Then
Chapter 4:
Three men stood inside a yellow taped sector staring at a crime scene, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and Greg Lestrade. They were in Mrs Hudson's apartment, a small box of a room coated in sugary wallpaper and dotted with` purple furniture. By the half in sat the instrument used to take the lethal blow to the elderly woman's head with a small trickle of crusted blood on the edge, just a simple knife handle, and a small black cassette tape sat next to it. No fingerprints, no DNA, no mistake. Nothing.
Sherlock leant down and took the tape.
"Guessing you've checked for fingerprints." He muttered, raking his eyes over the strange object like a starving man. John rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Any ideas?"
Sherlock ignored him and brushed through the door. They stumbled after him, up the stairs of Baker Street to his apartment. The detective ripped through the messy of the room throwing papers aside. Eventually he pulled out a cassette player from piles of papers. He shoved the tape in, and pressed play. A quiet rustling echoed though the room, and then came a voice. A child's voice.
"Did you miss me Sherlock? Has it been boring? No chance to be the hero when I'm not around. No fun is it? Well don't worry. You're not the only one who can play dead. But our little game of hide and seek is over Sherlock. The east wind is coming, it's coming to get you."
They stared down at the cassette.
"He's… Back…?"
Sherlock turned his back to them. The cassette player dropped to the floor.
"He's back? But Sherlock you said-"
"It might not be him." The detective snapped, rummaging through more drawers.
"It could be anyone posing as him."
"But that was a kid?! Jesus Christ. He's got a kid." Lestrade said.
"How the hell could he fake his death? The bullet tore right through his brains? It's not possible."
Sherlock blanked them out, rubbing his temples and flickering his eyes through mazes of facts and solutions.
A child.
Moriarty, or fake Moriarty, had kidnapped a child.
He had sent Mrs Hudson into a coma.
And now he had left a message. An utterly meaningless message meant for nothing but mockery, to trickle fear into the minds of his opponents. Sherlock didn't want to admit it, but it felt like Moriarty. A man who thinks it's all a game.
"Now what?" Lestrade asked.
"There's no evidence, no leads, nothing. Do we just wait?" John exhaled slowly. Sherlock slammed the drawer shut, and a smile graced his features. Not a nice smile. A cold smile.
"I need to speak with an old friend."
"What?"
"Who?"
"Kitty Riley."
"So this is it?"
"Yes. Unless I've remembered incorrectly."
"Like that'll ever happen." John muttered. Lestrade rapped on her door. After a moment it opened, a blue eye peeked around the door. It narrowed instantly.
"Who are you?" She said. Lestrade flashed her his police ID.
"May we come in?" She sighed, the eye closing for a moment, before she opened the door fully, revealing a small corridor into her house, and a white bathrobe wrapped around her figure.
"Guess I don't get much choice-" She glared at the other two.
"They stay outside." She snapped, pointing to Sherlock and John. Looks like she recognised them. Lestrade frowned.
"They are helping with the investigation I'm afraid. Sherlock told me you were an 'old friend'?" She scoffed, running a hand through her fringe, making it stick up at weird angles.
"Yeah right. This man ruined my career. Set it back by at least two years." She stalked over to Sherlock, who stared down at her impassively. If anything he looked amused.
"Do you have any idea how many journalists there are at my door? All begging for a tiny snippet of James Moriartys life? Of his personality. Do you have any idea how embarrassed my editor was, how long it took to get back to the pathetic place I am now." She glared up at his, eyes glinting dangerously. Lestrade gently nudged between them. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Hang on, what are you talking about?"
"I think Miss Riley is referring to the lies she published in the paper concerning James Morirty's innocence and my guilt. I assume her newspaper didn't take the mistake too kindly."
"Shut up you bastard! You've messed up my entire bloody career! You don't even have the bloody decency to apologise-"
"Alright, alright. That's enough." John said, dragging Sherlock to the side.
"Miss Riley," He continued, "There has been an attempted murder, and we suspect that one of Moriartys henchmen is still out there. Any information about him is extremely helpful. Please. We need all the help we can get."
Kitty bit her lip, glaring at them stubbornly.
"Please?" Lestrade tried. Eventually she sighed and rubbed her eyes.
"Fine. Come in then." She muttered. They walked inside, sitting on her living room sofa.
The main room was small. Frames of maps and photographs smothered the wall in splattered memories of sunnier days, a cranky TV set slouched across from them, and an oak table stood like an ancient ruin by their side, looking as if it could topple at any moment.
Kitty left for the kitchen, and the scream of a kettle began.
"Old friend?" Lestrade snapped at Sherlock. John sighed and shook his head.
"God knows where he got that one from."
"You really think she can help us?"
"We're about to find out." The detective whispered. She marched back in armed with mugs of steaming coffee that she put on the table, the structure wobbling dangerously. She fell into a small chair opposite them.
"So, to what do I owe the pleasure?"
Lestrade sipped his bitter coffee and explained the murder and their reason to suspect Moriarty. Sherlock closed his eyes, leaning back against the sofa he dwarfed, cold leather tickling his neck. Lost in the darkest recesses of his mind. John watched him, curious. He was so cold. So distant. Not even a blink of emotion had cracked through his metal exterior when he saw his friend, their friend, lying in the hospital bed. Or if it had, he'd missed it completely.
He wondered what it would be like to feel nothing.
He wondered if that's how Sherlock felt.
"Miss Riley, any information you can give us at all about him is crucial. Please." Lestrade finished. Sherlock cracked his eyes open. Kitty sighed, rubbing her forehead.
"I don't understand why you're asking me for help."
"We have no leads, and you lived with him for sometime. We 're looking for any sort of strange behaviour or anything."
"Well he was a murderer. He wasn't the most normal of people." She sipped her coffee, nestling deeper into the scratchy armchair before continuing.
"He said weird things. Hated anyone touching any of his files and papers. It was kind of like living with a stressed businessman. Went berserk if I so much as went into his room. Other than that he was nice. Easy going, understanding, funny. Just a typical good guy I guess."
"What were the files and papers? Do you know?"
"No. he said they were about work stuff. You know, acting scripts."
"Didn't it bother you? I mean why would he be so protective over them?" Her throat tensed, her lip stiffening. She fumbled her hands on her lap.
"No. Why would it? I wouldn't like people snooping around my stuff either." She stared into her steaming drink, biting her lip. Sherlock sat forwards, eyes narrowed.
"You're lying." He said. She blinked, glaring at him.
"Why the hell would I lie? He's a bloody murderer! I want him gone as much as you do."
Sherlock stared at her. She could feel his eyes burning into her soul, raking out the truths like an animal scavenging for a sent. She shifted slightly, turning away from him.
"Are you afraid?" John said. Her eyes went icy cold.
"I have nothing to hide. He's gone. Why would I be scared?" She said. The three men exchanged glances at her poorly concealed lies. She was hiding something. It was obvious. But what? She watched them, irritated.
"Anything else?." She asked as she sloshed the cold drink on the table and left the chair, walking around the room to tidy up some papers.
"Would it be okay if we looked through the room Moriarty stayed in?" Lestrade asked. She folded her arms, eyebrows dragging over blue eyes. Like she couldn't decide. Sherlock categorised every flicker of her face, filing it away to evaluate later.
"Fine." She said. "But there's nothing there. It's pretty empty really."
She led them to a smaller room, consisting of peeling wallpaper, an empty bookshelf, an oak desk and a small bed. Dust floated in the air like a thick fog, glimmering in the golden sunlight peeping through drawn blinds, casting zebra-like stripes across the room.
Sherlock draped his eyes over every detail to the human eyes.
"Where did he keep these papers?" John asked. Kitty pointed to the desk.
"They were piled up over there. Not neatly either." Sherlock frowned.
"And you never saw what was on any of them?"
"No." She tapped her fingers against her elbow. Nervous energy? Sherlock wandered around the room, peering behind the furniture and under the bed.
"He took everything with him when he left." She said. John nodded. Sherlock stopped. Lestrade glanced around, expecting some sort of clue to appear before him. There was nothing.
"There's nothing here." He muttered. Lestrade nodded in agreement.
Then he did something completely un-Sherlock. Patience with the lying woman burnt out, he marched over to Kitty. And grabbed her shoulders, glaring at her dangerously.
"Sherlock get off her! Now! That's an order!" Lestrade yelled, grabbing the detectives arm, John grabbed the other, but it was like pulling iron.
"Sherlock stop it!" The doctor snapped. Kitty leant back, away from him, eyes wide and breath in short staccatos.
"What are you hiding." He snapped.
"Nothing! Get away from me! You could be arrested for this-"
"Oh trust me, I'm not going anywhere until you give me some answers. Tell me."
"I don't know what you're talking abo-"
"TELL ME." He roared suddenly, shaking her roughly.
"GET OFF ME. I'VE DONE NOTHING WRONG. GET AWAY FROM ME."
"SHERLOCK STOP IT NOW." John yelled, Lestrade finally pried his hands off her and yanked him back.
"Jesus Christ." Lestrade snapped, struggling with the childish man. Sherlock pulled out of his grasp, and stood still, staring at the floorboards stoically. Kitty shivered, anger bubbling through her features.
"Get. Out." She hissed.
"Miss Riley, we're sorry-" John began.
"GET OUT." Lestrade dragged a silent Sherlock through the corridor and out the door into the freezing weather, the morning sun tickling his hair. John paused just in front of the door. Kitty glared.
"Leave before I call the police-"
"Please, if you know something like Sherlock thinks, no matter how terrible it may be or how terrifying, you need to tell us. If this really is Moriarty, there will be more than just one dead body on your conscience." She faltered slightly, face unsure.
"Please." The doctor tried again. Her lower lip wobbled. It was like watching a broken clock, stuttering between two choices. For a moment John thought she would tell, but then the anger returned like a venomous snake and she shoved him outside, slamming the door and locking it tightly.
"What the bloody hell was that Sherlock!? Getting mad solves nothing! We could've gotten the truth if you hadn't been so stupid! Now we'll be lucky if she doesn't call the police!" Lestrade snapped. The detective smirked coldly.
"She won't call the police." He stated, walking out to hail a cab.
"Oh yeah? How can you be so sure." He yelled over the roar of London traffic.
"Because we've got the truth." And he held up a single key.
I'm sorry that chapter sorta sucked /:-l And I know how it's taking me agesssss to update I'M SORRY! LIFE IS SO BUSY! And I'm just so good at procrastinating…
Thankyou to all my lovely reviewers: (And now I'm going to respond to them in the Authors Notes, because I feel ungrateful just ignoring them)
TwilightMortal: Ummm… The wait wasn't thaaatttt long right? SORRY!
Piglet7722: I shall try ;-) And thankyou for reviewing!
Teekee-Cha: Glad you enjoyed! And I promise to try and update faster J
InMollysWildestDreams: Yes! Bring on the darkness! Dark Sherlolly is always better than the lighthearted stuff to me J Maybe I'm just strange…
Pleaseeee review? Prettyyy please?