Chapter 5 - Surprise
Sherlock was a little hesitant when he reached to shake hands with the doctor. John introduced himself, allowing the detective to make a short deduction of this new person.
Man. Divorced / Single, about 55-60 years old, obviously upper class, passionately devoted to his job, very intelligent, cares about his appearance, confident, absent family, hiding something...
A grinding sound of pulling the dead body out of the freezer box brought Sherlock back to the reality. When the older doctor opened the black bag, Sherlock paused.
The body was completely clean. Somebody's scrubbed it.
"Why did you wash the body?! How am I supposed to find any traces now?" He blurted, indignantly gesturing over the dead man. Doctor Sky seemed a little taken aback.
"This is a common procedure. I do it every time," he said confusedly.
Sherlock snorted and took the glove Molly was handing him. Then he walked around the body a few times, but he saw nothing new. He was intrigued by the needle puncture on one side of Nikolai's neck. Same as all the victims had.
"So you found pentobarbital in his blood? What else? "John asked.
Doctor Sky seemed to think about it. "Everything is in the autopsy report, but beside the pentobarbital I have found nothing suspicious. He was certainly tortured for some time - perhaps interrogated, judging by his injuries..."
"Really great help, Doctor," the detective murmured sarcastically, pulling out his little magnifier to better examine the bruises caused by someone's fingers on Nikolai's forearm. The bruise was yellowish and a little faded, so it had to be at least 5 days old. Someone grasped him firmly - someone with long, thin fingers and wide palms.
"I'm very sorry, Detective. I wish I had better news for you, really I do."
Sherlock glanced up and looked into the doctor's eyes. They were very penetrating, but he could not read anything from them. "So the cause of death was the same as of his other victims."
The doctor folded his arms and sighed. "This murder is basically exactly the same as-"
"Wrong!" Sherlock interrupted him sharply. "This murder is completely different, and I want to figure out why. Nikolai was an intelligent and capable manipulator, but he did not excel above any other criminal. Why would our killer even kidnap him? He obviously tortured him for information, but what kind of information?"
There was silence for a moment.
"Send me a complete autopsy report to my email. I won't find anything new here," Sherlock snapped, putting his magnifier back into his pocket. Then he turned sharply and walked out of the room.
"See you later Molly, Doctor," John stuttered, and followed his friend's quickly receding figure.
"Sherlock!" John called after him.
Ignoring him, Sherlock pulled the cell phone out of his coat pocket and quickly tapped the message and sent it to Lestrade.
Why did you assign a new pathologist to my case? SH
It did not take long and the answer came.
I'm sorry Sherlock, it was beyond my authority. My superiors sent him there. I could not do anything. G. Lestrade
His superiors? It was probably time to talk to his brother.
Mycroft sighed and with one click sent a very important email, then leaning back in his chair, reached for a cup of coffee and took a sip. Today was a hard day, and his little brother did not try to make it any easier for him - his eternal quest for Moriarty had distracted him from more important case. Mycroft knew that hiding Moriarty's survival from his brother would be a challenge. It's not like he didn't have any practice in that – he'd managed to conceal Euros for decades. Well, there was no need to remind himself how that turned out. He would have to tell him about him in the future. Sooner rather than later.
As soon as they'd caught London's Phantom. Then he'd tell him the truth.
Mycroft rubbed his eyes and looked back at the screen of his laptop. There was still a lot of work ahead of him. There were also other much more important things to be dealt with.
London's Phantom was still at large, and it was only a matter of time when he would commit another murder. And his younger brother had his head full of Moriarty. He even saw him behind this case. But Mycroft knew very well that he was not. No way.
They had been watching Jim for some time. Several different agents had been placed around his apartment a few weeks ago - yet it was almost impossible to catch sight of him - Jim was cunning. He probably knew the British secret service was watching him. Someone had to inform him about that. Older Holmes suspected that they had a spy among them, and they had been trying to detect him or her for weeks now. So far without result.
Holmes's superiors (yes, he really had some) wanted James dead. They intended to keep him alive only for as long as they considered him useful - better the devil you know - and then they would get rid of him. No paperwork would be required. Jim Moriarty, or Richard Brook, or who it was, would just disappear.
Yes, James Moriarty was a problem. At present, not a very important one, but still a problem that would have to be resolved once. Mycroft agreed with this plan and had nothing against it. But still, getting rid of such a brilliant mind - and there was no doubt that Moriarty was brilliant - would be a pity.
The elder Holmes recalled an old memory of Euros and him trying to persuade the British Government that she would be useful to mankind. That it would be a pity to get rid of her.
Though Mycroft would never say that aloud - and if you asked him, he would deny it - James Moriarty reminded him of his brother. If he were born without any siblings. Alone. Well, Euros said that James had a younger brother, but that couldn't be confirmed. What if Sherlock grew up without friends, cut off from society - how would he end up? No one could deny that he was prone to illegal activities. And drugs – that was where they differed.
That's why he'd like to talk to James for the last time before they got rid of him. He wanted to see the world through his eyes. He wanted to understand him so he could better understand his brother.
James Moriarty would die. It might take a year, it might take a day, but what was meant to be would always find its way. And the time was coming, and when it came, Mycroft would be the one to give the order.
A young man wearing a hoodie and a thin jacket walked quickly through a narrow street. He kept his hands in his pockets, protecting them from the biting cold. His steps echoed from the walls that surrounded him. He was holding a half-smoked cigarette between his lips, which provided him some comfort, blowing smoke through his nose.
He passed a couple of homeless tents – the homeless people were staring at him suspiciously for a long time. But that was not his worry at the moment.
His supervisor - if he could call him that - had finally made contact with him. He had a meeting with him in five minutes in some old disgusting pub on the outskirts of the city.
And he was already late.
Subconsciously, he picked up the pace as he saw the old, cracked entrance to the pub. He opened the door - which creaked loudly - and as he stepped inside, a strong smell of beer, smoke and sweat hit him immediately. The air was hot and hazy. Predominantly older men in old withered clothing could be found in this place. Some of them were sitting around the bar and drinking. He quickly recognized the man he was to meet today among them. He was the only one wearing a rather expensive coat, and his polished shoes reflected a damp orange light from the ceiling bulb above.
He walked quickly to the man and, without a word, sat down on the bar stool beside him.
"The time has come," the man in the coat said, looking at the younger man peripherally. "The boss gave us the green light - now it's up to you."
"No money, no honey. Do you have my share of the filthy lucre?" The younger man quietly replied, and once more looked around at the drinkers.
The other grinned, "You'll get half of it now and the other half once the job is done," he paused for a moment and drank some bourbon from the glass he held in one hand. "That was the deal."
"I want to see it."
The older man smiled coldly and reached out for the briefcase at his feet. "Everything is here," he replied, petting it with one hand. "Believe me. I have no reason to trick you. After our meeting, you can take it with you and check it."
The younger man seemed to think for a while. He stared at the briefcase, trying to see through it and find out whether the other man was telling the truth. Then, without a word, he waved at the bartender and ordered whiskey.
"Yeah. Alright, "he gasped with a glass at his mouth, then poured all its contents down his throat. "Today, right?"
"He wants to have him there today. You wrote me it's not a problem," the eyes of the man in the coat gleamed dangerously. "It's not a problem, is it?"
"No. Not at all. Do you have the powder?" The younger man replied impatiently. The other one reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small transparent bag with whitish powder.
"Just half is enough but you can use it all. And again I repeat, it mustn't, at any price be put into a scolding hot or boiling water - the substance can survive temperatures only below 80 degrees."
The younger man reached out and took the powder. He quickly put it in the back pocket of his jeans.
"Of course."
"We gave you this job just because you're a great actor, Peter. Neither Holmes nor Moriarty were able to see you though so far," the older man squinted, lifting himself out of his chair. He quickly gulped down the rest of his drink and looked at the younger man for the last time.
"Don't mess up – you know what happens if you do."
Then he threw a pair of banknotes on the bar and left without delay.
The younger man bent down and picked up the briefcase that was left there.
Now everything just had to go according to plan.
"Come on, move your sexy ass and bring me my Latte!"
The man in the front seat looked confusedly into the rear-view mirror and turned the keys to turn off the engine.
"Go tapa!" Jim exclaimed, clapping impatiently.
His driver quickly sprang from the front seat and ran down the sidewalk to the nearby café. Jim watched him for a moment, then turned his gaze back to the cell phone in his hand and read a newly arrived message. From Sebastian.
I hope you took the two bodyguards I've sent you. SM
Jim rolled his eyes. Sebbie was so cute when he was worried.
The truth was that Jim did not like to take his bodyguards with him anywhere. He did not want to have them with him at home nor standing in front of his apartment or anywhere else. He only took them when he expected some problems. Like when he was visiting Sherrinford - he was almost certain Iceman would try to lock him there. Most of the time he just told his snipers to keep watch and that was usually enough.
He definitely did not want to suffer two gorillas with him in his car, especially when he was making stops for lunch and then for his favourite coffee, which he liked to drink after a tiring day.
He, at least, had respected one Sebastian's advice and that he should not walk unnecessarily around the streets. So he sent his driver with exact instructions to the cafeteria instead. It was a young man, he had not been working for him for very long – maybe Jim could try to train him a little bit.
While he was replying to a few other messages, he suddenly heard the front door open, and his driver got in with a cup of coffee in his hand.
"Here you are, sir. Latte without sugar," the younger man said, handing the cup to his boss.
Jim took it silently and immediately took a sip and then froze.
"That coffee is warm. It's supposed to be hot. Should I throw it in your face and send you for a new one?" He snorted irritably. The driver in front of him uncomfortably shifted in the silence that followed.
"Sorry, sir. It won't happen again."
Jim narrowed his eyes and took another sip.
"You'd better hope it won't. Your pretty face will not save you otherwise. We're going to my apartment. There's a pile of work I have to do," he said after a moment, looking out of the window without interest. The driver started the engine without further words and took off.
The passing landscape outside slowly began to blur. The colours were blending into each other and creating surreal images similar to those of Van Gogh. Jim watched it for a while, and when he turned questioningly towards his driver, he realized he was not able to focus on him. The image before his eyes kept moving and blurring.
"What the hell ..." he murmured incomprehensibly and blinked quickly. The driver still had not turned or responded in any way.
"Wait, wh-where are we going," Jim asked, slurring every word. His tongue felt like a death weight in his mouth and he began to have trouble keeping his eyes open. He blinked rapidly again and reached out to touch the shoulder of the man sitting behind the wheel in front of him. His arm felt ten times heavier.
"Peter!" He exclaimed angrily, but his voice sounded slightly panicked. He shook his shoulder lightly.
Slowly he felt his muscles weaken - the cup had fallen out of his hand and spilled into his lap. Jim was now very glad that the drink was not hot but warm. His phone was laying forgotten on the seat beside him. At the last moment, he tried to pull the door handle - but it did not open, the door was locked.
Jim reached for his gun, not able to grasp it properly with his insensitive fingers.
"You swine!" he croaked for the last time before losing the fight with the unconsciousness. His eyes closed and his lifeless body slid down in the seat, now held in the vertical position only by the seat belts.
Peter glanced at the rear-view mirror, and when he saw the state of his boss, he smiled and let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
He stopped the car for a moment and reached out to the back seat for Jim's cell phone and threw it out of the window. He knew there was a tracking chip in it so that his people could find him in case he was kidnapped.
It was now up to him to deliver him to the doctor and then to act like a poor and inexperienced agent in front of Holmes and then the money would be his.
There was still a long way to go.