Genre: Drama, angst, friendship
Spoilers: End of series 2, "The Reichenbach Fall"
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence, mentions of drugs, swearing

Reviews might get you an umbrella!


Proof of Identity


Paris is a beautiful location, especially in spring. Where London can be dark and depressing at times, Paris is easy and light. Even now, at the beginning of autumn, it is a place of elegance, of living in fluid, golden moments, a spot of joy and abundance. As much as I am attached to my home town, Paris has always been my favourite city on the continent.

As serious as my mission is, I can´t cease to feel joy that of all places, it has led me here. While I try to make use of the bits of information I can retrieve about the acquaintances of Didier Morbier, I observe everyday life in Montparnasse, blending in with the masses, fading into the anonymity of the French capital.

I feel estranged from my previous live already after only two months, every look into the mirror delivering confirmation of how much I have changed. A stranger with short brown hair and grey eyes stares back at me, who bears a dangerous sparkle in his eyes, his attitude of arrogance bothering on the unbearable. I have completely assimilated to my role and I am convinced that even in London nobody would recognize me.

It is with this air of arrogance I enter the "Jules Verne" restaurant on the second store of the Eiffel Tower. My contact has chosen a table at the window with a spectacular view of the city. He stands to greet me, unbuttoning his jacket, his hand stretched out in a formal greeting.

"Ah, Mr. Sigerson. Glad you could make it. Isn´t it a most beautiful day?"

I take his hand, squeezing it tight, smiling down on him. "Eric, please. It certainly is."

We take our seats and I regard my counterpart. He is in his fourties. His pale complexion is the result of a lack of exercise, though he still has the attire and muscles of an athlete. His suit is immaculate, his hands manicured, his watch expensive. It indicates wealth and a higher position in the financial business. He is sure of his position, as his handshake is firm, his smile one of courage and reassurance. But he is wary of me, for his smile never reaches his eyes. The prominent antique ring on his right hand points to either a relationship or some involvement with a group – whichever it is, I can only speculate at this point.

He regards me with a hawk´s eye and inwardly I must give him credit for his scrutiny. We order meal, and when the wine arrives, he raises a toast. "To Paris," he says, before he sips at his wine, his eyes bearing into mine.

"Before we indulge in our meal, let me assure you how genuine a surprise it is to see you here safe and sound." He smiles at me.

My heart stops for a second. "Why is that?" I answer lightheartedly, twiddling the stem of my glass between my fingers.

He sits back. "We thought we had lost you, you know. It is a shame you left England so soon. You´d surely had a more comfortable trip with our people than with the coast guard."

Now I realize. Somehow news of Sigerson´s death must have reached Didier and his people. I laugh. "Oh surely, I would have." I fix him with a glare. "I guess there are those who die by suicide and those who are getting away alive."

His laughter this time is genuine. "You are talking about our ever-so-nosy detective?" His laughter stops, his eyes narrowing to slits. He grabs hold of my left hand, nailing it down on the table. "The newspapers are still ringing with his ridiculous story. Shame he was a fake, don´t you agree? It is so easy to feign a career – to feign identity." He clings to my wrist, digging his nails into the wound on my arm and I nearly let slip a yelp of dismay. "How can I be sure that you are not a fake?"

I feel repulsion at the men welling up and the strong urge to tell him how much in fact I despise him already. Instead, I stay calm, a tight-lipped smile crossing my face. "Your proof is right here," I say, pointing to the bandage on my forearm. "Consider me loyal to your cause."

He releases my hand, tracing the wound with his fingertips. "Hmm, I wonder how Moriarty convinced you to become a faithful follower," he says.

"I was no one when I met him. He saw my intellect, though – and he played a game with me to prove it."

He is intrigued, I can tell by the spark in his eyes. I have to think quickly of a probable scenario to convince him. "Tell me about it," he demands.

I shrug. "Oh, not one of his bigger games. It was just a teensy bit of banter. He cornered me in my Dockland´s office, promising me faith and riches beyond my imagination. My first thought was that he was completely deranged. But he had me already contrived." I raise my glass, pondering the reflections in the crystal. "He simply said I could make a choice, that I could either walk away or join his organization. But if I intended to walk out on him, I would lose my hand."

My counterpart stares into the void, his gaze shadowed. "So you thought you could just leave the organisation and stop playing along?"

"I had underestimated him. He recently made very clear that there never was a choice."

"And now you are still waiting for fame and fortune?" he asks.

I look him straight into the eyes. "Fortune would do. I hope I can be a helpful extension to your powers."

The man leans back, a satisfied grin on his face. "You certainly are. Welcome on board, Mr. Sigerson."