Please note: this chapter is deliberately written in present tense.
(10 years earlier cont.d)
Sherlock glares at himself in the mirror for the hundredth, thousandth, millionth time that evening. Every time he does, he sees the same thing staring back. A murderer. A cold-blooded killer. Mycroft tells him it wasn't a cold-blooded kill, but Sherlock can't hear it. Can't believe it. He believes he just became his father using a different outlet for his anger. He clenches his fists tightly and stares down the killer in the mirror.
Already a killer, he tells himself. Why not a whore too?
Bile burns at the back of his throat as he thinks about what he has to do. His imagination runs wild as he runs through a thousand possible scenarios. What will this man, this Jim Moriarty, ask of him? He has no idea. Mycroft and he couldn't bring themselves to actually discuss what might happen.
Mycroft.
For a moment, Sherlock comes back to himself and thinks about his brother. He's been devastated; broken by the news; by the whole turn of events. Ten years of deceit and Mycroft cannot help blaming himself. He should have seen it. Seen something. Recognised something of James Moriarty in his friend; his lover; his husband. Mycroft withdraws into himself. He barely eats, barely speaks. His face becomes and emotionless mask, a mask that covers the pain.
Sherlock closes his eyes, not bearing to look at the killer-in-the-mirror any longer, and instead, behind his eyelids, he sees the frail, damaged soul of his brother.
He knows that what he has to do is the only thing that he can possibly do to make any of this go away.
"Sherlock!" The Irishman almost purrs his name as he climbs out of the car that Jim sent for him. The car smells new, of polish and vinyl and leather, and Sherlock knows that it is a smell that he will forever associate with this. This event. This man.
Jim approaches him as he closes the car door and, when the car drives away, Sherlock suddenly feels very alone. Very vulnerable. Very "Jim's".
"Come." he beckons, taking Sherlock's arm as if he was a child about to run. "Come, come." he repeats excitedly.
Sherlock drops his eyes and follows Jim's lead. What else can he do?
They enter a plush hotel lobby and even surrounded by hotel staff and evening guests, Sherlock still feels utterly alone. Jim nods to a woman on the desk and retrieves a key card. Sherlock deduces her.
Mid-thirties, over-made-up with blue eye shadow and hideous red lipstick. Husband is having an affair with one of the maids.
He resists the urge to smirk at her misfortune. His evening isn't faring much better.
He studies their surroundings like forensics might study a crime scene. It's all he can do to take his mind far, far away from where his body is. Dark patterned carpets line the corridors, and poor copies of old masters hang along the walls lined with tasteless embossed paper.
Tacky, Sherlock thinks, but then what would he know?
They don't ride the elevator, instead Jim guides him to the stairs. Sherlock isn't sure why, but he doesn't ask. He doesn't want to give Jim anything. He won't ask. Won't give Jim the satisfaction of being "one-up" any more than he already is. Jim realises this and gives his captive a sideways glance.
"No cameras on the route we took through the lobby or in the stairwell." he says as if Sherlock asked his question anyway. "Can't have your brother's people watching, can we?"
Sherlock ignores him, keeping his eyes down and his other senses alert.
Jim pushes open the stair door and pulls on Sherlock's arm. Arm in arm, almost like lovers - Sherlock wonders if that's how they look to the smiling young couple they pass - they walk along the 7th floor corridor and stop at room 709. Jim swipes his keycard in the lock and it opens with a sickening quiet click.
Jim turns to Sherlock, pushing open the door, and gives him a cold, calculating smile as they enter.
Suddenly, Sherlock is overcome with the desperate need to talk. He feels the question burning in his throat like a cheap Scotch. He takes a deep breath as he wrestles with his own indecision. Should he ask it?
"What do you expect from me?" The question falls out anyway, whether he wanted it to or not. It makes him feel small. It makes him feel sick.
Jim waves his hand at an oversized armchair, indicating that Sherlock should sit. He nods and does as he is told. He isn't the one in control here. He has given up all that. He has given up all hope of control ever again, to protect himself and his family.
"What do you want?" Sherlock's voice is low and pained, and the question hangs in the air like a fluttering balloon that cannot decide which way to float.
Jim smiles as he passes Sherlock a large measure of expensive Scotch.
"Oh, Sherlock," he starts, sinking down onto the chair opposite with a long, self-satisfied sigh, "you cannot even begin to imagine."