Part 2: The Sleeper

Mobiles, computers, even mailboxes were forbidden to him. He knew, from experience, that there will be… punishment, if he was ever found. Such items always littered the quaint little cottage they occupied between their travels (home, his mind supplied/questioned), computers left unlocked, tablets and mobile phones scattered about in odd places, as if forgotten. All intentional, of course, and monitored closely, no doubt. Sherlock didn't dare touch any of it. Jim's talent with electronic devices was insidious.

Using a mobile like that was risky. He nicked it from one of Jim's freelancing associates, and discarded its unassembled pieces at the first opportunity (luckily, acid was always an abundantly available commodity in their home.) Sherlock and his contact were always careful not to call each other by name, as little as that would do to help him if the messages were ever discovered.

Still, they had worked out a system, using mostly colours to signify Sherlock's condition, physical or otherwise. Knowing extraction was only a keystroke away made it somewhat easier for Sherlock. He almost used it a few times; when it was too much, too much for him to simply grit his teeth and bear, (his first night came to mind and he quickly shoved the thought away, knowing that attempting to delete it again would be pointless).

The colours they used were a simple ladder from green to red, and Sherlock learned to be truthful in his assessments; his contact would know if he was lying, he had his ways. The system was the closest thing the two of them had come to simply inquire about each other's wellbeing in years. It was almost civil. Sherlock wondered how much the other knew, aside from what Sherlock disclosed. Probably more than Sherlock was comfortable in revealing, he thought, vaguely horrified.

Sherlock had only resorted to direct contact in the most dire of circumstances. His contact knew not to attempt to communicate with him through the same channel twice. Both of them had to be quick and discreet if they ever hoped to be successful.

Sherlock only discovered the final details by sheer luck. The information was positively vital to set the plan in motion. The hit spanned months in planning, high profile cases usually did, but he did not know the location or time of the attack until the very last moment. He did not have time to come up with an indirect method of communications; he knew he had to deliver his message with haste.

Usually, he and his contact used codes, ciphers; random notes drawn from the violin in hotel suits, heard loud and clear in the adjacent room. A halfway filled game of Soduko left somewhere discarded, numbers pointing to specific words in a book (and wasn't it fun to use Jim's own system against him?), and so on. Never did they use the same code more than once. Sometimes he even made them up on the spot, when he spotted an opportunity and had to be quick about it. It wasn't important; he knew his contact would crack the codes as soon as his agents brought them to him.

Once his message had been delivered all Sherlock could do was wait.

The attack was a world-class event, and would have had a huge effect on international politics. Jim did like to cause trouble.

The media was in frenzy the next day, the event covered extensively by every major news network worldwide. The bombing took place at noon, by Moscow time, causing devastating damage to the historic structure. Miraculously, a fire drill went off mere minutes prior to the attack, saving countless of lives in the process.

Political and defense analysts argued extensively on the air, both the president and prime minister of the turbulent government came out of their secured hiding place to reassure the public of both the president's survival (who had been in residence at the time of the bombing) as well as to denounce the malicious act of terrorism.

The only confirmed casualty of the attack was a single old Russian woman, seen in the security footage of the facility (uploaded immediately unto servers an thus providing exact Intel on her movements. No one knew who leaked the footage to the press.) She had been tiny, despite being bundled up in layers. She seemed harmless enough, which partially explained why security was so lax in regards to her person. How harmful could one elderly woman be?

The cameras followed her movements in the facility until she locked herself in a women's toilet. It was the location of the center point of the explosion that destroyed a large section of the building.

The woman was an old relic of the Soviet Union, and a true believer in The Cause. Jim thought that was just hilarious.

Later in the day a formerly unknown terrorist cell released a video unto the web, taking responsibility for the attack and detailing their intentions – to be rid of the oppressing government by striking a devastating blow against one of their leaders and their symbol of power.

According to leading Internet polls, support for the government rose by 140% in a matter of hours.

Sherlock lay curled on the sofa, knees drawn to his chest. His back was turned to the telly, and his eyes were closed. He made no reaction to the broadcast, and although he was listening intently, he made no show of it.

He could hear the furious tapping from Jim's blackberry. The man had been at it all morning. Jim rarely minded when a plan went belly up; he found it fascinating when he made a miscalculation, gleeful about the unexpected challenge.

But, that, that was just insulting. The fire drill was a cock-up, there had been none planned that day. Someone had tipped the authorities about the incoming attack. The small number of people involved in the case suggested that the leak came from inside Jim's organization. Not even the client knew the timing. Jim couldn't wait to get his hands on the traitor and personally see to their gruesome end.

"It's obvious isn't it?" Sherlock responded sleepily to Jim's rant, although he was wide awake and alert, every nerve in his body tingling. Showtime.

Jim paused, his breath exiting loudly from his chest. He stalked over to Sherlock and forced him to roll on his back. "What is? What did I miss?" Jim grumbled, annoyance written all over his face.

Sherlock swallowed a wince. His back was aching. Last night Jim had been extremely enthusiastic, taking his excitement out on Sherlock. It wasn't unexpected; Sherlock was usually the first person in the line of fire when these things happened. Although he despised politics, Jim loved political assassinations; he loved the chaos they brought in their wake.

"Really Jim, sentiment?" Sherlock murmured, "I wouldn't have expected it from you."

Jim's face twisted as if Sherlock had uttered a particularly distasteful curse word.

"What on earth are you babbling about?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Babbling? Honestly. He sighed in annoyance before answering, "Who else was privy to the location of the bombs? It wasn't any one of your lackeys, none of them had anything to gain by it, and none of them could have known the precise time except for the bomber, and we both know she followed through. Not to mention that now the client goes missing?"

As if on cue, the news chime in with a report that there was still no word of the high ranking government official, who disappeared on the morning of the bombing. His image blared on the screen.

"Think about, Jim, who could possibly have anything to gain by it? And had access to the information in time to warn the Russian government?"

"My dear, I believe you are losing your touch. The old bitch did blow herself up, remember?" Jim told him, but Sherlock could tell the seed of a doubt had been planted.

"Perhaps, but the government had just as much to benefit from the attack as the client. And none of them wound up dead in the end," He shrugged, and curled back on to his side, facing the sofa cushions. He was careful not to smile even with his face almost entirely hidden. He did not need to walk Jim through the entire thought process; he just needed to point him in the right direction, Jim would do the rest on his own.

Follow the money trail. Consider all possibilities. Observe all the facts. If some of the clues had been planted… Well. It was sweet irony, knowing that his time in Jim's company finally turned him into the fraud Jim convinced the world he was.

XXX

Night fell, and Sherlock bided his time.

"We'll have a few guests coming tonight." Jim told him distractedly, raising his eyes briefly from the computer screen to meet Sherlock's eyes. He returned his gaze to the monitor, expression displeased.

The front door swung open at midnight, Sebastian Moran striding confidently into the room. They exchanged un-pleasantries, but Sherlock was working on autopilot. Moran was an unexpected parameter. Sherlock would have to thread carefully tonight.

He fought the urge to steeple his hands.

An hour later, the guest of honour arrived. The Frenchman was tall and dark haired, dressed in an impeccable business suit, looking nothing like he just emerged from a gruelling cross-continental journey.

"Ah, monsieur Moriarty," He greeted Jim with exaggerated air kisses, and Sherlock snorted. An unconscious man was dragged into the room behind him, and the Frenchman snapped his fingers toward the cellar.

"I brought you a petite cadeau," the man said silkily.

"Cadeau," Sherlock said pointedly, correctly the man's pronunciation of the French word for 'gift'.

The Frenchman scowled but continued, as if Sherlock hadn't spoken, "It seems our friend from downstairs is responsible for our unfortunate incident. My apologies, mon ami," The man intoned smoothly. He had been in charge of the entire failed operation in Russia, the liaison between them and their client - the government official who commissioned the attack, whose intention was to leave key government positions available, and at the same time create countless martyrs for the Russian governments.

Jim smiled and gestured toward the cellar, "Shall we?"

The cellar was the first room Sherlock ever laid eyes on when he was first brought to this house, almost three years ago. It was a bleak, sinister room. Sherlock had come to spend more time in it than he would have liked to, both as an observer, and occasionally, as the focus of Jim's attention.

The brutes working under the Frenchman finished strapping the unconscious man to the chair by his hands and ankles. They stood back, waiting for orders. Jim stalked closer to the man and lifted the dark bag covering his head. The face that was revealed under it was not one unfamiliar to them. He was one of countless underlings - perhaps particularly vicious - but not anyone special. His ordinary face was overlaid with bruises and dried blood. Jim placed the cover back on the man's head, wiping his hands on the other's shirt.

He turned to the two lackeys, "Out," He snarled. They didn't need to be told twice, leaving only the four of them – Jim, Sherlock, Moran and the Frenchman – alone in the room.

Jim turned to his guest. "Give me your phone," He demanded, hand outstretched.

The man visibly blenched, "Pourquoi?"

Jim did not answer. Without having to be ordered, Moran moved to grab the Frenchman, wrenching the mobile from the man's pocket. He presented the mobile to his boss, who smiled cheerfully in return.

"Thank you, dear," Jim said.

Jim got the pass code on the phone correctly after two tries. He plunged into the phone's contents.

Jim's cheerfully demeanour disappeared completely after a mere minute of browsing. He hissed angrily, flashing his teeth. Everyone in the room was completely focused on him.

Jim pointed the screen at the gaping Frenchmen, "You couldn't even delete the picture? God. You're even dumber than I remembered," The mobile's screen showed an image of the client, or rather, what remained of the man. Sherlock caught a small glimpse of the text ('it's done'), before Jim threw the phone at the Frenchman's head.

"Idiot!" Jim yelled furiously.

The man blinked rapidly, accent deteriorating quickly, "But, mon ami, it is démence. I have no idée-"

"Will you stop using that ridiculous fake accent? My ears are bleeding. On second thought, feel free not to talk at all," Sherlock snapped.

The man spluttered indignantly, face reddening. His façade dropped. His next words came accented in a deep Irish brogue.

"Brother," He pleaded. "You're not seriously buying this story-"

"Shut up." Jim barked, and his brother grows silent immediately, "Good God. I should have smothered you in your sleep. Did you honestly think I wouldn't have found out about the money?"

"What money?" the man half-screamed.

"The money transferred to your bank account. Who the fuck do you think you're trying to scam. Me?" Jim screamed, voice going hoarse.

Silence fell in the room, only to be broken a few moments later when Jim began to giggle suddenly, madly. Moran stood by him, watching the unfolding scene in undisguised fascination.

Moriarty the Younger swallowed, and then slowly turned to Sherlock.

"This is all your doing, isn't it?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, "Pardon?" he said in a mock French accent.

"You planned this. You were involved in the case from the beginning. There could have been no one else," He never took his eyes off of Sherlock while his hand reached to the back of his trousers slowly.

He turned to his brother, who hissed at him in warning, "James."

"James?" Moran blurted out in surprise.

Sherlock was surprised also, but hide it well. He quickly put the pieces together.

"Ah, yes." He said, "Didn't you know, Sebastian? Jim adopted his own brother's name as an alias. As for Moriarty the Stupid…" He frowned at the shaking man, "What were you calling yourself again?"

"Shut up!" The real James Moriarty screamed, clutching his head. "This is all your fault." He said, addressing neither of them in particular, "Things have been going straight to shit ever since you brought him along." He wrenched the firearm from his trousers, turning to Sherlock, but before he had time to aim and shoot, a gunshot went off in the room.

Sherlock reeled back with a gasp, unable to prevent the man's blood from splattering his face. His ears were ringing, and he was grateful for the gun's silencer. He regained his composure and glanced at the two other men still standing.

Jim considered the smoking gun in his hand. He raised a single eyebrow and flexed his neck muscles slowly before lowering his eyes to his brother's still form on the floor. He remained quiet for several long moments.

"Oh well," Jim said finally, and tossed the gun sideways at Moran, who caught it out of pure instinct, cursing. Moran disarmed the weapon with a few practiced moves, the loud click of a virgin discharge echoing in the room.

"Get someone to clean this mess up, will you?" Jim said to his second in command before climbing up the stairs.

Sebastian looked at Sherlock then, questioningly.

"You should do what he says." Sherlock told him softly and stepped over the body. He paused, "I suppose he would have liked to be buried next to Mother." He murmured before resuming his steps.

He could feel Sebastian's eyes boring into his back.

A/N – Let's play a game of who can spot the most obscure canon reference ever? I'm not referring to Moriarty's brother who, incidentally, was also called James.