Dearest and most sincere thanks to MizJoely for being a joyous and delightfully aggravating beta as I tried to beat this chapter into submission! You are worth your weight in gold! Special thanks as well to Rocking the Redhead, Poodle warriors, coloradoandcolorado1, and the always amazing thedragonaunt! All reviews are welcomed!
The voicemail sounded tinny over the computer speakers. "Molly? It's John. Listen, I know this is going to sound crazy, but…something is going on. I shouldn't get you involved, but I'm trying to help a friend you may know. I'm guessing you'll get off work about six. Could you meet me at that café we had dinner at last month? I'll see you there at seven. Call me if you can't make it." The sound of a phone disconnecting.
"We traced the message back to a John Watson. He texted his girlfriend a dinner invitation and gave her this address." The smaller man held out a slip of paper.
"That's why I pay you the big money, William." Moran smiled. "You are always so thorough. Any word from your brother yet?"
William folded his arms, clearly annoyed. "He's getting the cameras and mikes in place, but physical surveillance is going to be difficult. Your pathologist is already being watched. Ernie says they reek of civil service."
"Yeah, I expected that; the Iceman circling the wagons. We get any hint my trophy's in her flat and we'll do a snatch and grab. Tell you what, call Ernie." Moran relit his cigar. "When the cameras are set, have him switch over to watching the watchers. Harass and distract until we can get a look in. In the meantime, I believe I have a party to crash!"
TE/TE/TE
Molly's phone buzzed silently in her pocket. She took a second to check that Sherlock was still dozing on the couch before she retreated to her own room. Closing the door, she glanced down at the number. The display simply read "Withheld". She hit the button. "Hello?"
"Doctor Hooper, this is Mycroft Holmes. I trust I haven't caught you at a bad time? I tried calling your office, but was told you were home ill."
"Mr. Holmes." She tried to hide the shock in her voice. He must not know anything; surely Sherlock would have told her. "Actually, I'm not at all well. Is there something you needed?"
"Doctor Hooper, I tend to try to handle delicate matters in person, but I'm afraid duty is keeping me from leaving my office today. Could I perhaps send a car around to collect you?"
Her eyes nearly bulged. "No, sorry, sir. I don't think that would be wise. Can I help you now or can it wait until I'm feeling a bit better?" She could hear rustling in the background.
"I'm afraid it's about my brother's remains." He cleared his throat. "I believe you were requested to release all tissue samples to an agent on site that day at St. Bartholomew's; is that correct?"
"Yes, sir. I put them in the standard packaging and gave them to an Agent Thompson. She signed for them; the paperwork should be in the hospital's files." Usually the paper trail blurred for her over time, but that day was carved in her memory in vivid detail.
A pause. "I don't mean to be insensitive, Doctor Hooper, but I was aware you had a certain…fondness for my brother. Is there any chance you perhaps kept a memento mori? A lock of hair, or…"
Molly felt like cold jelly was creeping down her spine. She was sure the chill carried over to her voice. "No, Mr. Holmes, I did not. Now if we have no further business…"
"I do apologize. I certainly intended no disrespect. I would never have asked such a question, but for reasons I'm not at liberty to discuss, I have an urgent need to locate any samples of my brother's tissue that may have been left behind."
She shut her eyes for a moment, possibilities suddenly flooding her mind. "I'm sure you have your reasons, Mr. Holmes. Any other questions?"
His voice hardened again. "There is a small chance, Doctor, that those who were present at my brother's death may be under some scrutiny. Have you suspected anyone has been following you? Any unusual telephone calls or contacts?"
Besides this one? she didn't ask. "Nothing that I've been aware of. If I notice anything, I'll be sure to call Detective Inspector Lestrade."
"Perhaps it would be better to call my offices direct. I can have my assistant give you the number."
"No, Mr. Holmes." It came out far harder than she'd intended. "That won't be necessary." She prayed he wasn't as observant as Sherlock.
"Doctor Watson told you." It wasn't a question.
Told me what? She wanted to ask. That you sold your brother out? That you put that target on his back? That you drew that monster the bloody road map to destroy Sherlock? No. Those questions weren't hers to ask.
"Don't blame John." She sounded defeated. "He was three shots from full blown alcohol poisoning when I found him. He would have confessed to kidnapping the Lindberg baby if he thought it would have changed anything."
A deep breath. "If you feel threatened in any way, Miss Hooper…"
"I'll call Lestrade." Her voice was firm.
"You missed your calling, Doctor Hooper. That was a very elegant way to tell me to piss off. I hope you feel better soon. Good day, Doctor." The call ended.
TE/TE/TE
Wiggins watched in fascination as Alex punctured holes in the sheet of card stock, used the holes and the cuticle scissors to cut freehand shapes from the large white surface.
First was a waved line, like a child's drawing of a bird in flight soaring across the board. Below that were three lower case letter "I", evenly spaced and as long as his palm. Then below that were three number fours, again evenly spaced, their center holes left open, followed by a capitol "H". Finally, at the end, the roman numerals "VIII". The entire image was slightly larger than A3 paper, the card stock no longer strong enough to hold itself upright.
She rolled it carefully, tucking it into her messenger bag alongside the rattling spray paint can. "We need to go."
Wiggins grabbed their shopping bags, looking over the room to be sure they hadn't left anything behind. "Where to next?"
"I need to leave a few messages; see if we can get some help." She slung her bag over her shoulder. "Then we'd best get to the Raven before anyone learns our new faces. I have a promise to keep."
TE/TE/TE
Sherlock was leaning against the kitchen counter beside the brewing coffee maker as she came out of her bedroom. "Mycroft." He wasn't asking a question.
Molly almost smiled, taking it as a sign he was getting better. "He was checking on your samples." She tugged lightly at his arm. "Go sit down. I can remember it from here."
"You'll be watched now." He flopped back on the couch, trying to arrange the cushions to fit. "Moran must have already contacted him. Whatever he's up to, he must still be going forward with it. Stupid unless he's on someone else's schedule."
"You don't know his plan then?" Molly got down the mugs and sugar, rejecting the few stale wagon wheels in the biscuit tin.
"Nothing specific." He sighed. "No word from Wiggins or the girl?" He understood her avoiding her given name, but she had to choose a different alias. At least a different spelling.
She poured two cups, adding a generous splash of milk to hers. Molly desperately wanted the details of what had happened to him, but she knew pushing him would yield the opposite result. Better to stay on fringe topics. "Sherlock, what I don't understand is how a family of circus performers ended up as jewel thieves."
He took the cup from her, turning it to grasp the handle. Sherlock gestured at the computer. "That article wasn't very accurate. Saying the Salamonsky family ran a circus would be like saying Chopin played a little piano. They were the Tsar's personal circus. They hired tumblers from the Bolshoi. Mikhail Kalmanson did some of their poster art. Twice a Salamonsky woman married a Romanov man."
Molly looked aghast. "You mean Russian royalty?" She sat in the recliner.
He shook his head. "Even if there were anything that could be claimed, the records of her family are disputable after the revolution. The company kept on the move all over Europe, marriage and birth records improperly filed or even forged. Everyone who worked for them was considered family, so no one can even be sure Alexandria really is a Salamonsky, let alone a Romanov."
"I don't suppose Prince Philip would be willing to give a sample to test her with." Molly sank lower in her seat. "And the rest…how did they end up jewel thieves?"
"After the revolution, their patron was gone. Again, the records aren't reliable, but it seems they were trying to regain control over Nicholas' collection. Eventually, they moved on to other royal houses, then to various gentrified families."
"A traveling act, so they were never in one place for very long. People with the right skills for thwarting security systems." Molly was thinking aloud. "Wouldn't Interpol have gotten after them?"
Mycroft had given him the answer the author of the wikipedia page didn't have. "After the iron curtain fell, they also took up smuggling state secrets. Everything from lists of spies to weapon plans. Interpol was willing to turn a blind eye until it all fell apart."
"Royal jewels would be too recognizable to sell to anyone but private collectors. They would have made more robbing jewelry stores. How much were they supposed to have stolen?"
He smirked, amused by how she was thinking it through. "No one really knows. A majority of the horde has never been recovered. There was evidence some of the robberies were done as insurance scams, the items found later with the original owners. A few items were located on the black market after the family began disappearing; but nothing that could be traced to the original seller."
Molly stared into her cup. "You think the cousin who got custody of Spyder was behind the disappearances? Someone trying to get at the horde of jewels?" What a terrible secret to entrust to a child.
"They disappeared shortly after she did. I don't know if the disappearances continued after that." Sherlock sat up, finally beginning to feel the caffeine. "The rest of the company fell apart after she was gone. They're scattered all over Europe now. Last I heard, some of them are even here in London." Had they somehow gotten her back, hidden her here? If so, why was she living on the streets with Wiggins?
Molly jumped at the sharp rapping on her door. She gestured for Sherlock to stay on the couch long enough to check the peephole. "I think it's them." She undid the locks, giving the visitors access.
Wiggins came in first, looking chagrined and running a hand through his now shorter, darker hair. As he nodded to Sherlock, his other hand made a fist, the shortest finger pointing at the floor. It was Wiggins' code to Sherlock: need a private word, important information.
The girl entered next and Sherlock was startled by the change. The color and cut of her hair were drastic enough, but the other physical changes were astounding. She hadn't seemed to slump before, yet somehow she seemed taller now. A strong set to her jaw he hadn't noticed before. Hardness in her eyes. He could remember now Wiggins telling him of her going into a fugue state; had whatever trauma she'd endured fragmented her deeply enough to trigger that rare defense mechanism? "Alexandria?"
Her smile was a bit lopsided. "Just Alex now. The rest burned away in the ozone. Hello, Raven."
TE/TE/TE
Lestrade waited until he was sure to not be interrupted before calling Mycroft Holmes' office. He hated this feeling; withholding information from his own people when lives could be at stake. He just kept reminding himself there could be even more at risk than he was willing to bargain for.
Anthea picked up, but he declined her offer to put him through to the man himself. "If you'd just pass on word that witnesses at the shelter said a huge man had a picture and was asking questions, I'd appreciate it. I got nothing beyond that."
Anthea seemed to pick up on something in his tone. "Detective Inspector, please believe me when I say I know how difficult keeping secrets can be, especially when it seems to border on blind allegiance. He would not have asked this of you if there were another way."
"I know." He swallowed. "I just wish I didn't feel like we're at the wrong end of the shooting gallery."
"Then we'll just have to wrap it up before the firing begins."
TE/TE/TE
As Wiggins settled in her chair with a cup of coffee, Molly reached for her older coat in the back of her closet. "Sherlock, I got a call from John. He said something was up and wants me to meet him in about half an hour. He gets a lot of the homeless as patients at his clinic. I really think I should go."
"It's not safe." He was pushing himself up off the couch.
"I know." She waved her purse at him. "But if I don't show up, he may come here. You said your brother will be watching me anyway. I really think I have to go."
"It may be my fault." Alex shrugged. "I ran into him earlier today and he may know I was being pursued." She gestured to her hair. "It was before all this. I could go with her, if you'd like."
"She's got one hell of a left hook." Wiggins grimaced.
Sherlock was obviously not happy, but there seemed few options. Besides, Wiggins was still giving the urgent signal. "John shouldn't recognize you, Alex, but keep some distance if you can. Stay in public sight, all right? And call if anything goes wrong?"
Molly nodded and she and Alex made their way out the door.
Wiggins sprung up to do up the chain and the bolts. "How much of Alex's story do you know?" He came and sat on the coffee table.
"It was a case; she was a missing person fifteen years ago. When did you find out?" Sherlock was confused, thinking the information was going to be about Moran.
Wiggins shook his head dismissively. "Alex said an evil wizard took her away from her family and killed her."
"Her family had been disappearing for years; a cousin came forward and got legal custody of her right before she disappeared. You're saying she thinks her cousin killed her?" Sherlock had suspected the man had been involved all along.
Wiggins face had gone stone still. "Sherlock, she said the evil wizard's name was Moriarty."
"That's not possible." Sherlock's stomach tightened. "Her cousin was in his forties when he got custody. Moriarty was my age."
"I know." Wiggins nodded. "But I also know she collected every newspaper article she could find on Richard Brook's trial. You've always been the Raven to her. She called Brook the Serpent; not Moriarty."
Words from a memory, the voice of an old cabbie. "There are others out there just like you, except you're just a man and they're so much more than that."
TE/TE/TE
Molly left Alex browsing books in a cart out in front of the shop directly across from the café. She just prayed Sherlock was right and the girl was far enough away that John wouldn't recognize her. She suspected he didn't properly understand John's ability to memorize a pretty face.
The café had round tables between the building and street, and she slid into a seat, facing the direction of John's flat. The setting sun was in her eyes, but it would make it easier for John to spot her. She gave the waiter her order for peppermint tea. Caffeine was not a requirement at the moment.
She took a deep breath, in through her nose, blown slowly out her mouth. Glancing around, she remembered Sherlock's insistence that his brother would have her at least observed if not actively watched. Molly couldn't see anyone, but that was meaningless. If his agents were any good, she shouldn't be able to notice them.
She saw the waiter place the cup and saucer on the table in her peripheral vision, thanking him absently while still watching the street. Something seemed to be wrong with Alex; she had dropped the book she had been leafing through.
It was enough that instinctively Molly started to stand, only to discover a sudden vice-like grip holding her wrist to the table. "Leaving so soon, little girl?" A dark purr. "But I just got here."
Moran grinning like the Cheshire Cat and she tried not to faint. Public place with plenty of people around; surely he wouldn't do anything that might draw attention. She eased her way slowly back into the chair. "Mr. Moran." Molly cleared her throat. No point in trying to be too innocent. "Has DI Lestrade made any progress about your unfortunate arson?"
"Oh, let's leave the law out of this for the time being." He leaned in, looking for all the world like he was flirting. "You know, you really had Jimmie fooled. The little mouse with the novelty sweaters and the tea cozies. I tried to tell him it was the quiet ones you had to watch out for. I bet you're a real hellion in the sack, a screamer. Am I right?" He smirked.
She wanted to scream right now. Her legs buzzed with the desire to run. "Jimmie wasn't interested in finding out. Can I have my hand back, please?"
He curled his fingers around hers in a parody of affection. A slow kiss to the back of her hand, followed by a sudden sharp bite to the end of her middle finger. "But it's such a lovely hand. How many corpses has it fondled, I wonder. We used to talk about it after. How sunshine and kittens could be dark enough to comfortably wallow in blood and brain matter. Maybe after we resolve our…issues, we could do a little exploratory surgery. See what it takes to…"
She bit down on the inside of her cheek, hard. Her eyes never left Moran's, but she could see him from the corner of her eye. There had to be some way to stop him; some way to warn him away. Molly couldn't decide what would be worse; if Alex came across the street and Moran recognized her, or if…
John stopped several feet away. Body language made it clear to him that the man sitting with Molly was making her very uncomfortable, yet he was holding her hand and leaning in as if they were intimate. Her eyes darted to him suddenly and fear seemed to pour from her. John saw the minute shake of her head, but there was no way he was going to abandon her, not with danger palpable in the air.
"Dr. Watson!" Moran kept up his stare; his voice full of glistening joy. "Please join us! Molly was beginning to worry!"
His first impulse was to take the chair at Molly's side, but John thought it would be better to stay nearer the apparent threat. He put his hands on the back of the chair opposite her, making no move to sit. "I think the lady would like her hand back." He kept his tone even, unsure what was actually happening.
"What the lady likes is not my concern." Moran turned, his face going icy. "Now sit down, pet. Don't make me hit you with a rolled up newspaper."
The word hung in John's mind. The last time he had seen such cold insanity, it had been in a courtroom. A verdict that still rung out in his nightmares. Not close to the same face, but the wave of familiarity rocked him. "Who the hell are you?"
Moran snorted. "My questions, first. Now sit down." His fingers tightened on Molly's hand until John was afraid she might break. John sat, careful to keep a distance between himself and the table.
"Molly, dear, the time for flirtation is over, I'm afraid." Moran brought both his hands around hers. "I need my trophy back, and I need him now. If you don't have him, I'm sure you know where to look. And don't try playing dumb; it's beneath you."
She tried to swallow; her throat bone dry. "I can't help you, Mr. Moran." Molly dared a quick look at John. She wanted to see Alex as well, but was afraid of drawing attention to the girl if Moran hadn't noticed her yet. Her heart was pounding too hard to think.
"You can, little girl, and you will." Moran's voice turned to cold steel. "You see, he's the key to my vengeance. Jimmie made him the key to everything. Like everything of Jimmie's, he's mine now."
A dark suspicion started to swallow John. It wasn't possible. Insane theories he'd finally let go of were suddenly rearing up. A name from the darkest, deepest nightmares, a sing-song Irish lilt. The strong desire to bolt, but he couldn't leave Molly to face it alone.
Molly's face was ashen, but she leaned in and hissed. "Then why don't you find a way to ask him?"
Moran seemed to stop breathing for a moment, fury being carefully packed away. "The mouse has teeth." He sighed, letting go of her hand and leaning back in his chair. "But not brains. I'm sure he's cooked up some scheme, some way of evading his responsibility. A coward till the end."
Almost unnoticed, a blonde woman waved, trying to get John's attention. Nearly hysterical, all John could think was "Vatican cameos" and how foolish he had thought his friend's code had been; right up until the bullets were flying around them. Now he desperately wished he'd found some code to try to warn Mary. She was getting closer.
"You'll run." Moran sounded disgusted. "I'll make you a deal, mouse. I'll give you an hour head start, but you have to tell John Watson the truth right now. Ought to be worth a laugh."
John's eyes locked with Molly's. The small glimpses he had gotten of his friend's broken and bloody body had been shoved away immediately into nightmare territory; he hadn't believed his friend had died until the woman before him had told him so. The woman he had known loved his friend; who would have done anything to help him. Who wouldn't have left him alone.
"Oh, for god's sake!" Moran spat. "We'll do it the hard way."
There was no sound. John knew even if a silencer were used, gunshots made noise, yet suddenly two people in his sight were caught in the scarlet mist of a bullet hitting flesh. He was up and moving, grabbing Mary, shoving her to the ground and covering her with his own body before he heard the first screams. Trying to hide the carnage from Mary's view, he turned enough to see Molly across the street, running with another woman into a nearby alley. Moran had simply disappeared.
On the roof across the way, John thought he saw the barrel of a rifle pulled over the side. The flood of panicked people, surging to escape the unseen menace seemed to have ended. He sat up, drawing Mary with him as she patted him over, looking for damage. "John, are you okay?" Her voice cracked.
"The son of a bitch is alive." Sirens were approaching. First, he'd make sure Mary was safe. Then he had to find Mycroft Holmes.