Sebastian Moran awoke groggily from his extended slumber, trying desperately to focus under the glow of the lights above him. Reaching out instinctively, he found that his usual handgun was missing from within the inside of his jacket, and his rifle was nowhere in sight. All that Moran could really see was the interior of the room he was now inside, far different from the stairwell he had just evacuated.
Moriarty's right hand man could remember brief episodes from the moments before he slipped into unconsciousness: John Watson in his sights, a gunshot from upon the hospital roof, Sherlock falling to his 'death'. However, none of his memories were concrete, they changed and adapted all the time, whenever Sebastian focused on something else the memories would be different upon their return to the forefront of his consciousness.
Jim was dead. It was the only memory that rang true. Every minute or so Moran would visualise the fall of his body, the ringing of the gunshot over city traffic. Jim was dead.
After what felt like hours, or minutes, it was hard to tell, the doors opened, breaking the silence of the room. Sebastian was uncuffed and dragged down a number of hallways to an interview room. Placed in a highly uncomfortable chair and handcuffed roughly, the would be assassin waited another unknown amount of time before his interviewer appeared around the doorway.
A rather plump man, whose shirt was far too small for his excessive girth, eased himself into the chair opposite with a sigh. He raised a pair of glasses to his face and looked over the files on the table. With a slight intake of breath the interviewer finally addressed Sebastian for the first time.
'I have two questions for you son. First, who the bleedin' 'ell are you? Second, how the hell did you get yourself into the bank of England without anyone seeing you?'
The accent was cockney, broad cockney. Moran was suddenly very interested in his current situation. He had been taking tips from his employer since becoming his second in command. Always check your surroundings, always ensure you know everything about your target, and always have a bargaining chip. Moran had all three.
He was in a police station, 1960s or 70s. How or why Sebastian wasn't sure, but that wasn't what mattered. He now had an idea of how his situation would pan out. They could question him as long and as brutally as they liked, until they got what they wanted to know. He could ask for a lawyer, not that he knew any in this time period, but he had more chance of defending himself on his own.
His target was from north London, with a working class background and two children. The photograph, hidden behind the pens in his breast pocket, was just about visible through the sweat due to the glare of the lighting. The figures in the photograph were too skinny to be himself and his wife, if he had a wife, and children were the next most likely figures. He was also sticking far too close to police guidelines to be working on the interview alone. By how often the officer would glance towards the door he was on a tight leash, and being very careful not to anger his employers.
Finally, he had his bargaining chip. The police needed to know how he got into the bank, so they would have to play by Moran's rules. This would be fun, not a challenge.