Chapter Four - Dark Movements

James Moriarty removed the toothpick from his mouth and rolled it between his forefinger and thumb. He replaced it between his teeth and leaned back in the office chair. He glanced around the spacious offices of J.M. Enterprises and scowled in dissatisfaction. Though his present quarters were adequate, they were just not up to his usual standards. This was the third time in six months he had moved the headquarters for his nefarious operations. Each time he had been barely ahead of the authorities. Moriarty again plucked the toothpick from his mouth and angrily threw it in the bin. At first, he had not given a thought about who was behind the failure of some of his most profitable operations. Rival groups were always on the lookout for a takeover. But with each attack it became more and more obvious who was behind it all. Someone was targeting operations that had aided him in framing Sherlock. At first he thought of Mycroft Holmes; some of the actions could defiantly be laid at that sneaky bastard's feet. But there were other things that fit a far different pattern. Moriarty had played cat and mouse games with Sherlock Holmes too often not to recognize his work. Only this time he was the mouse and Holmes was playing a very successful cat. Somehow Sherlock had managed to fake his fall from the rooftop at Bart's. Moriarty was convinced of that. He knew it was entirely possible, after all he had faked his own death. Sherlock was clever and could easily have done the same. The playing field had been Sherlock's choice and, to some extent, even the time frame had been in his control. Moriarty thought about what he had seen from the rooftop that day and how he himself would have staged it. Oh yes, Sherlock was very, very clever.

About a month ago he had begun hearing rumors about a master mind operating in London using a select group of homeless street dwellers. This group was not the usual druggies, mentally disturbed or luckless victims of societal fallout, but rather a disenfranchised counterculture of people who lived on the streets by choice. Working under the government radar and unknown to authorities, this group had been systematically destroying Moriarty's influence in the criminal realm. It had to be stopped and stopped quickly.

Yesterday had brought a breakthrough. His men had captured one of the peripheral people that worked with this group. He would soon know more about what was going on.

A discreet knock sounded and Patrick, his secretary, slipped into the room. "Denton is here sir, he's ready to make his report."

"Send him in."

Patrick nodded and held the door open for a medium height, slightly overweight man to enter. John Denton looked nervously about the room, crossed the intervening space and stood in front of Moriarty's desk.

"Well?" Moriarty barked. Lately he been more on edge. He didn't bother with the niceties of offering a seat or refreshment. "What did you find out?"

"Err, I'm afraid not very much sir," Denton answered in a Midwestern American accent. He winced at Moriarty's deepening frown. "I'm afraid the man is dead sir."

"What?" Moriarty shouted. He glared at Denton, stood up reached across the desk and grabbed the man's lapels, pulling him across until their noses almost touched. "Why in hell did you let that happen?"

"It wasn't on purpose sir. He just up and died on us. How were we to know he had a weak heart?" The man's nasal twang whined. It grated on Moriarty's nerves. "He just shit his pants and keeled over dead. We hadn't even messed him up much."

"Did you at least learn where Holmes is?"

The man gave a shake of his head and grunted as Moriarty's hands released and roughly shoved Denton away from him. "Did you get any information at all out of him?" he asked.

"We did find out that for the last three months the leader has been moving around a lot and changing his looks. Before that he was shacked up with some bimbo."

Jim Moriarty moved around the desk until he was standing directly behind Denton. "Some bimbo, some bimbo," he repeated the words as if tasting them. The man's vocabulary was appalling even for a American. "Is that all?" He growled.

"I'm afraid so sir." Denton continued to face forward even as Moriarty stepped up close behind him.

Moriarty felt his rage peak. This stupid git had cost him valuable time with his bungling. He reached up and grasped Denton's head under the chin, turned it in a sharp snap up and to the right. The neck made a satisfying crunch as the vertebrae separated.

"Your report has been duly noted." Moriarty said as he walked from the room. Denton's lifeless body slumped to the floor. Moriarty casually waved to Patrick, standing nervously in the room outside.

"Take care of the mess and get me Wannaka. Tell him I want him here in ten minutes or he's dead."

ΙΈ

Mycroft leaned back in the comfortable leather chair in the gathering room of the Diogenes Club. Steepling his hands under his chin, he frowned thoughtfully. Most of the chairs in the room were occupied, but silence was broken only by the faint rustlings of turning newspapers. The serene atmosphere here usually soothed him, but today troublesome thoughts kept him unsettled. Mycroft was in a reflective mood. His thoughts tuned to the past.

Most people stumble through life without giving much thought to destiny and order. All of his life, Mycroft had known what life had in store for him. To him, the Homes obligation was most important. He thought of Sherlock and about how different things had been for his brother. How had it gotten so out of control? Mycroft felt old.

For two hundred and fifty years a Holmes was at His or Her Majesties secret service. Always working behind the scenes, the Holmes operatives were among the most influential in recent British history. It was a matter of some pride that Mycroft's father Vincent had groomed his eldest son for the position he would someday hold. When that time came, Mycroft smoothly stepped up and began his career in the "Holmes business."

Mycroft excelled in the British intelligence community. He was particularly accomplished in the areas of planning and strategy. His ruthlessness and daring earned him the nickname of "The Iceman" by his opponents. If something needed doing, Mycroft Holmes could be counted on to see that it was done properly.

Mycroft took pride in his job. It had pained him greatly to have to deal with his little brother's rebellious ways. Sherlock was an embarrassment that Mycroft greatly wished would change. Born seven years after Mycroft, to a mother who was barely still in child bearing range, Sherlock had been an inconvenient arrival. Marie Vernet Holmes had casually passed the infant to a succession of nannies and tutors. It wasn't that she didn't love her youngest son, it was just that she was so busy. There were so many functions to attend and committees to supervise. Sherlock had adored Mummy. It was a pity that she had so little time to give him.

Mycroft could hardly remember Sherlock as a boy. He was only home during school holidays and thought of Sherlock as the child who lived with Mummy and Father. He was a whiney child, perpetually getting on everyone's nerves. His parents ignored Sherlock's complaints of unjust treatment by the staff. At least until there had been that unfortunate situation with the tutor. The tutor had been taken care of, but not before he had caused some considerable damage to Sherlock's emotional health. Mycroft suspected Sherlock's aversion to neckties was a result of that very event. Father had not been unduly concerned. These things happened in the best of families. His only comment was to the effect that Sherlock should be a little man and stop complaining. Mycroft had gone back to school without a further thought.

Sherlock had been bundled away to live with Grand mere Vernet in France. Mycroft conceded that Grand mere was probably Sherlock's salvation. For the first time he had received the love and attention he craved. He had been such a needy child. Grand mere absolutely doted on him. She introduced him to the violin and taught him to appreciate the arts. Her love was unconditional and Sherlock had thrived. Mummy had received detailed reports of his progress. From the ages of seven to twelve, Sherlock bloomed and honed his keen intellect. When Grand mere had reported that Sherlock had taken up shadowing the groundskeeper from morning to night, Mummy was concerned. But she had been reassured. Clever Grand mere, knowing of Sherlock's aversion to tutors, had hired Paul Sargon to pose has her gardener and to befriend Sherlock. From the grounds keeper, Sherlock was introduced to the power of observation and deduction. Often, the two could be seen together crouching over one plant or another discussing its medicinal properties. It was the closest thing Sherlock was to know as a father figure. But all things come to an end, and when Sherlock was barely twelve Grand mere died. Sherlock returned to the Holmes estate. By that time Father had passed on and Mother was increasingly remaining in her rooms. It was up to Mycroft to provide discipline and instruction to his increasingly rebellious brother. It had not gone well. To put it bluntly, Sherlock had been hell to deal with. In university he added drugs to the increasing list of his shortcomings. Mycroft was constantly having to bail Sherlock out of one scrape or another. He had been determined to do the opposite of anything Mycroft wanted.

The latest rebellion had been a few years ago when Sherlock had not seen any reason to continue the tradition of Holmes family service in government. It was most annoying.

At age thirty-five, Mycroft had decided to marry. This too was about family and tradition. He needed to be young enough to groom a son for service. He chose a girl from a good family and set about courting her. Always one for details, Mycroft felt it was only fair that he have a physical exam himself before requesting his bride-to-be do likewise. He was very disturbed to find that he was sterile. Ending the relationship had not been difficult, he had been more upset about the child that would never be. But there was a practical solution. As in the case of royalty, the Holmes family had a heir and a spare. It was time for the spare to do his duty. Mycroft set about accomplishing the deed. Sherlock, however, had other ideas. No amount of pleading or logic could sway him. In fact, Sherlock discontinued his limited association with the opposite sex, claiming he was bored with women. It all added up to spite. Up until the day of Sherlock's death, Mycroft had entertained hopes of someday changing his mind. Now tradition and service would end. Mycroft was sad.

The whole wretched affair involving Moriarty was partially his fault he admitted to himself. Mycroft shifted in his chair as he turned his thoughts to more recent events of the past few months. He acknowledged that something was seriously amiss. Events were occurring that were out of his control. He did not like that. Sometimes when his men moved into a situation, it was to find the targets bound and gagged, waiting to be taken away. Or as in the case of today's incident, the papers were leaked information that caused certain dodgy businesses to collapse. No, he did not like it one bit. This had been going on for several months. It was as if a vigilante had gained enough power and influence to take all these people down. Mycroft didn't believe in Batman. How had this happened right under his nose? This was the work of professionals no doubt, but who? It irked Mycroft.

An assistant with specially muffled footwear silently appeared beside him and offered a silver tray containing a large white envelope. Mycroft picked the letter opener from the tray and slit the top of the letter open. Nodding his thanks, he replaced the opener onto the tray and watched the assistant glide silently away.

Unfolding the crisp white paper he read silently, frowning in agitation. It had happened again. Scotland Yard had mysteriously received information proving a well known bank's involvement in money laundering and fraud. This was the bank which Sherlock had once mentioned was connected to Jim Moriarty's complex web of criminal activities. Whoever these people were, they were targeting Moriarty's operations. After Sherlock's death he had determined to rid the world of Moriarty and his associates. Now someone was beating him to the punch.

A growing suspicion solidified as Mycroft tilted forward in the chair. The motives were there, the style was right, and even the arrogance of not including Mycroft fit. He was reminded of one of father's favorite axioms, "when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." It had to be. The evidence was conclusive, Sherlock was alive! A tiny smile touched the corner of one side of Mycroft's mouth. "Baby brother," he thought, "you've surpassed yourself this time." Mycroft pocked the report, lay his folded newspaper on the table beside his chair, stood, and walked to the door. Outside, he retrieved his mobile from a pocket and summoned Anthea. He had calls to make. Mycroft was a man of immense power. If Sherlock was behind all this, he would find out.