The Strange Case of Doctor Watson and Mister Ives
Part Three: Strange Bedfellows
John slowly swam back to consciousness; his entire body throbbed like a bruise.
He was lying on his stomach and he felt the sheet was pooled just above his waist leaving his back bare to the room.
To his consternation, someone was idly running nails up his back tracing the grove of his spine, gently playing with the scar tissue at his shoulder.
"Good morning," said a feminine voice.
At least I hope it's female; there was that time in Kabul. Never drinking that much again!
The problem...when he went to bed early the night before all done in, he was alone wearing his jim-jams and on cotton sheets, now he was lying on silk sheets with an astronomical thread count, with a woman in his bed, and he was starkers!
Before his association with Holmes he would just assume that he was living the results of a VERY good night at the pub. However, since he met Sherlock, he had learned to be paranoid.
He turned slowly to see who it was he was sharing the sheets with.
She had flawless cocoa skin and large brown eyes, it was the face that could grace pages and advertisements, if you were going to wind up in the altogether with a stranger, this was not a bad choice, and she was wearing just a red satin chemise and doing a grand job of it.
She looked confused at his face for a moment. "I must have been a little into the sauce last night, I could have sworn you looked different," she commented as she traced the lines of his face. "Still cute though."
He tried not to show his concern as he inquired, "Who are you? I failed to catch a name."
She laughed; it was deep rich and throaty. "Oh that's alright, handsome, we skipped a few steps."
She held out a hand in a ridiculous show of propriety, "My name is Irene, but my friends call me Addie, I think after last night, you can call me whatever you like."
He took her hand and gave her his most pleasant smile, "Addie it is."
She tilted her head letting a lock of ebon hair fall over one cheek, "No need to introduce yourself, Howard, I went ahead and checked your wallet."
"Oh, how very enterprising of you," he replied carefully keeping the confusion out of his voice.
She traced his cheek. "Well at least the dimples are the same, I would love to have another go, but I have a meeting to get to, do you need to use the shower first?"
He shook his head. "Oh no, you go first, I insist."
She smiled. "I have to say, you are not the man I thought you were last night, definitely more of a gentleman."
She kissed him on the lips, he responded in kind, she touched his lips afterwards with a wistful smile, "If you choose to leave before I get out, I will not only understand, but I think it would be for the best," she said with a sigh.
She pulled a pink robe to her and made a show of putting it on, revealing enough long perfect thigh to make John wish he remembered what happened in those lost hours, then without a backward glance she swept across the large bedroom and slipped into her bathroom.
John slid his legs over to the side, with a quick glance under the covers to confirm, yep, not a stitch.
He found an expensive pair of silk boxers dangling from the slowly circulating art deco ceiling fan, they looked his size but he could not remember ever wearing them, they slipped on perfectly, the rest of the clothing was easy to find as there was a trail leading through the expensive loft from the bedroom to the door. He followed and donned the items, even though he could not recollect ever wearing them before they fit like custom made, and far from his usual shirts, jumpers and trousers, these were designer labels with names even his fashion phobic mind could remember hearing. Instead of trainers, there were leather shoes that fit his feet without an millimeter of leeway.
He did not want to jump to conclusions, but there was a spot on the left one, it had a deep burgundy tint that reminded him of blood.
He felt a weight in his pocket, and he pulled out an expensive wallet.
The face on the idents was fuller and more rugged, the eyes were dark and the smile had an emptiness to it that chilled him on a level he could not express. The names were all the same.
Howard H. Ives
He patted the pockets down looking for his cell.
He pulled out a newer smartphone out of one pocket, and his own out of the inner coat.
The new smartphone was blinking, it had a recorded message, and it was listed under...
Press play, John.
He secreted it in a pocket and looked at his own, predictably there were forty-nine new text messages, and while he was watching it passed fifty.
The latest one:
Where R U, John? If U were going to step out for a shag U should have said something! New crime scene already sent the address. I need U! Tell her goodbye and get here!
Sherlock
John leaned against the door wearily.
What the bloody hell is happening to me?
He checked the folio for cash enough for a cab, and a chill went up his spine when he realized there were varied currencies in the stack, up to a 500 pound note and it had another suspicious red drip on the queen's face!
He heard the shower stop, and he made his decision. He left the apartment and made his way down an tasteful space age elevator to the front door, he tried the trick he learned from Sherlock by walking towards the door like you are going to make the doorman's life misery if he dare say anything, he swept by through the door held open and gave the man a curt nod at the good morning.
Maybe it was the air he put on or the clothing but he had never gotten a cab so effortlessly before, it was waiting at the curb before he even had to wave.
The sun was too bright for his suddenly expressed pounding hangover; another pat down of his coat pockets produced a pair of shades more expensive than his pension check for a year!
He slipped them on without comment and fished around for the new phone.
He pressed play.
Hello, John, my name is Howard; I think it's time we met...
~-o0o-~
Sherlock received a text:
Sorry. Just woke up, need a shower will be along shortly.
John
"What is so important about that particular biological imperative, I will never understand!" Holmes grumbled.
DI Dimmock was about to answer when Lestrade reached out and tapped his elbow shaking his head to let the moment pass.
They were in a high rent apartment in the Mayfair district, the victim's lodgings were opulent but tasteful, and he was found with some of the most advanced high-tech gizmos Lestrade had ever laid eyes on, the purpose of it was to make fake idents, and from the quality of the work, the dead man must have been beyond good at his craft. He was even able to fake embedded holographs.
"Anyway, Mister Holmes, the neighbours said they heard a real pleasant conversation going on in the hallway, then around 10:25 last evening, there were several uncharacteristic power surges that lasted until near midnight, and then the neighbour heard someone leaving, they were whistling", he checked his notes, "I want to break free" by Queen," Dimmock informed looking up with a hopeful expression.
Lestrade watched the two interacting, it was technically Dimmock's case but yet another message written in blood tied it to his killer's MO. He was perfectly fine with someone else taking Sherlock's abuse today, especially since John Watson suddenly decided to have an actual social life.
He knew that other Yarders had noticed changes in the smaller man, and he saw some symptoms that he found alarming himself, but until help was asked for...Sometimes women were easier to deal with.
He watched as Holmes whirled around the flat making terse comments about the intelligence of everyone in range. Anderson had taken the brunt until he began staring at Lestrade's sidearm too longingly for the elder Inspector's liking, so he sent the man out of range.
Right now Holmes was ruminating about Dimmock's choice of career while the younger man swallowed his anger and wrote down salient details. Lestrade admired the younger man's determination, Lestrade had suffered his own trial by fire with Sherlock, but the help to his career was dramatic, and Dimmock had ambition. He would need it.
Holmes squatted to look at the victim, and then backed away across the room, then he walked over four steps, then two more...suddenly he leapt up on the couch to Dimmock's shock, and held out a hand to the two men, snapping his fingers impatiently.
"What do you want, Sherlock, just say it," Lestrade called his voice tinted by bother.
Holmes sighed. "John always knows."
Dimmock got that fish out of water look that he seemed to only have around the detective as Holmes kept holding out his hand, suddenly someone reached by and handed Sherlock a Swiss Army knife with the Phillips screwdriver extended.
There stood John Watson, hair still damp looking worse for wear.
Holmes gave the other two men a triumphant look as he began to unscrew the grate.
They both nodded to John in their relief, but Dimmock did a double take at the man's pallor and lost weight.
"Aha!" Sherlock crowed, heading off any inquiries.
He pulled a web cam out of the open grate; it had a cord leading off.
"I thought the way this was staged was deliberate," Holmes exclaimed, "the way the chair was adjusted and the message on the wall. There was a live feed leaving this apartment, and the show was for them."
Sherlock spun and dropped to the floor announcing to the room. "This was one of Moriarty's operations, the man likes to watch but stay insulated from the fray..."
"Oh really, Holmes," Watson remarked, "and the message in blood on the wall, "Tell Jimmy I'm coming for him," wasn't our first clue?"
While Sherlock shot him a withering glare, Watson turned around and got his first glance of the victim.
He winced. "Is that his meat and two veg?"
Dimmock nodded while Lestrade studiously looked elsewhere trying not to smile at the irritated Holmes.
"Well," John commented with a grimace, "whoever this killer is, you've got to admit he knows how to make a statement."
~-o0o-~
The rooftop doorway opened and Moriarty strolled out fashionably late as usual.
He was alone as was the agreement.
He took his time sashaying over to the tastefully appointed table with the gentleman standing beside it leaning on an umbrella looking put out.
Without another word they sat down, it may have been civilized but these two men were not friends.
"Soooo...ask." Moriarty opened flippantly.
"How did you get it?" Mycroft demanded, cradling the end of his umbrella his knuckles white.
Moriarty smiled and poured himself some tea, Earl Grey...how pedestrian.
"Now, now, Mycroft, it wouldn't be polite of me to rat out my sources, I'm like a reporter that way."
"A reporter does not kill people for a living, and inject dangerous experimental serums into innocent men," Mycroft spat.
"No, but a politician does, you getting so indignant at my behaviour is really rather hypocritical of you, wouldn't you say?" Moriarty replied stirring in some milk and sugar. "Besides," he continued in an offhanded manner, "if John Watson was truly innocent we would not be having this chat and I wouldn't have two men in the morgue as we speak, one tied into a rather elaborate knot and the other...well let's just say the man is inventive."
Moriarty helped himself to a pastry. Then he pulled out an astronomically expensive smartphone out and initiated a video turning it toward Mycroft and hit play, he watched as the bureaucrat examined the image enjoying the wince at his personal favourite part.
"I think I'm going to need a new counterfeiter," Moriarty remarked flippantly in a sing song voice, "that man was the best I ever had, was with me for years, and this crumpet is exquisite!"
He smiled at Mycroft as he chewed. "The diet is coming along splendidly by the way."
Mycroft wrapped his cool demeanour back around himself like armour. "We are not here to discuss semantics," he stated.
"And the fact that two of your men who were keeping an eye on your brother and his pet have turned up hanging upside down by their heels still alive but only just, with surveillance devices that will need surgery to remove?" Moriarty replied. He nibbled and sipped while Mycroft studied him across the table.
"You really are very well informed, Jim, you only exist because I allow it, as you well know," he stated after a few moments of scrutiny.
"I'm the only reason someone hasn't flown a jumbo into Big Ben," Moriarty replied with a wave, "I have eyes and ears where your organization cannot reach, we've had this discussion and it's getting rather boring to be honest."
Mycroft leaned forward, his chin resting on his umbrella. "You are aware since your recent threats on my brother's life that I am very close to deciding security be damned you are too arrogant to live, so why are you being so flippant? What do you have that you feel will back me down?"
Moriarty dabbled at his lips and smiled. "Because I have the one thing that your "file" did not include, an antidote, and as soon as Watson's alter ego makes his move on me, Jekyll formula or no, he will die in a way that would give Josef Mengela nightmares."
"Preposterous," Mycroft replied, "there is no such thing as an antidote, the program never advanced to that point, the subjects we were using were expendable."
Moriarty grinned like a shark. "There was a concern that one of your "expendable's" would get loose, and wreak all sorts of havoc, so they created an antidote but kept it out of the notes, there were some in that facility with a conscience despite your careful screening who used it to try to reverse the results in some of the patients. However, the formula only worked halfway, the mental damage was permanent, and only one survived the withdrawals."
Mycroft suddenly developed a chill. "You were a subject?"
Moriarty stood and placed his folded napkin on the table. "Thanks for the lovely chat, old bean, but I really must dash."
He took the time to glance back over his shoulder just before he slipped out the door.
Mycroft sat staring off into space, a man who looked broken in spirit. Probably contemplating how he was going to relate to his brother that he might be responsible for the creation of his most dangerous enemy.
Moriarty chuckled as he began his decent. Poor man, looks simply dreadful...Splendid!
Part 04 coming tomorrow