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Ch. 3-Happiness in Black Ink
When Sherlock first regained consciousness, he was aware of the soft mattress beneath him, and the heavy sheets on top of him. He also felt a dull pain on the back of his neck, but the thought of why he felt such pain unnerved him, so he went back to focusing on the other parts of the room around him. Not opening his eyes yet, Sherlock listened carefully for any sounds that could give away any clues about his room. For a moment all he could hear was the bed rustling upon the movement of his chest as he breathed in and out, until a shrill voice cut through the silence.
"What do you hear?"
Sherlock's eyes popped open at this, but the rest of his face remained completely neutral. It wasn't too surprising that Jim was in his room, for the man did have a tendency to watch over him as seen by the many hidden cameras Sherlock had found in 221B.
"I was in the middle of listening for sounds when you rudely interrupted," came Sherlock's calm but fierce reply. Turning his head, Sherlock spotted Moriarty staring at him from a corner of the room. The consulting criminal was sitting in the only chair present in the small area, with a file filled with papers in his hands and a grin on his face.
"Yes, well, I was waiting a long time for you to wake up you know," he spoke, like he was explaining something to a five year old.
"How long was I unconscious?" Sherlock sat up, blinking his eyes a few times as they got further adjusted to the light.
"Just eight hours or so," Jim responded nonchalantly, picking at his nails. "But you were out cold, didn't even wake up when I moved you. When was the last time you bothered to sleep?"
"Because of course I fainted due to a lack of sleep rather than you ripping my hair out and threatening me with a tattoo needle," Sherlock hissed back, but this snap only made Moriarty's grin widen as he got up from his seat, stalking over to Sherlock's bed slowly. The detective's nerves froze as Jim came uncomfortably close to Sherlock's bedside and placed the file on his lap, eyes never leaving his neck.
"You look good with a tattoo my dear," the words caused the hairs on Sherlock's neck to stand straight up, and goosebumps to form on his arms. Even with his stoic exterior, Sherlock couldn't help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth hearing this. Anger coursed through him as he thought of Jim Moriarty defacing him with the vile ink. But as his eyes traveled to the file on his lap, he knew it held the information he needed about the first target. So with a deep breath, Sherlock didn't respond to the comment and opened the file, beginning to read.
Jim didn't say anything either, leaving the bedside and heading for the door to the room. It was only when he was almost out of the quarters when he looked at Sherlock one last time.
"When you're done with your reading, you can come join me in my office," he spoke with a smirk. "And don't try to do too much poking around, you might end up angering a few snipers." With a wink, the consulting criminal disappeared, the door closing shut with a click.
Immediately Sherlock flew out of the bed, heading straight for the other door in the room, that he could only assume was to a bathroom which held a mirror. Upon opening the door, the detective indeed was greeted by a bathroom, with a fairly sized mirror hanging on the wall in front of him. Pulling his shirt off in one desperate tug, Sherlock turned so that his back faced the mirror, while he strained his neck to turn and around and see what it said. When he finally was able to make out the tattoo, a large lump formed in the back of his throat. His nostrils flared in revulsion, and his knuckles turned white as he tightened his hands into fists. He was outraged; how dare Moriarty do this to him.
On the back of his neck were two small black letters:
JM
Mycroft walked calmly down from his room at the Diogenes Club into his car. Upon getting in and becoming comfortable, he gave the driver the address; Scotland Yard. As the car pulled out from in front of the building, the elder Holmes looked at the passerby with disdain as he subconsciously deduced little bits and facts about their lives. Goldfish. All of them.
Normally Mycroft wasn't the one traveling, rather he usually had his clients conveniently taken to a destination of his choosing. However, that was often done for intimidation, and as it was shaping up that he might need a certain ally from London's finest police force, he didn't want to show off his power play and annoy anyone...yet. So Mycroft just sighed and passed his time by looking out the car window and making up little stories about everyone who he saw for an instant. What he could deduce immediately was twisted and evaluated until Mycroft had invented lives for at least fifty people, with most of the stories being fairly accurate.
However, upon his arrival at Scotland Yard, Mycroft signaled for the driver to stop, which the man did. Thinking back to the matter at hand, the backbone of the British government calmly opened the door and stepped out, looking around as he saw officers and detectives milling about. His subconscious began to look and scan again, but he quickly walked from the car into the building, where he almost ran into the man he so wanted to see. Detective Inspector Lestrade was nearly flying out of the door with papers in his hand, most likely on a lead that would turn into a dead end and cause the Detective Inspector to head to the flat 221 B for help. However, before he could get the chance, Lestrade was met with Mycroft's tall and sturdy frame, leaning on his umbrella and taking up all of the doorway.
"Look buddy could you move please?" Lestrade asked, not seeing exactly who was standing in front of him as he was trying to get out to get on a case. "If your here for a report, one of my officers can talk to you-
"Let's not waste time Detective Inspector," Mycroft cut him off. "We both know that those papers in your hands aren't very useful and neither is the lead you're most likely rushing out for, and you'll be going to my brother's flat by the end of the day after no progress."
Lestrade stared at the elder Holmes for a long moment before speaking hesitantly,
"Mycroft."
"Gregory."
Lestrade continued to look at Mycroft, not speaking or breathing for that matter, until he let out a gentle sigh and turned back toward the inside of his office, away from the door.
"I assure you Gregory, this matter is of the utmost importance," Mycroft explained as he followed the Detective Inspector into the building, tailing the man as he was lead through hallways and around corners until they reached Lestrade's own office. After the elder Holmes had slipped through, Lestrade shut the door and walked over to his desk, motioning for Mycroft to take a seat. After doing so, Mycroft began.
"It has come to my attention that Sherlock has...disappeared," he began.
"Disappeared?" Lestrade spoke the word, cocking an eyebrow. "So he isn't at 221B?"
"No," came the reply. "He left some time around noon yesterday. The last person to see him was John. Then he disappeared."
"But I thought people under your watch didn't disappear," Lestrade looked up at Mycroft. "Isn't that...sort of...your job?"
"Which is why it's more alarming," Mycroft responded. "It doesn't concern me when Sherlock wants to disappear from society, what unnerves me is when he slips from under my gaze, and this is the second time recently he has done so. The first time I thought it was mistake, but I should have known better. Whatever he is doing, he is deliberately trying to avoid me."
"So he's trying to avoid authority," Lestrade picked up. "Criminal intent?"
Mycroft paused, admiring Gregory for his cleverness before continuing.
"A smart conclusion, but my brother has never bothered for laws, Gregory, and doesn't concern himself with what label they give his intent."
"He could have been captured?" Lestrade suggested. "Maybe he's being blackmailed. Moriarty has returned, perhaps something's happening with the two of them."
"It appears that that is the most likely conclusion," Mycroft sighed, holding his head in his hands. "I was hoping you might be able to offer an explanation that differs from my own but it appears not. I'll have to get looking right away, the longer my brother remains in the presence of Jim Moriarty, the less likelihood of me being able to rescue him."
"Anything I can do?" Lestrade asked.
"No Gregory," Mycroft spoke as he rose from the chair. "You have already done so much for me by listening to me. I ask one thing though."
"Anything," the Detective Inspector replied.
"Don't tell John." With that ominous warning, Mycroft was walking out of the office, leaving Lestrade seated at his desk with more than a headache.
Sherlock always liked a new environment to analyze and decode, but there was something about the underground mansion of Moriarty that made the excitement double, and pushed him around corners and up stairwells that he knew he wasn't supposed to be exploring. He really couldn't help himself though; everything in this place was full of deductions, little bits and pieces that kept pulling at Sherlock's attention, dragging him down another hallway and then another and so on. Jim had given him the task of finding his office on his own, but Sherlock doubted the criminal had wanted him to go this far off the beaten path. Then again, maybe the mastermind was watching him on some secret camera footage right now, getting a kick out of the consulting detective playing super sleuth. Going with the idea that the second scenario was more likely, Sherlock decided that if he really did go somewhere Jim didn't want him to visit, the criminal would have guards there in a minute or two to haul him away.
However, just because this place was interesting to explore, didn't mean Sherlock felt comfortable here. His excitement and fear were battling inside him; every corner he turned he expected to see a gun pointed at his face, every hallways he walked down he suspected a booby trap somewhere in place. And beneath those emotions, there was anger, rage at Jim Moriarty for what he had done to his body. Sherlock's neck pushed out a constant ache, reminding the detective every minute of what was now a permanent part of his skin. He had suspected that Moriarty might have given him a tattoo, but he didn't think the man would mark him like a piece of property.
Sherlock was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn't pay attention and pushed through a door that clearly wasn't marked 'Jim Moriarty's Office'. What he came face to face with was indeed a revolver, pointed right at him. At the other end of the gun was a hard looking man, taller than Sherlock with brown hair, brown eyes, and scars all over his body. He was definitely in the military, as seen by the absence of shaking in his hand as he held the gun, but there was something far more sinister to this man than what met the eye.
"Sherlock Holmes," the man said casually, not moving a muscle. "What a pleasure it is see you again."
"The pleasure's all mine," Sherlock quipped just as casually. "Sebastian."
"Would you like to get that gun out of my face?" Sherlock took a step closer to Moran, watching him to see his reaction. He had to learn more about this man, test his limits.
"Would you like to get yourself out of my office?" came the reply, and with that, Sebastian took a step closer as well, so that the gun was within an inch of Sherlock's nose. After a moment of silence, Sherlock was able to read even closer into Sebastian Moran at such a short distance. And his reading told him everything he needed to know.
"I was curious to see when Jim was going to get you out of prison," Sherlock rattled on, still unfazed by the revolver.
"He got me out the day after you came," Sebastian explained. "Seems like perfect timing that you gave me the message and he broke me out so I could give it to him."
"Timing is one of my strong suits," Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.
"Perhaps," Sebastian eyed Sherlock, looked at the door, then slowly put down the gun. As he was placing it on a nearby desk, Sherlock caught sight of his wrist, his eyes pulled to the familiar JM in black ink on his skin. Sebastian followed the detective's line of sight and quickly covered it, meeting Sherlock's gaze with a scowl.
"So will you please get out?" he snapped. At this, Sherlock looked at Sebastian one more time, before turning to go. Upon opening the door, he was stopped by the sniper's words behind him.
"He smiled when I told him about you, about your request to see him. He was so happy he couldn't sleep that night. Always so happy when it's about you."
Sherlock wasn't sure if these words were supposed to comfort or annoy him, but all they did was put him on edge. Moriarty's obsession with him had been one particularly hazy subject; the criminal made it appear like he obsessed over Sherlock but the detective had never been sure if it was just part of the act. Hearing someone else observe Moriarty's behavior and reach the same conclusions was shocking. Leaving the doorway, Sherlock didn't utter another word. Instead, he walked through the criminal headquarters at a much faster pace, trying to find the criminal who was always happy to see him.
The criminal that deep down, even though he pushed it way down and never admitted it, he was always happy to see.