The Wrath of CyntaxA Sherlock/Star Trek/OC crossoverChapter#4

March.15.2012

John walks downstairs to an empty house. This is a rare occurrence. So rare, in fact, that this is the first time it's happens. Sherlock is always up and about, no matter what hour of the day. So consistently that John was convinced he never slept. He reassures himself the detective just went on a run somewhere. He does that all too often. John sticks a piece of bread in the toaster, waiting for it to brown. He jumps when he turns around to find Cyntax+ sitting at the kitchen table.

'Plus!' he exclaims, clutching his heart, 'you gave me quite the scare!'

'Sorry,' she says, but her smile reveals she's not sorry at all.

'How long have you been awake?' he asks, leaning on the counter across from her. She would offer him a seat at the table but, as always, it is cluttered with lab equipment.

'Ages.'

'Where's Sherlock?'

'Still asleep.'

'That's not like him.'

'Sleeping in?'

'Sleeping at all.'

Cyntax+ laughs, 'that's a bit of an exaggeration. He sleeps most every night. I watch him do it.'

'Oh,' says John, transferring his toast to a plate, 'I didn't realize you two were sharing a room.'

'I wouldn't really call it sharing.'

John coughs, 'tea?'

'No thank you. You really should do something for that cough.'

John smiles, not quite sure how to explain to her his simple English ways, 'suppose I should,' He gets up to boil water.

Cyntax+ nods with a warm smile, 'I worry about you. You Humans are so fragile. Especially you with those war injuries of yours.'

John struggles to retain an outward air of positivity when being reminded of his own mortality. The crunch of toast is the only noise in the house as he waits for what he swears is the slowest boiling pot of water ever. After a good two minutes, he gives in to the robot's stare.

'Sleep alright?'

'I didn't sleep at all.'

John chokes on his toast, 'Sherlock keep you up?'

'In a sense.'

'I didn't think that was possible… With Sherlock being Sherlock… And you being… Well…'

Cyntax catches on to his train of thought and begins to laugh, 'No. I mean, I can, but no. We didn't.'

Johns gaze falls to the floor, 'When you said you'd been awake for ages-'

'I meant centuries, John. I don't sleep.'

'Right,' he nods to the linoleum, feeling quite foolish. He stays there for a bit before popping his head back up, 'ever?'

'Well, I mean, I've shut down for extended periods of time, but I don't really consider that sleep.'

'So what did you two do then? I mean, if you don't mind me asking.'

'I let him look at me.'

'All night?'

'Yes. He asked a lot of questions. Then I told him if he was going to stare at me naked, he may as well return the favour. So he-'

'Yes, well, I think I can imagine the rest. So if you could just… Stop… Talking…'John trails off, his face redder than she's ever seen it. The water comes to a boil at last and he turns to take it off the heat.

'That's what I hate about the British,' says Cyntax, 'you're ashamed of the only thing that makes you beautiful.'

John stares at his tea, letting her words hang in the air.

'Mmm, tea sounds wonderful. I'll take a nice cup of English Breakfast,' says Sherlock, who appears to have been magically summoned to the doorway behind Cyntax. He is clad in only his pants.

John jumps, again, 'would you two stop that?!'

'Sorry,' Sherlock holds back laughter, showing that he really isn't.

'You're gonna kill me one of these days.'

The detective takes a seat next to Cyntax, 'morning,' his voice in monotone; he makes no physical contact. Cyntax eyes his exposed body, but makes no move toward him. There is no hand holding or kisses on the cheek. No normal signs of endearment that come the morning after. They address each other almost business like. They are the strangest couple John has ever seen. If this is what they're like around other people, how are they alone? He allows his mind to wonder for a bit. He very quickly shuns the thoughts when they become disturbingly graphic.

'Yes,' answers Cyntax. It is morning after all.

Sherlock laughs with a shake of his head, 'you're good at playing Human, but not good enough.'

'I take that as a compliment.'

John hands Sherlock his tea, 'yes, well, I've got… Paperwork…' the doctor exit's the room, only to call back seconds later, 'Sherlock, there's a package for you on the desk.'

'Yes, I know. I'll open it later,' he answers behind a sip of tea.

'You're gonna want to open it now.' Johns voice comes again.

Sherlock freezes, 'why's that?'

'Because there's only two people you know who go by "M" and I don't think it's from your brother.'

'Moriarty,' the word is barely audible as Sherlock swoops in to the other room.

Moriarty. Of course. Cyntax+ recognizes the name. He calls himself the "consulting criminal". He matches people in need with the perfect law-breaker. Mostly assassins, but people of all trades: theft, black-male, you name it. He had been behind the first case they worked on together and many after that.

John and Cyntax watch intently as the detective takes the box up in both hands. He examines it closely, inspecting it for things that go boom. When he is reassured of it's safety, he pulls on the string. He stares at the contents for only a moment before tossing it on the table with reckless abandon. John looks in to see a severed hand. Sherlock grabs his coat, rushing down the stairs.

'Where are you going?' John calls after him.

'Scotland Yard.'

'Don't you want to put cloths on?'

'No time.'

'Wait,' John calls again, 'don't you want to take this with you?'

'No need,' Sherlock pops his head around the corner of the stairwell, 'I bet you 40,000 quid that belongs to Fredrick Martin,' his quick footsteps proceed down the stairs and out the door.

John picks up the hand with care, bringing it over to the kitchen table which, quite unfortunately, also serves as their lab table. He picks up a bone saw, cutting off a small piece of the bone and placing it under the microscope. He scribbles down some things on a piece of paper, rummages around the table for a certain vile of something, drops a bit of it on to the bone, and marks that down as well.

'Can you hand me the autopsy report. It's on the desk.'

Cyntax+ hands him a folder labeled Fredrick Martin. John glances at the DNA test, adjusts his microscope, checks his notes, and looks back to the results.

'Well?' asks Cyntax.

John nods, 'it's a match.'

Sherlock stares at his mobile. After nearly an hour of searching he has finally found what he is fairly certain is Jim Moriarty's real number. It is the only common contact between his recently contracted criminals. Sherlock types in the numbers, praying to the universe it isn't Pieno's Pizzeria.

'Sherlock!' greets an overly-enthusiastic man on the other end, 'I was hoping you'd call.'

'I know,' Sherlock states with utter calmness.

'Of course you did,' answers Jim, spinning around in his desk chair.

'This line would be disconnected if you weren't'

'Very good, Sherlock. That's what I love about you,' the man laughs, 'so clever.'

'What is it you want with me?'

'We've been on so many blind dates,' there is another cenacle chuckle from the other end, 'I think it's time we meet.'

There is a faint click, a moment of silence, then a dial tone. Sherlock finds himself, once again, staring at his mobile. Several minutes pass without notice until the screen lights up. John's number illuminates the display, along with a text that reads, "Hand is a match." Sherlock ignores it. Of course it's a match. Moriarty planned all of this.

Another stretch of time passes before he is interrupted by another text from John. Two ½ hours, judging by the time stamps. It says, "Didn't get a reply. Everything alright?"

Sherlock responds quite simply with "Mind palace." and he goes back to constructing a game plan. He has already come up with several but all of them have flaws. This man is everywhere and anywhere. There is no escape. The detectives rises from his stool. He dials John's as he exit's the building. Watson picks up on the second ring.

'Sherlock,' he greets, 'where the bloody hell have you been? You've been gone for hours.'

'That's not important,' answers Sherlock, 'I want you to lock all the doors and windows. Whatever you do, do not leave the flat. I want you to take Ms. Hudson and stay on the main floor. Do not let Plus out of your sight. She will protect you. Do not answer your phone. Even if it's my number. Do not pick up. Do you understand?'

There is a long moment of silence.

'Do you understand?'

'Yes,' John answers finally, 'Sherlock, are you in danger?'

'I don't know,' Sherlock ends the call before turning off his mobile and sliding it in his pocket. Anticipating being located, Sherlock does his captors a favour by walking at a leisurely pace on a main road. He gets many stares and murmurs for his indecency but honestly doesn't care.

Just as speculated, a black car with tinted windows slows to a stop at the curb next to him. A man in dark shades pokes out the passenger side window, 'get in, Mr. Holmes.'

The detective obeys, stepping in to the back seat.

He is not surprised to find an empty back seat. Surely meeting the man who claims to be his ultimate foe can not be so simple. Unfortunate for the man in question, Sherlock knows the streets of London like his own veins. Though he must know this. He seems to know everything else about the detective. As proven by his talent of getting under his skin.

Sherlock spends the ride in silent distain. A mere year ago, the thought of a man out-witting him was laughable. Now here he sits with a one-way ticket to his fate and no plan of escape. What unholy power has brought this great detective to his knees? Surely this can not be the workings of single man.

The frightening truth is that this is the workings of a single man. Jim Moriarty is the most powerful person on this planet and that is genuinely terrifying. Sherlock masks his fear with an aloof attitude as he enters the building alone. The two men he arrived with attempted to escort him in but got a little too physical for his taste. They now lay motionless on the gravel. People should really take threats more seriously. Especially from a man who always follows through.

Sherlock's echoing footsteps resound throughout the large corridor of what appears to be a condemned factory building. Dusty conveyer belts line the out rim of the room. A very business-like man stands at the end of the hall, next to what looks like a metal coffin. He licks his lips at the oncoming man. His bare skin peeking out between the unbuttoned opening of his trench coat. Delicious.

'Interesting choice of location,' notes Sherlock, approaching the man he assumes is Moriarty.

'Interesting choice of clothing,' he replies. The man's giddy tone validates his identity.

'Yes, well, I wasn't planning on meeting anyone.'

'I'm sure you look delightful in a tux,' Jim's eyes wonder down Sherlock's body, 'though I think I like you this way.'

'Have you just come to flirt, Jim?'

'Oh, I wish. I really do,' the man's eyes grow sad for only a second before he regains his composure, 'I have plans, Sherlock. Big plans. It's been fun, this little game we've been playing, but I'm afraid that it has to end. I can't have you in the way anymore. You understand.'

Sherlock takes another look around the room, 'not really a desirable place to die, is it?' he speaks with up most calmness.

Moriarty shakes his head, 'Don't be silly, Sherlock. I'm not going to kill you,' he sets a hand on the metal coffin, 'I'm going to freeze you. When you wake up and see the hell I've raised. Well, then you just might kill yourself. Do me a favour and make it something flashy. Like jumping off a building.'

Sherlock whips his gun out of his pocket, cocking it, and aiming it directly at the other man's heart, in one swift motion, 'and what if I kill you now?'

The man shrugs, 'If you think it will help. Though I can guarantee you'll never see your friends again. O have five highly trained snipers positioned outside of your house right now. If you as much as touch me, they're dead.'

'And if I come quietly?'

'I'll let them live.'

'How can I trust you?'

'Well, you can't. You have two choices. Kill me and go home to an empty house and my legacy still continues through my network, or sacrifice yourself for the possibility that they might be spared. Choose wisely.'

The detective lowers his gun, slowly, 'okay.'

Moriarty grins, 'good boy.'

There is a small beep as a button is pressed and the lid of the Criotube slides open. Comes mist comes rolling over the sides. Sherlock puts his gun back in his pocket, removing his coat. He hands it to Jim, 'I want Plus to have this.'

'How sweet,' says Jim, grabbing the coat, 'should I bring her flowers, or is that too much?'

'Just give it to her. Please.'

Moriarty nods, 'good night Mr. Holmes.'

The detective lays down inside the metal chamber, already beginning to loose feeling in his limbs. The lid of the machine slides closed as he utters his last words:

'Forgive me.'