7. Westwood suits and other unbecoming things

Sherlock had guessed that the illicit borrowing of Moriarty's clothes would have consequences of the unpleasant sort. On an uncharacteristic emotional whim he'd done it all the same.

However, had he known what the consequences would be, he'd thought twice about the merit of so short-lived a triumph.

Today, standing in the parlour of London's presumably most posh and expensive tailor with a most amiable, high spirited Moriarty by his side, Holmes couldn't have felt more uncomfortable. To distract himself from what was happening to him he made a mental note to mark that tailor down for further investigation. It was obvious that James was very well known here – and much liked, impossible as that may seem – and there might well be some useful information to gather about the Consulting Criminal from the people of this shop. A fortiori as James had introduced his grouchy companion most enthusiastically as 'one of my oldest and closest friends'.

Unfortunately the mental note took Sherlock only a split second and subsequently he was back in the parlour, confronted with his most despicable image in the mirror and the – not even perfect manners and long-trained servility enabled the wretched man to hide it – virtually appalled face of the tailor behind him.

Holmes had to admit that the hapless tailor's disgust was well founded. The suit he was presently trying for fit was in short – a catastrophe. A Westwood model, for James preferred them, but dreadfully ill suited for Sherlock. His rigid composure, his whole type was the diametric opposite to the downright obtrusive laxity of the suit. In addition, the buff colour Moriarty had chosen reminded Sherlock strongly of the last time he'd had the runs. A high-collared shirt in baby-pink did nothing to mellow the gruesome results of that choice. As to the poisonously green tie around Sherlock's neck and what it did to the skin colour of his face – better to neither talk nor think about it.

But then, greenish cheeks at least were an expression of what the unfortunate Detective felt in that moment.

Unfortunate also that James just gave him no chance to do anything about it. From second one in the shop, the Consulting Criminal had done all the talking. Sherlock prided himself on his own ability to speak like a machine gun fires, but this feat was mostly reserved for delivering facts and theories – in one sentence: For talking sense.

James' natural ability to shower his unlucky counterparts with rapids of nonsense exceeded anything Sherlock had to offer. It had taken Moriarty less than two minutes to utterly convince the aghast tailor that this kind of clothes was perfectly to Holmes' taste, and, chattering away most sweetly and with perfect innocence, he'd managed to imply that he deplored his 'old friend's' lack of taste tremendously, as well as 'his best pal's' obvious colour-blindness.

Holmes had been horrified to hear James drone on and on, every inch the well-meaning friend of a very doubtable character.

"What shall I do?" Moriarty had begun, and the rest had been equally misleading. This man, his closest companion of many years, Sherlock Holmes, was a darling, a teddy-bear but when he was crossed or criticized he would have one of his tantrums and he might have a fit, as he was so very, very sensitive and prickly, like a child actually, and so one better played along with his moods, after all, what was a bad taste in clothes in a man with so many most endearing qualities?

A few minutes under this constant stream of highly abusive and offending 'revelations' about his personality, covered with sweet, creamy rubbish talk, and Sherlock was only a hair's breadth away from believing himself that he was an absolute, childish nit-wit idiot.

And yet, when James made the meanwhile ghostly pale tailor bring another set of clothes – this time in white (the suit), lilac (the shirt) and orange (the tie), Sherlock brought his foot down. It was a necessity of pure, immediate survival. He just out-screamed Moriarty and for once Holmes gave a shit about how sissified and shrill his usually full and deep voice sounded once it reached a certain volume.

"I'm quite satisfied" he told – or rather roared – the tailor "thank you ever so much. I take them all. Actually, the thought strikes me – these suits are so wonderful - I take one dozen of each, two dozens of the pink shirts, two dozens of the lilac ones and a dozen of the ties each, together with thirty pairs of socks, light blue I should think. I'm sure you'll guarantee the highest hand-tailored quality and of course, the best available material for each item. You can put the bill on Mr. Moriarty's account. Isn't it perfectly sweet of my old friend James to give me such a present? He's always so very considerate."

When Holmes came to the end of his little speech, propounded with the greatest courtesy and an Oxford English so supercilious that it would have overtaxed an arch-angle's patient indulgence, he could speak at a normal volume again. James had fallen silent somewhere on the road. He was a rich man, a very rich man, but this bill…and for clothes, heaps and heaps of clothes nobody, absolutely nobody could ever wear, not even on Halloween…. It made one think.

The tailor, on the other hand, was visibly drunk with joy. ₤ 1.000 for every suit at least, perhaps more because of the special colours and material ordered, ₤ 250 for every shirt and so on and so on – a productive morning indeed! Who cared that it was a crude madman's order? A businessman had to consider his costs and profits first of all. He began bowing left and right, scraping with his feet like an excited turkey and Sherlock had the weird impression that he could hear the man's thoughts as clearly as if he'd shouted them to anyone present.

Equally clear was what his esteemed captor thought of his 'guest's' latest escapade. "Come on "Sherlock thought "say it. Spit it out before it suffocates you. Countermand this order, say you won't pay. Make my day by making a complete fool of yourself!"

To Sherlock's profound disappointment, Moriarty drew one deep breath and then he smiled, albeit a bit wavering. "I trust you can deliver the first set by the end of the week?" he asked the tailor who confirmed this joyfully. "Then my friend can make his journey home in this suit" James continued, his eyes on Sherlock's face. "It'll make the arrival at his home address so much pleasanter." He gritted his teeth as he finalised "send the rest of the order to the usual address. I'll pay for everything."

Only now the tailor had the distinct feeling that something was going on between his two customers, something he didn't quite understand. The uncomfortable feeling grew decisively when Sherlock now launched a counter attack, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "By the way, dear James, haven't you forgotten one little detail? The necessity to buy new clothes for you? You know: That little spare tyre on your hips and your lovely new embonpoint?"

Moriarty's glare won an additional murderous quality and his carefully groomed façade slipped a bit more. "We can take care of that elsewhere, dear Sherlock. Perhaps a bit of exercise in my gym would do both of us a world of good. I wonder what I'm going to use for a punching bag!"

"You could always use an old clothes bag, standing on the ground so that even you can't miss it."

"I think I'll prefer an emaciated looking scarecrow, hanging from the ceiling by the neck."

"Anyone particular coming to mind?"

"Indeed. I got one from Baker Street recently."

"I'd be careful if I were you. These models are known to be obstinate."

They glared at each other and the tailor had a terrifying vision of most undignified bloodshed in the middle of his distinguished parlour. Much sobered from his former enthusiasm he was - great business and benefit put aside - glad to see the two men leave.

Once outside, Sherlock decided to gloat a little more for his own amusement, thereby taking the aggressive tone out of the conversation. This primitive exchange of physical threats was no fun at all and after his ordeal he needed fun. "Dearest James, I owe you an apology" he said "you were absolutely right, that was much better than watching another of your DVDs. Although it was a bit vampire-ish, this drain on your finances."

"I'll hear you talk otherwise once I send you home in these clothes" a tight-lipped James replied. "Think of what dear Johnny will say. And sweet shanks will undoubtedly love them."

The remark hit a nerve in Holmes. "If you think I'll show myself dressed like that to my brother, think again!"

"You will wear these things on the day of all days, believe me."

"You can't make me."

"I can and I will."

"You're welcome to try."

"12 men between you and the exit, remember, Sherlock? I admit you're good, but you're not good enough to beat a dozen men."

Meanwhile they'd reached the roofed passageway to the confined parking space that allowed discreet access to the tailor's shop. Some of the customers preferred it that way, as, alas, not all of them had acquired the necessary wealth by lawful means. By right, a lot of the money spend here would've been due to somebody else - most frequently to the British Exchequer.

As pre-concerted Moriarty and Sherlock met with Moran and today's 'guard of honour', two walking wardrobes employed for their oversized muscles, not their undersized brains. James cocked his head angrily and at once Holmes found himself in their grip, feeling handcuffs closing around the wrists on his back. "What's the matter James? Lost your sense of humour?"

"I just thought I'd give you a foretaste of what's in store for you if you go on like that" James retorted. "By the way, I'm fed up with your clever remarks!"

Although Holmes could easily deduce what that meant he had no chance to hinder the brutes when they forced a gag into his mouth and pulled it tight. Moran took him by the arm and Sherlock flinched as he felt the man's foul breath on his ear. "If you want to spare yourself the trouble of being chloroformed, you'll walk to the car, nicely and quietly, understood?"

Thinking of his secret plan to destroy Moriarty, Moran and their organisation Holmes didn't offer resistance when he was pushed to the waiting limousine and forced by a gun's muzzle pressing into his spine to enter it, with Moran and Moriarty taking the other seats. As soon as the doors closed the chauffeur drove off, leaving the 'guards' to follow as best they could. James loved going in convoys, he hardly ever allowed his men to ride in the same car with him.

Once under way, Holmes relaxed. The car's windows were opaque from both sides, but even without seeing the outside world he'd formed a pretty good idea of the starting point of their little journey – Moriarty's home. As he couldn't do anything else right now he could as well concentrate on verifying this impression on their way back.

As if he'd read Sherlock's mind, Moran huffed irritably. "We should sedate him anyway, James. No use taking avoidable risks."

Astonishingly enough, James had regained much of his former good mood. "Leave him alone. He's been through a lot today." Then he started a lengthy, in his and Moran's opinions very comical narrative of Holmes' behaviour at the tailor's shop which took almost as long as the trip home. Forced as he was to silently listen to the cattish banter, Sherlock let his thoughts flow and tuned just out of the situation.

He'd not been surprised by Moriarty's high spirits had he known what had happened in the tailor's backyard, where just now Mycroft tried to regain his composure.

The elder Holmes was much shaken by what he had witnessed. True enough, his brother's captors had kept their word to prove that Sherlock was alive and - more or less- still in one piece. But to see the little one like that, bound and gagged, held at gunpoint…. And he hadn't even struggled. What had they done to him?

Mycroft Holmes wasn't in the least squeamish when it came to the enemies of Queen and country whom he so frequently brought to justice – or what he personally considered to be justice. However, seeing his younger brother in such dire straits proved to be a quite different experience. Much more upsetting, much less uplifting, so to speak.

But even so, the peculiar coincidence rattled him that the place these vicious kidnappers had chosen for their detestable demonstration was the backyard of his own tailor. Since pre-history all of Mycroft's clothes were made here. He had, for a time, tried to interest Sherlock in gentleman's fashion, but of course that had been whilst he'd still believed in bringing his brother into some kind of regular life, with an office job, some nice friends and a pension scheme.

Oh far away past times in which Mycroft Holmes had still been naïve enough to harbour such outrageous, out-of-the-question schemes. He'd rather could talk a creationist into believing in evolution than his brother out of his bohemian life-style.

No chance then for Sherlock to remember his brother's tailor. Question was, did his captors know? Admittedly the place was well chosen, no one could see the yard from the outside, no one would wonder why a luxury car entered this special place and, confined as the place was, Sherlock would not come far before he was recaptured, should he try to run. Even if he screamed the traffic outside would swallow the sound, most likely.

Mycroft's formidable instincts and experience turned on the red-alert. Only the tailor himself would mind a car such as this coming to his premises, as long as it was an unfamiliar one. He was in the habit of monitoring the arrivals and departures of cars via an external, discreetly hidden camera the existence of which was known to a mere handful of people. One of them was the man who'd given the security camera to him.

Acting on a hunch, Mycroft turned round and went into the shop. An absurd idea, a kidnapped young man and his captors ordering some clothes but, as little brother used to say, if you've eliminated the impossible….

The tailor greeted one of his most secretive but also most distinguished customers warmly. "Mr. Holmes! What can I do for you, Sir? What a shame that you've missed your brother, can't be more than twenty minutes that he and his friend left me."

"My brother? He was here?" asked Mycroft, as casually as he could.

The tailor blushed suddenly. "Oh please, forgive my faux pas Mr. Holmes. I'm not usually in the habit of talking about my customers. It's just that the young man seemed …" he searched for words to tactfully describe the indescribable (these colours, these gruesome style, oh God, oh God, oh God)"…. A bit troubled to me, Sir. And upon occasion you had told me about your younger brother Sherlock and as he's become famous now, what with his doctor friend's blog…."

The tailor shrank under the ice-cold stare. He clapped his mouth shut as if he'd never open it again.

"What did my brother order?" snapped Mycroft.

The tailor shrank even more and went through all kinds of contortions. "I'm so sorry, Sir" the wretched man whispered "so very sorry, but…. No doubt Mr. Sherlock is a busy man and these young men nowadays prefer all kinds of style, I'm an old man, sometimes it's hard for me to follow the latest developments…."

His head as red as a lantern he presented the fitting sets Sherlock had tried on to Mycroft.

The elder Holmes backed away as if bitten by a snake. "Good heavens! What is that?"

"Perhaps it wasn't your brother's idea after all" the tailor dared to chime in, if meekly. "There was this friend of him, you see, a very good customer of my firm and maybe it was a kind of practical joke….."

"Who is this friend? Where does he live?"

Now the tailor lifted his chin and rose to his full height. Which was, unfortunately, more than a head shorter than Mycroft's. "I beg your pardon Sir. That information is private."

Holmes produced his mobile from his pocket and showed it to the other. "You've one minute left and after that tax investigation, Scotland Yard, and every Secret Service the UK has got will not stop swarming your premises, as well as your home, until they've found something in your books, your records, your bank accounts, your tax declarations and most of all your customer database."

"Sir…. Mr. Mycroft… surely you wouldn't…. I considered you a friend….."

Mycroft put the squeeze on him even harder. "We both know you've got some very nasty people among your customers. They value their privacy above all else, especially as their living in London is completely illegal. By the way, are you paying taxes on your little side business in over-expensive evening dresses? Men do not buy those dresses for their wives, do they. Many Ladies would be much interested in who bought what from you, and for whom."

"Sir, I beg you… my good name…. my firm…..my first assistant's wife is pregnant again…"

"For God's sake, the man is gay. The woman he lives with is his sister and she's an old maid. Now, for the very last time: Who was the man with my brother?"

"James…. James Moriarty, Sir. He lives in Chelsea." Defiantly the tailor added "a man of excellent taste, a true gentleman. A benefactor who always give money to charity."

"What's he doing for a living? And don't tell me you do not know."

"He… He seems to be a kind of broker, Sir. He arranges deals, conveys ideas as far as I know. Trades information….I'm sure it's all absolutely legal and honourable….."

Mycroft no longer listened. "Information" he thought. "Yes, that's what he would do, trade the information he squeezed out of me for Sherlock's sake to others." There was a lot of money to be made in information, nobody knew that better than the uncrowned King of British Intelligence.

And yet it was confusing.

Briefly the thought that Sherlock might be in league with the criminal flickered through Mycroft's mind but he dismissed it at once. No, one look at the most absurd set of clothes Holmes had ever seen in his life and he knew his brother had been forced into this. Sherlock voluntarily wearing a lilac shirt and orange tie? It beggared belief.

"I need Moriarty's exact contact data. You will not speak to anyone about my visit here today, you will not inform Moriarty about it, or this will be your very last day as a business man in this country or any other, from now until Kingdom come, understood?"

Ten minutes later Mycroft was on his way. A few phone calls and his staff at the Secret Service booted their computers. Holmes himself arrived at his flat, shook of his shoes – he hated shoes – and went to his laptop. Ruthlessly he broke into every account Sherlock had ever opened.

It took the elder brother half an hour to find the data Sherlock had stolen from Moriarty's databases. For some weird reason the little one had used the alias 'Harry Potter' for this transaction.

"Little brother, what mess have you brought yourself into this time" Mycroft muttered. "And why the hell is it always me who has to drag you out of it?"

Meanwhile information about James Moriarty came pouring in from Mycroft's office. All harmless, all inconspicuous, no clues, no hints, an impermeable façade of perfect mediocrity. Except for two things: The man was unbelievably wealthy by all accounts but he had, for a few months, worked as an underpaid IT-expert at, of all places, St Bartholomew's Hospital. And a certain DI Lestrade had mentioned the name 'Moriarty', if only as a marginal, in his report on a case of a faked Vermeer picture.

Sighing desperately Mycroft put on his shoes once more and went out into a cold and raining night to pay Lestrade a visit. He knew him as the man Sherlock worked with, rather than with his own brother.

Fleetingly Mycroft pondered a visit at 121B Baker Street, where John Watson was doubtlessly sick with worry about his vanished flatmate. But the good doctor, intransigent when it came to sharing information about his life with Sherlock at the best of times, was also sick with the flue and the mere thought of catching it sent shudders down Mycroft's spine.

Which reminded him.

Leg work! How could anyone with a pathological distaste for wearing tight shoes be forced to do so much leg work? Wasn't it enough that he had to wear the damn things in his office hours?

Little brother, as soon as I've got you safely back, I'll skin you alive, I swear it.