A/N: In case anyone wants to see the dance I attempt to describe later on in this chapter, here is a link to it. Of course, you have to put it together since this site doesn't allow me to post the unbroken link as one term. The actual dance part is at the 1:50 mark, in case you want to skip the introductions. LOL!
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At any rate, get ready for this the crap I do here, guys….so much fun!
"Just two weeks from now? Wha…?! How did you come by this information?!" John exclaimed as he waved a hand wildly in the air, the other pressed into the skin of his forehead. Lestrade paced hurriedly back and forth in the doctor's lonely flat. It seemed to him that his shoes echoed more loudly than was strictly natural. The DI ran a frustrated hand through his hair, his eyes and entire manner screaming desperation with a faint tinge of hope, but not any more so than the other man to whom he spoke. He stopped his motion momentarily to reply.
"It came from….well, I don't rightly know, actually…" he began somewhat lamely, as if searching for the correct way to explain.
"What? You barge in here with news like that without even checking sources? How do we even know for sure that they'll be there? That Sherlock will be there? And that it's not some sort of trap, or display, or, or some other such disgusting thing that that madman can come up with?!" After weeks upon weeks of nothing, it was hard for the ex-soldier to react with anything but suspicious negativity. The poor sod had such a quantity of helplessness and rage building over the few months Sherlock had been gone, so it came as no true surprise to the DI when this stream of pessimism assaulted him. And so he tried to be the cool one here.
"John, calm down. The thing is…well…the thing is, it came from a higher authority than my own…..his brother…" Greg was frustrated as well, but he damned sure wasn't going to let it twist him the way it was doing the physician currently. John stared uncomprehendingly back at him for a few moments before speaking. He seemed almost confused.
"Mycroft?" And Greg nodded his confirmation.
"So you know it's got to be at least already investigated for fraudulent feeds of information," the DI pleaded. "I mean, come on…" John bit his bottom lip, thinking. Mycroft would never tell them anything unless he was certain of it.
"And," John began, "He told you this, why?" A feeling of dread was pooling in his gut.
"He needs our help." Greg's entire reply seemed tainted with despair. "Everyone's." That the great Mycroft Holmes was enlisting the help of the Yard was…worrisome. In the extreme. The DI resumed his pacing, but slowed it somewhat. "Moriarty has eluded him for years, John; the only vigilante to ever be actively pursued by Mycroft Holmes, personally, and not be brought down. He's bringing everything, John. And I mean everything. Short of air support, we'll have every tactical advantage. And we'll have two weeks to prepare for this, for him." John stared, lost in the emotions that whirled through him at the possibility of finally ending this. Lestrade seemed to sense that the doctor needed some time to think, but he spoke once more before heading for the door.
"John…just let me know, yeah? Off the books, 'course, cuz you can't be known to be there when it goes down, but…I just cannot see this going through without you. You're his best friend." The DI sighed in a manner more suited to a laugh. "His only friend, to his mind." With a final exhalation of pent up stress, the DI grabbed up his coat from where he had tossed it over a chair and made to leave when a soft, yet steel-strong voice carried out to him, and he stopped but didn't look back at the speaker.
"Greg….. Thank you." A pause. "I'll be there." And Greg nodded, still not turning, and left 221B. John spun around to fall back onto his old tatty arm chair and think.
Sherlock. In London. With Moriarty. In the British Museum. His head spun. Two weeks. They had two weeks in which to plan for this. And the information had to be current and reliable, right? Mycroft would never stoop to rumor or other such unreliable methods of intelligence gathering… But then, it was becoming increasingly apparent over the last few visits that the elder Holmes was residing within a similar emotional state as the ex-soldier. The British Government merely hid it more professionally. But there was something… Still, surely the man wouldn't let sentiment crowd out his logic? No. No, he wouldn't. So John breathed a slight sigh of relief. Soon. It would be soon. Two weeks for the NSY and Mycroft's agents to plan out the apprehension and take down of James Moriarty. And he, John Watson, would be there to see it through. He closed his eyes, heart heavy with a dark anticipation, almost a foreboding. Sherlock….hang on.
Greg all but fled the address he just exited, making his way quickly to his car. And once settled inside, he took a moment to breathe and center himself. He had known Sherlock first, but he considered John a friend by this point as well, and it was hard being the one to dangle such hope in front of him. Still, the informant had been thoroughly investigated by Mycroft's people. The DI shuddered to contemplate what exactly "thoroughly investigated" might indicate in this case.
Still, it was a solid lead. And…it was all they had. No matter the resources being utilized, Moriarty seemed to vanish whenever any trace was uncovered with him involved. Two weeks should be sufficient, especially given the sheer might being brought down for this. But something bothered him; badly. The last time he had spoken with Mycroft via video conference, the elder Holmes had made comments that just…didn't sit right in Greg's stomach. Surely, they were words meant just for show, in case anyone was listening… After all, even a man in Mycroft's position couldn't justify such a blatant display of arms just for the sake of his younger sibling. So he needed it to be for Moriarty. But even so…his parting words through the LCD monitor had left an impression. A bad one.
When it happens, Lestrade, I need you to be ready. There won't be time for hesitation amongst our coordinated efforts. I need your support, and your complete obedience, in this. Plans are not yet cemented, but an approximation is this: At some point, they will exit the building. All predictions would indicate that James Moriarty is enough of a showman that he will want to exit the front in some such grand fashion. Make an exhibition of it. And from the footage we have seen of the two of them, I am certain Sherlock will accompany his every move. And we will have snipers in every available niche. Once they are a goodly distance from the building, our presence will be made known, and we will begin the attempted negotiation and arrest of both of them. They will be separated immediately, of course. I would like to think all will go as planned, but this man has been hunted for far too long, and he is cunning, ruthless, and has a fierce intelligence. If I sense things going the wrong way, I will have my men put the last bullet in that madman that he will ever lay claim to. And… Concerning my brother….. My men have orders to go through anything to make the shot on James Moriarty…..
Anything…
Or anyone…
Do you understand me, DI Lestrade?
The ride over on the jet had been inconsequential enough that Sherlock had deleted most of it. They had landed the chopper, boarded the jet, and then had flown maybe a little more than an hour or so after. Hard to say when boredom leads you to staring at the lines on the back of your knuckles. Jim had spent the bulk of his time on a laptop that seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Or, perhaps the detective had merely erased the source. Whatever. The point was, he was more than bored by the time they landed and loaded themselves into yet another mode of transportation in the form of a sleek Rolls. Only the promise of interacting with dozens of the world's leading criminals kept him from experimenting with their driver's attention span. That, and Jim reading his transparent thoughts at one point and nonverbally communicating, No.
His ennui vanished, however, the second they drove onto the vast expanse of woodland that was marked off by armed guards. Sherlock knew Jim was a terror even to his own kind, but he'd had absolutely no idea the depth it ran. From the moment their car was spotted, the detective could see the signs of increased stress on the guards' bodies. The sharp and hard angles of their stance spoke of precision training, but also of…fear. Base and unconquerable. They didn't even check them, though they had made those in cars ahead of them go as far as get out of the vehicle and be looked over. Not Jim. How…intriguing it was to see this side of things. Thus far, Sherlock had only seen Jim around his own agents or himself. Never had he witnessed the criminal's interactions with peers. Suddenly, the game became even more interesting. And he fleetingly wondered at the reaction he might receive himself. Though not famous worldwide, there were sure to be those who researched him immediately after meeting him tonight. What would they do? He smiled inwardly, eager to arrive.
It still took them around fifteen minutes to reach the goal destination, winding through the property. The trees cleared out, and off in the distance the main building could be seen of an estate house almost on par with the one he and James currently resided in. But apparently, they were headed for what appeared to be an "open" house. Roof and floor were present, but no walls, leaving it like a huge gazebo for semi-outdoor parties. Large columns supported it. It was about twilight at the moment, and so the light from the structure leaked out onto the grass surrounding its girth. Globes of light were strung about its outskirts, allowing those attendees who wished to do so ample lit areas to stroll about the lawn.
They pulled round to the front and were let out of the vehicle by a somewhat short and stocky fellow who turned out to be the host, Jordaine Mikelson. Probably of Hindu Indian descent mixed with a smattering of American and French by Sherlock's observation, which made the man himself difficult to describe as anything much other than 'average.' Dark eyes and hair with a full beard, and skin that most likely stayed that light tan color no matter the lack of sun exposure summed it up fairly well, though. The fact that the host of the gathering himself had chosen to personally serve as valet and greeter to Jim was not lost upon the detective. It may be a party in the criminal's honor, but even still…he would have expected an aloof power play of some sort, with the host remaining inaccessible for a short time before deigning to make contact. This, however, this…made Sherlock truly boggle at the might that Jim must have behind him.
Moriarty was at his elegant best, slyly delivering compliments while slipping in devilishly clever insinuations of death and misery. Jordaine was obviously ecstatic that the criminal had even shown up, though, and so accepted the good with the bad equally. Apparently, Jim got many such invitations all the time, and only randomly chose which ones to attend. The detective watched him as he continued speaking with the host, burning through formalities and pleasantries, and then skipping along through a bit of business whilst they all walked on into the open-sided structure. He never made promises, except that he would 'consider' anything brought before him. And he didn't indicate either favor or disfavor to anything said. It was fascinating to watch him move amongst these people who Sherlock had originally miscalculated by deeming as peers. No. These were like unto the strange fish of the ocean who fed off of the larger ones and performed some small services in return. Symbiosis, but with Jim as the major player and master of the relationship.
Jim had introduced Sherlock only to Jordaine thus far. The only reaction being a slight widening of the eyes, but the man had recovered quickly and shook hands with the detective. Only Jim Moriarty could walk into a den of criminals, accompanied by a renowned detective, merely explain it away as, "He's with me," and not be questioned in the slightest. And Sherlock found himself growing to like the feeling of absolute surety he had beside James. It was…different, than with normal people. Like he didn't have to pretend that he, too, was 'normal.' Jim never hid the evil that writhed behind his eyes, he merely added to it. Laughter, anger, sadness, joy….they all merely shared temporary space with what lay always inside.
Only a few other guests as of yet had taken notice that Jim had arrived, and those who did had attempted to calmly greet him and pretend they weren't as intimidated of his presence as they truly were. To Sherlock's keen senses, though…hands shook, eyes darted about, voices wavered, and remarks were withheld. He missed most of what was said around him because of becoming so engrossed with watching Moriarty himself. These people who, from the snatches of conversation he did happen to overhear, were of some of the most elite villains of the world had a very real fear of the man beside himself. It startled Sherlock to realize it. Even before Jim and he had become…whatever it was that they were to each other currently, he had never feared the man. Respected, yes. Admired, yes. But feared? Never. And he wondered at that. Perhaps it was yet another sign of the way things were eventually going to end up? Sherlock broke out of his reverie to Jim's quiet nudging.
"Sherlock? Are you listening? Come back to me." Jim's brown eyes laughed at his distance.
The detective snapped his attention back to the present as Jim held up his mobile for him to take. Gray-green eyes reflected a question of why.
"People haven't noticed me, yet, my detective. And I absolutely abhor when people don't notice me."
"Why the phone?"
"There's a video there I want you to watch. Study it. Tell me when you're done." And Jim walked away from him, heading to the DJ stand from whence a man with curly white hair seemed bent on playing elevator music. Sherlock looked on for a moment, still baffled, but then directed his attention to the screen and clicked play.
Jim returned a few minutes later to find his detective doing what he could only figure was deducing everyone on the entire ballroom-like floor. How exhausting. There must be close to one hundred people or so. Boredom never rests, it seems…let's see if I can distract you… Sherlock saw Jim approach and cut off his study of a man who apparently dealt in arms smuggling in South America. At least, that was his latest venue. Jim stepped up to stand just before him to ask…
"Watch it all then?"
"Yes." A pause, and a smirk formed on Jim's face as he continued the topic, knowing Sherlock's hidden love of dancing.
"And…want to do it?" Another pause, this time from Sherlock, before the response came with a condition attached.
"Yes. But I refuse to perform in the submissive. The lead requires the taller of the pairing anyway." And Jim's smirk only deepened at the reply.
"Of course. As you wish…" He waved over at the DJ's stage set up, and the man nodded his acceptance. The genteel music that had been lightly pervading the space up until then stopped abruptly. People turned this way and that, seeking the source, thinking perhaps there was to be an announcement. Any wavering from scheduled events while in such dangerous company often created an organized feeling of discomfort and mild hysteria. But as the onlookers watched, a small space near the center of the floor began to form a haphazard circle, wherein a pair of men stood at opposite ends facing each other down with expressions generally reserved for battlefields. The occupants fell silent as they recognized one of the pair as the honorary guest. The anxiety level switched up by ten notches with this knowledge.
Jim fought to keep the smile from his face as the attendees finally noticed them. He could see when they recognized him, body language going fearful and attentive at once. And he could even see that some few recognized the detective as well. No matter. As long as Jim was present, they would never presume to act against the taller man. The criminal's attention was snatched back to reality suddenly as the first note sounded out of the Latin melody he had chosen to fit with their dance. The choreography was that of an Argentine Tango, and the level of difficulty was…well, he would finally see just how well that Mind Palace of Sherlock's functioned when it came to replicating physical acts from memory.
Jim stepped forward gracefully with the music, matching the detective across from him step for step as they approached one another. He slid his marvelously expensive jacket from his shoulders as he did and tossed it out to the audience. A very scantily clad blonde caught it, clutching it as though her life depended on it. And really, maybe it did…
The two men crossed each other, clasped hands, and spun into an embrace as the spicy music rolled around them. Sherlock lifted Jim and set him down a few paces away then, both doing some very creative leg maneuvers in between. Out and in they wove their steps, coming face to face at times with an animalistic look of hunger in their eyes. And some small look of surprise found itself onto even Sherlock's face as Jim completed some of the sweeping leg choreography generally better suited to a female dancer. But somehow, as with everything else, this brown-eyed Irishman showed him something unexpected.
Their bodies wove a tale of hunger and passion in order to communicate the story of the dance itself. But there hardly needed to be any acting between the two; even the audience was coming to see that as the dance progressed. They were around and under each other, lifted and pulled, close yet far….only to finish in an embrace that bespoke of love eternal, suddenly discovered. The elusive emotion finally captured. Jim's grin couldn't be held within any longer once the music faded. He kept his eyes closed for just a few more moments, held tightly in the taller man's embrace, and he wondered what Sherlock thought of all this. No matter; the other man would tell him eventually. The detective never held his tongue, and that was a constant excitement to Jim. He whispered to the taller man.
"Now then…I feel our introduction went quite well…"
A good smattering of applause greeted the ending, and many approached the pair, though some were put off almost immediately by the consulting detective. His cool eyes and knowing air apparently could put off even death-hardened outlaws. Jim took the praise in good stride, though Sherlock could tell that the other man still hated even being there. It made him ever the more curious as to what reason Jim had to hate birthdays so. But for now, he wanted nothing more than to get away from the people crowding around them. He would ask the shorter man about it later.
Sherlock excused himself, saying he was going to grab them a drink. Jim gave him an odd look, but shrugged his assent, and the detective walked off in the general direction of the refreshment tables. Jim's head turned slightly to accommodate the conversation of the newest arrival to his sycophants. The blonde that had caught his jacket. She held it out to him with hands that almost didn't tremble, and as he took it from her, he was surprised yet again at the stupidity of mankind as she began to flirt somewhat heavily. Her red dress was tight, and she did have what some would term a very attractive figure, with curves in all the right places. Breasts barely concealed by the plunging neckline jiggled and shook as she tittered about how wonderful his latest game in Iran was going. All Moriarty could do was to wonder how this slut of a woman could possibly be in charge of the human trafficking market in India and Slovenia.
That he despised her was apparently not being read correctly by the blonde, who continued to prattle on about ideas she had, and wouldn't he love to come over for a chat about them? And maybe she could persuade him to see things her way? And wouldn't it be grand if they could collaborate together on something, anything? She was desperate, Jim could see that. She wanted power, and he would certainly be the quickest way to fuck her way to the top. But she obviously had no eyes in her head since she had just been in the same room as the spectacle he and Sherlock created. And besides…human trafficking? Child labor? Sex slaves? Among all criminal activities, her area was what he most abhorred. She somehow didn't pick up on this, and it annoyed him in a deadly way that he tried to ignore….
While she rambled on, and he chose to play the part of, "Uh-huh, yeah, mhmm," he looked around the area for Sherlock to see how he was fairing. And he almost laughed when he saw the detective had managed to keep to himself. Most likely scared them all off either from them being too concerned of my own reaction…or just his overall fuzzy charm. He watched the other man as if the world were contained in his every action, raptly and deaf to anything else. Until suddenly he felt a pressure alongside him.
Apparently, his inattentive replies had had the opposite effect, and the disgusting filth was taking it as a cue to draw closer and press her overburdened chest against him. His hands remained in his pockets for the time being, and she moved a bit to her right in order to place herself more firmly on his front. This effectively blocked his view of the detective, sending a shard of blackness screaming up his spine to reflect in his eyes, all pretense of cordiality vanishing. And, there it was, she caught it now. And her face showed that she recognized the miscalculations of her conversational skill.
Jim's eyes were dead as he simply tilted his head like a snake eyeing a mouse, and her blood chilled down to the marrow of her bones. One elegant hand left his pocket and came up before her face to touch the side of her jaw. She held still, not knowing what else she could do. The hand ran slowly down her chin and then her face was abruptly covered by his splayed fingers. He stood like that for a bare moment, letting the fear run its course through her, and then his grip on her face tightened, and he heaved her to the ground where she tumbled in a heap of silk the color of blood. He didn't even look down, nor around at those who had turned to eye the situation blossoming amongst them. He just set out for Sherlock, stepping on the hem of her dress and then over her shaking body as he did.
Sherlock was looking into the punch as if it had committed some grievance against him when Jim approached. His eyes swung away from the liquid to meet those of his dance partner's when the criminal spoke.
"Having fun?"
"No."
"Mm. Me neither. I hate birthdays, especially mine. No one ever gets that, though." The detective nodded, thinking.
"Do you want to leave then?"
"Not…yet…" the criminal began, as if considering something. Sherlock saw the look and inquired.
"What?" Jim's eyes focused back on the detective. Then he smiled into those gorgeous color-shifting orbs.
"Yes. I think I would…like to leave. But first…"
"First…?" the detective prompted. And those brown eyes before him became filled with something…uncomfortable.
"Let's blow this place up, detective. Scare 'em real good. How about it? Remind them of how changeable I can be…"
Sherlock heard the words and watched as Jim's hand swept back to the holster that carried his Beretta. The detective had thought it odd when he had seen everyone else entering the party being searched, except Jim. They were reeeeally going to be reconsidering that, he bet as he ran through the possible scenarios to follow. Then his mind raced as it considered the alternatives and the consequences. He found more pros than cons, though, oddly enough. After all, these were the bad people, right? Surely it didn't matter if they shot up a gathering full of people like this? Then Jim handed the gun to Sherlock, who stared at it quizzically until the shorter man reached back and pulled a second from the other side.
"Always prepared. I'm like a boy scout." Sherlock made no comment on that particular misnomer. And Jim turned away from him, lifted the gun, and fired up at the ceiling. The reaction was instantaneous. In a group of treacherous individuals, everyone's awareness was already threadbare, and so they moved very quickly indeed when the anticipated violence finally broke out. People fled in every direction since the structure had no true walls, just columns. Tables were upended, chairs strewn about, and belongings abandoned as the two men fired all about themselves. No one seemed inclined to return the attack, given who was on the offense.
Sherlock fired into the ceiling, into the wall, into the chandelier, and then he took aim on a particularly ugly ice sculpture of what appeared to be a retarded iguana. And suddenly a red dress flashed before him…and froze at the sight of the gun trained over her heart. She stood perhaps ten feet away, disheveled blonde tresses knocked loose from the elegant display they had been set in earlier. One heel was broken, and she limped from the ankle that had twisted when it did. The detective drew conclusions from other pieces of her appearance that she was a highly placed official, if not the head, of a modern day slavery operation. Children in particular. His gaze narrowed, and her breath hitched. His eyes were flat as she looked on them.
And then Jim was there behind him, inches from touching, and drawing closer. The criminal was simply observing with interest. But then he was touching, bringing his chest to Sherlock's back. The detective heard the slip of a gun into a holster. And then hands were running lightly over his hips, up his ribs, to his shoulders, and then into his visual field along his extended arms and double-handed grip on the firearm. Jim's left hand came to rest underneath, and in support of, Sherlock's own left arm that steadied his aim. The other hand ran all the way to the gun itself before backtracking a moment, as if stroking. Then it flowed smoothly out and over the long, pale grip until it was as if the consulting criminal were holding the gun through Sherlock Holmes. And Moriarty brought his face almost beside the detective's own, cheek brushing just behind the taller man's ear. The criminal's lips caressed the lobe as he spoke, with the woman remaining paralyzed before them.
"There now, Sherlock. What have you got here, hmm?" No reply was forthcoming from the detective, so Jim continued. "Looks like…ah, a criminal!" And Jim laughed suddenly, startling the woman into even greater depths of terror. "Yeessss, detective. And she is bad. Very. Stealing things is one consideration; but stealing people…?" His voice dropped an octave as he whispered, "Stealing children? Selling…children…" Sherlock's grip adjusted on the gun, moving Moriarty's hand with own as he did so. "Surely she deserves nothing better than death?"
Jim reveled in the situation that had presented itself. Having Sherlock assist in the bank job had been nice. A clean start for his detective. But this….this was the very line of hazy gray that he dwelt within always. Any action could be justified. You just had to dig deep enough. This one was just a tad easier to discern an answer for, though, the way he saw it. But he knew it wouldn't be so easily decided upon for Sherlock, so he continued his part in the game with his words of encouragement, breaking the remainder of the detective's willpower with his soothing Irish lilt. Slowly, so slowly….
"A small crime, Sherlock. Not even worthy of such a great mind as yours considering it. Besides…it's so much easier…after your first…"
Sherlock's mind was in complete disharmony. So many things clamored for his attention. Morality. Law. Duty. Truth. Justice. They became embroiled in battle with the situation he found himself in, staring down the barrel of his gun at a person who would hurt others, take away their lives. There was no alternative here. If she didn't die, she would leave, and continue…surely he couldn't allow that? Surely that was worse than the death of such a person on his conscience? His body was beginning to betray his weakness to James, he knew. The criminal could almost certainly feel the raised level of his pulse as he stood there against him, feel the heat being generated from the effort of holding himself back. And he must. Hold. Himself. Back.
"She'll kill them now. All of them. Because you've seen her," Jim said, confirming what Sherlock already knew. But it was horrible all the same. He knew…he knew that this woman deserved death. He knew it. And his finger tightened over the trigger, Jim's own following the movement. The woman's eyes tracked the motion. Yes. He knew it…he could feel the change within himself.
And what was there to stop him?
Who was there to stop him?
There must be someone…
Someone…
There was….was….
Mycroft?
…
No.
…
…and…
…
Greg?
…
No.
…
…and…
…
Molly?
...
No.
…
…and…
…
Mrs. Hudson?
…
No.
…
…and…
…
…and…
…
He felt Jim's presence with him acutely, and it spread dancing waves of explosive emotions throughout the detective's conflicted soul. Pulling it down with the criminal into his depths of darkness, their hands interwoven upon the trigger. And he felt it…Sherlock felt it the moment it happened. There and gone, but true nonetheless. Incontrovertible. Their wills were separate one moment…but the next…he felt something shift in the air…and their thoughts came in tune..…a sweet lullaby of sin…
And…
…and…
…and…
…
…
…
…
…
BANG!