A/N: OMG. First, let me just thank Revella once more for her adamant support of my pitiful Sheriarty efforts on this portion of my fic. Second, folks may want to just go look at this Bugatti Veyron World Record Edition prior to reading the chapter so they have an idea of what's going on. The link provided below is of course typed out in such a fashion so this site will allow it to post. Anywhere you see the word "dot" or "slash" you should of course replace with a "." Or "/" if you wanna see this monster car Sherlock and Jim are after:
www dot Bugatti dot com slash en slash super-sport slash 360 slash world-record-edition dot html
Also, for those not great at conversions, 415 kph is equal to about 260 mph.
They arrived a good twenty minutes later, Sherlock still annoyingly "absent," and Moriarty brooding on how to get the other man to play his game. They pulled into the dealer's lot, bypassing the older models on display outside. For what Jim proposed, they would be thieving the vehicles that were kept indoors. Always. The driver was well aware of his role already, and continued maneuvering past the point where the, shall we say, less affluent would have known to stop. But not Richard Brooks, newly inherited bachelor of the late widow Chervase's fortune. No, he could spit on one of the various models, and the show personnel would simply keep smiling, perhaps even pointing out a more interesting place for such oral ejaculate.
Sherlock had made a change in position that caught Jim's eye. The other man had pulled himself quickly into an upright posture, gaze roving all around them through the tinted visual provided by the windows, categorizing, analyzing, seeking…and then he faced Jim as he realized he was being watched, rolled his eyes, and feigned indifference once more. He straightened his coat and prepared to lie back down, but then something caught and held the detective's awareness before he completed the action; and that subtle interest was noted and thoroughly enjoyed by the consulting criminal. He had been anticipating it. And as the dealer's emblem came into view, Sherlock's breathing altered only slightly, subtly…but enough so that Jim knew he had piqued the man's finicky curiosity. The emblem rolled on by them as they entered the posh garage at the far end of the premises: Bugatti.
A well-dressed man in his mid to late forties greeted them as though they were the royal ambassadors of some wealthy nation, his fawning at the door of their vehicle sickening. Moriarty himself was used to the kind of nonsense enough that he didn't even register it as he stepped from the vehicle. But Jim noticed that Sherlock had made no move to exit with him. For this to be a successful trial, he needed at least a minimum of participation from his guest (prisoner). Direct menace was immediately discarded as an option. And threatening those 'friends' still within the registry of the detective's memory would do nothing but reset the walls that Jim was so carefully dissolving the foundations of. Perhaps a different sort of threatened violence? He smiled disarmingly back in at the detective before saying something low enough for the salesman not to hear.
"You know, Sherlock, I had planned this to be a fairly simple act. Nonviolent even." He fingered his lapel as he spoke without looking directly at the other man. "I may have to make it a bit more interesting without your involvement, though. I do get bored soooooo easily." Another wicked grin, and with that, Jim was away from the car and headed toward a lineup of some of the world's most expensive automobiles. The detective remained behind in the darkness of their ride, thinking as he watched the carefully coiled violence of James Moriarty trail behind the oblivious salesman. No indication of awareness crossed his features for long minutes as he did this, observing. He didn't care one way or the other about stealing the car. Truthfully, he just hadn't wanted Jim to feel he held all of the advantage; that he, in effect, controlled Sherlock. Not allowed. So now, how could he participate, possibly saving the lives of the sales staff, and yet remain apart as though not following where James led him? He mulled the problem over and over, seeking and probing. And as he continued passively observing the smooth and polished act of rich, snobbish pride that rolled so easily from the consulting criminal's shoulders, an idea passed him by. A good one. A fun one. An interesting one. And so he paused. And snagged it. And smiled…
"No, I don't think you understand; I don't like the way that one looks with my suit today," Jim said in a flatly disinterested, yet still somewhat petulant, tone, not even really looking at the vehicle in question. The salesman fretted about him like a tiny bird, nervously trying to decipher what the odd snob before him would find appealing. He had gotten Mr. Brooks' credentials earlier that morning by fax, and so was well aware of the kind of affluence before him. There was no barrier to this one financially. He could have any of the available products on the line. Several even, if he so chose. But the three models he had just introduced had been met by the same bored, lackluster response. Perhaps more of a sporty type? He told Mr. Brooks to please be patient with him, and he would bring around a model that was sure to agree with his meticulous tastes. This suggestion was met by a noise that was barely able to be translated as an agreement as the pompous ass merely toyed with his mobile. Apparently, eye contact wasn't merited for those of the lowly sales staff. Taking his cue, he hurried off to get the aforementioned car.
Moriarty looked up as the fourth car was pulled away from the pack of other vehicles. Ah, that would be it then. Yes. Nice. Very. He studied appreciatively the sleek angles and lines of the pure machined artwork approaching him and slowing to a stop. And then a sound that many would call girlish (not to his face) erupted from him as a pair of long arms suddenly encircled his waist and drew him back against a body taller than his own. His phone, nearly dislodged, was caught, saved by his barely clinging fingers; and he felt a warm breath stir the hairs at the base of his neck. His heart jumped a bit, and he felt a rush of what seemed to be both fire and ice shoot through his veins as a baritone smooth as milk flowed out and over his skin.
"Lonely back there without you, James. Have you found me a present yet?" Sherlock said clearly as the salesman got out of the car next to them. Such was the change in the detective's voice and manner that Jim actually spun in surprise to stare back at him. The open faced, smiling angel there before him was not Sherlock Holmes. Oh my, God, it was not. This…this, was something else. A new facet of his enemy's character. A sociopath's mimicry of expected behavior. It both worried and excited Jim that he hadn't been witness to this aspect of Sherlock until now. After all, know thine enemy…he told himself. But he wasn't able to speak a word aloud before the detective practically slithered around him, hands becoming possessive and playful around his hips as he gushed over the car. "Ooohh, what is it, dearest? It's very pretty!" The detective strolled around it, running long fingers lightly, worshipfully, over its frame. And Jim almost laughed, laughed, aloud at the theatrics of it all. Sherlock came back to him and grasped his hand tightly. He pulled Jim closer to the deep, silver-gray carbon fiber automobile with orange accents.
Jim barely noticed as the salesman finally replied to the detective's question, still bemused at the handholding and acting. "It's the latest Bugatti Veyron; a 16.4 Super Sport World Record Edition, sir! At 1200 horsepower, it tops out at 415 kilometers per hour. But that's mostly just a safety feature for the tires because speeds higher than that aren't healthy for them, you know! It's a beautiful machine, and very fitting to you and your….um…your…?" Sherlock glanced at James, so easily playing the besotted lover, and replied while looking into Jim's brown eyes.
"Fiancé."
"Oh, congratulations then, sirs!"
"Why thank you. We're just newly into it really," and Sherlock winked at the salesman, "And he's already out trying to woo me again with things like these. Presents." He gestured at the purring vehicle before them. "He does spoil me so." The salesman grinned, looking for all the world as if the two men before him were the center of his universe. What do they pay these people for the rental of their souls? wondered the detective absently as he continued his act. Then the man stepped aside for the couple and opened the door.
"Test run, gentlemen?"
Sherlock spun, clasping his hands together as if giddy with delight, "Oh, can we, James? Can we?" And Jim, struggling to remain in his cool and snobbish façade, nodded the affirmative. Sherlock leaped into the passenger seat, immediately reaching over and retracting the roof, creating an instant convertible. He continued chattering on, as if oblivious to the other two men there.
"Oh, yes, James. This is perfect! You see here? The coloring of the upholstery will blend with your dandruff problem so as to be almost unnoticeable in between detailings." Jim frowned in confusion as the other man continued. "And these seats…they're perfect for your chronic hemorrhoids!" Jim's stare went wide…..then got harder as the other man barged along. "Oh! And see? The leather seating is also an excellent choice because it doesn't hold odors within as easily as fabric does. So your excessive flatulence won't be such an issue." The detective leaned over as if speaking solely to the salesman, with a hand up alongside his mouth for the perception of privacy, "You could never imagine what we went through with the last car and its plush seating." He gave a dramatic shiver. "It was something else. But you know…" He glanced at Jim, who now stared stone-faced back at him, "They say love is blind…and apparently anosmic as well!" He gave a laugh and then a 'come on' gesture of impatience to the consulting criminal, who stalked quickly to the driver's side and sat down stiffly. Sherlock gave a lascivious wink to the salesman before running his hand along Jim's inner thigh and saying, "Come now, James. Don't be shy. Show me how well you ride..…I mean drive."
James Moriarty's left eyelid gave a barely visible twitch; barely visible to anyone but Sherlock, who knew he'd won this round as the car's perfect engine roared to action with a violent downshift, and they swung about swiftly, heading for the gate. The tires gripped the pavement as though in love with it, propelling them ever faster to their getaway. The salesman was about to protest when Jim's driver came from behind him, placing a rag over his mouth. The man was quickly unconscious, and soon then the driver, too, was speeding after his boss, weaving around the lines of other automobiles on the lot. Staff from other sections saw the speeding vehicles, and it would only be a matter of minutes before they made the connections and began calling the police. But that, that, was part of the game, too!
Twenty minutes in to the run and they were back onto the country roads. This time on the opposite side of the city from where the mansion was located. For the most part, the lanes were long and winding, at times curvy. James took them all as fast as kinetically possible, wind whipping their hair and clothing all around them with the top dropped back. Adrenaline made up for the usual human reflexes, allowing snap judgments and taut muscles to perform above their normally assigned values. And unexpectedly, Jim was surprised to find himself smiling. He hadn't actually done much real thieving since his highly vertical rise to prominence in the criminal underworld. This was refreshing. It was nostalgic. He looked askance at the man beside him. It was fun!
He snapped out his phone and drew out a cord to connect it to the Bugatti's sound system. He flicked his thumb over several selections before settling whimsically on 'Happy' by Pharrell Williams. He laughed as the first notes erupted, and then Sherlock's head whipped toward the stereo system as the words spilled out, thinking he'd fallen into a twilight realm of craziness. And then Jim began to bounce with the music, waving his arms around in a parody of dancing, and mouthing the words…..making a grand ass of himself in the process. And now Sherlock was sure of his slip into another dimension… But Jim didn't care. He dropped the clutch, downshifted, and punched it…hard. The tires spun for but a second before catching and jettisoning them further into the top of the vehicle's RPM range.
However, after the first run of the chorus, and much ass-making, Jim noticed that Sherlock had returned to his 'usual' state of disinterested flatness. The exuberant (and handsy) detective of the dealership had returned to the deeper hells of the taller man's mind. Real or fake, this current act was annoying as all hell, and Moriarty wanted to have fun. He slowed the car considerably, and then yanked the wheel sideways, mimicking a racing drift. And the car slid to a stop that had them both slung side to side a couple times. It wasn't until they had come to a complete stop that Jim realized just how fast his heart was racing. It really had been a long time. Too long. He chuckled slightly and then looked across at the detective.
Silver-blue eyes met brown, the detective's returned stare carefully blank and neutral. Jim cocked his head to the side with a winning TV-commercial-smile, saying in sing-song mockery, "Funny. You don't seem happy." If it was possible, the detective's eyes grew even more distant, and he turned to face away over the side of his door. Jim set the car in park and turned himself to face the recalcitrant and childishly peevish Holmes, studying his profile intently. Strategy… Need to engage him somehow. I know he's enjoying this. Doesn't want me to know, though….what to make of that? Hmmm… Need to make this good for him. Fun. And he needs to associate the good feeling with me. Reset his memories. Alter his perspectives….. But first…start small, simple..…smile, Sherlock.
"What will it take to make you smile, Sherlock?" The sudden shift in focus made the detective reassess and shore up his boundaries, though he still wasn't sure as to why he found it necessary to do this. It seemed instinctive around this man, though. He made as if brushing imaginary lint from his shoulder as he replied offhand, "Returning me to Baker Street would be a good start." This was greeted with a wholehearted sigh from the consulting criminal, who turned to the other man and threw an arm across the back of the passenger seat.
"Come now. We both know that that isn't quite what you want anymore, Sherlock." And the detective merely shrugged in response, staying aloof. Not to be dismissed, Jim continued, this time reclining himself back into the seat and staring up at the slightly gray sky, "What can we do, right now, that you would like? Something of interest to that odd brain of yours. It can be anything, Sherlock." He turned his head so that his peripheral vision could just barely encompass the man beside him as he finished, speaking with perfect enunciation, "Anything."
The detective blinked, his eyes sliding sideways to the man at his side, seemingly engrossed in his own thoughts for the time being. His vision then returned to its central track as he said softly, "Run it off a cliff." Jim's head perked up and turned, "Eh?" Sherlock's mouth turned into a half-smile as he repeated himself, laying his hand lightly upon the dashboard and facing Jim now, "Run it…off a cliff." Those silver eyes sparkled across the short distance at Jim, and the criminal felt a thrill run through him. Anything, Sherlock. He asked the detective, carefully, "You want…to drive this car…off a cliff?"
"Or just blow it up. Whatever's easier." Jim felt warm all over as he saw just a tiny spark of his own brand of crazy reflected within the depths of the taller man's shining orbs; and he nodded as he put the car back into gear and selected another song from his playlist. Now this, this would be fun.
A short while, and one totaled Bugatti, later….
Jim lay on the grass, panting up at the still gray sky. His sides ached, his ankle was sprained, and his left arm felt like lightning was coursing through it. He turned his head to the side, gaining a new bit of painful data as he did, and saw the outline of the detective pushing up from the ground. His eyes closed for a second from the painful, sweet bliss. The detective staggered a bit, arms flailing. His gaze turned towards the ledge where the car had gone over, then back to the ground. He looked down at his suit and coat, and then brushed at its front ineffectually. A sound was heard by both, but neither admitted to it. It may have been giggling. Jim groaned a bit (on accident surely) and the taller man began to limp over to him in response.
Jim's gaze returned to the sky as Sherlock came up beside him, staring down like some large stupid bird, dirt and twigs in his hair. He looked to be in a state of total disrepair, but better off than the consulting criminal for sure. And then he smiled, wide and genuine, down at Jim. And with no filters in place due to the pain he was in, Jim smiled, too; though his left shoulder intruded, making it a half-grimace at the end.
Sherlock noticed and quickly reasoned the cause of it. Jim took a sharp intake of breath as the detective reached down and gripped the arm in question as the sound of helicopter blades began to fill the air around them. The detective placed his foot between the supine man's clavicle and shoulder…..then yanked the arm violently sideways. A loud and wet pop filled the air, followed almost immediately by a cry of painful surprise, as Sherlock let go of Jim's reset shoulder. He took his foot off of the other man and almost stumbled over, just barely catching himself. Jim calmed his breathing down somewhat, taking many shallow breaths, but feeling much improved now as the detective spoke, having to yell over the sound of the approaching helicopter.
"Nice trick I picked up. I've had it done to me before several times by…by…someone….?" He looked confused when the memory wouldn't surface and continued slowly. "…..anyway, many times; so I'm familiar enough with the process." Jim nodded up at him and achingly began to haul himself up with his uninjured arm as the chopper came to hover about 15-20 feet off of the ground short distance from them. A ladder was rolled out of the side, and Sherlock watched it impassively, unmoving, as it fell to the ground. James took the initiative and tugged at the detective's sleeve in its direction, not wanting to have to yell to be heard; and both of them then limped over. By far, it was Sherlock in the better condition, so he threw an arm through a rung, stood on another, and pulled Jim beside him, hooking him close with strong arms as Jim held on to one rung and the detective before him. The pilot must think nothing of taking off with his boss's only assurance of safety being the arms of his sworn enemy because they began to lift from the ground shortly after becoming situated. And truthfully, Jim didn't think on it overly much either. Part of the thrill of living like he did was the risk, the lack of a safety net. And even so, he didn't feel the danger. Not now. Not with the (his) detective's arms wrapped so tightly about him.
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John tore the door of Lestrade's office almost off its hinge as he burst through it. He had obviously run up from the ground floor as soon as he had leaped out of a cab. Greg stood in a slow and nonthreatening manner, realizing the man before him was about at the end of his rope with stress and worry. The doctor spoke hurriedly, not waiting on polite conversation, "Where? Where are we looking at it? Where is it?" And the DI pointed at his screen, indicating the scene thereon. John swung quickly around the desk and fell into the DI's chair as Greg selected the security footage from the Bugatti dealership to start over again. He pointed for John.
"Here, you can change cameras to see different angles. And here, you can move forward or back in time."
John's heart pounded as he watched the scene unfold, and he heard Greg's shifted stance when Sherlock exited the same car that Moriarty had. His eyes drank in every detail about the detective. He seemed healthy, unharmed. He didn't look to be coerced at the moment. So…. Why were they there? What was Moriarty playing at here….? His thoughts trailed off and imploded, and he watched with growing confusion/shock/horror as Sherlock's arms slithered around the other man's waist. He changed camera angles and watched as the detective whispered something intimately into the other man's hair, looking like nothing more than a sly and coy fox. John didn't register the next minute or so of film as his brain needed additional time to focus on processing what he had just seen. Greg seemed to sense this, too, as he leaned over and paused the video.
"Before you ask…No, I don't have any idea what's going on here. I mean, I know what it looks like. But, it's possible it's a ruse, right? Don't believe everything you see on TV and all that, yeah?" John turned to face him, eyes bleak with confusion. Then Lestrade clicked to restart the footage as John spoke up.
"I….I'm sorry. I honestly don't know what to think. About any of it." He gestured at the screen. "At once, I'm just glad he's alive; but then I'm worried what could happen next." He sighed, the days of stressful living evident in even such a common expression. "There's no way I'll ever believe that Sherlock was willing in this. I know him, Greg. For real. I mean, it's Sherlock. He was kidnapped. Who knows what that cruel bastard is doing to him? Or what he's threatened to do to him?" And the DI nodded in agreement, remaining silent so the doctor could vent. Then John noticed the date on the film, instantly hitting new depths of despair. "This is from yesterday?! How are we this far behind him?!" And Greg explained the multiple decoys and the resultant wastes of time, finishing up shortly and trying his best not to further upset the doctor.
"I know. I know. But besides the decoys, he also had someone scramble the security codes at the dealership so we couldn't access the footage until today." Greg groaned in frustration, pacing back and forth a few times before speaking again, "Always two steps ahead, dammit! And now, not just Moriarty; Sherlock's looking guilty as well." John began to stand at the implication he heard, but Greg pushed him back. "No. No, mate. Not me. Never me. But…..you know what Anderson and Sally saw on that tape? They saw the proof they've always wanted. Was like a fuckin' holiday to them!" He swiped his silver-shot hair back with a frustrated hand, "And they've already run it before my boss." John sputtered at that, but Greg staved him off once more. "Don't worry! Don't worry. At least, not this time. I've cooled the situation quite a bit already. But it still doesn't change what you see on that video." He and John both turned back to face the monitor, which Lestrade had stopped, frozen again on Sherlock holding Moriarty's hand.
"And then there's this," Greg said softly as if he had forgotten, and he pulled something from his pocket. John took it from his hand. Another Polaroid. This one showed the detective's profile, hair being wind-whipped about as he rode shotgun in the car beside Moriarty. His carefully blank expression was back in place, in stark contrast to the beaming stranger from the dealership; here, he was again cool and untouchable and….and….Sherlock. What is this about? It made no sense. The back of the photo just said, 'Do you miss me?' His thoughts were interrupted by Greg.
"We found the car some miles away…..ran off a ledge….not much left. But no sign of those two. A couple locals said they either saw or heard a helicopter go by overhead, but that's nothing we can even track anyway." His eyes stared dismally at John, who found he wasn't ready for words again yet. Sherlock…his friend… He shut his eyes tightly and took a breath. This wasn't helping Sherlock. He opened his eyes once more, peering more clearly at Lestrade as a flash of inspiration came to him and he calmed.
"Well, we know two things from this." And the DI looked quizzically at him, though the doctor wasn't sure if it was from interest in his ideas or curiosity at his change in demeanor.
"Yeah, like what then?"
"We know Sherlock is alive. And…..what's the time of their arrival on that video?" The DI checked for him and replied.
"2:10pm"
"When and where did the first of the trackers appear?"
"They all appeared within 5 minutes of each other at about 1:30, and they all spontaneously erupted from edges of the city." And John smiled at Greg's answer.
"So, they are probably within about a 40 minute drive of central London. You can't go anywhere quickly through the city, even if you are a master criminal, so that means that 25-30 minutes of the 40 minutes was spent traversing London. And that…that only leaves about 10-15 minutes of travel time from London that they could be. Moriarty is nothing if not a show off, and so he'll want to remain close to observe our progress. Or lack of it. So our search area has been narrowed!"
Greg stared in disbelief at the doctor as he ran the theory around in his head. It made sense. Good sense. He clapped John on the shoulder and rushed out to inform his search crews of this development so they could focus on areas outside of London, but only within a specified perimeter surrounding the city. John watched him go, some of the thrill fading as he turned back to look at the picture still clutched in his hand. Something was off. Sherlock seemed…different. Not in the sense that Greg and everyone else seemed to think, not because of the acting or whatever it was on the security footage. But…John knew Sherlock. And in the video, and even in this picture….he just seemed….wrong. Altered. It was unsettling. He set the photo down on Greg's desk and stood to leave, his eyes still locked on his flatmate's profile. Sherlock…what's he doing to you?
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Mycroft sat alone in his home office late that same night. A snifter of brandy set untouched by his hand. The other hand set across his mouth and chin as he, too, watched the security footage over and over. Silence filled his empty home. His empty heart. Not true, he thought as he shifted a bit. Something was there. He hadn't given sentiment over totally, he just buried things deeper than even he could find access to. But now he felt the call of memory; and it unsettled him deeply at how ill he became at the things being considered while observing the heist. Lestrade was a good man, and quite a capable DI. But this was Moriarty….
How strong is my little brother? He stared back at the recording, which was paused now on a shot of Sherlock looking back over his shoulder at Moriarty as he glided around the chosen vehicle. Sherlock was good at many things, yes. And molding his surface emotions to fit expected norms was one of them. He was a supreme actor, of that there was no doubt. But as Mycroft shifted forward and back through the footage, he watched not the man's actions, but his eyes. Holmes eyes. 'And our eyes tell all; they always have,' he heard his father's voice in his head. 'There is a choice to be made, Mycroft. And it comes to each Holmes once. Only once. You will know it when it reaches you. And there are but two choices: move forward, further into darkness, pursuing knowledge at any cost, for its own sake….or….remain in the light, removed from such perfection as one can only dream, but maintaining the safety of those around you as the reward.' He closed his eyes at these remembered utterances, and another of their conversations befell him.
'There is no going back for him now Mycroft. He has made his choice, and we all suffer for it. You must end it, before others are hurt.'
'I don't understand, father. How could he…? He's my brother….'
'No longer. You must be the one to do it. I haven't the strength anymore…..and Sherlock's too young.'
His eyes closed for a moment at the horror that had followed that discussion. His mind flitted back and forth, past to present. He recalled speaking with one of his MI6 superiors many years ago; back when he still had superiors. They were testing him, grooming him for his current position. They had questioned his loyalty to the country, measuring it against his loyalty to his family…namely, his brother. A very troubled young man. He had considered his response carefully as they watched him like snakes in the grass. They knew everything about him. No secrets, not even of the darkest kind. And so he had smiled a small smile after a few seconds of consideration, and replied flatly, 'Is there really a question here? You know what happened to the other one.' He had been reassigned to his current position several months later that same year.
He shook his head free of these things, refocusing on his father's words all those years ago. Choices. Mycroft had made his, long ago. He remembered it clearly, as his father had said he would. He had made his choice. And so did he…..he sighed. Then suddenly, he thought to himself, hard. Sherlock. What about Sherlock? He thought fiercely over whether Sherlock had made his own decision yet. He searched his memories fruitlessly for evidence of this, but came up with nothing to indicate either way. Once, he had thought he knew for sure. Now….. His eyes opened once more at the screen before him. Had Sherlock's choice already been made in the past? Or, he shivered as he paused the film at yet another point where Sherlock's eyes could be easily observed, is he making it now?