Chapter 29 - Kill You? No, Don't Be Obvious
Sherlock's lungs deflated.
"Jim Moriarty," the man said, approaching. "Hi!" Tilting his head, he then added, "Jim Moriarty? The C.O.O. of Etienne-Lumiere Studios?"
"How…?" Sherlock began.
"How did I… what?" Moriarty asked, one eyebrow raised. "Escape prison and end up so far from L.A.? Does that surprise you? I'm a criminal mastermind, Sherlock Holmes, and you lock me in a tower full of criminals—and I don't mean the ones who have convictions. Do you see how it was done yet?" He pocketed the phone he was holding.
"Bribes… threats," Sherlock murmured, feeling as if he was going to be pulled along for a ride he had not signed up for.
"And a willing participant—an actor, who looks a little bit like me. I escaped and left him languishing away in a prison cell. I don't think anybody's noticed yet."
He didn't think anyone had noticed?
The phone call from Mycroft.
Violet's from Mary.
Not a coincidence. No wonder Sherlock had the feeling something was up. Had Mycroft discovered Moriarty's deception and phoned to warn Sherlock?
With both their mobile phones switched off, Mycroft may not be able to call him, but Sherlock knew with almost one hundred percent certainty his brother had tracked his location to the nearest rooftop.
A smile playing on his lips, James Moriarty continued. "This is exactly how I imagined we'd end up. You and I." As he spoke, he began a slow circuit around Sherlock, hands thrust casually into pockets. "This is just as I wrote it. But I'm a little bit… disappointed. Not once have you gone off-script. Not once have you improvised and done something just that little bit daring and dangerous. Unless…"
When Sherlock's brow twitched, Moriarty stopped pacing, his features morphing into a look of exaggerated surprise.
"You did!"
Sherlock reeled. Did what?
"You took something, didn't you? Couldn't help yourself. Had a little sample. Although, that was sort of my plan as well. It could've gone horribly wrong for you. Congratulations on staying alive!"
"What are you talking about?"
"The Spice! The tainted Spice! It was all for you! Had to knock off a couple of your… now what do you call them? Your homeless… network… I love it…. just to get your attention. So you'd know it was out there and available. I didn't think the Spice would attract you. But the 3-FPM! Good old metrazine. I had a hand in the recipe. Did it get the fever back into your brain? Your veins? Did you find it too salty?"
Sherlock blinked. The man was mesmerising; that was probably his M.O. But Violet had interacted with this maniac on several occasions? No wonder she had eventually unravelled at the edges.
"You're taking a risk," Sherlock said, endeavouring to get on top of things. "My every move is tracked by the British Government. The Security Services. My brother's people. They'll know you're here."
"Oh, spare me," Moriarty cut back. "You can evade your brother and his minions when you really want to. And this time…" He gestured widely, taking in their surroundings. "… you wanted a private little retreat with our favourite actress. Speaking of whom… where is she? Where is Britain's Newest Talent?"
Sherlock felt a prickling at his nape.
"She's not here," he said. "She stormed off."
"Oh, come on. You've been here, what, an hour, and you've already had a lover's quarrel?"
"It didn't work out. She isn't here. If you know me, then surely my ability to piss people off isn't lost on you."
"Oh, please don't denigrate yourself," Moriarty replied with a shake of his head. "It isn't at all becoming." Indicating the bed, he added, "If that's the case, then she left without her handbag and suitcase."
Sherlock's eyes scanned the rest of the bed covers.
"Oh, don't bother looking for your phone," Moriarty said, retrieving the device from his pocket. "Love how you kept Irene's photos," he went on, his eyes glinting. "Obviously you worked out her passcode. She says 'hi' by the way."
Sherlock's stomach dropped. His grip on reality was loosening. Had it all been planned? Adler. Her phone. The data. The incriminating evidence leading to Moriarty's incarceration. Was there nothing this man didn't control?
Indicating the door, Moriarty said, "Why don't we go up to the house. I've got someone I'd like you to meet. And don't worry—I've got a couple of people who can go and fetch the lovely Ms Hunter, too."
Violet!
Something inside Sherlock snapped. In a sudden rush of movement, he grabbed Moriarty by the lapels and thrust him hard against the cottage door.
"You're insane!" he growled.
"You're just getting that now?"
"What's to stop me snapping your neck?"
Behind him, he heard the click of a gun, before cool metal pressed against his nape.
"Don't be silly," Moriarty said, staring him dead in the eyes. "Somebody else is holding the gun. I don't like getting my hands dirty."
Sherlock released him and the gun eased back. A heavy weight settled onto his shoulders. Of course the psychotic maniac would have a heavy hiding in the bathroom.
Moriarty readjusted his jacket, brushing imaginary fluff from it.
"And I'm wearing Westwood," he said. "Not as swanky as Trevor & Vernet, but I get a special discount without needing to be a silent partner in the business."
Sherlock's cheeks reddened. Was there anything this man didn't know?
Pulling the door open, Moriarty said in a mock English accent, "After you, my good man." A Victor Trevor impersonation?
Sherlock clenched his fists by his side, his mind calculating a dozen possible modes of escape, but he received a shove in the back for his hesitation.
"Hands behind y'head," said the unseen bodyguard.
"Oh, he speaks!" said Moriarty.
Sherlock threaded his fingers behind his head and stepped through the doorway.
"What's your name again, my sweet henchman?" Moriarty said behind him.
As they crossed the terrace, Sherlock heard the man reply, "Thomas, sir."
"Ah, that's right. Tommy from Letterkenny. A man after my own heart."
Sherlock paused.
Letterkenny.
"Your hometown," he shot back.
"Oh…!" Moriarty exclaimed. Sherlock stopped at the edge of the patio, turning to see the Criminal Mastermind's reaction. "You worked it out!" Moriarty added. "You sly thing. Is that why Doctor Watson's missus was poking around County Donegal? So she could report back to you? Well, off you go. Tell me."
"What?"
"Tell me what I wanted your girlfriend for."
"You want me to tell you what you already know?"
"I want you to prove you know it."
Sherlock chanced a glance at Thomas from Letterkenny, sizing him up and storing away his details for later.
"Lauren Myrtle was your nanny," he told Moriarty.
"Good!"
"But you were disappointed when she left your family's employ to become an actress."
"Not disappointed: devastated."
"And even more so when she was murdered by Stuart Jire. Manslaughter… but still…"
"He was into some serious kinky stuff. He was never pinned for it and obviously I didn't have the connections I do now to have done something about it."
Sherlock took this moment to take advantage of the impromptu rapport he and Moriarty were establishing by slowly lowering his hands.
"So you bided your time while you built your empire," Sherlock continued. "Meanwhile, because you felt betrayed by the entertainment industry for what it had taken away from you, you decided to toy with other actors' careers, particularly those who reminded you of Lauren."
"Really?" Moriarty responded, feigning shock.
"Daisy Firmington."
"A bitter disappointment."
"And I'm sure there were others, weren't there?"
"Failures, mostly. Not all of them Lauren-replicas, though. I had to have some fun. Timothy is one of my proudest successes."
Sherlock paused for a moment, noting the name 'Timothy' and finally retrieving 'Timothy Killaney' from his Mind Palace. He dismissed the connection to be analysed later.
"Then along came Violet."
"Now this is the fun part," Moriarty said, smiling. "It was just a coincidence, though, wasn't it? That my formidable foe, Sherlock Holmes, was dating an actress who looked uncannily like my Lauren?"
"I'd never heard of you," Sherlock replied. "Let alone know enough about you to taunt you with a Lauren Myrtle lookalike."
Moriarty nodded in thoughtful agreement.
"Once you discovered Violet," Sherlock continued, "you thought you'd use her to finally seek revenge on Jire."
"Regency Road was her break out role," Moriarty offered.
"But your plan didn't work."
"I couldn't control everything about the casting. Those creative types are unpredictable."
"Her character's hair colour," Sherlock stated. "Violet Hunter had to dye her hair black. Jire didn't take the bait."
Black Daisy.
"Good ol' Stu really does prefer blondes. But it all worked out in the end, didn't it. Jire ended up dating some other nobody, so I framed him for that one."
Chenoa Burton, Sherlock thought with a sigh.
"But why continue manipulating Violet's career?" he asked Moriarty.
The Consultant Criminal indicated the path that led to the farmhouse.
"Shall we continue on?"
The henchman also indicated the way forward with his gun.
"Hands back on y'head," he repeated.
"You tell him, Tommy," Moriarty said, walking ahead. As Sherlock lifted his hands once more and followed along the red brick path, Moriarty continued, "Our lovely Vi." He fell into step beside Sherlock when they crossed the lawn. "It's a wonder you haven't figured it out yourself."
When Sherlock remained silent, the Criminal Mastermind tutted.
"Oh, come on, it's not that difficult. You always want everything to be clever. You were getting in my way, remember. I sent you several messages to back off."
"Controlling Violet means you can control me."
"Uh huh. Making her a star meant she was thrust into the limelight, with you right along with her. You love being a celebrity. All those fans!"
"You did it to annoy me."
"Attaboy!"
Sherlock stifled an eye-roll.
"All my life I've been searching for distractions, Sherlock." They'd reached the backdoor to the farmhouse where another henchman stood guard. Sherlock sized him up—same make and model as Thomas: young, shaved head, inexperienced but definitely keen to impress.
Moriarty turned to face Sherlock. "You were the best distraction and now I don't even have you—because I've beaten you. And you know what? In the end it was easy."
The second henchman entered the cottage and held the door open for them.
Following Moriarty into the kitchen, Sherlock said, "You haven't beaten me ye…t."
He stopped. Two more men were waiting for them in the kitchen. The bald, pudgy one had taken a huge bite of a pie, while the other—medium build, sandy hair—leant against the kitchen counter, arms crossed and regarding the former with a look of disgust on his face. Both pairs of eyes locked on the newcomer. Sherlock knew them at once.
"You know Seb, of course," Moriarty said, gesturing towards the pie-eating Mancunian gangster.
"Fuckin' hell," Sebastian Moran said through a mouth full of gelatinised pork. "Sherlock Cunt'olmes."
"We picked him up on the way through," Moriarty announced. Picked him up? From HMP Manchester? "But you haven't met Jake yet, have you? Jacob Venucci — Sherlock Holmes. I believe you have a girlfriend in common."
Venucci straightened up.
Sherlock set his jaw firmly as the two men warily met each other's gaze.
"Where's Vi?" Venucci asked, tearing his eyes from Sherlock and addressing Moriarty.
"Vi is missing," Moriarty replied.
"She isn't here," Sherlock added.
"Sherlock here would have us believe they've had a lover's tiff and she stormed off. But I think, he's sent her away. If you take one more bite of that pie…" Moriarty suddenly pointed at Moran, his tone tinged with menace, "… I'll turn you into one!"
As Moriarty shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, Sherlock regarded Jake Venucci once more. What was he doing here? Surely the man's love for Violet overshadowed his loyalty to Moriarty? Why would he knowingly put his ex-girlfriend in danger?
Venucci steadfastly kept his attention on his employer.
"Why don't we retire to the parlour," Moriarty announced. "It's much more civilised."
Thomas prodded Sherlock in the back. With a sigh, he followed both Moriarty and the unnamed second henchman out of the kitchen and along the passageway, turning right into the parlour.
Sherlock's stomach dropped. Cecil still sat in the chair in which Sherlock had last seen him, head lolling back, with the rifle he'd been cleaning earlier lying across his desk. The farmhouse owner had a neat hole in his forehead, the perfect shape of a bullet.
"Glad we've got a Consulting Detective," Moriarty said, rubbing his hands together. "My friend Seb was firing his gun without the silencer on and lost a bullet. Can you deduce where it ended up?"
"I'll give you a fuckin' hint," growled Moran, striding forward and jamming his gun against Sherlock's temple.
"Yes, all right, Seb. You're as subtle as a brick. The sound of the gunshot was the perfect lure for our curious detective. Now, have a seat, Sherlock. Gentlemen." Moriarty leant against Cecil's desk, folding his arms in front of him. "Go on," he prompted Sherlock.
After a brief scan of the room, Sherlock took a seat in the armchair in front of the French doors that opened onto the lawn. Top and bottom bolts: unlatched.
"Nice," Moriarty said, nodding in approval. "Strategic."
Moran sank his bulky frame onto a sofa, buttons straining against his expansive belly and his suit jacket dotted with pastry crumbs. Venucci leant casually against a tall cabinet. The two henchman stood sentry outside the door leading to the passageway.
"Jake," said Moriarty, "I know you like to pose as Mr Sex, but I did ask you all to take a seat."
Venucci scowled, grabbed the chair that sat in front of a writing desk and set it on the rug between the sofa and Sherlock's armchair. He perched himself on the edge of it, elbows resting on knees, with his gun hanging loosely in one hand.
Dammit. At that close a range, if Sherlock launched himself through the doors, as casually seated as Venucci appeared to be, the Mancunian could still manage to shoot him.
"Moran, Jr.," Moriarty called to one of the figures in the passageway. "You should be outside the house, not in. "And Tommy…" Indicating the French door with a nod of his head, he added, "Can you secure the bolts on the doors. Wouldn't want our clever little detective escaping before we've had our reunion with the starlet."
Sherlock exhaled deeply, casting a weary glance at Moriarty as Thomas crossed the rug for the doors.
"You see, Sherlock," the Consulting Criminal explained as his henchman secured the locks. "I'm always five steps ahead of you. I know how your mind works. You're that boring and that predictable."
Sherlock straightened in his seat.
"Yet you still sought me out," he said. "What does that make you?"
"Oh, that's funny," Moriarty responded in a posh English accent. "Awfully funny of you."
"Smart-arse cunt," volunteered Moran.
"Let's keep this civilised," Moriarty told Moran. "But our party's not complete. Since our guest of honour isn't being helpful, I'm going to use my Mind Palace to think like he does and deduce a location for the lovely Violet."
"You don't need her," Sherlock said. "You've got me."
"Oh, don't be so obvious," Moriarty replied. "Of course I want you both. I need to let Vi know I really appreciated her award-winning performance in your little charade. Actors like that sort of thing. Almost had me convinced, both of you."
Sherlock's eyes widened minutely. Almost had him convinced? His mind buzzed. Moriarty knew their break up was fake?
"Loved the headlines, though," Moriarty continued. "They treated you a bit unfairly, didn't they? The press, the fans with their hashtags. I read it on the internet, so it must be true."
A cold clamp attached itself to Sherlock's heart.
He knew all along?
"I love Twitter," Moriarty mused. "Can't really see the point of Instagram."
The months of being apart… eroding them… crushing Violet's spirits… It was all for nothing?
"Oh, don't look so shocked," Moriarty said. "Pretending to separate was a good idea; it held promise; but it was so predictable." He chuckled. "I kept waiting for you to do something. Surely Violet gave you my name by the end there. Thought you might call. I had to put myself in jail to lure you out—to make you both think you were in the clear. But this is your plan? Sneaking off to the countryside for a romp in the hay? All that fornication—must be so distracting! You know all about that, right, Jake?"
When Venucci straightened up a little, Moran piped up, "Yeah, she's your tart— that's why you're a fuckin' traitor cunt!"
Venucci flew out of his chair.
"You dozy fuck," he snapped, levelling his gun at Moran. "Caught on camera. Y'did it y'self, sunshine!"
Moran jumped up from the sofa. Veins bulged along his temples.
"I'll fuckin' end this right now!" Pointing his gun at Venucci's head, he raged, "How about that, yeah?" Spittle dotted Moran's lips, his beady eyes darkening to pools.
"C'mon then," Venucci dared.
"Boys… boys…" said Moriarty. "If you don't calm down, I'll have to put you both on the naughty step. You're embarrassing me in front of our guest."
Sherlock had eyed the action with keen interest, but he endeavoured not to show it. His mind still reeled with Moriarty's revelation.
As Moran returned to the sofa, Venucci stalked away and stood leaning against the cabinet again.
Turning to address Sherlock, Moriarty said, "If you're not going to tell me where she is, Sherlock, I'll have to make a deduction myself and send Seb out to fetch her. On the other hand, if you tell us where she is, I'll send Jakey-boy instead. Now who would you prefer? The man who wants to strangle her, or the man who wants to—"
"Fuckin' tart," Moran muttered.
Sherlock's insides churned. Would Jacob Venucci's feelings for Violet have him spirit her away to safety instead of bringing her back to the farmhouse? Sherlock had no doubt Moriarty could make the correct deduction regarding Violet's whereabouts and he didn't want Moran anywhere near his girlfriend.
Sherlock inhaled sharply.
"She's on her way to the pub."
"She's what?" Moriarty asked, incredulous. "You sent Violet Hunter to a pub? Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?"
"It's the closest public building."
Moriarty clapped his hands together.
"I love it. The world's ending and you send Violet Hunter to a pub."
Sherlock masked his feelings. He hoped Violet had made it to the pub and was phoning the police, but realistically, not enough time had passed.
And she was just as likely to get herself lost.
"All right. Look's like Jake's your man." As Venucci pushed off from the cabinet, Moriarty added, "But we need afternoon tea first, Jake. We're not savages. Did you bring it like I asked?"
"Prob'ly used it'imself," Moran said.
"Fuck off," Venucci retorted, reaching into his jacket pocket.
"Seb." Moriarty's eyes flashed a warning. "Make yourself useful and fetch the cable ties from the car."
"Send the lad," came the bored reply.
Jake Venucci drew out a slim case from his jacket pocket and placed it on the desk. Sherlock knew that type of case.
"I'm asking you," Moriarty said, approaching Moran. "Stand up."
When Moran hesitated, Moriarty suddenly bent over him.
"I said, 'Stand up!'" he roared, lips curled back, eyes wild. Venucci glanced around in interest at Moran scrambling to heave his bulk out of the sofa. Moriarty straightened up and adjusted his jacket. Sherlock took this moment to survey the contents of Venucci's case.
Two vials containing a colourless liquid.
Two syringes in perfectly sealed packets.
Not used needles then. Thank Christ for that.
Moriarty followed Moran out of the room, saying, "And now you've made me cross, Seb. We need to have another little chat. You know how I don't…"
The reprimand continued into the passageway, his words retreating with their footfalls.
Thomas filled the doorway, tapping away at his phone. He now wore earbuds, Sherlock carefully noted.
Might only have seconds then.
"Coat," said Venucci, nodding at Sherlock's Belstaff as he retrieved the first vial from the case.
There was no point resisting or arguing, resulting in Venucci having to disrobe him by force. With Thomas in the room and the others outside, it would be a losing battle and a waste of energy.
Sherlock rose and slipped off his coat. Draping it over the armchair, he said, "She still loves you."
For a split second, Venucci paused as he placed the needle tip to the opening of the vial. Thomas's attention remained firmly on his phone.
"Jacket," Venucci instructed.
Sherlock eased out of his jacket with another furtive glance towards Thomas.
"I know her better than I know my own self," he continued in a low voice, "but I can't figure out why she still cares so much."
"Sleeve."
Sherlock swallowed. The act of rolling up a sleeve always produced a spike of adrenalin. Desire slipped her silky fingers along his veins. He could almost feel the prick of the needle now. Longed for it, in fact. He'd stopped using weeks ago, but here, now, it was being forced upon him. Both disgust and need waged a war within. He could use and it wasn't his fault!
Sherlock unbuttoned his cuff. Using was always a solitary and intimate experience for him. This felt odd and intrusive. But he had to focus. It had started off as an act, but the truth, he found, rolled off his tongue far easier than lies ever could. She taught him that.
"However this ends," he said, folding and turning over his sleeve, "when she finds out your involvement, she will never forgive you. This will destroy her."
This time Venucci met his gaze, the man's blue eyes narrowed to slits.
"Y'think y'know her?" the Mancunian businessman asked. "You've got no fuckin' idea. She's a survivor, is our Vi. She'll be all right, pal. Now, shut the fuck up."
Sherlock continued rolling his sleeve until it met his elbow as Venucci flicked the barrel of the now full syringe. Pushing the rest of the sleeve above his elbow, Sherlock exposed his favoured injection site. Goosebumps broke out on his flesh.
"You might wanna sit on the settee," Venucci said, nodding to the sofa. He handed Sherlock a rubber strap.
Sherlock took to the sofa and slowly wound the tourniquet around his arm, his heart thudding.
"May I ask what it is?"
"Yeah, it's a fuckin' liquorice allsort, this."
Inhaling deeply, Sherlock tried again.
"Opioid or stimulant?"
"Both," Jake replied. "This one's a synthetic opioid. He wants to depress your respiratory system. The other one's a stimulant. Jack up your heart-rate. He's laid bets on which one'll kill you first."
Of course he has, the maniac.
Sherlock secured one end of the tourniquet against his bicep, then pulled tightly on the other.
"And which one did you favour?" he casually asked.
Venucci pulled up a footstool in front of the sofa and sank down onto it.
"To be perfectly honest, man, I think Seb's gonna put a bullet through your 'ead if Moriarty can't control him."
Sherlock straightened out his arm, supporting his hand on his knee.
"And what will Moran do to Violet?" Sherlock ventured, beginning to pump his fist in order to establish a vein.
Venucci focussed on Sherlock's arm.
"She'll be all right, if I have anything to do with it. You're gonna have to keep your trap shut now, otherwise I'm gonna go through the vein, yeah?"
Both men regarded Sherlock's network of veins. The detective knew the gangster was steeling himself for the task at hand. The horror of a missed or pierced vein rippled through Sherlock.
"May I do it?" Sherlock asked.
Venucci regarded him for a moment, blinked once, then handed over the syringe. Sherlock's heart raced.
"No funny business."
Sherlock lined up the tip to his chosen vein. When the needle pierced his skin, the fever broke in his mind. This was worth dying for. His lips parted and he sighed.
"You some kinda addict?" Venucci asked, watching him carefully.
Blood swirled and mixed with the opioid in the barrel. Hypnotic as always.
Mycroft thinned his lips. John Watson slowly shook his head in disappointment.
"I believe I am," Sherlock replied, his voice rough from a distant longing.
Sherlock always knew he'd die this way—at the end of a needle. The rush and a last second panic often entwined. Most times, he really didn't care. Life was always a struggle against boredom anyway. He may as well end it in the most dramatic way he knew.
But Violet. He didn't need to survive for her, but he did want to make sure she could do more than just survive. He'd have one more try before he depressed the plunger fully.
"All she's ever wanted is to love and be loved," he said. "To belong. To have her life mean something. You know this."
Venucci stood up.
"Tom," the Mancunian said, addressing the man in the doorway. "Oy!"
Thomas looked up and yanked out an earbud.
"Get Moriarty," Venucci bid him. "'e wants to be 'ere for this."
Thomas's eyes dropped to Sherlock, finally focussing on his surroundings. He turned and left the room.
Sherlock held his breath, then slowly pushed.
"He's taken everything from her," he murmured.
Suddenly, Venucci's hand stopped the plunger's progression halfway.
"That's enough," he said. "Any more will kill you."
As footfalls approached, Venucci pulled the syringe out of Sherlock's vein. Sherlock quickly placed a finger over the injection site and bent his arm, his thoughts whirling with need and loss. He plucked at the tourniquet, loosening it a little.
It was enough.
It wasn't enough.
Bones growing heavy, tendons loosening, Sherlock sank into the back of the sofa.
He wanted to thank Venucci for the hit, or for saving his life, he wasn't sure which. But all that issued from his lips was a sigh as his eyelids fluttered shut and the sofa cushions enveloped him in a warm and tender embrace.
#
Author's Note:
A big thank you to those who reviewed that last couple of chapters! Your support this year keeps me motivated! I hope I'm providing an adequate distraction during this time. Sorry about the content of the chapter! I find it hard to write Moriarty because he's such a larger than life character with the way Moftiss wrote him as a complete loon! I hope my version didn't come across as too corny. But I'm sorry about Sherlock, too. D:
Next chapter: what Violet's up to!