Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, but he owns me. Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present the villain of my story! Thank you all for your patience, and please enjoy! Oh so very wicked indeed!
Read, review, enjoy!
Chapter Twenty
"Lady M"
Prison Wandsworth stood gloomily in the weak midday sun, as the black town car growled to a stop outside the visitor's entrance. It was a moral void in the local landscape, creeping and cancerous in its appearance. The history of these walls was like a scar on the soul, impossible to forget.
Her valet opened the door, and she exited beneath the gray walls, feeling the prison's long history of despair and malice seep into her pores. She closed her eyes, and drew in a deep breath, almost tasting the delicious bouquet on her tongue. Her very foolish husband suffered behind these walls, and a small smile flitted across her delicate features.
Her long black coat did little to disguise her figure, strong and lean and graced with curves in all the right places. Her black dress was elegance and simplicity, and she wore just enough gold to make a statement. Her heels were high enough to question the wisdom in wearing them at all, but she moved as if she were walking on air. She had an image to project; one she knew just how to cultivate. She moved with the loose limbed ease of a runway model, and her smile, when she chose to use it, had many of a man's heart lost forever. Long mahogany tresses got caught up in the wind and her men appreciated the sight. Or they would have if she didn't terrify them. They knew her for what she really was, the elite few who knew the truth. Her valet got back in the car and drove away, to return when she was done.
She went to the entrance, and her bodyguard hurriedly opened it for her. She stepped into the reception area for visitors, gracefully stepping over the threshold. There were a dozen people present, all waiting in grubby little plastic chairs or standing against the dirty walls. Her eyes danced over them in quick dismissal, ignoring the lot of them. There she waited, just inside the doorway, as her bodyguard filed in behind her.
The room quieted, and people turned to stare. She knew she was a sight; her black clothes, her hair, the jewelry, the imposing man at her back, it all screamed opulence. She hadn't gone for subtlety in a long time, and she let her disdain for the common crowd around her show. She walked forward, and cut through the people standing, waiting to get processed in to visit their loved ones. She went straight to a window that held nothing but a camera winking through the glass. She stared into the lens, knowing her image was being processed and her identity being confirmed. Her guard stood at her back still, arms folded, eyeing the people whispering behind her, all wondering what was going on.
A door opened to the right, and a man in a dark suit stood on the threshold. He nodded at her, and she stepped before him into the priority access room usually reserved for government officials. It was a staging area for what came next. She dropped her purse on the table, and walked to another door, waiting for her guard to be stripped of his weapons.
"Stay here. I shall be fine." She ordered, and the door opened. Her bodyguard was hesitant, unwilling to let her go ahead alone. It opened in a long, slim hallway that was lit only by blue LED strips at floor level along the wall. At the end was a room awash in white light. She had been through the process already, and knew to walk straight ahead, with a slow easy pace. She put a little sway into her hips, and smiled, the red gloss on her lips shiny in the half-light. She was being watched, cameras lined the walls. She walked down the hall, hearing the machinery behind the walls humming as they X-rayed her whole frame, searching for concealed weapons and other contraband. She was clean; she had nothing to worry about.
At the end of the hall she stepped out into the white room, and went to the desk in the center. It was large, made of oak, and screamed high-class Old World money. A single man sat there, a small laptop to his side. He had the standard look of all government lackeys; no personality, and horrid taste in suits.
"Name?" He asked, not looking at her. He wasn't being deliberately obtuse. He knew her name, the audio systems needed to hear her say it for confirmation of her identity.
"Lady Sybil Moran, wife of Lord Sebastian Moran, former Minister of Overseas Development."
The little laptop on the desk beeped, and a door appeared out of nowhere, that had until then been invisible in the white walls. It opened into the room behind it, and she stalked around the desk without hesitation. There were other doors that would have opened if she hadn't passed. Doors that held men armed to the teeth, perfectly willing to 'disappear' someone trying to breach security. But they don't know that I know that…this is so much fun!
The man she had come to see sat at the lone table in the interrogation room. Sebastian Moran looked terrible. He was wearing a gray jumpsuit that did nothing for his complexion, and he had dark circles under his eyes. His wrists were chained together to the metal table top. He had the toxic air of a man who had given up, depression emanating from him like a cloud. Sebastian appeared to have aged at least a decade since his capture and arrest the week before. The fool cannot even handle a week behind bars! So very weak….
There was a single chair across from him at the large table. She pulled it out, sat with her legs crossed, and folded her hands neatly in her lap. The large door behind her slid back into place, and she heard the deep clink as the locks engaged. There were cameras in each corner, and she felt the lenses track her as she moved, zooming in on her face. They were using FLIR, and were most likely using it to monitor her comments, her reactions, and his. They had done this her previous visit, when they had walked her through the protocols on how to visit her husband. She pretended not to know the full depth of what they were really using, the technology they had used to scan her as she entered. She let the fools continue to be blind. They thought her mindless, just another pretty face. A silly young woman who thought this whole thing was just a misunderstanding.
Nothing was private in this room; the minions of Mycroft Holmes were watching. She wasn't worried, though. She had been evading the Holmes brothers for years. She would dance around them again.
"Darling! You look terrible! Have the dreadful prison guards been mean to you?" She smirked at him, sarcasm so thick in her voice he flinched. She could play the simple-minded lady of society for all it was worth.
Moran looked at his wife, and felt a ribbon of terror snake through his soul. Usually she appeared to be as she had been trained; a lovely young woman of good breeding, married to a minor nobleman who was far too old for her, who held a semi-important position in the government. Her control perfect, no one ever saw past her mask. No one ever saw the madness. A shadow of it was there now in her eyes, a wild thing that moved like a predator hunting in the night. Her eyes never left his, her smile never slipped, yet Moran felt as if she were raking thin daggers across his heart.
"Sybil, you look… well." Moran tried to sound casual, and failing. His heart started to beat faster, fear making a tiny trickle of sweat roll down his temple. "They said you were coming today, but I wasn't sure you'd be back."
"How could I not visit my darling husband? While he's in prison, charged with treason and terrorism? How can I not visit you, bring you comfort?" Her voice was light and gentle, sounded so very supportive. Except for her eyes. There the real Sybil Moran waited, and she was furious. "Those nasty government people tore through our house, my clothes, and even interrogated me! I was so upset, and you weren't there to make them go away! Oh Sebbie, you'll be home soon, won't you?"
Moran swallowed, and he knew he alone heard the wrath beneath the silly housewife routine.
"Sorry dear. This should all be over soon, I promise." He had no idea what to say, for anything he could think of would reveal more than he was willing.
"Oh yes dear, it will be." Sybil stood, and slowly began to pace around the table, her high heels clicking lightly on the floor, fingers trailing on the tabletop. She knew the cameras were following her every move. They wouldn't intervene, the scans had shown her clean.
"I was talking to my friends, and they said I should file for divorce. I had nothing to do with that silly train business, those nasty bombs. I wanted nothing to do with such a topic! Divorce after only two years of marriage. But I said you were innocent, and that I took my vows seriously. Marriage is forever…. 'Til death do us part." Sybil had reached his side, and Moran fought the impulse to flinch away from her hand as she traced a shiny red nail down the side of his face. She gave a sweet giggle, and her impersonation of a society wife was flawless. "I'll be waiting for you to come home, Sebbie."
There was flash of gold on her finger. His eyes tracked it, and he drew in a breath as he saw the signet. The black M nestled in the Welsh gold stabbed him through the heart. He felt a thread of anger, and looked up at his darling wife. She knew he had seen the ring, and she smiled at him sweetly, daring him to say anything.
"You're wearing it, Sybil." Was all he could say, all his courage could muster.
"Of course I am! Silly Sebbie, why wouldn't I wear the ring of the man I loved more than anything in this world?" Sybil leaned down, her gorgeous hair falling in a sheet over one shoulder, and she kissed him gently on the lips. Moran held still, and refused to let his hands shake. She smiled against his lips, feeling his terror.
"I must go dear. Just had to stop by, show my support. I'm certain you'll be free in no time! I've got plans this afternoon, a girls' night out! Big plans, lots of fun." She pulled back, smiled one last time, and turned to leave.
Moran felt his stomach drop, bile encroaching up his throat. Whatever she had planned had already started. Her heels clicked away at the floor, like tiny hammers chipping at his sanity. The door sealed shut behind her as she left, and Moran knew he was a dead man if she ever got him truly alone. She was a sight to behold, the monster the world knew as Sybil Moran.
Sebastian Moran had spent the better part of the last decade serving two masters. The North Koreans, and James Moriarty. He had been his chief disciple for years, trusting his double allegiance to keep him secure in his position. When Moriarty had died, Moran had dim aspirations of taking over, but that had all been laid to rest by Sherlock Holmes. Holmes had torn the syndicate apart, and Moran had only escaped because he hid behind his North Korean contacts. He had turned to his remaining masters, and followed their lead.
Having an agent like Sybil as his wife was supposed to be a boon; but she had spurned his advances, and scoffed at his plans. His instructions to destroy Parliament had only drawn her scorn. She had only cooperated enough in her role as wife to keep up the happy newly wed façade. And to protect them from discovery at the hands of Sherlock Holmes. She had raced ahead of Holmes on the Continent, her skills put to use silencing leads and securing evidence that would send Holmes to knocking at their door. To the world it would have looked like a young noblewoman spending her husband's money across Europe. No one had noticed the body count, or the blood on her hands. Least of all Sherlock Holmes.
What control he had over her was gone the second he was arrested. She had an agenda, one that she had wanted to follow the second Moriarty shot himself in the head on that damn roof. It was only through his manipulation of Moriarty's last orders that had given Moran any edge in keeping her in line. Moriarty had ordered her to hide, to play the role of Sybil Moran, and she had obeyed. Her steadfast allegiance to a man who killed himself when confronted by Sherlock Holmes left him bitter with jealousy. Now that he was in no position to stop her, she felt freed from her promise.
He had only the barest idea of what she had planned, and her aspirations were enough to frighten him even here.
Sybil had married him only at the behest of her beloved master, to hide her deeper into the fabric of society. Her madness had flourished in secret, the world never learning who she really was. Once upon a time it was she who had held John Watson at her mercy, the tiny red laser dot from her sniper rifle zeroed in on the explosives vest, that night so long ago at the pool. She had led the sniper team that night, her every action attuned to her master's will as she directed the nightmare laser show.
The ring she wore for the man she loved, and it was not Sebastian Moran. She wore the ring of the man she lost to Sherlock Holmes. She had once been known as Death, beloved disciple of James Moriarty. Sebastian Moran had lost his position as chief disciple to a slim wisp of a woman who looked for all the world like a fashion model. She was as deranged as Moriarty, and she had no concern for her own life. All she wanted was vengeance.
The world would burn, and Sybil would avenge her true love. James Moriarty.
Sybil stepped out from under the imposing walls of the prison, wholly unaffected by the malaise that usually stole over people where she stood. She had accomplished one mission today already; and her second would only need time for it to complete on its own.
Her car purred to a stop just as she walked out to the curb, and her guard opened the door. She got in, and as the car with its blackout windows drove away from Wandsworth, she knew she would never have to play the role of Lady Sybil Moran again. She would once again be Death, last and greatest disciple of James Moriarty.
Removing the compact and tweezers from her purse, she, with infinite care, peeled away the red latex seal from her lips. To anyone else the seal had appeared as fresh lip gloss. To her husband, it was the means by which she freed herself from his pathetic existence. She let no trace of the poison touch her mouth or skin, and disposed of the dangerous little pieces of latex in a black baggie. He would be dead within the next forty eight hours. Considering his current condition, most likely sooner.
"Gentlemen, we're going dark." She paused, and gave a beautiful breathy laugh. "Tell the others we are ready."