Chapter 23
It's All About Heart
"Seas without water, coasts without sand, towns without people, mountains without land."
"Map. I know that one."
"Proceed."
Jim contemplated the criminal making Sherlock jump through hoops. It was hilarious. The call ended. He should suggest this is all meaningless and a ploy to prove he can control and best them. The Professor would not and could not best James Moriarty, however, he could succeed at manipulation toward the detective.
"This is a diversion." Sherlock stood with his back to the museum, frowning into space. "There appears to be a plot to upend the government and take control by other means. This person must be put here for a reason. There's something I'm not seeing..."
He should suggest this was not a diversion, at least, not for some high crime conspiracy. It was a game. A time waster to set the table. A way to pit genius on genius. It would lead to a trap. Their minds were to be occupied solving the mystery laid out before them to prevent expecting a trap. But as the Professor so rightly stated, Jim thought five moves ahead of his opponents. He just had to uncover the details.
"Anderson, I know you're entirely useless, but get me the results of your investigation as soon as you have them."
The man made a face and turned back to the museum employee he'd been speaking to. Jim saw DI Dimmock pull up to the crime scene and emerge from the vehicle. Not interested.
"I'll get to the bottom of this. The criminal will not win." He fiddled with his phone to presumably contact his brother while saying, "Mycroft might know something."
John was right. Sherlock was dumb for a smart person. Trying hard to focus on the relevant things, he missed the important things right in front of him. Unbelievable. To think, this was who he was determined to play a game of his own with to outsmart the man often on equal footing to him. He may need to thank the Professor for saving him the vexation.
He tried to direct him to the current problem. "There are many maps. Where do we start?"
The largest library or the second largest in the country would be their destination. The latter was the main research library and one of the oldest libraries in Europe. Jim lowered his phone. Selecting a museum as the first location suggested the Professor liked history or wanted them to have history on the brain.
"The first clue had to do with a historical discovery. Presuming there's a pattern, we must seek an old library." Sherlock lifted his gaze from his phone and looked over. "University libraries?"
"University of Oxford," Jim prodded. "Bodleian Library."
It was a fair distance to travel. They used his car, this time Sherlock sitting opposite Jim, back to the front passenger seat. Sat facing each other, he held bemusement for the attention. He realized why the seating arrangement when the man gave a spiel concerned for the country and what grand scheme the Professor was planning. He pretended to listen and pictured Moran depositing John on the floor of his safe house or drunk John blabbing private thoughts or how John looked sleeping in his bed. Warmth filled him. Must be a mild fever.
Staring out the window, they were nearing the university and ended up behind an ambulance. It was a shorter drive than London to Cardiff, but he'd prefer John for company. No more Mary or Cardiff. Fortunate for him. Wow. Focus. Professor. Mystery. Riddles. Running them around Britain. Why was he agreeing to this masquerade?
The ambulance was destined for the University of Oxford too, parking by the Bodleian Library. Well then, a recent murder. None of this was done in advance but in a timely manner for their arrivals. The Professor fancied himself a competent academic sort, did he? Was he really so dauntless as to name his criminal identity after his actual profession?
He couldn't possibly work here. No. He'd find out though. Sending an alert to his men in the area, he ordered them to check out universities and provide a list of professors. Oxford to start, then London, Cardiff, and any others he selected for a search. Anywhere the Professor was active.
Aware Sherlock had long abandoned him in the car to investigate the crime scene inside, Jim exited the car and walked casually to the library entrance. He hurried for no one and nothing.
There wasn't enough of a police presence to cordon off the scene and he strolled in the direction of the body lying on an upper landing. Hard to get to. He sought the path up to where Sherlock was standing and bouncing on the balls of his feet with intrigue. Jim sighed and stretched. The man did this all the time? Boring.
"There's a book in his hand," Sherlock called down when he apparently couldn't wait to show what he conceived to be brilliance anymore. "The Gough Map. Oldest surviving road map of Great Britain, or so it reads. First to avoid theological mapping, maker unknown."
"Fascinating." He didn't refer to what was being said. Sherlock had no idea what he was looking for.
On the second landing, he approached the body. It was a woman in her thirties or forties, red hair drawn into a ponytail, pale complexion. Her clothing reminded him of something. He stooped and drew back the left sleeve of her shirt. A tattoo that spiraled and closed in a 3D rectangular shape. The symbol indicating membership in Irish organized crime operating out of this city. Known for thievery mostly. Wonderful.
He straightened and glanced around. "Sherlock. We shouldn't loiter."
Sherlock was hardly listening. "We're not. I know that symbol. Gang affiliation, yes? Right. I wonder if this is someone who refused to conspire with the Professor in his aim to take Britain for himself."
Snapping an image with his mobile, he sent it to the other Holmes. Jim removed his second phone which was a clone of Sherlock's to check. Yup. Mycroft Holmes was conferring on the case. The pair of them seemed friendlier these days. Hm.
Jim chuckled when Sherlock startled as his phone rang.
"Hello?"
Did he-? There. His expression flattened when the Professor's unaltered voice spoke.
"Mary was born on December 25, yet her birthday is always in summer."
Sherlock was frowning. No wonder. That was easy.
"She lives where the weather is like summer year round. Southern Hemisphere. What does that-?"
"Proceed."
A scowl when the call ended. A scowl which he turned on Jim. "When is this going to stop?"
He smiled a fake smile. "You tell me."
He left off the taunt. Little point. The Professor was doing plenty to pull Sherlock's strings.
"We should go."
"Where do we go from here?"
Jim about-faced and headed for the ground level. Those weren't police officers coming their way, hands in their jackets. Sherlock popped up at his back, alert to the danger.
"Hey!"
Sherlock broke into a run and fled the building. He blinked, exhaled slowly, and waved at the unkind muscle. "Hi, I'm Richard Brook. Have you seen my show?"
"What the he-?"
Striding out of the building, he refused to hurry. There was a reputation to maintain here. The Professor thought he was cute involving an Irish group to reference Moriarty's origins. Encroaching on his territory and pushing it by annoying him. There would be trouble.
"Hey! We want to talk to you!"
He purposefully misunderstood and ignored the baritone man's command. Sherlock was looking for the car but he never had his car stay in one place barring a good reason. Now was a good reason he should have kept it in place. Ah well.
"Get them!"
One of the officers tried to stop them. These fellas were quite organized. Even had a copper in their pocket. Sherlock appeared prepared to punch the man and that wasn't a good idea. Give the officer paid my criminals an excuse to arrest them and they would be put directly in the hands of the very people they were avoiding.
"Think, Sherlock!"
Sherlock did a double take at him. He couldn't fathom why.
Jim's driver drove onto the pavement and he got in after Sherlock, who practically tossed himself bodily into the backseat. Oh he was having fun. He'd call him crazy but, well, it wasn't like he had all of his faculties intact either. Jim relished in danger like John, although his lover felt fear and distress much more easily.
While the police didn't pursue, the criminals did. He buckled his seat belt around the time the car veered wildly through a narrow passage possibly not intended for vehicles. He glanced at his phone. Ten minutes and these fools were proving determined to catch up, blaming them for their dead member.
Sure, it didn't look great to be seen standing over the body. Would it be asking that much for them to check their facts and comprehend someone else found the woman dead before they ever arrived? He sighed internally when he spotted a third car joining the pursuit. Must he teach everyone a lesson in humility? Really. He was put in this position and these situations. He didn't choose them.
They lost their pursuers outside Swindon following two collisions, only one of which involved a car of the Irish criminals. He instructed his driver to deliver them to Baker Street in London the roundabout way to be sure the chase was over. Hearing the directions, Sherlock sagged in the seat, pouting.
He ignored, peering out the window. It was raining. He popped in his earbuds and shut his eyes to revel in the music. Sherlock stared at him for the longest time before giving up and staring out his own window. He almost smiled. His win.
Moriarty texted John a few minutes from their final destination. Wake up, honey.
A minute passed and the reply came. Tired. Only slept four hours. Goodnight. -TH
He pocketed the buds and device. Come outside to say hello, gorgeous.
Don't need you. Bye. -TH
He beamed to see a sleepy John standing outside. His light blue t-shirt and dark jeans looked rumpled, like he'd grabbed whatever was laying on the floor or bottom of the bed. Dressed in a hurry. That's his boy.
"Hound," he greeted wielding a lopsided smirk.
Sherlock got all protective and stepped between them. Or, he would have. John's gaze distracted, peering sideways along the ground.
"Is that a body?"
The tired eyes looked a lot more awake, snapping to Jim. He held up his hands. "Hey. Not me."
Sherlock approached the body and John sighed, tugging out his phone. "I'll ring Lestrade."
Crouching, the detective consultant gestured to the male corpse neck to feet. "These clothes aren't his."
The shirt was too big for him, sleeves hanging over hands loosely, buttons not done up except for a few toward the bottom. A knife carved a message into the flesh on his chest. Jim thought a paper note would suffice. Hm. He got him once.
"This man is my assassin."
John was confused and Sherlock was suspicious. "You said the man at the library was your assassin."
"The clothes belonged to my guy and his face was mush. I thought it was him."
"What kind of day are you people having?" He fought a giggle at John's dismay. "Never go anywhere together. Why were you together? This can't be good."
He turned his back to them to talk into the mobile. Sherlock continued to examine the dead man. He said aloud what Jim was already seeing. The shoes were a size too small, the pants fit but there was evidence a belt had been slotted through and there was no belt.
"These are the clothes of the museum employee," Sherlock observed finally, rising. He nudged the body. "There's the shotgun used to kill him."
Putting away his phone, John mentioned the carved words. "Have a heart. Is that supposed to be funny?"
"What killed him, Johnny?"
He looked to Jim and reluctantly moved closer. "Broken neck. But the knife in his skull did him in. Or both. Not sure it matters which came first."
Clapping his hands together a couple times, John began to roll his eyes and blushed instead. He grinned at the reaction. Sherlock's phone went off. On automatic by now, he answered and set it to speaker.
"I followed Mr. Moriarty's design a bit. Someone else does the work. The assassin was given a choice. Kill the museum employee for more money or kill me for the lesser amount."
Jim fumed within, mood darkening. Nobody crossed him. They feared him. He'd make him pay if someone hadn't already. A clothes swap to temporarily trick him into believing his hire was deceased he respected. Stealing a greedy employee out from under Moriarty and convincing him to work for the enemy was insulting.
"A second choice. Complete his original job and kill him for that money or get double the higher amount I offered to pay for the first person to kill the woman in organized crime. He bashed her brains in for me with whatever was handy."
John frowned, something the bother. He was on another call, Jim heard him say Donovan twice, and was trying to listen to both calls at the same time. There was a police siren gaining volume, yet out of view.
"A final choice. Take no money and go with his life or kill me and get the original amount Mr. Moriarty offered. Do you know what his choice was, Mr. Holmes?"
"Of course. The hitman tried to force you to pay what was promised."
"I made no promises, but yes, you are correct. The result serves to be your warning, Sherlock. Are you looking closely?"
He ended the call abrupt as usual.
"Yeah. Okay," John said in his own call and put the mobile in his front jean pocket. "Sherlock, who was that?"
"The Professor."
A police car drove toward them, an ambulance following. John's face was scrunched up and Jim had the urge to reach out and smooth the lines. Sherlock announced he would be going to the morgue and Molly Hooper to further study the body for potential clues.
John seemed to avoid sighing. "I need air. Going for a walk."
Jim waved his lingering driver on and walked along with the tired man. They said nothing for a couple minutes. John glanced at him every now and then. He opened his mouth the fifth time and his phone interrupted whatever might have been said.
He watched him dig out his phone and press to answer. "Hello, Lestrade. I'm not with Sherlock right now so-"
Listening. He halted. "I see. I... I understand. I won't. Okay. Bye."
John turned to look at him. "A woman killed at the library? She was an undercover agent for MI6. Works abroad but the organization brought her in for a deal. The fake tattoo tipped them off."
Humming, he pondered whether Sherlock missed these answers while he was discovering the other answers present. The Professor inserted layers of information to unearth in his game. He hoped the detective would figure it out unlike when he had his fall planned for him. Don't be clever, Sherlock Holmes. Horses, not zebras.
A white van screeched to a stop beside them on the pavement. He reached for his gun and rethought it when the side door slid open and guns were pointing at them. Three men wearing masks, two men sitting up front. One kept his gun aimed and the other two holstered them to leave the vehicle and grab them.
He leaned in to speak low in John's ear. "I do believe we're being kidnapped."
"Oh come on! What did you do?!"
He flinched at the mouth close to his tender ears and allowed himself to be dragged to the opening in the van. Indignant about the accusation as he was shoved to the vehicle floor, he lifted to his hands and knees to look at John.
"I don't get kidnapped, John. This is all you, my dear."
"Oh how generous!"
The guy was upset with him and not their kidnappers. Peculiar. He approved.
He smiled a little and replied agreeable, "I thought so."
Inside the van, their wrists were taped together in front, ankles too. He scooted to sit with his back to the siding and helped John when he struggled to do the same. Their captors crouched or knelt opposite, switching between watching them or looking away.
"I'm blaming you anyway, James. A night shift at hospital and only four hours sleep. Four hours!"
One of the captors seemed to think of something. "Phones. Now"
Jim detected an Irish accent.
"Mine is in my inner right jacket pocket." The hand reached for his left side where the gun was tucked away. "Your left, incompetent thug."
His phone was removed properly and he motioned toward the man on his right. "His mobile is in his left front pant pocket."
The hand hovered uncertainly above the man's lap, sad brain working out if it was his left or his captive's left and he smiled cold. "Careful."
He chose John's left pocket and the phone was pulled free. Jim saw him put them in his brown leather jacket pockets on either side. The guy sat back and John started frowning, eyeing him up and down.
"Who are you?"
"No talking!"
"Mitchell?!"
The man cursed and crouched near the back of the van, facing them. "No talking, John. Obey."
"I thought you people wanted me dead. Still got painful bruises from the rounds hitting my vest. I was dead without that thing. Now you want me alive? What for?"
"Parker made the choice. A better choice came our way. We don't have many options thanks to you."
"Quit talking to them," hissed the guy squatting across from Jim.
He leaned into John's face, curious. "How'd you know?"
"Recognized his voice. His name is Martin Mitchell. Worked on the super soldier project." He spoke quieter. "Sherlock will find us. It'll be okay."
His expression was blank in response, resting against the van wall to regard him. "My right hand will do the rescuing, just you wait."
Their fate hinging on that idiot was unacceptable. It would not happen. The man in the front passenger seat twisted to look to the back at them.
"Who's the spare?"
"I don't know. Friend?"
Alarmed would be his guess through what he could see of the man's eyes around the mask. "He's friends with police. What if he's-?"
"Who cares? They're dead if he doesn't do what we want whoever he is."
"I'm friends with doctors and nurses too."
A smile crept on his face. John had humor in a dangerous predicament. He wasn't enjoying himself at the moment but they would get there. Adjusting to sit shoulder to shoulder with John, he was pleased. Jim could think of worst ways to spend his day.
"James Moriarty. Pleasure to meet you."
The driver and man across from Jim were perking up but the others were not reacting. They didn't know him. Hm... Fine.
"The criminal mastermind who brought England to its knees for a time? Rumored to have a network of criminals all over the world?" That was the driver.
Mitchell clenched a fist. "What's it matter?"
The guy in the passenger seat said, "Maybe we can make him help us out if Watson won't cooperate."
His eyes narrowed. "Are you betting against the Hound?"
How unfortunate for them.