Chapter 26: Meeting Moriarty.
"Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter's response seemed to her to have no sort of meaning in it, yet it was certainly English.
"I think you might do something better with the time," she said, "than wasting it on asking riddles that have no answers."
-Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.
(Flashback)
He was walking to Sarah's, his mind still on the encounter with Sherlock. It was so terribly out of character for him to offer to get the groceries. Was something wrong? Or was he actually making an effort to cohabitate? If it was the latter, John would find himself in utter disbelief and joy. It was probably the former, but either way, it wasn't going to end well. He'd been too pleased at Sherlock's offer to actually push for answers, which he now regretted.
He was so focused on the thoughts that he didn't notice the black car following him for quite some time. And then, of course, it pulled up beside him, and John had to notice. He gave an exasperated sigh, considered his options. He could keep walking, but then Mycroft would probably do something unpleasant, and Sherlock would be angry, and it would be a big mess.
He opened the door and slid in. The moment he was inside, he knew something was wrong. Every time he'd been brought to Mycroft, there had been a woman waiting for him, with an ever-present Blackberry, usually 'Anthea'. Now there was only another man, with blonde hair and a serious expression.
"Oh," said John. "What's going-" And then there was a needle in his arm, and shit that wasn't good, that could be absolutely anything, oh god, that was stupid, and now everything was going… black…
He woke up in a locker. It was not a pleasant experience. He pushed up his head and it hit the top, rebounding painfully. His legs were bent, his body twisted, and as he unfolded himself as best he could, everything sent bolts of pain through his body. Oh, this was not good. He didn't have any sort of severe claustrophobia, but he had never liked small spaces, and being trapped in one was definitely not good for his mental state.
He could feel his heart rate pick up, and his breathing became louder, echoing off the metal. He pressed his face up to the little grills, but he couldn't see anything through them, just a white ceiling. He debated with himself for several stressful seconds, then decided that anything was better than just waiting here, in this tiny space, the walls pressing in against him. He banged on the door, as loudly as he could, wincing as the sound echoed inside.
"Hello? Hello? Is anyone there? Let me out, please let me out!" The shouting was not helping to keep him calm. In fact, it reinforced the panic, making it worse. His breathing was coming in gasps now, this wasn't good, this was turning into a full-fledged panic attack. "Please let me out!" his voice cracked, and he swallowed. And then there were footsteps, oh yes, thank god, footsteps.
The door opened, and he stumbled out, almost falling, stretching his neck and his back, finally, breathing in deep gulps of the air, and trying to regain himself. He noticed absently that he was in a pool change room, and then turned to face the man who had let him out. Dark hair, black eyes, expensive suit.
"Thank you," John said. The man looked familiar, but John didn't remember where he might know him from. Wouldn't he remember those eyes? They were very black, like black holes, and the dangerous light in them was immediately gravitational. His height, which was around John's own, didn't matter; he filled the room. He began to laugh, and the sound was what finally clued John in. It was not a sane sound.
"You're welcome," the other man exclaimed, the words twisted to be too high. "Anything to make you happy!" John stared at him for a couple heartbeats, everything fitting into place This was Moriarty. This short, intimidating, gravitational man who had 'saved' him was the criminal mastermind. Well, shit.
"Really? Then let me go," he said without much hope.
"Oh, but that wouldn't be fun. Don't you want to have fun?"
"Not if it involves killing innocent people, no."
"Ah, the innocent card. How very naïve of you, John Watson. I'd expect better from a soldier." This man, Moriarty, was standing far too close for comfort. John took a step backwards, and he followed. Another step. Another. His back hit the wall of lockers, and he ended up holding his breath. "Are you scared of me?" Moriarty sounded honestly surprised. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you. I need your voice for a while. It's going to be very helpful to my game."
"That's what this is, then?" John managed. "A game?"
"Of course it is. That's all that life is. The problem is that most people believe it has rules, or that they have a chance of winning." There was a pause in which Moriarty scanned John up and down, and John knew he was being deduced, the feeling unsettling yet familiar. "You still believe in rules," the black-eyed man said eventually. "Or some of them, at least. 'Thou shalt not kill' got left somewhere in the war, I presume. But you don't believe in winning, do you? Not anymore. That's good, that's a step."
"A step towards what? Insanity?"
"No, no, no," Jim sang. "Towards the truth. That it doesn't matter if you win, or lose." The man leaned towards John, his black eyes filling his vision, and then he tilted even further forwards, his last words whispered into John's ear. "It's how you play the game."
The words made a sick sort of sense, and that disturbed John even more than the words themselves.
"You killed people just to draw Sherlock into a game with you. Why?"
"Why not?" Moriarty asked, moving to a more comfortable distance and shrugging casually. "Nothing else to do with my time. They're all going to die anyways, and I gave their meaningless, useless lives a purpose. They should all be flattered. You should be flattered."
His voice, so singsong, so dynamic, was all-absorbing, a storytelling winding his images around you until you could see nothing but the story. The characters and scenery became as real as your own world while their words hung in the air.
He wanted to say something, something that could add reason to this man's madness. To convince him to stop, to anchor them both to reality, not this madman's tale of games and meaningless lives. But there was nothing to say. You couldn't use logic against madness. It wasn't possible, it didn't apply. Without rules, there could be no basis for argument, and without rules, there was no right or wrong, and Moriarty obviously didn't play by the same rules at all.
"Why am I here?" John asked finally, letting go of the higher conversation, trying to distract himself from the dangerous path his mind was taking.
"Because I brought you here." Oh, lovely, word games. This was all so typically villain that John was starting to think that it was on purpose.
"And why did you do that?"
"To finish the game."
"And how is that going to happen?"
"You'll see!" The words were sung out high, and John fought a shiver. Human speech has a natural rhythm, and Jim's way of speaking both followed it too well, and broke it in strange ways.
"Why are we just standing here talking?"
"Because the audience hasn't arrived yet. Why are you talking so much?" Ah, that was a good one.
"Because I have questions."
"And why is that?"
"Because I want the answers." John was losing himself in the wordplay now, the back-and-forth like an elegant swordfight. Parry, thrust, spin, clash, lunge, straighten.
"Why do you want the answers?"
"Because I want to be prepared for the time when I knock you out and run." A crude answer, a test. Measuring how Moriarty reacted to threats.
"I wouldn't recommend it," he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a packet of gum. He offered some to John, who shook his head. He shrugged, popped one into his mouth, and put it back into his pocket. "There are enough of my men in this building to kill you if you try to run. Preferably get you alive, but that is rather doubtful. They're all such idiots sometimes."
"The long suffering villain. Poor you."
"Yes, poor me. And poor you, being around genii all the time. Can't be much fun, always feeling like you have to be better, and never good enough." Those words hit home, and Moriarty saw it. "Don't be so surprised, Johnny Boy. You're so textbook. So ordinary. I can see right through you, right to the very heart."
He put one hand over John's heart, and there was a moment of silence, while John fought the urge to simply punch the man and run. Hostage situation; you go along with your captors until you know the situation and can escape. And if someone knows where you are, you wait for them to find you. When Moriarty referred to the 'audience,' it must be Sherlock. He would help. Until then, he had to stay still and fight the urge to knock the criminal mastermind's hand away.
"And what have you seen, then?" Keep him talking.
"Lots of things. Anger. At your sister. Your parents. Yourself. Past friends… Timothy Quosai." John sucked in a sharp breath at the name, and Moriarty smiled. "Yes, I know all about you, John Hamish Watson. More than Sherlock does. Much more. I can see your jealousy. Of Sherlock. Of all the people you pass on the street who are so happy living their mundane lives, when you. You need this. The danger." The hand drifted upwards and touched John's forehead. John stayed very, very still. Moriarty looked straight into his eyes, and holding his gaze uncomfortably, continued talking. "I can see your fear of me, of my words."
Suddenly, the dark-haired man spun on his heel and walked off to the other side of the room. He turned, and continued talking as though he hadn't just put eight feet of space between them.
"Cooperate with Dudley, would you? I don't think he's bright enough to keep you alive if you don't comply with his requests. His brain has two settings; happy and kill. You want to keep it at happy. Just some friendly advice!"
"I'm sure you give that a lot," John said.
"You'd be surprised," Moriarty said with a smile, and walked out of the room.
Oooo000oooO
"Doctor!" Leo burst into the room, hair in disarray, dressed in blue pajamas. "There's another one. Quick, you've got to come!" John leapt to his feet, cast Sammy an apologetic glance, and ran out the door after his assistant. Out in the med ward, his workers were rushing around one of the beds.
"Kathy!" John shouted, and the red-haired woman rushed over, face pinched with concern and lack of sleep. "Status, quickly."
"Young female, late thirties, shot in the upper right chest." Kathy tapped on finger over the area, and John nodded, then walked over to the bed that people were milling around. "Doctor present!" Kathy called over, and the three helpers straightened momentarily to nod to John, before continuing their standard procedure, readying the tools that John might need.
He approached the bed and the occupant. The nurses had already cut away her shirt, but John barely noticed her nudity. The bullet hole through the top of her right breast was taking most of his attention. He slipped on a pair of gloves and made a quick assessment. It was still in her body, although it had gone straight through her lung. That was manageable, if he acted fast.
The acting nurses milled around him as he shouted for his supplies, going through the procedure step-by-step. Morphine. Bullet out. Cauterize the farther lung wall, delicate work, if it wasn't done right, she could have permanent breathing problems. Cauterize the front, antiseptic, bandage.
John stepped back, pulling off his gloves and dropping them onto the tray. He had blood on his jumper, a common occurrence nowadays. He had sent Jim to get more for him, and the selection he had brought home had been an adventure to go through. Many of them had been keepers, but others had just been appalling, covered in fake flowers, or buttons, or something equally disturbing.
He pulled off the jumper over his head, and shook out his hair. The others were still moving, cleaning up the materials, adding information to their phones, texting superiors. John had very little of this trivial work to do. Jim insisted that it be done for him, and that he focus on the actual treatment of the patients. And, of course, he was also the sit-in listener to Moriarty's rants, and evening storyteller/chef.
Jim had offered to get someone else to cook the food, and John had taken him up on that offer on days that the hospital room couldn't spare him, but for the most part, he preferred to cook, and the kids preferred his meals, so things evened out. Also, it was one of his favorite parts of his day, cooking beside Jim.
He set up a plan with Kathy for the length of stay, supervision, and morphine dosage. He checked the woman once more, ensured there were no immediate problems, nothing he had missed, and then headed back into the connected flat. Sammy was waiting for him in the living room. He settled down beside her with a tired sigh.
"So, how long are you here for?"
"Three days, I think."
"Well, we'd better make the most of them. What do you want to do?"
"Can we go visit Jim?"
"Mmm, I don't know. He could be busy."
"Phone him. Please?"
Ten minutes later, they were heading towards the black door, with Sammy on John's shoulders.
A/N: Yay, I'm back! Well, guess what? It's winter break, and THAT means that I'll be posting a lot more over the next couple weeks. Yep, that's right, one or two chapters a day. Perhaps we'll be done by the end of the break, who knows? We're just over half-way done now!
Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews, especially you, K, whoever you may be. Your review deserves a review, because it was amazing in itself. And all of you other people; you're awesome, you make me laugh and continue writing.
So yeah; let me know what you think of what's happening, if I've got a plot hole, if my Canadianism is showing somewhere, or if you approve of my winter break extra-posting! I love you, one and all.