand. How is it possible that you're related to them? You look nothing alike."
He took a slow pull on his cigarette. "Genetics are complicated. You, as a scientist, should know that. You and Evan didn't look that much alike. He favored your paternal grandfather while you look decidedly like your mother."
His statement was like a hot knife in her stomach, slipping through the skin so easily, but burning her from the inside out. She coolly placed her hand on the table, sliding it up to where she needed it to be. "Don't talk about Evan."
"Why?" Henry's calm façade cracked. "You're just full of questions about my brothers, aren't you? Turnabout is fair play, after all. You wish to cast aspersions on my family, label us psychopaths and murderers and, yet, I'm not allowed to bring up your drug-addicted, suicidal older brother? Hardly fair, is it?"
Molly got to her feet, throwing her napkin down on the plate. Turning, she hastened over to the bed and took up residence there.
"What?" Henry prodded. "No further questions? You don't want to talk about my parents or ask where the Moriarty boys went to school?" With an agitated movement, he crushed the cigarette out on his plate. "Come back over here! I can astound you with stories of my colorful past as the child sandwiched between the coldest, most manipulative man in all of Britain and an emotionally unstable younger sibling while we feast on chocolate cake. Then, you can tell me about the time you found your brother's body after he deliberately overdosed on heroin. It'll be fun!"
Molly winced at the unwilling memory this brought to mind. On the side he couldn't see, she cupped the metal hidden in her palm closer to her hip, readying herself. She'd pushed too far. And, from the way Henry was reacting, his claim of being a Moriarty no longer seemed so impossible.
He rose from the table, taking a moment to down his wine. After slamming the empty glass back on the table, he walked towards her.
Molly looked away to stare at the blank wall in front of her. As the room held no windows, it was easy to track the shadow of his approaching form. She remained as she was, trying not to demonstrate how afraid she truly was.
"Come now, darling. I thought we'd become friends of a sort. Don't you want to be friends?"
"No," she said. "I want you to stay away from me."
He placed himself squarely in front of her. She kept her eyes rooted forward on his chest, refusing to look up at him. The odor of his aftershave, faint and mixed with cigarettes, food, and wine, was repulsive to her. His hand came up, lightly caressing her cheek.
"Molly, Molly. Your fire is so much like hers, and, yet, so different," he said. "I imagine Sherlock is rarely bored in your presence."
"You'd be surprised," she clipped.
His hand slid from her cheek, down her neck, and was descending further when she made her move. It all happened in a flash. She thrust her weapon at his neck, intent on hitting an artery, if possible. Demonstrating keener reflexes than she'd expected, Henry bluntly deflected the blow, grabbed her by the wrists, and shoved her back against the bed, pinning her down. There was a clink as a metal object hit the concrete floor. They each panted from their exertions, sharing a combative glare.
He said, "Was that a fork you just tried to stab me with?"
She held his stare. "Yes."
"I see butter knives are not the only utensil that can prove dangerous in your possession."
"You have no idea."
He looked at her, in an assessing way, almost reminding her of Sherlock and William. Finally, his expression softened, "Why harm me? I was helping you."
"You're on top of me, holding me down after you ordered me dressed in scant clothing, plied me with copious amounts of alcohol, and put me in a bedroom fit for a pre-adolescent girl. What conclusion am I to reach by this? Certainly not that you're helping me, James Moriarty."
In one, graceful movement, Henry regained his footing and released her. He said nothing as he returned to the table for another cigarette. He lit it and took a drag. "I would have you know that I have never raped a woman in my life."
Molly rubbed her already sore wrists, which were now stinging and throbbing. Her back was on fire. "There's a first time for everything for a Moriarty, isn't there?"
"Touché," he said. He held out the pack to her. "You smoked in uni, didn't you?"
He really did know everything about her. Molly crossed her arms over herself. "Only first year. Haven't touched them since."
"Good girl," he held the cigarette up, as if scrutinizing the ash on the end. "You know, I would never hurt you, Molly."
"Perhaps. But you'll idly stand by while your brother does, won't you?" She shrugged. "Same thing, really."
He took another drag and rolled his eyes. "You don't understand." He pointed a finger at her. "You, my dear, are a pawn in a much larger game, a game that must play out if I am to get what I want, what I've worked ten, long years for."
Molly wanted to scream at him, plead with him, do anything so she didn't have to be here anymore. Instinct told her to keep calm and ask questions instead. She was making progress. "Ten years? You said that before when I asked how long you've been with Dr. Moriarty. If he's your brother, haven't you known him longer than that? Or did you not grow up in the same home?"
He paused, seemingly unsure of what how he should answer. "Something like that. You can say we've been in the business together for ten years."
"How does a man who hates violence go into a business with a man who feeds off of it?"
He took another drag, held it in his lungs and then released it like a hard-kept secret. "It was his payment. Ten years' service in return for his assistance in my endeavor." He gave a gruff, humorless laugh. "He calls it a consultancy fee."
"But you're his brother. He wouldn't just help you due to that connection?"
"Blood may be thicker than water in some circles, darling, but not in our family. After all, it does not assure loyalty." He caught her look and held it. "As I told you before, loyalty is everything to the professor." He tore his gaze away, his expression almost broken. "Jim wasn't loyal."
"He wasn't? How wasn't he loyal?"
As if someone had struck him, Henry blinked and shook his head. "I—We should talk about something else. I've already given away too much as it is. He won't like it if I—" He shook his head again. "I've come so far, Molly. Done so much. You can't understand, but I wish you would. Have you ever been in love, really in love? People think they are all the time, but it isn't true. It's usually infatuation or lust or some mixture of those. But real, true love is like nothing else. Have you ever felt that way about anyone?"
"Yes."
A torrent of emotions crashed over his face. "For Sherlock?"
She saw no sense in lying. "Yes."
"And does he love you back?"
"No."
An emotion flashed over his face, but too fast for her to decipher. "Are you sure about that?"
"Yes."
"And, yet, you still love him. In fact, I would say you're willing to die in order to ensure his safety. Why?"
Again, Molly saw no sense in lying. She wrapped her arms around herself. "True love isn't something you decide on. You don't choose who you love. You just do it."
He smiled dimly, a sad little expression. "Yes, like an illness for which there is no cure. When it is unrequited, there is no deeper pain. But requited, well, there is no higher plane on which to soar."
The room fell quiet for a long time. Henry seemed lost in memories. Finally, Molly asked, "What was her name?"
He started to answer but stopped himself. Then, he winced, took another puff of his cigarette, and asked, "Why stay with Sherlock when he doesn't love you?"
"Because being with him is better than being with anyone else."
"Even if you could be with someone who could actually love you back?"
She nodded. "Even then."
Henry examined her a long while. Then, taking a final drag on his cigarette before crushing it out on his plate, he proclaimed, "Sherlock is a lucky man." He crossed his arms over his chest and walked back over to the bed.
Molly shrank back, unsure of his intentions.
He paused at this, holding his hands up. "After all this time, you still doubt me?"
"Need I remind you of your last name or the fact that I've been kidnapped and am likely to be killed as part of some complicated game conceived to entrap and kill Sherlock as well?"
"I want to be your friend, Molly. Would you believe me if I told you that?"
"Want to be my friend?" she countered. "Let me go."
"Can't do that, my darling," he said, plopping down next to her on the bed and making them both bounce lightly. "So, we'll just have to make the best of things. But, who knows? I can't stop this plan, but I could, perhaps, make it to where you aren't killed. What do you say to that?"
She scooted over away from him, keeping her eyes front. "I'm not her."
"Her? Her who?"
She turned to look at him. "The woman you loved. I'm not her. No matter how much I might remind you of her, or how much you might want a holiday from your heartache by playing with me, I am not her and I won't pretend to be her just because you dangle a carrot in front of me. Let me go. I can get to Sherlock. He can end all of this, and you'll be free of your brother once and for all." She reached over, putting her hand atop his. "Henry, it's clear you have no stomach for his work. She's dead, but you can still live. You're better than your brothers. I can see it. There's still time to be the man you want to be. The man you could be."
"And what of my revenge?"
"Will that bring her back to life?"
His answer was no more than a murmur. "No."
Molly felt hope swell in her chest. She pressed her advantage. "Then, help me. You can right this before it becomes another tragedy like the one you so obviously suffered."
Henry opened his mouth to reply but frowned instead. He shuffled a little to the side and brought something up he'd been sitting on. "What's this?"
The necklace and earrings. They must have come out of her pocket when they'd been tussling on the bed with the fork earlier. Molly went to snatch the jewelry from him, but he moved away in time. "They're mine," she said. "On loan from a friend."
"Sherlock?"
"No, another friend."
He examined the jewelry, holding up the necklace in the light. Suddenly, a strange expression overtook his whole face, as if he were seeing a ghost.
"Give them back, please," Molly said.
He grabbed her arm, pulling her close. His face was so hard and foreign as if she'd never met him before. It scared her. "Don't lie," he said. "Sherlock gave you these. I know he did."
"He didn't. I borrowed them from another friend. I swear." She didn't want to give Mrs. Hudson's name. As ferocious as Henry was scowling at her, she was afraid the landlady would come to harm.
Something in her voice seemed to trigger something in him. He looked down at the jewelry in his hand one last time, an unbelievable smile creeping back on his face. "Of course." He passed the jewelry back to her and got to his feet, straightening his clothes as he went. "If you'll excuse me, I have a few more things to see to before my brother returns."
"Henry—"
"Get some rest, Molly," he said. "I'll see you in the morning."
Molly could only watch him as he hurried to the door and out of it. Something had happened here, but she had no idea what it was. She looked down at the jewelry crumpled in her hands. All she did know was that whatever hope she'd managed to cultivate in the last hour or so had left the room with Henry Moriarty.
—RE—
"How many is that?"
Sherlock continued to stare off at nothing, not bothering to look at John. He hated waiting and had little patience for it. "Does it matter?"
"You said you were quitting."
"When was that?"
"So many times I've lost count." There was a loud sigh as John stumbled across the darkened bookstore before settling down on the floor behind the tallest bookshelf next to Sherlock. "I guess I should be glad it's not heroin. Dare I ask why you're down here?"
Sherlock took a long, last drag on the cigarette before crushing it into the carpet. "I needed a quiet place. You were being too loud."
"I wasn't saying anything."
"You were thinking it."
John apparently decided not to argue further about this. Instead, he peered down at the now-burned carpet and the small pile of snuffed cigarettes there. "Mycroft's going to hate that."
Sherlock smiled. "I know."
"Well, we've some good news, at least. Mycroft has a man on the inside."
"So he says."
"He has a plan to save Molly."
"So he says."
John turned his squint at Sherlock. "You don't believe him?"
"I believe," Sherlock paused as he lit another cigarette, "Mycroft has the same priorities he's always had."
John sighed again, leaning his back against the wall. "Can I get one of those?"
Sherlock finally gave his business partner his full attention. "Since when do you smoke?"
"I don't, but now seems a good time to start."
He grinned but swatted John's hand away from his dwindling pack of cigarettes. "No. Mary will think I'm a bad influence on you."
John chuckled. "She's a bad influence on me."
"Which is why you married her." Sherlock blew out a waft of smoke.
"True."
A lengthy silence followed, only interrupted by intermittent sounds of the laughter and talking of people as they passed outside the shop. Sherlock had smoked his way through the pack of cigarettes and was mourning the fact that he'd just lit his last one when John spoke again. Before he left on his ridiculous errand, Mycroft had insisted they remain in the shop—something Sherlock was regretting having agreed to.
"Mycroft has a solid plan. This man inside will contact Anthea when the time is right, and the cavalry will sweep in. All we have to do is wait."
Sherlock studied his cigarette, almost mesmerized the almost elegant way the paper burned and turned to ash between his fingers. "Wait? Every second that goes by is another Molly is in danger. If I don't show up at the end of the week with what Moriarty wants, he's going to kill her."
"I know Mycroft has been a complete git, but he'd never let anything happen to Molly."
"You think he cares about a too-stubborn pathologist with an amazing ability to attract sociopaths?"
"He cares about you—no matter what you may think otherwise—and you care for her."
Sherlock didn't bother to debate that. It was true. "I've cared for others before—so has he—and he's had no issue snuffing them out when they became a liability. Mycroft is not given to sentiment. Never make the mistake of believing otherwise. You should know that, in the Holmes family, I'm considered the overemotional one. Well," he added with a shrug, "now anyway."
John soaked up this information with a fatal expression. Then, he blinked and steeled his back, as if reassuring himself. "No. No matter what you think, Mycroft has a code, Sherlock. He promised Molly he would get her out," He nodded to himself, "and he will."
"You will find, if you examine my brother's words to Molly carefully, that he merely informed her of the dangers and said he would attempt to get her out. Mycroft does not make promises. His code—as you put it—was fulfilled the second he gave Molly the warning and allowed her to make the choice to be used as bait." He snorted. "Not that it was much of a choice. He knew she wouldn't say no if it meant I would be protected. It was checkmate from that point on." Sherlock inhaled more precious nicotine.
"But she's … No, his code—"
"This same code has allowed Mycroft to condemn his own brother to death on occasion. Molly is nothing to him." Sherlock stared hard at John. "Nothing. Never assume otherwise."
There was a moment of silence as John absorbed this. Finally, he declared, "We'll save her." John's tone was forthright, but it did nothing to settle Sherlock.
The silence between them continued until the rattle of the door told them Mycroft had returned.
The partners remained as they were as Mycroft opened the door and let himself inside the small shop, his feminine costume intact. Still in character, he hobbled over to them and said, "You'll both want to follow me."
It wasn't Mycroft's words that sent the ice water coursing through Sherlock's veins. It was the fact that his brother had glanced at the ashtray Sherlock had made of his carpet and had no response. Sherlock stubbed out his final cigarette with all the others. Again, there wasn't a wince or a frown in reaction. Mutely, both men rose and followed the "old woman" up the stairs.
Once the three were again ensconced in the tiny second-floor flat, Sherlock leaned forward on the sofa and said, "Well? What did Anthea say? Has your man on the inside finally contacted her? Where is Molly?"
"Anthea received a package. From Moriarty. She had it delivered to me. I went to pick it up."
"How did Anthea know where you were?" John asked. "I thought only Sherlock could find you."
Mycroft straightened, looking remarkably like himself even garbed as he was. "I trained Anthea myself. And, even though I am no longer employed as her boss, her loyalty remains with me. I knew that, sooner or later, the professor would want to get in contact. I made sure Anthea was aware of this and put in place a way for her to get in touch—should the need arise."
"So you knew you'd be sacked after all?" John asked.
"No," Mycroft countered. "I put this in place after I received notice of my termination."
"Yes, John, you will find the elder Mr. Holmes is not as omnipotent as he would like us all to believe. What was in the package?"
"Two things. A blood-soaked blue shirt and a video message."
Mycroft's hands were empty. Sherlock felt his stomach drop.
"Where is it?"
The older man inhaled uneasily. "I've watched it, and I feel it's best—"
"Play it or I'll end this whole thing now and tell Moriarty where he can find his microchip."
Mycroft locked his jaw but still walked over to where he'd put his large purse. Rummaging through it, he produced a flash drive, which he then thrust into his laptop. Within a few minutes, a recording was playing.
Moriarty was seated in a chair, legs crossed and holding what looked like a riding crop across his lap. He was dressed crisply in a dark suit and tie. "Hello to you all. I am sure by now Mr. Holmes the younger has been reunited with his eldest sibling and is aware of what I truly seek." He grinned for the camera. "I know we agreed on a week, Mr. Holmes, but it seems that I'm going to need you to get it to me in two days. After all, I think we know who is really in charge, don't we?" He lifted the crop, allowing them to see the spots of red at the end. "If you need proof, allow me to demonstrate."
The image changed to show another room, dark and dank. As the camera zoomed, it became apparent that a woman in a blue evening dress was chained to a sizeable hook hanging from the ceiling, her back to them all. She was shaking, but whether it was from fear or cold, Sherlock couldn't discern.
"Oh my God. That's Molly," John choked.
Sherlock said nothing. He already knew what was coming, but he couldn't tear his eyes away.
"Now, my lovely," the professor said coming onto the scene. His clothing was rumpled. This had clearly taken place before the other message.
Moriarty approached the woman, running his crop lightly down her back. "Let's put on a show for the gentlemen, shall we? Let's hear you scream nice and loud."
"Go to hell," Molly croaked.
Moriarty didn't bother to reply, he simply took the crop and whipped it across her back. Molly jumped but remained quiet. The professor looked at the camera as if sharing a secret with the audience. "I do so love a challenge."
He then proceeded to strike her again and again, shredding her dress and causing welts to rise and bleed on her once-lovely back and shoulders. In the end, the professor got the screams he craved. Lots of them. At last, when Molly seemed to have been able to take no more, her body collapsed, hanging like a corpse on the hook. It was an image that would be forever burned into Sherlock's mind.
The recording changed, bringing them back to Moriarty sitting in his chair. "I want my brother's body in two days." He leaned forward. "And if I don't have it by then, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Jim and your protégé Billy won't be the only ones dead."
He got to his feet. There was a sound of shuffling feet. "Oh," he said, almost as an afterthought. "And, Mr. Mycroft Holmes, I have a little something for you."
The shuffling sounds got louder until a large man wearing a blue shirt and a hood over his head was trundled into the room. Removing the hood, the professor leaned to press his cheek to the man's cheek, as if posing himself. "Do you remember your friend? Did you really think I wouldn't know he belonged to you? Did you really think so pitiful a fly could infiltrate my web without me knowing?" He shook his head. "Pathetic. Haven't you figured it out yet? I know everything."
He moved away from the man, facing the camera. "I want what's mine, and I will have it. Do you understand?"
Even though it was a recording and there was no way they could have spoken to him, he waited as if they would. Then, when the silence went on too long, he yelled, "Do you understand?" He punctuated this by taking a gun from one of his off-camera henchmen, putting it to Mycroft's man on the inside's head, and blowing his brains out.
There was a sickening thump of the corpse hitting the floor. The professor, now calm and sedate as though he hadn't just been baptized in another man's blood and brain matter, adjusted his tie and said, "Two days, gentlemen. Have a pleasant evening."
The screen went dark.
