Chapter 7 – Getting Started
Sebastian Moran tried not to panic. He tried to keep his thinking rational, because there was a simple explanation for everything. Nothing was a mystery.
But how do you explain where had disappeared the most dangerous man in Britain - perhaps all over the world - James Moriarty? Why was he not answering any text messages and picking up his phone?
At first, Sebastian had been reassuring himself that the boss had just wanted to rest, but after he had not heard from him in the morning and then during the rest of the day until the evening, and their clients had began to complain about the lack of communication, he decided to activate a tracking chip that, surprisingly, did not work.
Something was wrong. Something happened to Jim.
Sebastian called all possible agents and people who could have known something. He desperately avoided one particular contact - their only agent working in close proximity to Mycroft Holmes. Each contact was risky; there was always the possibility that the secret service was watching him, like most of their own staff. But after many futile phone calls, there was nothing else he could do but call his special encrypted number.
After the third ring, he picked up.
"Hello?" A rough male voice came from the other end.
"Hello, Stork. It's Tiger."
"Ah, of course," the other voice answered instantly. "Good to hear from you, Tiger. What'd you need?"
"I need to know everything Iceman knows about Magpie. Immediately - the highest level of secrecy," Sebastian said in a hard voice.
"He's known for some time he's alive. He is being watched by MI5. But I informed the boss about it recently-"
"I know. I need to know what's going on right now. Any new news about Magpie?" Sebastian's voice sounded slightly desperate. The other man was silent for a moment.
"There's been a little confusion since morning. Iceman, for some unknown reason, rages. No one knows why - he was interviewing a young agent in the morning. It may have some connection with him, but I cannot be sure yet. I will try to find out more. Is something wrong? Does the boss want to talk to me?"
"He doesn't have time at the moment. Keep me posted," the sniper answered and hung up.
This didn't look good at all. Where are you, Jim?
Jim Moriarty tried not to panic. He tried to keep his thinking rational, for though he was now in the hands of a sadistic, psychotic serial killer-
Alright. Maybe it was not the best idea to remind himself of his current situation. He had to have faith that his agents would find him as soon as possible. Or Sherlock. Of course, Sherlock would find him, no fear. In the meantime, he would not let some crazy old-
"We'll start with a routine medical examination. Try to relax," the doctor's voice came from directly above him. He was holding a medical device in his hand - it looked like a strangely shaped magnifying glass with a small light. With one hand in the latex glove, he forced his eyelids open and flashed his light into his eye. Jim moaned and tried to move away, but his head was held stationary.
The doctor started speaking into some recorder. "Experiment No. 46 - Male, Caucasian, Irish, about 40 years old," the voice paused for a moment, and the light shifted to his other eye. "Medium brown eye colour."
The man in the white coat released his head and turned off the light. He immediately turned around and put the instrument back on the table. Jim tried blinking away the whitish spots floating in front of his eyes.
"Weigh-" the doctor said a moment later. He bent down and looked at the edge of the metal table. "65 kilograms."
Jim felt his strength slowly returning to his limbs and tried to release his left wrist. The second man continued his examination.
"Height: 173 cm, slim figure, pale skin," Dr Sky continued in a monotone voice. It sounded a bit like he was speaking his thoughts as they came to his mind. The handcuffs were firm and did not move at all. The older man disappeared from Jim's field of view for a moment.
"Hair colour,"
Another thing he felt was doctor's hand gripping at his hair. Jim groaned when a new pain exploded in his head. He felt the other man tugging his hair, inspecting them in detail.
"Dark brown – almost black."
The doctor paused as if thinking. "Typical black Irish - a beautiful exemplar." With that, he dropped Jim's head and moved toward the little table again.
The younger man finally found his voice. "May I ask the gentleman's name? Now that we know each other more intimately," he croaked. The doctor did not respond for a moment, but then he turned around and responded in a cold voice.
"Don't talk and open your mouth."
"You could at least buy me a drink before -" The doctor opened his mouth roughly, and placed two pieces of some rubber between his molars, which Jim could not spit out and which kept his jaw wide open. The doctor began to study his teeth.
"The teeth are relatively in good condition. The canines and the lateral incisors are unusually sharp - that and his comments will earn him muzzle in the future," the older man finished. Jim tried to laugh, but all that came out was a strangled grunt. The doctor frowned, and in a quick motion, pulled the pieces of rubber out of the mouth of the younger man. Jim flexed his jaw a few times to get rid of its momentary stiffness.
"Let's go to the next part - genital and rectal examination," the second man said dryly.
"Wow, already? I have not heard such a poetic euphemism for a long time. Are we shooting a movie? Let me get into my role," Jim closed his eyes and for a moment it looked as though he tried to focus, then he slowly opened them and a smile slowly crept across his face, looking at the doctor, he whispered, "Go ahead, Doctor," he winked one eye at the man standing over him, then laughed loudly.
There was silence for a moment - neither man moved.
"Cole, bring a muzzle and a sedative. We got a troublemaker here," the doctor exclaimed aloud, moving to the nearby cabinet he pulled out a drawer full of syringes. He took a new needle and unpacked it. Jim was trying to watch him, but with the belt around his neck it was hard to turn his head.
"How did you know I'm into this BDSM? It's not exactly shibari, but we all do what we can, right? And the muzzle sounds just delicious! I admit I'm a little masochist!" Jim smirked. The older man measured him with a cold glance while waiting for his assistant. Then he smiled coldly.
"You'll stop joking soon enough, Jimmy."
A young man in a white coat came into the room and, quickly, without a single word, handed the required items to the older man and immediately walked away. Jim did not even see his face.
The other man drew a clear liquid from the small ampule.
"Now this will probably sting a little bit..."
"God, I hope it will!"
"I've asked you not to come here without a notice," Mycroft drawled, stepping into his office slammed the door behind him and wentaround his deskandsat down. His younger brother was sitting in front of his desk and, of course, his friend John Watson was right beside him.
He shot them an irritated glance, then sat down, straightened his tie and leaned against the back of his chair. "This is not a good time to talk, I'm busy."
"Is that the reason why you haven't sent me the files I asked for?" the younger Holmes asked nonchalantly.
"I said I would send them as soon as I could. I haven't had time yet," Mycroft snapped angrily. Then he rubbed his forehead. "I'll tell Anthea to send them to you as soon as possible."
Sherlock nodded without words.
"What's going on? Everyone here is running around like crazy," John asked, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at the door.
"Nothing that you two should be interested in. Top secret. National-"
"National Security. You know, my dear little brother, this has never stopped me from figuring out what's going on. Rather on the contrary," Sherlock said with a smile.
Mycroft sighed. "Stay out of this, Sherlock, please."
"Well, I don't hear this often," his younger brother snorted.
John shifted in his chair. "What about that new pathologist - do you know who sent him there?" He asked.
"Oh, of course - Doctor Sky," Mycroft reached for a file lying on the table in front of him and opened it. "Apparently, he was sent there by the Council. According to his biography, he is a specialist in violent murders, his recent study on stab wounds, according to the Medical Association, is excellent - he seems to have quite a reputation in the medical world. He has even served in the army for eight years – you've never heard of him, Dr Watson?"
"No," John frowned. "That name means nothing to me."
"What do we know about him? Details - what about his family?" Sherlock continued.
Mycroft looked back at the file. He slowly turned a few pages and frowned. "Not much, surprisingly. His wife died of cancer - she was quite young. No children. No registered relatives."
Mycroft snapped the folder shut and threw it on the table. "Why do you want to know it? What does that have to do with those murders?"
"There is something a little off about him," Sherlock murmured. John looked at Mycroft.
"When did his wife die?"
"Almost ten years ago, but I do not know-" Mycroft started, but John roughly interrupted him.
"After his wife's death, he surely went to a therapist," John paused and swallowed. "Do you have any records of those sessions?"
Mycroft smirked. "As a doctor you know very well that all medical records are confidential-"
"Do you have them or not?" Sherlock interjected roughly. Mycroft paused for a moment, then leaned forward, opened the folder, pulled out a stack of papers and handed it to his brother.
"If anybody finds out I've given them to you," the older brother growled angrily. Sherlock got up, and with the papers in his hand he headed for the door.
"Thank you!" he said cheerfully walking through the door.
John jumped out of his chair and ran after him. They were walking quietly through the corridor and passing all sorts of agents and government workers. Everyone was obviously nervous and stressed. Something important had to happen.
"That was a good idea - the one with those medical records," Sherlock said quietly to John. The other man smiled sadly.
"I know what it is like," he said in a choked voice. "When your wife dies. And no one can deal with it alone. This is the easiest way. You just tell the psychiatrist everything. And the psychiatrist knows everything about you."
They both walked to the elevator, and with a permission they stepped in.
"Hopefully. The guy is just ... weird. Aren't you getting these weird vibes from him?"
John thought about it. "It seems like he's hiding something."
Sherlock smiled, looking at his friend from the corner of his eyes. "Exactly."
"I mean - why would they even assign a new pathologist? So suddenly. Do you think he has some connection to our murderer?"
"That's exactly what I think."
Sherlock stood motionless beside his friend, watching the changing numbers on a small panel in front of him. The elevator stopped and they both stepped out.
"And I think we're getting close. Our killer panicked and sent this one doctor," Sherlock grimaced, "to erase any traces."
The two men went out into the suddenly cool air, waved down a passing taxi and got in.
Doctor Sky walked over to a small sink in a sparse bathroom. He noticed an approaching figure behind him in the mirror. Cole knocked on the open door - the doctor instantly nodded - and the other man quietly stepped in. Silence filled the bathroom, filled only with the sound of running water.
"The detective suspects something, doesn't he?" The older man said, breaking the silence.
Cole nodded. "He's really good - we're currently looking for all the information you requested."
The doctor watched the red blood slowly washing off his palms and mixing with the flowing water, and then finally disappearing down the drain.
"Maybe he could become a part of my research, what do you say, Cole?"
The man behind him smiled coldly.
Hello everyone!
The next chapter will be a little bit delayed, because I'll be travelling... :D
If you review I'll try to hurry up! :)
Thanks for reading, I hope you still like it and see you next time! ;)