A/N: Ah, thanks to Revella for the early praise and proofing. She so wonderfully makes sure that y'all's brains won't be molested with too crappy of reading material. The poor thing. And all while she's composing/posting her own Sherlock fic, AND her own original fics. Geez. I just can't compare…
Damn. How to fix this? Jim's mind spun around the newly revealed threat to his empire. His kingdom. His…everything. The two agents stood mutely to either side, secretly hoping their boss wouldn't notice them. Almost edging away when the direction of his gaze landed on either one. Jim paced side to side in short, quick strides. How? And why? Damn again. He wasn't focusing. He needed clarity. He needed…..
"Sheeeeer-looooock," Jim called out in sing-song manner, drawing out the detective's name as he spun away in an almost-pirouette from the two who had delivered the news he had feared discovering for years. Last time he found me has to have been almost five years gone, the criminal thought quickly, staring at the wild haired man as an idea slowly formed in his mind. Looking at Sherlock often did that; calmed his thoughts. And whilst calm, his course plotted itself out in his head. Now, he knew what to do, but…. There was just one problem, and a tall one at that. Need him distracted. Certainly can't come with me for this. Need something to hold his attention… A puzzle to solve…for me. It came to him rather quickly, all things considered, and it took shape, a beautiful shape, in his mind. Perfect, flitted through his brain as his eyes locked on the detective's. He tilted his head down, and then rotated it slowly to the left, up, and then back around, repeating the motion on the opposite side. The movement reminded all who witnessed it of a serpent's undulations as it tested the strength of its coils. And those predatory eyes razed Sherlock's own with renewed interest.
The detective returned his gaze, cool and collected, as if minutes ago he hadn't just been pressed into a wall to within an inch of his life. Sherlock could still feel a tingling in his wrists where the other man had held him. But matters of transport were secondary Something was going on. Something big enough to unnerve James Moriarty. This gave him a slightly unsettled feeling down deep in his gut. What could do that? Besides me, of course, he thought in his usual egotistical pattern. His eyes traced the planes of the criminal's face, each angle and shadow a "how-to" on the man before him. Jim's form had shifted, subtly, oh so subtly, but there for the deduction if one chose to utilize a brain cell or three. The miniscule dip to the normally straight and self-assured shoulders, the almost unnoticeable twitch to the left brow, and the trying-to-show-how-I'm-not-nervous plucking at of imaginary shirt sleeves all slid into place within the exterior portion of Sherlock's mind palace. And then the criminal's mask had slid back into place, obscuring particulars and preventing further review. The facts, however, coalesced before Sherlock into a more complete picture once all was accounted for.
His eyes continued to return Moriarty's gaze, even as his mind sought answers. A delicate whisper of change rolled through Jim's body as he watched, and Sherlock was certain that the other man had reached a conclusion to whatever he had been thinking. Damn. What could it be? What could possibly ever cause more than a second's extra caution to emerge from the astoundingly powerful man before him? What could do this? How was it accomplished? Who could cause…? …oh… He blinked as it crashed through him. In the end, it was simple. What could cause a man, if one were to be loose with the term, like James Moriarty to flinch? To stutter? To stumble? Why, the same thing that caused ordinary people to flinch…..even himself at times. The detective schooled his expression into unreadability as he arrived at the answer. Family. But why was Jim thinking of family?
Jim knew Sherlock was deducing him, but that couldn't be helped. He could only hope that his concocted distraction would be enough to curb curiosity for now. And so he made his way back over to the detective, casually catching his eye as he came to stand within inches of body contact, rocking back and forth on his toes like an excited little boy. And even though Sherlock wasn't exactly afraid of the other man (after all, what did he have to lose that was of any value?), still it made him uncomfortable to stand before the eye of the storm within James' eyes; he fancied he could feel the swirling tempest that formed around their bodies whenever the criminal was so physically close. Obsession didn't even come close to the descriptive language necessary for what Sherlock was to Jim…and what he was becoming. He almost shivered as Jim stopped his rocking and reached a hand out and grazed a finger up along the inside of his arm, coming to rest lightly on his shoulder; and then Jim was speaking to him, and quietly.
"I have a problem for you, Sherlock," he began, "A challenge." And he let that hang in the air between them for a few moments. The detective made no move to draw it out further, and so Jim continued, "A puzzle, if you will. Involving a bank with a rather above-average security designer." He paused to see if Sherlock was still with him, and to what extent. He found the other man's eyes raptly focused on him for once, only him. He smiled. "Yes, it was rather bad of him to say that even the "notorious Moriarty" who got the Bank of England open couldn't break in his design. Pity him, the fool." He spun to walk away, leaving Sherlock somewhat unsettled. "My people will bring you the blueprints and anything else you need. Find a way in, Sherlock. I did. In 17 hours, on and off. But you do better. For me." He reached the door and turned back. "I've got some…business, I have to arrange in the meantime," his eyes flashed back at the taller man, "Solve it for me, my detective." And he left the room, exuding power and control even when clad in just a thin shirt and underpants, the two agents trailing behind. Unspoken was the challenge to complete the challenge in a shorter amount of time, but Sherlock heard nonetheless.
John awoke to harsh laughter approaching the door to his "room." He sat up quickly and made to stand. No need to be a helpless captive, and he didn't want whoever his jailer was to think that he was just in here sleeping. He could be planning, aware, ready…something other than napping. But then he wondered what the point would be for him to be standing in front of the door, prepared to fight for his life. If they wanted him dead, he would be. So he was worth something, and he needed to figure out what it was. And so he sat, straightening his shirt and jeans, and waited as the voices drew nearer.
They stopped talking when they came before the door, and he heard the lock being turned. The voice was muffled, but some quality to it sent an involuntary shriek of fear chasing across his skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. It wasn't that he recognized it exactly; it was just…similar, to someone else. As if an echo from a great distance was reaching out to him. And he thought, maybe, he detected an accent. Not from England, then, he thought, as it didn't fit any particular pattern he was familiar with of his homeland. The lock clicked open, and the door handle twitched downward a bit before swinging in.
There was nothing at first, his room being dark and the hallway behind the door barely brighter. But he did soon note a larger shadow, which began to move into the room slowly. Nothing was said yet, only the soft scrape of shoes on concrete broke the silence as the shadow approached. The tension was thick in the air as neither said a word. And John's gasp of indrawn breath when the single light source revealed the features of his captor caused a broad, and sickening, smile to spread across those very familiar, and yet not, lips. The doctor's heart began to race, and sweat broke out all over him. This couldn't be real. It couldn't! But as he was fighting his visual senses, he watched as James Moriarty stepped forward to greet his honored prisoner.
"John Watson, yes. James Moriarty. Hi," his voice a slightly deeper timbre, but of the same quality, reached out across the distance between them, its thick, street-born Irish a further delineation helping John to confirm that he was not seeing whom he had thought at first. The voice continued as he resurfaced from the inundation of surprise. "Yeah, I see yeh…rec'nize…sumthin? I kin dare say that I know what it is, too. But Oi am not a man of werds like my bruther. And so Oi'm on with et." James crossed his arms and went on. "Jimmy is in need of handling. The sort o' thing best run by fam'ly, if ya catch me." John blinked as the large man before him paused. Brother; his brother. Jim Moriarty has a brother! The ex-soldier's mind was stunned into a nonfunctional mass of neurons at this revelation. Two of them!
John's eyes scanned his captor, taking in the similarities, but also the glaring dissimilarities, between the two brothers. This James had a filled out facial structure with a stronger jawline, his eyes a deeper set perhaps, and maybe darker in color as well. Hair with a touch of red to it, but it was hard to judge in the low lighting. In regard to physique, they were opposites, completely. Jim was rather petite in most ways, standing four or five inches shorter. And where Jim's smaller stature contained a kind of wiry muscle, James had developed a much more phenotypical strength, with the buttons of the vest he wore straining across a broad chest. He was almost the comical Irish super villain in a cliché outfit, with his bootcut jeans, white dress shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows, and black designer vest atop this. But a look into those eyes would steal the laughter from one's soul. And apparently speech as well, as John stood mutely before this nightmare come to life. He had been prepared for Moriarty, or the devil himself (if there was even a difference)…but not this. Where Jim was a more cultured and genteel strain of evil, here stood the opposite version, violent intentions seeping out of him like a miasma of death. No mistaking which of the two brothers John would prefer to have in the room alone with him now; and this surprised and scared the doctor equally.
"'E'll come 'ere, fer you. I know 'e will, my bruther. Won't be able ta stand tha' Oi've stuck my finger in 'is pie. 'E's stupit like tha'. Sure enuff, an he's got the brains of a scientist, but when it comes to hurtin' people…Oi'm far an above 'im." Calm and level, this new Moriarty spoke with a firm confidence in himself and what he spoke. And John believed him; like he'd never believed anyone else. This man did not lie; he had no need to. He held every advantage at this point. And he braced himself mentally for what might come, trying desperately to think of something he had to barter with. At the least, they seemed to share a common enemy…perhaps that could be used somehow? But for now, he needed information.
"And what exactly are you wanting me to do for you, eh?" John queried. "I'm no fan of your brother's, and he knows it well. I can't see him coming after me for any reason."
"Oh, but 'e will. An I jus' want yeh to go with 'im, when 'e comes. Tha's all."
"Go…with…him…?" John tilted his head down and looked up at the man before him, the incredulity written across his face.
"Aye. Run along with 'im. This 'ere is what some call a 'power play.' I took sumthin tha' was 'is. And e'll come fer it." James paced as he spoke. "Jimmy's been gone too long. Thinks 'e owes no loyalty." James spun back in a circle, gesturing downward with his arms to emphasize his next sentence. "An 'e…is wrong!" And a laugh followed after, with the big man then walking companionably over to John's seated position, hands clasped behind his back. He stood looking down at the doctor, who kept up a nonthreatening front. No need to provoke! However, this did not deter the huge fist that swung out like a tree branch and crashed into the doctor's clavicle, knocking him over the bed where he then almost toppled off. And just like that, James was back to his innocent stroll, actually humming to himself as he passed back through the door. And John heard one thing more before the door closed on him.
"Tha's fer ever tryin' ta come after ma Jimmy. I know you've done. But he's fam'ly, and tha's all there is in this werld anymore." And the door snicked shut, leaving John lying in the resumed state of semi-darkness wondering at the craziness inherent in that family tree.
Jim warily approached through the doors of the huge building. It hadn't been hard to find James; he'd wanted to be found. And Jim knew it would have to be himself alone, so he left the agent and the car a street over and walked with great trepidation towards his sibling's location. The building itself used to be rented out flats. It was two story and shabby, the walls and ceilings composed of concrete in a very unimaginative combination. Ugly, drab, dismal, take your pick. It was so…James, to stage a reunion in such a dump. And Jim knew this would not be one of his easier early confrontations with his brother. The last one had barely been without blood spilled, and that had been years ago.
It wasn't fear of bodily harm coming to John Watson that kept his feet moving inward to the apartment door bearing the number of their childhood home. How mundane, he thought. No, he wasn't worried in the least about John living or dying. What he cared about, if one chose to call it that, was that his plan had been tampered with. His plan, his final problem, his most interesting distraction ever…was being manipulated by the person he hated most in this world. And that was a powerful enough motivator for the time being to give him incentive for keeping the doctor alive. He stopped before the door, thinking how lucky Sherlock was that he was going to all this trouble for him, then pushed on the door.
It opened to a very expected scene. James the younger sat patiently on a single chair in the center of what used to be a living area, now squalid and damp. Two of his thugs stood behind him against the wall, leaning as if bored. James himself was unarmed and currently leaned down with forearms on his elbows, staring at the floor in thought. At Jim's entrance, the large man canted his head upwards and smiled. Then he pushed up into a straight backed position in his chair. Even sitting down, his physical presence dwarfed his older brother, making him seem smaller. At the age of 32, where Jim should be feeling still in the prime of his existence, especially as how he held control of the undercurrent of the civilized world…here, he felt old. Small. Weak. Standing before his 29 year old brother, who held every physical genetic advantage, Jim felt again a small boy, crying for his mother, for anyone, to help him. His insides boiled. How he hated this.
"Jimmy," came the hated moniker, "It took sooooooo long to foind yeh this time. But no worries! Oi'm not 'ere ta ruin yer little plans." James stood and walked to a few feet before the accomplished criminal. "Oi just wanted ta be shure that yeh remembered me, eh? Remember where yeh came from." And his hand reached out suddenly to pat at Jim's shoulder, neither of them missing the subtle cringe that raced through the smaller man's frame. He held his voice in check, though, as he tried a bit of bravado. Never let others see you weak. The mantra from his youth the only thing keeping his muscles from complete tetany.
"And just how did you find me? Tell me your method?" Jim paused, feigning nonchalance, knowing something that would irk the other man just slightly. "Maybe you're finally getting good enough for running with me…the original James Moriarty." Jim's eyes followed his brother, seeking confirmation that his jibe had landed. But the comment was only met with a casual amusement, whereas it used to send the other into a towering rage. Of course, it had been five years. People did change, he supposed. Damn. In the past, they would clash and collide about every eight to twelve months. Each time with Jim creating a new way to hide and continue his work, regretting ever confronting his sibling. Really, he's like a cockroach, he thought.
"Oh, Jimmy. No need fer this. Yeh're at the end 'ere with me, yeh just don't know it yet. I 'ave only a little bit more o' the rope fer yeh. And then yeh're gonna get yers." He nodded at his older brother, continuing. "Yeh, Oi'm gonna tear your empire down 'round your ears, Jimmy. Public like, for what yeh've done ta me, the disrespect."
"And what is that, James? What have I done this time?" Jim queried, staring at his nails as if disinterested in this whole affair. The he changed topics. "And where is he?" he asked with the courage of his younger, less safety-conscious self.
"Oh ho ho. No yeh don't, bruther. We're not fer gettin' inta that right now. Oi've got special plans for when we do, though..." James snapped the fingers of one hand, and one of the men against the wall stepped forward. "As for 'im, the doctor man, feel free to take 'im with yeh. You know what Oi'll do to 'im if yeh leave 'im….. And Oi only grabbed 'im to show yeh sumthin' anyway. And did yeh catch it, Jimmy?" They stared death at each other across the air until James continued. "Oi kin take anythin' o' yours…at any time." The storm of hatred across the younger Moriarty's countenance lasted only a few seconds after this declaration before it cleared, and he grinned once again, "Now go pick up tha' man and swing by agin before yeh two leave."
Jim searched for treachery in his sibling's features, but could find none. He could almost laugh. How very like his brother. All of this, just to show he was better. That he could pull one over on his older sibling, even though Jim was by far the more successful of the pair. Whatever. His brother was a worrisome problem now that he had been located again, and not a small bit scary; but Jim had more important, and interesting, things back home right now. So he simply turned to his brother's man who passed by him and down the hall, and fell in step behind him, presumably going to wherever they were holding John Watson. He readjusted his stride to exhibit his usual icy demeanor, but he couldn't help but feel small and petty while doing it. Especially knowing he was doing it solely for the benefit of a person he hated more intensely than he had once thought he hated Sherlock.
The first two things Jim noticed when the door to John's room opened and he had entered were the pair of arms around his neck…and that breathing was a terrible difficulty. He sputtered a bit and reached up at the arms, his brother's hired man pulling his gun and aiming point blank at the side of the doctor's head. One look in John's eyes, though, showed that death held no mystery or fear for this one. His grip tightened, emphasizing his determination to take this man with him into eternity as Jim just barely managed to whisper into the scuffling silence.
"I do…believe…that you are…killing…your savior," was gasped out. What? And John released the slightest bit of pressure across the criminal's throat.
"Come again?" came his half-growled reply.
"I'm here to take you, save you, if you will, provided you can deign to rein in that violence of yours a moment." And John's mind tried to collect itself from the confusing thought of gaining assistance from a man he believed sudden death would make an improvement on.
"Well, I just," John stuttered, easing off a bit more, "you know, figured he was having me on about all that being let go stuff." And Jim took this opportunity to slide down and sideways out of the man's grip, looking down to dust himself off and attempting to unwrinkle his clothes, looking peevish when he was unsuccessful. When he looked back up, he just barely had time to see the fist careening towards him. As it was, he turned and the majority of the blow was taken to the side of his neck and shoulder. It staggered Jim back a step, and he looked up at the normally play-it-fair ex-soldier in what might have been one of the few truly surprised moments of his life. John just shrugged and rolled his shoulders.
"Just because you're saving me doesn't mean you're not an arsehole."
Jim had no desire to see his sibling again, but the man at their backs who carried a gun was enough of a motivator. With John seething at the situation in general beside him, Jim faced off before his brother once more. They stood again in the same room he had met James in; Jim with a look to curdle milk while still inside the cow, John with enough curbed violence to ignite an H-bomb, and James smiling grandly at them both as he spoke. He gestured to the way out.
"An there 'tis, Jimmy. Free passage back ta yer ever-so-loyal subjects. But there's jes' one thing, before yeh go. A reminder, if yeh will, of just whose side yeh should be joined to." The larger sibling had made his way somewhat circuitously over to the pair and now looked them dead in the eyes one last time. Jim stood, cool and collected, not even returning the stare, but instead gazing off at a point beyond James. John almost flinched when James' darker brown eyes turned and found his own. The anger he saw restrained behind the now-calm exterior raged against doors too thin. His eyes darted sideways to his would-be savior, once again finding himself wishing there was still only the one Moriarty in his life. But his contemplations were cut short by a sudden burst of violence.
James reared upwards, drawing his arm up and back with him and coming down in one smooth motion that the eyes could scarcely follow. Jim Moriarty fell to the floor at John's feet as the blow connected, leaving the doctor to stare in horror at the man who had put him there. His vision tracked Jim again for a second before returning with wariness to the criminal's brother. The sight of Moriarty, Sherlock's Moriarty (God how he hated to think of him that way), sprawled out on the floor and seemingly at the mercy of this man set a bitter chill running through him. Because if this brilliant madman he had grown to hate was bested, then what chance had a mere ex-soldier at winning in this game?
But instead of further viciousness, James stepped back, once again waving at the way out as he spoke his goodbyes.
"We could rule this part o' the werld, Jimmy. If yeh would just come home. And yeh will, me bruther. One day…yeh will." And he clapped his hands together as a boxer does with chalked up palms, turning and striding from the room and, presumably, the building itself. His men stayed a bit behind, securing John's hands behind his back with zip ties before heading after their boss.
John, still a bit stupefied from the sight of his most hated enemy being brutally taken down, watched as Jim stood slowly, stretching his neck and touching his lower lip, a sneer of disdain evident when he found the blood from where his tooth had made a small laceration. He sucked the cut and then spat blood onto the floor where his brother had stood, turning a slow circle as if thinking to himself before finally refocusing on John, who tried to speak, but failed miserably. What do you say to a hated enemy you wish was dead but can't kill until you find out what's happened to your best friend?
"Well, um…yeah…that was…hrmmmm…" he trailed off as he noticed Jim close his eyes and begin to speak. His voice was soft, yet firm and encompassing all at once.
"What you saw…..what you think you saw…" A pale hand darted up again to an injured lip, and the tongue snaked out over the cut again. "You saw…nothing." Brown eyes flicked ice toward John's own, seeking confirmation of his understanding…and his agreement. John nodded, a bit bewildered but willing to play along for now if it meant getting him out of this place finally.
"Yeah. Nothing."
The car's windows were so black in the back that even the two occupants couldn't see through them. Probably bullet-proof, thought John as they pulled away. And he went completely still as he watched Jim pull a knife from his pocket. The criminal's eyes glinted, but then he shrugged and made a "come here" motion with a twirling gesture that the doctor took as "turn around." He tested his zip tie bonds once more before giving in, figuring he had nothing to lose. He cringed inwardly as the cold metal made contact with his skin. And when the ties fell to the floor, John quickly returned to his seat across from Jim. And they sat facing each other, with perhaps a distance of a few feet between their shoes on the floorboard.
Jim's gaze never wavered as he took in the entirety of John's appearance. He studied him. He deduced him. His entire career. His hobbies. His family strife. His newly discovered love of danger that Sherlock brought out in him. His less than exemplary love life….. Ah! There it was! He followed that trail down, down, down…until he reached the confession. It must have happened just before he took Sherlock. Jim would have known otherwise because he had the dialogue recorded in the flat under constant surveillance. So this was new….and fragile. How fantastical! Moriarty's mind flew down the avenues of his Hall of Mirrors as he processed this information and froze it within one of his ever evolving passageways.
John watched those dead eyes settle upon him. It was like looking into the stare of some taxidermist's prize tiger. Lifeless. Flat. Terrifying. And on him! He shifted in his seat, wondering if he should say something. Jim sat with one foot on the seat, knee bent up before him and his arms clasped around it as his chin rested on top. The other leg just kind of lay flung out and down the leather cushion. Well, John thought to himself, what the hell? He wouldn't have gone to these lengths just to kill me. His eyes sought those of the other man once again, still lifeless and unreflectively burning into his own. Right? But how could anyone be certain of this man's motivations? It bothered him more than he cared to admit. He decided, in the end, that direct was best. Direct, he knew.
"What've you done with him, you poncy git?" Well, maybe he could've shown more tact. But damn… Those cold eyes returned to the conscious world with an immediacy John imagined was felt through time and tides. Its weight fell on him like an old oak. He suppressed a shiver, instead settling back into his seat as if not a care in the world affected him. The brown orbs seemed to look through him at first, and then refocused and took in his exterior, finding nothing threatening apparently, to judge by the smile that slid onto those pale and bloodied lips.
"My my, Dr. Watson. Must we do this?" And the thought suddenly crossed John's mind that he was alone, unrestrained, with a man he was fairly sure he could take down in a fair fight. His body language must have shifted notably, as the next words from the man across from him made him fear mind reading abilities.
"They have orders to kill him, you know. Should I not return. Don't do anything I wouldn't do, doctor." The corner of Jim's mouth twitched ever upward at his own words. Shit, thought John. He evaluated and discarded several methods of questioning as they sat in a contest of epic silence. But he finally settled on directness again. He can tell what I'm thinking anyway, and he detects lies since he's so bloody good at it himself.
"Look, I don't know what you're doing. And I don't know what part I play in all of this. In fact, my part is the most confusing of all. I mean, why would you…?" He trailed off as Jim's suddenly blazing eyes reminded him of the "nothing" he had just recently agreed to seeing. He sighed. Not easy, this. "I mean, you've got us. You've won. But you haven't killed us. What's the point?" His mind grasped at an idea. "Wouldn't it be more gratifying to let us go? To let Sherlock go. And he'd know for the rest of his life that you won. That he was free only because of you." It was a long shot, but you never knew what would appeal to one so obviously obsessed with winning, appearances, and distractions. But Moriarty didn't rise to the baiting.
"Yes, so simple, wouldn't it be, Dr. Watson? But no. I have much greater plans for Sherlock, plans that are already in motion and settling into his bones, his being."
"He won't follow you. Never willingly."
"Oh, but I think you're wrong there, doctor." Jim set both feet flat in front of him and leaned down with elbows on his knees. "He already does. Already has. And currently is, even as I speak." And John shook his head.
"No. He wouldn't. He hates you."
"He needs me."
"He needs you to have a bullet in your head."
"Such odd things you say. But no, he doesn't wish that. Not any more…"
"What? You're insane. Why would he ever have changed his mind? What could possibly make the most stubborn man on this planet change his mind?" And John was horrified as he suddenly found himself pressed against the back of the seat, one of Jim's hands pushing into his chest, and the other beside his head. Those fiery dead eyes came to within inches of his own, the expression beneath them difficult to read, but turning slowly into the kind of joyful expression that follows when someone first learns that they've won something.
"Yes, doctor. Insanity has its place in my mind, but not his. And he…follows me now. You ask what has changed? What could have possibly brought him around to where he should have been all along?" Jim leaned even closer, and John could smell the menthol from an earlier cigarette on the man's breath, and a hint of something else, something familiar. "Think. What has held him back? What always holds him back?" And John thought he knew the answer, but was afraid to voice it. And Moriarty saw the conclusion in his eyes. He nodded slowly at the despairing ex-soldier. "Yes. Yes. It's you. John. Your influence. Your balance. Always holding him back. But no more." And Jim leaned forward more and brought his lips right beside John's ear to whisper, "I have erased you….. Replaced you…"
John pushed out suddenly, catching Jim in the abdomen and tumbling him to the floor between the seats. At first, the doctor couldn't believe what he'd done, and he cringed inwardly to think of the reaction this might elicit. But as with so many other things, the criminal reacted in an unexpected manner, laughing boldly as he pulled himself back onto his own side of the car's seating. He knows, John thought as he watched the laughter turn into a dark thing. And Jim did know. He knew why John had pushed him so suddenly, reacted the way he did. And Jim himself had even calculated it, predicted it. Because John wasn't afraid of the criminal's proximity or threat inherent therein. No. He'd reacted so badly once Jim was closer because he could then identify the second scent carried on the other man like a cologne of blood and tears. Sherlock.