Chapter 4 - Nice to meet you
Jim was furious. How was it possible that Moran had not killed them all?! That they couldn't be traced, that he couldn't possibly get rid of so many Mycroft's people at once, it would arouse suspicion. Blah, blah, blah!
Jim angrily strode down the corridor leading to a conference room where he was to meet with the leaders of his network, with his most loyal ones. Well, at least he hoped so. Because who could be trusted at the moment? After he had learned about the leak from his own network two days ago, he could not decently sleep, eat or think. If the British government decided to get him, he would certainly end up either in the most secured jail in the country which was Sherrinford, together with Euros - Jim shuddered at this idea - or he would be killed, smoothly and quickly. Without witnesses. And because he was officially dead, they would not even have to deal with any paperwork regarding his death.
The most important thing now was to define the direction in which this whole thing would continue to unfold. Mycroft knew. There was nothing to be done about that. It was also important to take proper steps to ensure that his alleged survival would be proven false.
Moriarty threw open the glass doors leading to the meeting room. There were about twelve people sitting around a long polished table inside. All the chairs were occupied - except for one at the head of the table.
Everyone looked up in surprise as he entered. Jim wordlessly walked over to the empty chair and sat down. He readjusted his suit jacket, slowly put his phone on the table and glanced at everyone in anger. Then he smiled coldly and turned to Moran who was sitting at his right hand.
"Can you explain to me, Sebbie, why have I just received information that you've killed less than half of the people I ordered you to get rid of?"
Sebastian gulped but proudly continued facing the murderous gaze of his boss.
"It is not wise to get rid of everyone, especially when we know that there are Holmes' people. Right now, we have an advantage because Mycroft does not know that we know that he knows. "
Jim's eyes narrowed. He was the brains behind this all! Sebastian did the dirty work. He had no right to-
"Sir, if I may? I must agree with Moran. We can use this to misdirect them, feed them false information. It would be a shame to get rid of such advantage," a voice said behind Sebastian. Jim leaned forward for a better look. Of course it was Caxton - expert on politics. Who had to have a say in everything. Just like every politician.
"Do you have to have a say in everything, Caxie? Daddy will handle this himself," Jim said annoyed. But he had to admit they were right. He should really get some sleep because he would have come up with something like this long time ago. He let himself be controlled by his emotions which obscured his mind.
"Certainly, sir. I just think that we could turn this inconvenience in our favour," Caxton said, sounding more confident.
Jim squinted his eyes, then looked up thoughtfully at the ceiling and put his finger to his lips – truly a parody of intense thinking.
"That's all very nice, but can someone answer me one tiny little question that has plagued me for two days..."
Moriarty paused dramatically for a moment. And then he suddenly shouted:
"How is it POSSIBLE that you have not checked the agents we have not contacted for MORE THAN FOUR YEARS and when there was even a tiny chance that they might be COMPROMISED?!"
All his men flinched slightly and lowered their heads. When Moriarty started yelling - it was bad. Jim shot a glance at the red-haired man sitting at the end of the table.
"I'm talking to YOU, Wesley!" Saliva flew through the air and landed on the desk and on the faces of people sitting closest to Jim.
Small thin man with a balding head of slicked red hair crouched in his chair.
"S-sir, I suggested-"
Jim reddened even more and jumped out of his chair.
"You do not suggest, you give orders! I should shoot you, you incompetent moron!"
The atmosphere in the conference room was extremely tense. Then Jim slowly sat down, rubbing his face.
"I want a detailed report on what you propose to do in current situation and what is the best way to persuade Holmes that I'm still dead. I want it on my table by the end of the week," he murmured. He was leaning on one elbow, head in hand and eyes closed. He could feel fatigue slowly creeping up on him.
When nothing happened for a while, Jim raised his head and looked at them coolly.
"Well, off you go! Disappear from my sight."
Everyone abruptly got up and left their seats. They rushed to the door almost falling over each other.
Everyone except Sebastian who remained seated in his chair. He waited until everyone was out of the room and then turned to his boss. Jim quizzically raised an eyebrow at him.
"I wanted to talk to you in private."
"What, Tiger? Do you want to apologize for your incompetence?" Jim said with a tired smile. Sebastian sighed.
"I want you to get at least two bodyguards, who will accompany you from now on. I've been receiving information that there are some suspicious people around your apartment and office, and some of our agents are concerned."
"Are you saying that now Mycroft even knows where I live? What's next? What hair gel I use? What kind of breakfast cereal I eat?" Jim said irritably.
"I do not think those people are Holmes'," the second man said in a strained voice.
Jim looked up in surprise and searchingly gazed into Sebastian's blue eyes. His cold-blooded assassin was really worried. Strange.
"Who else would it be? Who else could possibly know that I'm alive?"
"I do not know. That makes it worse. I think it would be better if you got out of the country for a while. Just until the situation has calmed down," Sebastian said in a determined voice. Jim rubbed his eyes and grimaced.
"No, I can't, Sebbie. I have piles of work - there's this strange case and my network is not yet fully stable. You saw what just happened. It would have been impossible before."
"And what about the strange hair you brought me about a week ago hysterically waving it in front of my face and screaming that someone's been in your flat."
Jim frowned. "But we couldn't identify whose it was. I was exaggerating a bit. What- are you telling me that Holmes' agents have been there as well?"
"That's what we don't know. Footage from surveillance cameras did not show anything though," Moran said in a calm voice. "But really get those bodyguards. Something's rotten here."
John rubbed his face.
"It must be connected! Oh, John, I haven't been this excited for a long time. The game is on!" Sherlock said gleefully while flipping through the mission report from Mycroft.
"There is no evidence that he-"
"Nothing is coincidence! These murders – he is definitely behind them, I know it! He has somehow survived and now he wants to play again!"
John scratched his head and sighed. When Sherlock became utterly obsessed with something it was impossible to talk him out of it.
"You saw him blow his brains out. Listen, I'm telling you as a doctor. No one survives that."
"And you saw me jump off the roof of a hospital –he had to be prepared," the younger man muttered, pulling out another paper and putting it on the ground beside him. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the living room, surrounded by papers and photographs regarding Moriarty's former criminal cells.
John frowned. "It's just not possible. Sherlock, he's dead. Euros has confirmed it."
"Euros is not the brightest example of truthfulness."
"Even your brother, who is literally the British government, has confirmed it," John said.
"The same can be said about him," Sherlock replied with venom in his voice.
John cautiously walked around him so he could sit on the couch. Still critically watching his friend hunching over with nose to the floor.
"I think you wish him alive because you're bored. But that just does not change reality – in which he blew his brains out. They found a puddle of blood with pieces of tissue. Moriarty's DNA."
Sherlock said nothing.
"You should focus on the case with the London's Phantom," John added, after a moment.
"But I'm doing it! And I'm telling you - it is him, it's another game," the young man burst out, exasperated.
His cell phone buzzed when a new text message arrived. Sherlock quickly grabbed it and read it. Suddenly he jumped to his feet and headed to the door, much to John's surprise.
"Lestrade says that they have found another body. Nikolai Pivovarov – he disappeared about two weeks ago. They haven't searched the crime scene yet, so we have to hurry," Sherlock said enthusiastically.
"You're going in your dressing gown?!"
Sherlock looked at himself in surprise. He blushed a bit, and then silently walked into his bedroom where he changed his clothes.
After a while the two were sitting in a cab heading to the scene.
When they arrived, Sherlock immediately got out of the car, ducked under the police tape and approached the dead man lying near the mouth of a city sewer. Nikolai Pivovarov's body was in a terrible state – he was completely naked and almost every inch of his skin was covered with cuts, bruises, welts, dirt and scratches. His face was the worst - most of his front teeth had been completely knocked out, the jaw was obviously fractured in several places, his nose and his eyes were swollen so much that it was almost impossible to recognize that this was once a human face. His right ear had been cut off, a few fingers were missing and the remaining ones had barely any fingernails left. His left kneecap had been shattered and the other leg was definitely broken. In short - it was not a pretty sight.
The body was lying on its back in a shallow dirty water - which had probably washed away most of the evidence by now.
"Poor lad – well, he was a bastard, but I do not think that anyone deserves such a fate," Lestrade said, standing next to Sherlock and sipping his coffee.
"Oh my God! I have seen the dead and mangled soldiers who looked better than him, "John grimaced as he got a full view of the terrible scene.
"Who found him?" Sherlock asked after a moment and crouched next to Nicholai's head to get a better look at his face.
"A cyclist- an enthusiast training for some triathlon or something. He rode here at half past eight in the morning when he noticed him," Greg responded.
"Is he still here? Can I talk to him?"
Lestrade sighed. "No. We asked him some questions and then he rode away – apparently he has to work. He gave us his number if you-"
"No, that's fine. He probably did not tell you much anyway," Sherlock murmured, pulling on a latex glove. He slowly turned Nicholai's head to get a better look at his neck. No bruising after any rope or collar. He glanced at his wrist - there were dark bruises caused by handcuffs. Metal - no rope, no medical restrains. For some reason, this murder was different. But why?
"What did he look like?"
"Well - a tall, young man with-"
"Not the cyclist. Pivovarov. Before he was kidnapped," Sherlock asked irritably.
"I might have some photos in the database. I can send them to you later. He was a burly man - strong- really scary," Greg replied.
This meant that he had not lost almost any weight. Nor did he have symptoms of starvation.
Sherlock looked around. The whole scene had been obviously carefully chosen - the water from the sewer was heavily polluted and whole area was strewn with rubbish. It looked almost like illegal garbage dump. Which significantly impeded the search for clues.
Sherlock focused on the high withered grass nearby. Not a single straw was suspiciously broken or bent. In addition, the cops were carelessly walking around the body and the whole scene had been contaminated even before Sherlock arrived here.
"No traces of how the perpetrator got the body here or where he came from," he murmured thoughtfully.
"Well, he couldn't have carried him on his back, the poor man must weight like 300 pounds," John added.
"There aren't any fresh tire tracks at all, so how did the body get here?"
A light drizzle started to fall from the grey sky. Cops were running around, taking pictures of what they could and then they finally covered the body. Detective Inspector urged them to swiftly pack up all the evidence and samples and take the dead man away.
"Maybe the autopsy will tell us something," John said after a while, when he and Sherlock found themselves in a taxi riding back to Baker Street.
The next day Sherlock and John went to St. Bart's hospital to find out what had Nikolai's autopsy revealed. However, before they even managed to get close to the morgue, they ran into Molly Hooper in the hallway. Sherlock actually literally bumped into her.
"Oh! Molly, I'm sorry. I didn't expect to meet you here," Sherlock apologized, grabbing surprised Molly's shoulders.
"Sherlock, John, what-" the young woman mumbled, confused. Sherlock gently turned her around and led her back down the hallway toward the morgue.
"Yesterday they brought you the body of one Nikolai Pivovarov and it's very important that I know what have you found during the examination," the detective said, still leading the confused pathologist down the hall.
"But Sherlock, I-"
"Something's not right with this murder. I need to find at least one clue, something-"
As soon as the trio ran into the morgue, the two men stopped dead. In the middle of the room stood a tall man in a white coat, leaning over some body of a dead woman and sawing through her chest. When they flung the door open, he turned off the saw and looked up in surprise.
"Who's this?" Sherlock exclaimed, pointing to the older man.
"Sherlock, I did not carry out the autopsy. Scotland Yard has called a specialist who will take care of this case from now on," Molly replied with an uncertain smile.
The older man put down his saw and lifted a protective shield that has been concealing his face. "Oh! So you're the famous Sherlock Holmes! The detective in the funny hat-"
"It's not my hat!" The younger man snorted angrily.
John chuckled behind him.
"It is truly an honour to meet you," the man in white continued.
"So you carried out the autopsy of Nikolai Pivovarov?" Sherlock asked bluntly, stepping a little closer to the autopsy table.
"Yes, yes. Poor guy – the horror what he had to endure. Well, except for the pentobarbital in his blood I did not find anything that would bring us closer to the murderer, unfortunately," the older man said while slowly taking off both of his white latex gloves.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I'd like to see the body and an autopsy report."
"Sure, sure," the man in white replied cheerfully and walked over to one of the freezers.
"I think I missed your name, sir...?"
The man stopped and turned to Sherlock, a broad smile forming under his white moustache, his piercing blue eyes glinting in the sharp glare of hospital lights.
Then he put out his hand and said:
"Doctor Sky. Nice to meet you."