Hello, loves. Going to keep this short; hoping for another chapter by the end of the weekend. I'll spare you the gory details, but a personal crisis here seems to have finally come to a head. I'll probably post something full of metaphor and angst about it on Tumblr. I do promise that I am fine, the impact is past and there is nothing I want more than to keep weaving this tale. I owe a huge debt to the following fantastic writing people who have helped me more than I can express: my lady Nocturnias, the phenomenal thedragonaunt, the adorable MorbidbyDefault, and especially MizJoely, who PMed me when I really needed a poke. All of them are amazingly talented and if you haven't read them, you have no idea what you're missing! Fix it immediately! Lots of plot this time. Reviews are encouraged.
Lestrade slid quietly onto the leather back seat, still clutching the file and feeling every bit the schoolboy sent to the headmaster's office. He had realized, not long after the interview with Moran had begun, that whatever the man's business, it was bigger than Scotland Yard could handle on its own. Losing control over the arson seemed trivial now.
Mycroft Holmes sat with his hands folded in his lap, but would have seemed less infuriated had he been swinging his arms wildly and shouting. They hadn't seen each other since the funeral, and Mycroft's presence felt like a glacier about to blot out the sky. "I knew the investigations after my brother's death had been difficult, Detective Inspector, but I assure you my jurisdiction is not up for debate. Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"I think I do now." Lestrade was kicking himself. He had to admit, if it had been anyone else, he would have simply pulled his people out of the rubble and turned his back on it. He didn't know if he kept pursuing it because or in spite of the Holmes name being attached.
"No, I doubt that very much." Mycroft held his hand out for the file. "You need to stay as far from this as possible. Make sure your people stay out of it as well. I assure you Doctor Hooper doesn't need any additional work"
"Who is Moran?" Lestrade handed the file over. "Give me something to work with here. If he's operating in London, we'll trip over him again, sooner or later."
Mycroft took a moment to stare out the tinted windows. The delicacy this issue required was intense, but Moran had already positioned himself without triggering any alarms. Any extra eyes could only benefit the outcome. "Gregory, you will only ever discuss this with Anthea or myself. Do not, under any circumstances, assign anyone to anything in relation to Sebastian Moran. I cannot emphasize strongly enough how dangerous a man he is."
Lestrade nodded and Mycroft took a deep breath. "The company Mr. Moran represents, Erinesyo; it's a blending of two names. Eris and Enyo, the Greek goddesses of chaos and war."
"That explains the munitions we found." Lestrade nodded. "Moran is a war profiteer, arms dealer?"
"One among many interests." Mycroft pulled a mechanical pencil from an inner pocket in his jacket. "My brother developed an awareness of anagrams at a very early age. What was the warehouse manager's name?"
Lestrade told him and Mycroft wrote the name across a piece of paper torn from a small notebook, a single line in large upper case letters, "TROY AMIR" He turned the image to the Detective Inspector.
"I don't…" Lestrade shook his head as Mycroft began tearing the sheet between letters, rearranging them as he placed them on the manila folder on his lap. "Son of a bitch. It can't be. Tell me I'm wrong."
"Despite the arrest warrants, I thought you believed my brother." Mycroft put the pencil back in his pocket. "Did you never think it through?"
Lestrade had gone ashen. "I went over everything. Crosschecked records, re-interviewed witnesses and perps, well, those that are still alive. I read every single alert from Interpol, MI5…" he shook his head, blinking rapidly. "The only links to Moriarty I could find…"
"Were given to you by Sherlock." Mycroft nodded. He seemed to draw a deep breath before continuing. "Gregory, my brother was not alone on the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. The man Kitty Reilly interviewed as Richard Brook was there as well."
Without thought, Lestrade's hands had clenched. MI5 had swarmed the hospital that day, keeping him and all other Yard personnel away. He had thought at the time, it was Mycroft's last chance at defending Sherlock. "The pool of blood? Brook's? Moriarty's?"
"My brother recorded their conversation on his mobile phone, which he left on the rooftop." Mycroft's eyes were getting farther away. "On the recording, Sherlock positively identifies Richard Brook as the man he knew as James Moriarty. Moriarty himself confesses to have engineered the campaign to destroy my brother."
"Wait!" Lestrade's head was spinning. "You've got a recording that could exonerate Sherlock? You could arrange some kind of leak and tell the world the truth? What the hell have you been waiting for? For God's sake, man, have you at least told John?"
"There are reasons…"
"Damn your reasons! Bloody hell, I thought Sherlock was the one with no heart!" Lestrade felt like he couldn't breathe. All this time, all the questions left swirling unanswered and Sherlock's own brother had the key. He reached for the door handle, only stopping when a vice grabbed his wrist.
"Detective Inspector, listen to me very carefully." Frost had formed across the elder Holmes' face, but his eyes blazed. "Moriarty stated that his plan was to force my brother to appear to commit suicide. He confessed, boasted that he had assassins in position to kill Doctor Watson, Mrs. Hudson and yourself if Sherlock failed to leap to his death. To ensure his orders could not be rescinded, Moriarty shot himself in the head, leaving Sherlock with little option. So you see, you are right; my brother was the one with a heart."
Lestrade buried his head in his hands, shock rippling. What little he'd been able to piece together, tried to understand, accept about that day, about the death of his friend, had suddenly been ripped away from him. His mind raced ahead, past the obvious questions. Of course there were assassins. He assumed they had been dealt with. Any autopsy that had been done on Brook/Moriarty would have been handled at far too high a level for the report to have crossed his desk. He tried to keep his voice even. "Moran said somebody did a rendition on Moriarty. That was you, wasn't it? You had him and you let him go."
"We had intended to use him to lead us through the rest of his own organization, as well as show us the parameters of several others internationally that he did business with." Mycroft leaned back in his seat. "Unfortunately, we were…less than successful."
"And you have his body now." Lestrade wasn't asking. "Moran says he disappeared. So why haven't you gone public? At least told the truth about Sherlock?"
"At this point, Mr. Moriarty is more useful as a ghost than as a corpse. We think most of his people believe him to be dead, but without being sure of it, they are reluctant to act. Some of his former associates have cut their ties and most of them have been ruined shortly thereafter. As long as they fear his return and retribution, his ghost keeps them in line while they are gradually eliminated." Mycroft sighed. "Nothing could ever shake Mrs. Hudson's belief in my brother, and telling John Watson the truth would only fuel him to do something foolish to avenge Sherlock's memory. The truth could only threaten those he died to protect. I cannot allow that."
The scene in the squad room came flooding back. "You missed one." Lestrade was putting the pieces together. "Molly Hooper would never have doubted Sherlock. Oh, shit, Mycroft." He tried to remember the exact words. "Moran grabbed Molly as he was leaving. Pulled her into a big hug, said something about her being just as she was described. He whispered something to her, scared the hell out of her. She told me she hadn't heard him, but Donovan said he called Molly a lying bitch."
Mycroft looked as if he were calculating. He had known Doctor Hooper had been deceived at the time, dating a man she had thought worked at the same hospital, but who had indeed been James Moriarty using her to gain access to his brother. There had been nothing to indicate any contact between them except for the month leading up to the incident at the swimming pool. He had her more thoroughly vetted after that, but no flags had been raised. Moriarty had never mentioned her name on the recording from the rooftop. Molly Hooper hadn't counted in Moriarty's eyes; why would she count in Moran's?
TE/TE/TE
Molly stood under the showerhead in the locker room at St. Bart's, letting the water beat the lather out of her hair. The shampoo the hospital used smelled faintly of almonds and she never liked it, but she didn't dare go back to her flat smelling of cigar smoke. Sally had told her the man who had grabbed her was Sebastian Moran and he owned the warehouse that had burned overnight. His own words convinced her he had known Jim Moriarty and was the one who had tortured Sherlock. Despite the hot water cascading around her, she shivered.
Once they had gotten out of the building, Molly had taken Wiggins with her to a cash point, using her card to withdraw a couple hundred pounds. She took the bag of clothing from him, sending him off with the cash to get more clothes and food while she had made her way to the hospital.
She toweled off quickly, pulled her spare outfit from her locker and began dressing. The urge to dive on her phone and begin making calls was almost overwhelming. John first, then Greg. She supposed Mycroft should have been first on her list, but after John had told her what happened…no. She wouldn't even consiter talking to him. She couldn't really talk to any of them. She was at a loss for what to do.
Grabbing an elastic, she dragged her wet hair into a high ponytail. She hadn't felt this helpless since Sherlock came to her in the morgue, saying he thought he was going to die. Damn him for keeping it all so close to the vest. She had overheard him tell John that horrible day that alone kept him safe. He couldn't have been more wrong.
She stuffed the clothes she had been wearing into the battered duffle bag and jammed it into the bottom of her locker. She tugged her trainers on, leaving the laces tied. Tying the top of the shopping bag so no one could question the contents, she shouldered her purse and padlocked the locker closed.
Molly gave herself one minute to sit on the bench to gather her thoughts. All she could deal with was what was directly in front of her. Sherlock was strong. She had doubted Spyder's insistence that he'd be okay right up until he had looked her so intently in the eye. He was still in there. He didn't need some stupid plan, some attempt at heroics on her part. All she could do, the best she could do, was to keep him safe and secluded until he healed up enough to come up with a plan. Go home, lock the door and give him time. If all else failed, she still had the Ruger MKIII Max had given her buried in her closet.
She pulled the locker room door open, only to walk right into Mike Stamford. She was going to speak to him anyway, but hoped this was the last collision for a while.
"Hey!" he smiled, touching her arms. "I thought you were sick today. You all right, Moll?"
"No, Mike, I'm not." Molly let her inner turmoil show with a few tears. "I've…I've got a couple of years of holiday saved up. I'm going to take them now." She fished in her purse for a tissue.
Mike shook his head. "I don't think we can do that right now. I suppose I could give you a week, but…"
She laughed brokenly. "I'm taking a month. Find a way, Mike." Giving up, she wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "I've given this place a lot; I even was back to work two days after…" She let that sentence drop.
"I know, Moll. I just don't think…"
She sniffed, straightening her bag. "I'll be back in a month, or you can send me my termination papers. Goodbye, Mike." She set off at a fast clip. She needed to get home.
TE/TE/TE
Viktor Andrasko placed a sugar cube between his teeth, sipping his tea around and through it. The crystals gave way with a satisfying crunch, spreading sweetness throughout his mouth. He watched the building across the road closely, awaiting the thin man's exit. Witnesses would be troubling at this point.
Memories stirred, swirling in his mind. The systematic location, questioning and extermination of the Salamonsky family had been his greatest achievement, rewarding his employer with enough riches to build an empire. They had hidden themselves all over Eastern Europe, using all their connections to attempt to hide themselves and their treasures from him. Little blood had been spilled where anyone could see. To outsiders, they had simply disappeared one by one, their hiding places stripped bare.
Each broken body, each shallow grave had yielded under his hands. Husbands had begged for wives, wives for their children. In the end, they gave him all that he asked for in exchange for a last breath. The final piece, the body that should have yielded the mother load, had somehow slipped through his fingers. He wiped his sweaty palms, eager to correct that mistake.
The girl was supposed to have been his after she gave up the final location. Jet curls framed her face, emerald eyes and ruby lips were to reveal a trove of other jewels. Puberty had begun to mark her body, but she was still innocent enough for his tastes. Her bones had broken so sweetly, but her mind held, locking the remaining family secrets where he couldn't touch them.
She had nearly escaped, his employer demanding that he either get his answers or finish her off. A storm had raged outside and he hadn't placed the bit correctly. When the charge came, she had cracked her jaw, and then her breathing stopped. While his back had been turned, his employer had turned up the machine.
He pricked at her fingers and toes with a pin, getting no response. Alexandria had escaped him, taking her secrets with her. They left quickly after that. Viktor dropped a stained sheet over her remains. The hospital had been abandoned, saving him the work of digging another grave. The empire would be built without that last fortune.
His target was exiting the shop now, waving back at a few people. Viktor dropped some coins on the table, slipping out the door and following a bit behind.
When Paul Morrison stepped into a darkened alley, a giant slid into the shadows with him. Bricks dug into his face, the pain in his ankle momentarily forgotten. A picture was shoved into his view.
"Where is the girl?" a deep voice demanded. "How can I find her?"
"I don't know who you mean, mate!" Paul tried to draw a breath past the huge hand pressing on his spine. He hated the girl, but Wiggins was a friend. What the hell had she gotten him into?
A few answers later and the giant exited the alley alone.