8. Embarrassingly rescued

When the car rolled towards the garage James took pity with his 'guest' and a grumbling Moran freed Sherlock from handcuffs and gag, a favour which the Detective, to Moriarty's amusement, accepted without the slightest sign of gratitude.

As soon as the door was opened Holmes virtually shot out of the car as if he was escaping hell itself. It was all James could do to dive out after him, a hopelessly too slow Moran nagging something unintelligible in his back.

Well, what of it. Surely the elder Holmes was slowly cooking in his own steam by now, having seen little brother's predicament with his own eyes. James was therefore sure to have a call from Mycroft in the next few hours, telling him that the deal he'd suggested was perfect. Sebastian would lose another bet. Which meant Moriarty's second-in-command would be grumpy for at least one more week. The Colonel was a bad loser; it was part of his nature.

Sherlock, James admitted inwardly to himself, was classier by far. Credit where credit was due Holmes had put up a good show at the tailor's, paying James back in his own coin. Nevertheless, there had to be some punishment for Sherlock's insolence, if only for principle's sake. £ 10.000 or more the absurd order would cost his host, so James thought he might as well have some reward for it.

Knowing full well that Holmes felt much more like vomiting than like eating right now, James stopped him at the first step of the first floor stair. "You're in such haste to get ready for dinner, my dear. If I'd known you're that fond of Bangers 'n Mash, I'd ordered it every night."

Sherlock's brain working on the unwelcome news was a visible process and James smirked. "Yes my dear, before you had John Watson for a chronicler to puff up your overgrown ego even more for pity's sake, you published a few case studies on your website. To solve an early case you even ate Bangers 'n Mash once, although you absolutely loath the stuff. Oh Sherlock, there's not one word on your site I haven't read. You shouldn't have boasted like that, it wasn't wise."

"Would it help if I said that my appetite's deserted me?" Sherlock asked, with forced self-control.

"Not at all my dear. You must eat. You're too skinny as it is! Look at me, that's how a gentleman is expected to cut a figure."

Contemptuously Sherlock's gaze wandered over James' belly. "If you call that a figure…."

It was the hint James had been waiting for. He pulled out the package he'd so far hid behind his back and threw it to Holmes. "Oh, and Sherlock my pet, don't forget to wear this new suit. It's the one you tried first; I took it so that you can wear it tonight. Shirt and tie and all."

"NO way!"

"What did I tell you about you not refusing anything I give to you?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. Judging from his face he thought first about a fitting reply, second he thought better of it. With an angry look he walked upstairs, but with the despised package firmly in his hands.

James, who'd been sure he'd get the package thrown into his face, frowned. It was great fun teasing his 'guest', but sometimes it was peculiar that Holmes should allow it, just like that. "What are you up to, my wildcat? There must've been some mistake I've made, otherwise you'd never play ball."

But then Moriarty shook off the dreary thoughts. Speculations without facts were Moran's domain.

When Sherlock appeared for dinner James took an effort to keep his face straight. Goodness, no, the suit was an abomination. There was no other word for it. Moriarty found he hadn't the heart to insist when Holmes took off the jacket and threw it into a corner. "Too hot, my dear?"

"Yes" was Holmes' tight-lipped reply.

"I thought that much. Your cheeks are red!"

Sherlock grabbed the fork hard enough to let his knuckles stuck out white, but he didn't say anything.

"Perhaps the clothes are a bit loose right now, but if you eat properly you'll grow into them, no doubt" James said fatherly.

"Perhaps they're your size rather than mine."

"My thoughts exactly. Now eat!"

With an expression fit for a state burial Sherlock began stuffing his face, if only for a few minutes. Until his stomach visibly – and audibly – revolted.

Again Moriarty was amused, touched and bewildered, all at once. Why was the wildcat so very tame? What was he waiting for? He couldn't possibly know his brother was involved and, under their original agreement, he had to spend another three and a half days in Moriarty's company.

All this teasing, this being toyed with had to drive Sherlock mad. Unconventional he sure was, spleeny perhaps, therefore used to being misunderstood, insulted even. And yet Holmes was as proud as Satan himself when touched on a spot he thought sensitive. So why the restraint? Did he really think every offence James might take would result in John Watson's premature demise? Was that it?

"Listen, Sherlock …." Moriarty suddenly heard himself say "…. about your doctor friend…." James had had no evil intentions. Instead he'd wanted to say – and to his own considerable surprise - that there was no need to worry.

Yet Sherlock's look of utter distrust, of loathing actually, silenced him.

It reminded him that he had been about to forget who he was and who his dinner guest was.

This was a game. And from where Sherlock sat he was a pawn in a captor's hand, not a player. Forced to stay, not willing to. Holmes would fight to keep his face as best he could – or as best he dared, more likely – and then he would go, as soon as possible, as far away as possible. And, if possible, he would forget this week. Delete it from his memory.

For this was purely James Moriarty's party. His miserable pretence of having company for dinner. Company who wouldn't ask for a paycheque later on.

All of a sudden James felt that appetite had now deserted him. "If you've finished you can go" he said hoarsely and a quick shove of a chair and some hasty steps out were his reward.

It took some swallowing.

However, some 30 minutes later Moriarty finished his own dinner with what appeared to be a returned healthy appetite. After all he was used to eating alone. No use pretending otherwise.

When all was said and done, this interlude, pleasant as it was, was nothing but another business deal.

After dinner James took a seat in his library, waiting for his laptop to show him that Mycroft had left a message for little brother's brutal kidnappers. It was a secure line, not even MI 6 or 5 or 3 3/4 would be able to trace it back. Jim Moriarty was, after all, a computer expert. The international hacker community had no idea how very familiar they were with the criminal mastermind. Or, rather, he with them and their little secrets. For they had some. The more they cried for transparency in others the more they tried to hide their own dark spots to perfection.

While James waited he mused on the last few days. It was more than fun, having an intellectual equal – well, almost equal – around. All right, most of their bantering was a bit childish but it was what … friends would do. Or brothers. Yes, it must be a bit like that, having a brother. Moriarty felt a bit melancholic again when he thought about it. "I know eventually I will have to let him go. But then loneliness will start again. Sherlock just doesn't know how lucky he is, lucky to have a family. I was an only child; I had no one to look out for me."

It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. Jim knew he would never have what Sherlock had. A brother. Some real friends who even put up with the Detectives' insufferable moods and arrogance. And Sherlock obviously didn't even like Mycroft.

When James pondered the injustice of it all, his face was flushed red. He wanted what Holmes had but didn't appreciate. For sure, Moran was good company but he wasn't enough. Not always. Not for everything.

Well, at least the Holmes brothers would pay for their privileges this time. For once the world would not stop and give way to the great men. This time, the last laugh would be somebody else's.

Right on cue the laptop showed an incoming call. James took it eagerly. The scrambler was in place; Mycroft's screen would show nothing but junk.

"Hello sweet shanks" Moriarty said calmly, knowing that his counterpart would hear the absurd nickname spoken by a very sensual female voice. "Glad to have seen your little brother in one piece?"

"You said you'd let him go for the price of some information about the people and enterprises you named?" Mycroft came directly to the point. It was, in James' opinion, one of his less endearing qualities. It needed talking with the younger brother if one appreciated a good repartee.

"As there can be no doubt that we've got your brother I take it you've got the information?"

"I'm ready for the exchange when you are."

"No direct exchange, I'm afraid. You, Sir, are … a bit too well connected in the security business for my companions' taste. You'll put the information where I told you. We check them; if they're all you claim they are, Sherlock will come back to you, bright eyed and bushy tailed, come Sunday morning. If they are not, or if you think us foolish enough to fall for one of your childish little booby-traps …. must I go on, Mr. Holmes?"

"You must indeed take me for a fool if you think I'll give you the ransom bona fide. My brother against a memory stick, that's the deal."

"Let me be blunt, Mr. Holmes, so that no misunderstanding is possible. My companions and I have many lucrative business deals under way but you have only got one brother. Tonight, during the next few minutes, you'll deposit the information in the cloud or you are an only child. And I promise you, you'll hear your brother scream before he dies!"

With that, James terminated the connection. Moran entered the room with a questioning face. "Mycroft?"

James nodded. "Package dispatched I think" he replied. "Just give it five minutes, then we'll check it. Should make millions as soon as we've told some high and mighty people what we know about them. A most lucrative evening."

"For you, perhaps" Sebastian retorted sourly whilst he took a pound from his purse and gave it to his boss. "Not for me."

James laughed, a bit sad as he remembered his former thoughts. Moran was good, as an aide, as second in command, as an associate. But not good enough. Not as a friend. "You'll live, Sebastian. Another day another pound, eh?"

Meanwhile Moran watched James' nimble fingers fly over the keyboard, something he always admired. The Colonel had broad, strong hands. He was strong, resolved, ruthless. For elegance, subtleness and intelligence he had a boss. They both knew it and, as far as Moran was concerned, there was no problem with that.

Moriarty quickly checked the preliminary account he'd created in a much overrun cloud based on a much overrun server which actually stood in Argentina. The account would delete itself in the next six hours, leaving the head of British Intelligence with the uncomfortable task of tracing the virtual movements of his opponents in a country and firm who both still remembered the Falkland Wars not too friendly. And the provider would register Mycroft's efforts because someone in Chelsea would tell him what to look for.

It would take Mycroft time; and time was of the essence in the information business, especially since IT had taken over. When the elder Holmes had finally found all there was to find, all the laboriously uncovered traces would be as cold as dead mutton.

"Looks fine to me" Sebastian chimed in, reading the files over Moriarty's shoulder. He hissed through his teeth when he found an especially juicy piece of news about the love-life of an oil company big-wig. "The shares he rests his ass on belong to his wife?" he asked and James nodded, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "They do, poor man."

"You're sure the data isn't booby-trapped?"

James shrugged. "We'll know in a minute! Yet he could've created the most ingenious male ware of all, he could damage the cloud, he could force me to give up a few aliases and accounts but not more. Most of all, he can't find us. Which means, he can't find his little brother. Which means, he won't dare try anything stupid."

In this very minute, the door bell rang.

With an angry frown Moran looked out of the window before he darted round to his boss. "Police" he said. "Lestrade!"

"What the hell …." Moriarty said, jumping out of his seat and to the door. Quickly he glanced upstairs. But all was quiet. Apparently Sherlock hadn't heard the bell.

"Get him, Sebastian. Keep him quiet!"

It was all Moran needed to dash upstairs and round the corner of the gallery to where the guestrooms were.

"What can I do for you, Detective Inspector?" James said a minute later after a look at Lestrade's ID.

"A theft has been reported" replied Lestrade. "An expensive suit. From a tailor's shop."

"I do beg your pardon?" was all James could stammer. For the very first time in his adult life, he was utterly and completely dumbfounded. He'd thought of each and everything that could possibly go wrong but this… this….

This couldn't be true. This was just too stupid, too absurd to be true. Sure enough, he'd just grabbed the suit and shirt on his way out, but with his account in this shop, where was the problem?

"You will forgive me, Sir. I'm sure it's a beastly misunderstanding but right now…." and with that Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson had successfully entered the house. The Detective Inspector waved a search warrant in front of James' eyes whilst his two assistants went about their work, Sally walking towards the library, Anderson heading upstairs.

Upstairs!

The one word brought James back to earth.

"Inspector, you have no idea with whom you're dealing here. Your superiors will hear of this. Come down, man, you're not going to molest my guests!"

Apparently James' show of strength had worked, for Lestrade signalled his aide to come down again and Anderson obeyed instantly.

Meanwhile four of James' bulky associates had turned up, the man who'd help to bring Sherlock out of the sewage water systems a few days ago in the lead. "Do you need us, Sir?" he asked Moriarty who declined the thinly veiled offer of violent assistance with a brisk shake of his head.

"I know your faces from the newspapers" James told Lestrade coldly. "You're with the homicide squad. What are you investigating a petty theft for?"

"We've been transferred for disciplinary reasons" was the laconic reply. "Nothing that concerns you, by the way. What's that?" The latter referred to the jacket Sally Donovan had found in the dining room. She looked so very much like a gratified dachshund bringing in the prey that James actually fought the idiotic urge to say "good doggy."

"The stolen jacket, Detective Inspector" she reported smartly, holding the corpus delicti high up in the air.

For a brief moment Lestrade looked as if he'd liked to laugh his head off, here and now. "Good work" he then managed to get out. "Carry on!"

"Sir?" the unfortunate policewoman asked.

"The pants, girl. Where there is a jacket there should be pants, should there not" the inspector pressed out, clearly at the end of his self-restraint.

The woman beamed, obviously happy that she'd finally gathered what this was about. "Yes Sir, with someone in them I shouldn't wonder!"

The same instant James wanted to slap and kick himself where it hurt most. "A most distinguished gentleman from Whitehall, this customer" the tailor was saying in his mind. "Very discreet though. Almost secretive in his ways."

Mycroft!

Mycroft Holmes and James Moriarty had the same tailor!

"Wilkins, show these gentlemen out!" James ordered and his associate didn't ask back.

Neither Lestrade nor his two helpmates struggled when they were "shown" the way out. "This will have consequences" was all the DI said. "This obstinacy is doing you no good!"

"My lawyers will contact your Superintendent in the morning. Good day to you, Inspector!"

Wilkins let go of the three when they approached the door. As they didn't resist – why aggravate the coppers any further? After all, boss always said to keep a low profile with the force.

Quick as lightening Anderson dashed sideward, turned and ran upstairs before Wilkins – strong, heavy but a bit slow – understood what was going on.

James, already on his way back to the library to switch off his laptop – one never knew with such data on the screen - was too far away to be of any practical use. "Inspector, I protest. You're in hot water up to your neck as it is, my lawyers will …"

But it was already too late.

There was a short but violent commotion upstairs and then Anderson appeared on the gallery, a struggling (why on earth struggling? James wondered) Sherlock in his arms immediately followed by a fuming Moran. "Found him" the pathologist screamed with unmistakable triumph. "He seems to be all right…." Belatedly he added, just on a third or fourth thought, "I mean he's got the pants…."

"Take your hands off me" Holmes said, breaking free of the pathologist's grip.

"Mr. Holmes, you're under arrest for theft of a suit" Lestrade declared firmly. "Come down!"

Sherlock looked quickly from Moriarty to the DI and back. "James please, I had nothing to do with this…."

"There's not much you'd not do for your beloved doctor" James thought bitterly as he realized why Holmes was as white as chalk when he should have been overjoyed. "Why him, you brilliant idiot? Why not me?"

"Forget it Sherlock" Moriarty said. "Thanks for the visit. We must repeat that some day. Off you go!"

Slowly followed by a wary pathologist, Holmes was down the stairs in a few big strides. "You're sure?"

"All is safe" James said disdainfully "No need to worry about your pets!"

Sherlock registered the last 's' and after a second his eyes widened a bit.

Moriarty smiled "I knew you'd understand" he thought "clever you."

"Is it real?" Sherlock asked softly. "What you've got, is it the real thing?"

"Real enough to break the hangman's neck if its source were to be exposed!" James replied sternly, but with a cocked brow. "The things we do for family."

Holmes hesitated, staring at his opponent. Then he shrugged. "They say some would kill to protect their own!"

"Indeed. Or lose their career. Go to prison. Even for a threat that was only imagined."

"See you later then?"

"Some day, rest assured. Some day we will meet again!"

Sherlock had thrown the gauntlet and James had picked it up. Challenge made, challenge accepted; neither of them needed any more words for it.

Holmes followed Sally and Anderson out while Moriarty held back an enraged Colonel. "We still have some packing to do, Sebastian."

"24 hours" Lestrade said. "Out of England, out of Europe. You come back you're history, no price to high. If I were you I'd avoid Baker Street on my way out. Good day Mr. Moriarty."

Moran stared after the leaving inspector's back and his lower jaw hung open. "He let's us go? But his idiot friend found me with one hand over Holmes' mouth and the other pressing a gun against his neck. If I hadn't thought of you down here I'd pulled the trigger!"

"It was kind of you, Sebastian."

"To be a fool?"

"To think of me. And it isn't Lestrade who lets us go."

"It's not?"

"No, Sebastian, it is not. It is Mycroft Holmes. Which can only mean one thing…."

"Which is?"

"Which is that the information Mycroft gave us is valid. The foremost champion of British Intelligence has become a traitor for his little brother's sake!" Moriarty grinned maliciously. "Maybe being an only child has its advantages after all."