A/N: Hope y'all are enjoying! Revella has been a huge conspirator with this fic, so you have her to thank for the regular postings, as she keeps me moving forward with her shared excitement. Enjoy!
Today was the day. Jim sprang from his bed, as empty as he wanted his heart to seem. He walked to the window, throwing it open so that the sun burst into the room and flowed over his pale skin. So like his….words unbidden from his mind as he remembered last night. Then reality intruded on his daydreams. Sherlock Holmes was not his yet, and nothing had actually happened. But that would be rectified…soon. He looked out over the grass beyond his window. The mansion and holdings were vast and isolated. The property of an elderly heiress to a wealthy family whose fortune had been made in the Americas but sent home to England. There wasn't much family left to inform of her passing (that hadn't been opportunely taken care of, anyway), except for an estranged nephew conveniently located at the last minute: Mr. Richard Brooks. He smiled at his play on words as he scanned the perfectly manicured lawn. It truly was a beautiful home, and in just the perfect location to place them out of mainstream society's roving eye. He continued smiling as he contemplated the day's events to come.
They would be going shopping. Car shopping. Well, they would at least look like they were anyway. He needed to begin testing Sherlock's moral fiber, though he suspected that without John's grounding influence, it would be closer to his own. And so they would shop, test drive, and…..not come back. He laughed a little. It was perfect. He would be the one driving and stealing, true, but Sherlock would know beforehand what they were doing, so that he could still be considered a participant in the event. And it would also be the first time he would allow Sherlock out of the direct watchful eyes of his men. It would be just him, and Jim; any backup support that Jim had access to would be a goodly distance away; so if the detective tried escaping, he would be caught. But Jim would know then that his techniques weren't fully effective. A test, of sorts, if one wished to put definitions on such things. He had a sneaking suspicion, though, that it wouldn't come to that. And that…that, was worth any minor inconveniences in between. He stretched up towards the ceiling, basking in the warm light. Sherlock was his; he just didn't know it yet.
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Pale eyes opened to the sound of an orchestra, light and faint, drifting through the doorway. Vision centered, then focused on the ceiling above him; he placed the sound. Dvorak: Concerto for Cello. And I'm the odd one, then? he snorted. Not that there was anything wrong with the music in general; it just seemed a strange choice for an early morning song to be running over the intercom system. He moved to raise his arm above the duvet and froze at the feeling of fabric against his skin. He distinctly remembered falling asleep in his sheet…and only his sheet..…what was this? In one quick, violent motion, he yanked the coverlets and sheet from his body and gazed downward….to find himself fully clothed, except for a suit jacket. He did an internal scan of his garments by feel. Trousers: check. Undershirt: check. Dress shirt: check. Socks: check. Shoes: check. Underpants (what the bloody hell?!): check.
But he didn't rise to the bait. He wants me to become unhinged, unbalanced; and thinks by doing little things like this, he will chip away at me slowly. So he simply sat up and threw his legs over the side, looking toward the wardrobe with an idea forming. Yes, perfect, he thought as he pushed off from the bed and over to the clothes waiting within that construction. However, his ideas of changing from the suit Jim had obviously preferred dimmed considerably when he saw the contents. There before him, in orderly fashion, hung perhaps 15 replicas of the very suit he was already wearing, just each in a shade slightly different than the one preceding it. He growled softly at the cleverness of this ploy. And he turned from the double doors, leaving them hanging ajar. His eyes roamed aimlessly as his mind sought solutions in the remainder of the room. They skid to a stop as they slid over the knife at the bedside, a smile finally making its way across the carefully blank countenance he usually put forth. He wondered absently if they were still recording his room. I'll know in a minute…...
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Jim sat at the far end of the sturdy, oaken breakfast table awaiting his 'guest' before dining himself. His eyes were glued to the doorway through which Sherlock would be coming any minute. He smiled inwardly at having had his people dress the detective, knowing the other man would find it unappealing (at the least). And he chortled a bit at the thought of the look on his face. But then his eyes flew wide as Sherlock rounded the corner, walked quickly to a seat about five feet from Jim, and plonked down casually. The sheet had made another appearance, it seemed. It was draped over himself much as it had been last night, and one edge slid off of the detective's thigh as he settled back, leaving no doubt as to his returned state of nudity beneath.
Seeing as how this was Sherlock Holmes, Jim's surprise lasted for no more than a few seconds before his eyes narrowed and he asked lightly, "So…..sleep alright?" He toyed with a fork in front of him, mirroring the detective's nonchalant manner. Allowing the other man to think he'd gotten one up on Jim was never an option. The wild haired man before him merely nodded in confirmation of his sleep quality, and he shifted a bit, causing the sheet to reveal ever more skin beneath, this time at the shoulder. This unconsciously drew Jim's gaze until he realized the ploy for what it was. The oldest trick in the book, but one normally plied by those of the opposite sex. He immediately recast his gaze to focus on his fingers, which splayed before him on the table top, before speaking.
"We'll be going out today, Sherlock, to a place where we'll need appearances very much intact." Jim ran his eyes loudly over the enveloped large child seated at the table with him. Still no verbal response from the other man, but there was an almost inaudible grunt of half-acknowledgement. Jim's eyes narrowed, and his voice lost its cheer, leaving only deadpan, "You need to change." The detective merely shrugged, causing the sheet to slip even further from the shoulder, revealing the clavicle beneath it. Though his stare did not waver, Jim knew it was obvious to both that he was quite aware of that move. However, seeing that the game he played would lead no farther, Sherlock finally chose to respond, chin held high in childish petulance.
"Can't."
"Why not?" was preceded Jim's sigh.
"Nothing to wear."
…..? "What are you on about? Just put the suit back on."
" 'S gone."
"Gone?"
"Yyyep."
"Well, then there's others in the closet," a bit more perturbed now.
"Gone, too," Sherlock retorted, examining the ceiling above now as if he hadn't a care in the world that he was basically naked and held prisoner by the greatest criminal mastermind of their time. And an insane one at that.
Moriarty stared Sherlock down, wondering at the man's responses when the detective suddenly reached under his sheet and pulled forth the suit he had woken in. He plopped it on the table, across a dish of fruit, where Jim could clearly see the shred patterns the knife had created throughout the garment. It looked as if a mad badger had attempted eating it, and afterward just gave up and shat on it instead. Jim ran a finger along the fabric and pinched one of the new 'tassels' between his fingers, face almost disbelieving as he glanced back up at the sheeted man. Sherlock's gaze never left his as he said slowly, and with a deeply serious tone, "I'm sorry," his eyes sparkled, "There were no survivors." And silence hung thick as Jim mouthed the words 'no survivors,' leaning back into his chair and placing a hand lightly over his mouth…..before beginning a slow smirk underneath…..that beget a full throated laugh. Was this what Dr. Watson dealt with on a daily basis?
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Unfortunately for Sherlock, a tailor was actually part of the staff, James being as conscientious of appearances as he was. And within a short couple of hours, the detective stood before a mirror in a recently altered Armani (the only grudging compromise he could wring out). And damned if he didn't feel at least a little bit more himself now. Might still shred it, though. Tell him I wanted to see which brand was the most durable of the two. He gave an almost invisible half-smile at the thought.
Once dressed, Jim presented himself to Sherlock in all his posh glory, having chosen an autumn brown suit that gave his eyes a certain accentuation. The way the other man moved through a room was with total confidence in his own abilities and power. It was captivating to watch him order his underlings around. Men who hadn't a tenth of Moriarty's intelligence, chosen for their skills and dedication more so than anything else. They feared James, that was obvious to any who observed their interactions. But though they may be afraid of their leader, if anyone dared threaten that self-same man, they would turn on the person in question like rabid dogs. As Jim finished speaking with a man who bustled off to bring a car around, he spun to face Sherlock, eyes almost amber in their eagerness for the day to move on. If it wasn't for the obvious insanity that swam so near the surface of those eyes, Sherlock could almost be fooled into believing the man before him was an honest one. Almost. But no; he wasn't.
Much to the detective's surprise, Jim reached into a closet and brought forth the Belstaff, which he spun on display before playing the part of a gentleman helping a coat on. Sherlock sneered at the image but accepted the long coat nonetheless. It felt secure, grounding, to have it around him, though he couldn't place why. He felt more himself with it on than like some dress-up puppet of Moriarty's. Jim noticed the change in him, too, it seemed, because his smile actually turned genuine, reaching his eyes for once and blocking the evil within. Curious… They left shortly after in a long, dark car, with long, dark windows. At which Sherlock had muttered, "Cliché," as they climbed inside. Every amenity one could ask for on a prolonged drive greeted him upon his entrance. A fully stocked mini-bar, TV, and snack tray. Soft leather interior with small travel pillows. Jim merely smiled as the detective stared at objects he found ridiculous to have in an automobile.
Once settled, the car pulled off from the main building. Then Jim and Sherlock stared at each other. Hard. Each assessing how to best handle this new situation, environment, in which they found themselves together. The consulting criminal was the first to break the silence, throwing his arms wide and kicking a leg up over his bench seat in a show of complete nonthreatening relaxation. Sherlock tilted his head as if studying the body language and leaned back somewhat himself as the other man spoke.
"So, you'll want to know where we're going," he stated. The detective grinned, watching as the lawn passed them by quickly. He turned his head as if he were merely going to pass the time with his observations. Silence continued to hang until just before they turned onto the main road to travel back towards London. Back to his 'friends,' his family. Mycroft. Sherlock's eyes darted over to Jim, who had a knowing smirk. The look put Sherlock off initially, as it gave him the impression that Jim knew what he was going to say. And just as he opened his mouth, the criminal cut him off…
"Yes, I know what you're thinking. But Sherlock, surely you know better?" The detective glared back at him, and Jim only smiled wider, saying, "You're thinking about the coat, your Belstaff, the tracking device Mycroft has in its hemming. Yes, it is still functional and will begin to signal in another few miles." Again, Sherlock stared at Jim, but this time with a touch of curiosity. "Yes, I left it alone…..but I also made others." Jim turned his head to gaze out at the passing countryside, "Fourteen others." He laughed a little and turned back to the man across from him. "Now, shall I tell you about the car we're going steal? It will be so fun, Sherlock!" The man looked just as a child on Christmas morning. But then, he adopted a thoughtful posture momentarily, "I haven't stolen a car, in person, since I was…oh….twelve." The idea seemed to cause some small amount of giddiness as Jim laughed harder and said, "Ah, but now it will be so much more fun with an accomplice."
Sherlock feigned indifference, though he could recall various experiments in the past which would have resulted in better data had he been able to steal various things, including cars. So the idea itself was appealing to him. Not as a criminal past time, mind, but as applied to certain theories and postulations he had made in the past about such things. But something had stopped him. What was it? Mycroft used to, but then for the last two or three years, he couldn't seem to remember his brother ever having had to step in. Why not? He cleared his mind and gave a short, "Mundane," before settling back down to enter his mind palace and evaluate this odd turn in his life. Moriarty rolled his eyes and pulled out his mobile, texting away as his own arch nemesis reclined dramatically across from him, his smirk never leaving.
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Mycroft's heart jumped as his computer's alert began. A few seconds later, the same notification was blaring on his cell phone. He looked at both screens, disbelieving. Sherlock. Sherlock….. After almost two weeks, finally a ping on the tracker in the man's coat. He had hoped against hope that it would be overlooked by someone, anyone, in Moriarty's employ. And just maybe it had. Yes! He began to issue frantic orders to those around him, and called DI Lestrade on the visual communicator. The worn and weary looking DI came onscreen within 30 seconds, seeming as if he must have run headlong from his office to get to the Yard's Board Room.
"Yeah, what is it?" His anxiety clear through his tone.
"Sherlock. The tracker. I'm sending the feed and the access. Pull it up on your side. We need everyone. Now!"
Greg nodded, not one to question. He was more a man of action. He called his team around, briefly outlining what was beginning. And they all turned as the larger projector brought the picture to their eyes. A digital map of London and the area immediately surrounding it appeared before them. And there, moving across one side of the map, was a small red blip. Sherlock Holmes. Finally. A collective, yet silent, peal of excitement rippled through those witnessing it. A communal feeling of resolve gathered within everyone present. They may not all agree with, or particularly care for, the detective's manner or methods, but they couldn't argue how much prestige their department had gained through his observations and assistance through the years. They owed him, at the very least. He was one of theirs. And then everyone was moving quickly back to their respective stations with renewed urgency and vigor. Mycroft could be heard through the speaker of Greg's earpiece.
"I am sending a team by air now."
"I'll cover ground, then, mate."
"Good. Good. Now, if we can…"
"Boss!" Mycroft was interrupted by one of Greg's officers yelling across at him. The man had remained staring at the screen, but now was focused on a different point. And Greg's heart dropped as he followed the gaze. Simultaneously, he heard the elder Holmes curse, vehemently. For there, on the screen, as he slowly approached it, was another red blip. And then another. The thrill of a minute before turned to jagged ice as more and more red dots began to incur on the map of London. He whispered into the now chilled atmosphere as he watched.
"Mycroft."
"Yes?" came a distinctly off key answer.
"Are any of these even the real Sherlock?"
The line went dead.
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Jim giggled as he held his phone to his ear, and the detective cracked an eye to locate the source of his amusement. This prompted an exaggerated finger-over-the-lips 'shhh' gesture from the consulting criminal. He seemed to be calling someone important. Maybe. And then he began to speak slowly, teasingly.
"Hello. Did you miss us? How do you like my little game of Marco Polo? No no. Don't speak. Just. Find. Us." And he hung up, looking triumphantly over at the reclined detective, who returned his look blankly. Jim spoke again, "Your friends at the Yard, and Mycroft, too, I would imagine, just had their communications cut for about twenty seconds so I could let them in on the little game I'm playing." The detective rolled over, facing into the seat, choosing to ignore the dig. "What they initially thought was your tracker returning their homing calls was just the first of the other fourteen copied trackers that I have entering the city at various points." He laughed again, this time at the other man's back. "Yours is still there, too. But it's mixed with the others. And they don't have the manpower to seek out all fifteen. So this outing will be doubly fun, don't you think?" In answer, Sherlock merely pulled his Belstaff tighter around himself as they traveled ever closer to his friends, who would never know if he had really been there or not. While to himself, he thought, Just. Find. Us.