Notes: Thanks for the reviews though! They mean a lot… including faster updates. :) (Although this one was late, I'm sorry.) Adding a very pissed off Mycroft Holmes to the fray this chapter, won't that be fun.
Dead Is the New Sexy
CHAPTER 8
Roadblocks were set up, search warrants in place, high-office officials informed, MI6 searching security cameras, and it all seemed in vain. No trace of the international criminal James Moriarty surfaced. Lestrade was on his last nerve. Without John being coherent, he couldn't ask questions. And without being able to ask questions, he couldn't get answers. And he needed those answers. Such as where in the fucking hell was James Moriarty?
"What do you suppose we do, until John wakes up? Huh? Sherlock's God-knows-where and Moriarty is doing God-knows-what to him, and I can't just sit here!" Lestrade pounded his fist on his desk.
Dollivan sighed, resisting the urge to pull out her curls. Lestrade was desperate to find the detective, but what could they really do with no information? She repeated herself, not knowing any other way to persuade the Detective Inspector to have a little patience. "I don't know. The hospital will call when Watson wakes up."
Even the clicking of "Dominatrix's" phone was putting Greg on edge. Why she'd chosen his office to spend her time was beyond him. After resisting the idea of banging his head against the desk, he heard a civilized knock on the door. Looking up, he met the gaze of Mycroft Holmes himself.
Umbrella by his side, slick suit, and perfectly combed hair, the aura of a professional, important individual filled the room. A very grave, almost stern visage showed no room for jokes or light chatter. Dollivan stepped back, silently telling Lestrade he was facing the Holmes brother on his own.
Mycroft entered the opened door, but stopped suddenly when his blue eyes landed on Adler. "You!" he said with such rage Lestrade wasn't sure it was from the same man.
"Yes, Mr. Holmes?" Irene answered calmly, rising to meet Mycroft's stare. She was still naked besides Sherlock's coat, but Mycroft didn't know.
"Why are you-"
"Here?" she finished his question for him. "Same reason you are. Sherlock Holmes. Isn't that why we always meet?"
"Why is she here?" Mycroft turned to Lestrade, nose up.
"I'm givin' her protection," Lestrade explained, running a hand over his forehead. "From Moriarty."
Mycroft turned back towards Irene. "He threatened you?"
"We have our differences," she informed. "And I backed out of a deal. One I'm sure he's not entirely happy with."
"What deal?" Myrcoft's voice burned with the power of a thousand suns.
"The deal in which I kill your brother."
"Kill him? What? Why?" Lestrade commanded.
"He has a plan, the Consulting Criminal. Bring havoc to wherever he can," Irene informed.
"Define havoc," Mycroft said.
"Boom," she pressed her scarlet lips together.
"He's gonna blow stuff up? What? Where?" Lestrade didn't want to believe what he was hearing.
"That's the thing, Detective Inspector. Everywhere."
"That's not possible. ...Is it?" Dollivan asked in disbelief.
"I hope not," Mycroft hissed. "Sherlock dealt with a bomb threat when he first returned. An underground terrorist cell… Oh, dear."
"Oh dear what?" said Lestrade.
"That couldn't of been…"
"What?!"
"We need to find Sherlock," Mycroft commanded.
"What do you think I'm trying to do?" Lestrade was a centimeter away from shouting.
"Whatever it is, you're doing a rubbish job," said Irene.
"Nobody asked for your opinion," Dollivan replied, annoyed.
The Dominatrix gave her an up-down, and a little scoff.
"You know where he is," Mycroft stared at Adler. It wasn't a question.
"I did. I'm sure Jim has moved him."
"YOU KNOW?! YOU KNOW WHERE HE IS AND YOU DIDN'T TELL US?!" Lestrade lost it. Dear Lord. If I only strangling someone was legal.
"You didn't ask," Irene shrugged, again typing on her mobile.
"Oh for fuck's sake," Lestrade cussed. "Dollivan ask for some back up. Let's go get this son of a bitch."
"Oh dear," said Mycroft under his breath.
/
Sometimes, shows, movies and books gave the impression that gunshot wounds didn't hurt because of the shock. Sherlock disagreed. Definitely disagreed.
With no morphine or hope of it, he grit his teeth and suffered through the scorching pain of unattended holes in his body. The bandages John applied were already soaked through with blood. He didn't know how much he'd lost, but if the dizziness was any indication, it was quite a bit. Not only that, but that beating from last night didn't help much. They'd kept him in the chair, getting a punch wherever the Idiots thought it'd hurt most. Overall soreness covered Sherlock, but they didn't do much damage asides aggravating the shots more. A headache was developing too, but maybe that was just because of Moriarty's droning voice. All of last night offered no sleep, one of the Idiots waking him up in crude manner should he begin to nod off. At one point, Moriarty returned, yapping. He might be bringing up valid points; Sherlock wasn't sure. He filtered hours ago.
One question snapped him from the Palace, which was working through the problem of escaping.
"Did you ever figure it out, Sherlock?" Moriarty sang in question. He was sitting nearby in his gentlemen's suit, twirling a half-crown in his fingers.
At first, Sherlock figured Moriarty referred to the suicide. "A small, harmless, wireless detonator attached to your head along with a small package of blood, both covered by your hair. The trigger of the gun acted as the button."
"Not that. That's insignificant. No, Sherlock. What connects aaaallllll those silly cases you and John scurried around to solve? Huh, deadman?"
Sherlock's mouth opened and closed, brain too muddled to produce a witty comeback.
"No answer? Oh, Sherlock I'm even more disappointed in you. I used to consider you an intellectual equal. Now what are you? The hero with a HEART. Disappointing." Moriarty seemed to love yelling about organs.
The Black King crouched down to the White King, practically frothing at the mouth "The answer, honey, is me."
Sherlock blinked. Realization crashed down. "The taxi driver, the Black Lotus Tong, Adler, no doubt you had ties in Baskerville too," he whispered.
"You're so stupid," Moriarty scoffed, chuckling. "Your brain has simmered into nothing. Your life is barely worth it anymore. Shame, really. I should bring a plant into the room, to make up for all the oxygen you're wasting."
"Dead is the new sexy, after all. At least that's what I've heard," Sherlock tested Moriarty.
Moriarty laughed. "We're the dead ones, you and me."
Sherlock flinched. "Ghosts," he whispered. The chess analogy came to mind.
"What?" Moriarty leaned closer.
"Ghosts," Sherlock repeated distinctly, "And chess."
"You're losing it," Moriarty rolled his eyes, tossed the coin up in the air and grabbed it.
"You wanted to kill me. So I would die in disgrace. What's changed?" Sherlock muttered.
"I was wrong, remember?" Jim hissed. "You're not ordinary. You're me."
"But you… You killed yourself."
"Yes."
Sherlock pressed dried, cracked lips together. "What exactly are you trying to prove… in all of this?"
"This?" he motioned to Sherlock's tied hands. "Is to get you out of the way. While I burn you, London burns. I already told John. How there'd be bombs."
"I know."
"Yes, Sherlock. I'm going to destroy the western world. Then it'll all be mine. All the places I broke into? Remember that? They'll be mine. The crown will sit on my head," Moriarty smiled.
"You don't need it," Sherlock snarled.
"No."
"You're insane, then."
"You're. Just. Getting, That. NOW?" Moriarty shouted into Sherlock's face. Flecks of spit lay on pale skin.
"No, no. In fact, I counted on it," Sherlock gave a 'I know something you don't' smile. "I counted on you being so insanely focused on me, you'd miss the information walking right out of your hands and into the police. The authorities already know about the bombs. In fact, they're probably on their way now. They know where we are."
Anger flicked across his face. He understood. "Adler!" Moriarty shouted.
"Yes, the Woman. She rarely disappoints," Sherlock smirked. "No doubt she stole my coat. There's a message inside on how to stop you. She'll be discovering it soon, if not already."
"I'm moving you." Pulling out a key from his coat, Moriarty undid the handcuffs and bindings constraining the detective. "Johnson! Smith!" The Idiots stood at command. "Get Sherlock into the car. We're going somewhere else."
They grabbed Sherlock at either side, hauling him to his feet. The lanky form swayed. Dizziness overtook him, and he almost collapsed to the ground if it wasn't for Johnson's rough grasp. Blood loss. Starvation. Parched thirst. The last time he ate was when John was dragged him to the bar, and he ate a few French fries. God, that felt like years ago. Just the slight movement of standing up jolted his senses and burned his injuries. The bullet wounds screamed, and the cracked ribs protested. Tiny black dots danced on the edge of his vision like annoying insects. He body had a falling sensation, as he approached a dark void. Sherlock didn't realize he'd fallen to the floor until unfamiliar hands dragged him along the concrete. They left the Room of Hell, and entered a halleay, which ended in a hanger of some enough for a couple planes, maybe. They approached a black Mercedes. His hazy brain registered the sound of a car trunk opening, with his tall figure forced inside. Then, it was black.
/
"I told you they would move him," said Irene.
What an odd sight they were. Irene Adler in the coat, Mycroft Holmes in his impressive suit, Lestrade in second day clothes, and Dollivan bringing up the rear. All in search for Sherlock Holmes. SWAT filed in first to the empty concrete room. Stains lined the floor with an appearance similar to rust; they knew better. Fresher blood pooled underneath a metal chair. Sherlock's blood. The minimalist room contained nothing else.
"This is a dead end," Mycroft admitted. Hearing it from a genius didn't make it any easier to process: they'd failed.
"You don't see anything?" Lestrade said in disbelief. For some reason, he expected the older Holmes to be more like Sherlock, picking up a scent and insulting the intelligence of everyone around him.
"Oh I can read plenty, but nothing relevant to the chase," Mycroft sighed. "I'm not like my brother to insult Scotland Yard."
Lestrade wanted to laugh. Of course Mycroft Holmes could read his mind. "Any ideas?" he looked at Adler.
She shoved her hands into her pockets and shrugged. Then a bewildered expression overtook her, and she pulled a crumpled paper from the Belstaff. "What the…" Unfolding it, she revealed Sherlock's penmanship in a hastily scrawled note. Irene read aloud, "Hurry. Moriarty will bomb London and the Western World. Only John can kill him."
"Only John?" Lestrade's eyebrows furrowed. "What the hell? Why?"
Mycroft's mobile beeped, and he pulled the iPhone from his pocket. "John's woken up. Let's go ask him."