Deceptions
Chapter 4
Sherlock's certainty wavered for all of two seconds. "He was dead, I saw him die. Even if he used a blank it would have killed him at such a close range."
Mycroft nodded curtly. "Oh, there is no doubting it. I saw him in the morgue with my own eyes. Stiff as a board." He smiled thinly. "Do not worry. There was only one fake suicide up on that rooftop."
Sherlock was not appeased. "The body was thoroughly examined?"
"We are always thorough."
Sherlock balked, rolling his eyes. "I've heard that one before."
Mycroft ignored him. "No prosthetics. No impostor. The real Jim Moriarty."
Sherlock glanced away, his mind whirring. Contrary to what he had led Moriarty to believe, Sherlock had known all along that there had been no key code. There would never be a single key code. It would be as asinine as it would be dangerous. He was actually surprised that Mycroft had fallen for such a transparent ploy, the sort of shenanigan that was more fitting to a Bond movie, though it had been satisfying to see his brother squirm when he learnt the truth.
He had even deduced the installed camera at Baker Street long before he had gone through the actual motions of discovering it. A book slightly out of place, that John would never have read and Mrs Hudson's dusting would never have reached. He had resisted the impulse to confirm for sure so that he could maintain the pretence, discussing the key code with John, who was ignorant of the truth, for the benefit of its viewer.
The real key was to have Moriarty believing he, the boffin Sherlock Holmes, was normal. One of the normal people. He wanted to disappoint him. Had to have him believing he had won. Because by winning, the game was over, terminated, and it was always about the game with Moriarty. An insane mind was always the most complex to infiltrate, until you found their weak spot, knew exactly what made them tick.
"So…if he is dead," Sherlock meditated. "Who took the body?"
"We are working on it."
Sherlock listened with half an ear, lured back into his deliberations again. "And moreover, why?" he murmured to himself.
Drawing his hands up to his face, he positioned them into a loose prayer position, lightly resting his fingertips against his lips as his thoughts were swept back into the roller coaster depths of his consciousness. Places, faces, sounds and ideas battled for precedence, delighting him with their eagerness to decipher, to unravel, to solve.
But that fractional part of him still hovering in the real world soon became irritably conscious of his brother watching him.
"This must be so difficult for you," Mycroft suddenly broke into the silence, though there was no sympathy in his tone.
"What?" he snapped back impatiently, like a child dragged away from his favourite toy.
"No more charging into battle, making your deductions, weeding out the truths from the lies." His brother smirked. "No more irritating the populous with that charming disposition."
"And your point is?"
"You know what my point is, and it is already starting to eat you up inside."
A flicker of pity finally had the decency to grace Mycroft's face. "You are dead, Sherlock. Officially dead. You can do nothing. You can question no one. The leg work you seem to thrive upon can be no more. Your little adventures with John, cavorting around London, solving crimes like Batman and Robin. It's over." He shrugged, appearing mildly perturbed, as if he had said too much, gone too far. "Though I guess it finally shows me that you are actually human. You thought of others before yourself for the first time in your life."
"And your point is?" Sherlock repeated, his words almost a snarl, hating it when his brother was right.
"It is what feeds you. Sustains you. The work. Without it…" Mycroft smiled grimly. "Without it, you are as good as dead."
Though they touched a nerve, Sherlock knew he couldn't allow Mycroft's words to drag him down. That was a path he was not yet ready to tread. Yes, he had considered his…friends…before the consequences. Focused on the short term problem before the long. He had fought against his natural instincts, refined after decades of nurturing, and put people first.
He knew that in hindsight he would do exactly the same again, though the knowledge, the realisation, felt alien to him. He didn't know how to begin to assimilate it. So he didn't try, burying it deep, determined that sentiment wouldn't continue to get the better of Sherlock Holmes. It had been a minor blip in his hard-drive. Necessary, but one he had no intension of repeating again.
Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, he reminded himself, like some inner mantra. The losing side.
He narrowed his eyes and ran them over his brother calculatingly, his mind going to work again.
"Give me his phone," he finally said.
"What?"
"Moriarty's phone."
Mycroft stared across at him in shock.
"You have it in your pocket," Sherlock persisted, secretly revelling in his brother's disbelief.
He didn't have the patience to wait for him to deny it. "When your phone rang your hand hesitated in your pocket, your motion wasn't as fluid as it should have been. You were considering two phones, feeling for the one you are more familiar with. If I were being less observant of your actions, which is highly unlikely but I digress anyway, the simple fact that there are two discreet protrusions in your pocket would be clarification enough."
"What makes you think it is Moriarty's phone," Mycroft stumbled. "It could be anyone's. Yours for example."
"Molly has mine. Back at the lab. And who else's would you bring with you under the circumstances?" Sherlock smirked his touché, reaching out his hand. "The phone, please."
As Mycroft fumbled in his pocket he shook his head. "You will be wasting your time. It tells us nothing. It is new, barely used, little more than a prop contracted under Moriarty's fictitious name of Richard Brooke. Two contacts, you and that journalist Kitty Riley, obviously to back up the Brooke character. Two tracks uploaded: Staying Alive by the Bee Gees, and Gioachino Rossini's The Thieving Magpie." Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Quite a disparity of choice, I must say." He stretched out his arm towards Sherlock. "After the episode with Irene Adler's phone we even had it x-rayed.
"Nothing," he added sourly as he slapped the phone into Sherlock's demanding hand.
Sherlock drew it towards him possessively. He felt a rush of excitement as he began to rotate it between his long fingers experimentally.
It was Mycroft's turn to roll his eyes. "By God, look at you. Always so eager to play. Have you listened to anything I have said?"
"I try not to."
Mycroft sighed. "He is dead. What use can his phone possibly be to you now?"
Sherlock gave his brother a sharp questioning look. Mycroft was many things, but stupid was not one of them. "You know exactly what it can do. It can lead me to whoever took his body from the morgue."
Mycroft stood up edgily. "You are good, Sherlock, but not that good." He started to cross the room but turned upon reaching the door. "When I return it will be with your new identity. Passport. Documents. A new bank account."
Sherlock didn't look up, still absorbed in the phone.
"I also strongly advise you to grow a beard."
This did rouse Sherlock's interest, his eyes widening in mischief, crinkling his brow. "Before you return?"
With a click of his tongue, Mycroft snatched up his umbrella and exited the room.
"You can stay a few days," he threw back from the hallway, "but that is all. Then you need to disappear. Bid a final farewell to Sherlock Holmes. Give up the ghost."