Well looks like that posting schedule I was talking 'bout before is gonna be like once a week...
...least until summer.
idk.
Writing isn't as fun for me anymore, idk why lol.
I guess if anything becomes a 'job' its gets tiring lol.
So I decided to refrence some shit I've actually read for once.
I can't seem to stop myself from making refrences.
I'm sorry.
Inside, you'll find a bit of 'Batman' because it works and because Batman The Animated Series totally made my eigth and ninth grade years.
And because it works, too, which others have noticed.
So of course I had to bring in 'Mad Love' the only comic I've ever read (illegally online) after watching the episode.
Sorry if you've got no idea what I'm talking about lol.
And you'll also find my favorite short story ever 'How to Tell a True War Story' by Tim O'Brien.
You can actually find it at this link:
http :/ students. ed. uiuc. edu / schopf / assignments / truewarstory . html
(remove spaces, of course)
Just scroll down a bit.
And one final note...
Try not to hate Sally Donovan, for me, please?
She looks too much like me for me to be able to hate her (yes, what a creative way to finally come out as black-not that it actually matters lol).
And I know how it feels to be resentful of those who are better than I am-and although bullying wouldn't be my choice of action had I met Sherlock Holmes...
...I know I would definitely not like to hang around him since I'm the kinda person who's got to be the smartest in the room.
I'd probably just avoid him lol.
So well, I hope you like this chapter, of course.
And please don't get weirded out at how it starts lol.
I'm sure you've all learned to live with my wierdness by now.
It's cheese.
It's cheese.
It's cheese that makes the world go round.
It was not-too-warm, not-too-cool, sunny (but not burning) morning.
The perfect day to begin summer.
Which is what the children were doing, occupying the crisply mowed front lawn (ahh, the smell of fresh cut grass—summer) of the boarding school, distracting themselves by playing games until their parents arrived to take them home and set them free.
There was a group of boys (an odd number, uneven teams—not fair) attempting to kick a ball around without it being accidently punted too far from their territory…
…and into the territory of the girls.
The borders between the boy and girl boarders of the boarding school were not drawn imaginarily by fear of 'cooties', but by the rules.
Males and females slept in separate rooms, used separate bathrooms and locker-rooms, they never played together (and only ever worked together when teachers assigned (forced) them to).
Today, the line was drawn by concrete path cut into the lawn up to the front of the school.
Boys on one side, girls on the other.
Nobody had to tell them this, these were just the rules and the children knew the rules.
Jim strolled up this path, a few paces behind a friendly couple…
(Friendly but nervous (clinging to each other)—even though they had come together. And without a driver, either. They'd driven themselves, park a little ways down the road instead of by the school…and look at those clothes (old, inexpensive). They're child must sort of a scholarship kid…Although, among the children, it was impossible to tell which one was theirs since the school uniforms were the 'great equalizer'.)
…right in the middle of this 'line between girls and boys', taking time to examine each side in search of his targets.
Most of the boys were running around, playing with sports equipment or just rough-housing because 'boys will be boys' and that's what boys do—but not all of them.
There was a small circle of boys playing with trading cards, and another boy seated under a tree reading (Aww, how cute, a child who enjoys reading (Aww, how cute, a social outcast)).
Jim passed by them and then looked over to the girls.
Most of the girls were sitting, chatting (gossiping—alas, they start so young…) and being well-manner, well-behaved young ladies who played with pretty dolls because that's what girls do—but, of course, not all of them.
Some of the girls were running around just as much as the boys were (although the boys wouldn't let them play with them. Boo hoo.), playing tag or hide-and-seek and climbing trees.
However, it was the song that a small circle of girls were singing that Jim'just happened' but overhear.
It was something about cheese making the world go round—no. Cheese making the mice 'go round' and then the mice making the cats 'go round' and the cats making the dogs 'go round' (and so on, and so on).
Or something like that.
Well, anyway, it caused Jim to chuckle to himself since he'd always had a fondness for mice ever since…
Suddenly, Jim was on the grassy ground.
He'd been shot in the stomach with a cannon ball (hit in the stomach with a normal ball) and knocked backwards onto the girls' side of the lawn.
Jim would have seen it coming and would have been able to dodge (since he'd been the champion of dodge ball back when he was in school) had he not been distracted by the song (yes. by the song. definitely).
Now, all attention outside the school was focused on
Rushing towards him, chasing after their ball, was the odd number of boys, shouting and waving their hands.
But before they reached Jim, they stopped short on the sidewalk, unwilling to break the rules and cross over into girl territory.
"Excuse me, sir?" the first boy, taller than the rest (and so the leader), "May we have our ball back? I'm sorry it hit you."
Jim sighed, rolling his eyes as he rose from the ground.
"Well, since you boys asked so nicely..." he began, bending sideways to retrieve the ball idling by his feet and then holding it out to the boys.
"Thank you, sir." The first boy smiled.
He reached for the ball but before he could take it from Jim's extended hand, Jim tossed it backwards onto the grass far behind him, deep into the foreign and dangerous ground of the girls.
The group gaped in shock and horror as they watched their ball soar through the air, land, bounce a couple times and then roll further and further away from them, stopping right next to an odd number of girls (who had been giggling amongst themselves but were now also gaping in shock and horror, too).
"Go and get it, boys." Jim grinned as he continued down the path, then looking back to add, "Oh, and don't forget to have fun…"
With that, Jim walked away, leaving everyone else (boys and girls) just standing there, immobile and unsure.
When he reached the boarding school, Jim politely stepped aside and even held the front door open for the man and woman who exited, both carrying suitcases.
Their children…
('their children' meaning the children that they were in charge of. These two were obviously not the actual parents (too young, wrong features). Just a driver and a nanny for the family…although they were romantically involved)
…had already run ahead of them, down the stairs and out into the lawn, saying their quick goodbyes to friends as they hurried towards freedom.
Once they had passed, Jim entered the school building.
It was vacant and dim, as almost everyone (staff and students) was outside.
Inside, nothing much had changed and Jim could still travel the school easily, wandering around because he was bored (and for the nostalgia).
Yes, of course, Jim knew the boarding school.
Once upon a time, a long time ago, he'd locked a fellow student in a closet here.
Now, Jim just had to occupy himself until nighttime, when the school would finally close down and Jim would finally be able to pick up his children ('his children' meaning the children that he was going to kidnap).
After about fifteen minutes of 'casing' (as he was calling it now, since that was more professional than 'wandering around') the school, Jim heard footsteps approaching as well as something rolling on squeaky wheels.
Probably a janitor, pushing some kind of cart with either trash bins or cleaning supplies.
Quickly, Jim pulled a paper off one of the bulletin boards that adorned the wall outside of a locked and dark classroom.
It was a flyer for a Girl Guide summercamp.
Jim crumpled it up and threw it onto the tile floor.
He waited until the janitor turned the corner and came into view to resume walking down the corridor.
"Thank god!" Jim exclaimed, hurrying over to him, "I've been looking all over, this school is a bloody maze!"
The old janitor, who was pushing a cart of trash, looked up at Jim.
"May I help you, sir?" he asked, raising an eyebrow in confusion.
"…I need to use the little boy's room." Jim winced.
"Um…it's just down the hall, to your right…" The janitor stated, gesturing behind him.
"Thanks." Jim smiled, already beginning to rush towards the restroom.
The Janitor shrugged, nodded and then bent over to retrieve the crumpled paper he noticed lying there on the floor. As he bent, Jim was able to retrieve the ring of keys he noticed hanging from the Janitor's belt-loop.
The Janitor resumed his normal stature, placing the paper with the rest of the trash and then continued down the hallway in his original direction as Jim continued in the opposite.
(And when he did pass the bathroom (down the hall and to his right), Jim stopped quickly, because actually had needed to go.)
It's cheese.
It's cheese.
It's cheese that makes the mice go round.
Once again, despite the water in the vase, the flowers were dead.
It had been over a week since Jim had left the azaleas for Molly and since that verified that he was still alive (and still 'interested' in her, too, apparently—or at least still interested in playing with her) she knew that the reason for his disappearance from her life was that something was about to happen with Sherlock.
Something big.
And probably bad, too.
Jim had said, multiple times, that he was planning on killing Sherlock Holmes and so now, Molly guessed, he was finally going to do it…
…or die trying.
(…or both, maybe…)
Even though Molly had no way of stopping Jim she knew she had to do something.
Not something big, (obviously, because Molly didn't do 'big somethings')…just something small.
Something small…
…but good, too.
Something small and good that would help Sherlock get a fair chance against Jim.
Molly knew Sherlock was genius.
He didn't need 'help' (especially from people like her), he was perfectly capable of playing Jim's 'game' (and maybe even beating Jim, too…probably…) but The Game was like a puzzle and it wasn't fair if only Jim had all the pieces.
All Sherlock needed was a fair chance and Molly knew he could (would) win.
Now what that meant for Jim…
Yes, it made Molly sad…but it would have made her feel much worse if Sherlock died and she hadn't helped him.
If she'd done nothing.
And Molly knew she couldn't live with that.
Jim had chosen to become a criminal.
He knew the risks of doing what he chose to do—and of choosing Sherlock to be his enemy.
…but Sherlock…
Sherlock hadn't chosen Jim.
And so Molly was choosing to help him.
(Hopefully, Sherlock would choose to accept her help.)
Molly wrapped her fingers around the wilting flower stems, lifting the flowers out of the vase and crossing the kitchen to drop them into the trash bin.
She dumped the water from the vase down the sink drain, and then returned vase to the cupboard.
Now, Molly's flat was quiet, colorless and empty.
(Much like her life…. much like herself.)
She was lonely, she couldn't (wouldn't) deny that, and she was hungry.
There were things that she wanted now, good things like before…but also bad things, too.
She wanted Sherlock to live, she wanted to help him and this was good…but she also wanted Jim to live. She wanted Jim—and that was bad.
It was like before, but also not like before.
Before she had been alone and bored, waiting for something (someone) she didn't believe would actually come.
…but now…
Now she was just waiting.
Waiting for something that she knew would happen very soon.
And so it wasn't easy for Molly to go through the motions doing her job as if she had no idea that Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty were about to have some sort of 'final battle' to determine, once and for all, who would win their 'game'.
But she did anyway.
Time moved very slow now, each breath—each heartbeat—was like the tick of a clock (or a bomb), counting down until something happened.
And when Molly entered the morgue one afternoon the cold, gray room was silent and still…like the air just before a predator pounced unexpectedly from behind on its prey.
But Molly knew this 'air' all too well, these past two years it'd become quite familiar to her.
She wasn't stupid.
It had been over a week since Jim had left the azaleas for Molly—
—and Jim wasn't stupid, either.
He knew how long it took for flowers to die.
Molly flipped on the light to her workroom, and saw what she had expected to see (sooner or later, at least); the unexpected.
There on the metal table sat a new vase, small and slim, holding a single red rose.
(And she didn't need the internet to look up what that meant.)
This flower had a note with it, too, just like before.
Come down and see me some time.
—J
It wasn't like Jim's normal messages (he never signed with just a 'J') and it didn't even tell her where or when she should come 'see' him.
But the flower was fresh (it hadn't been there earlier that day), and the note was written on the back of a business card that Molly had only ever seen tacked up to the bulletin board of a particular coffee shop (and it even had the hole where the thumbtack had been).
Molly felt her phone vibrate in her pocket.
How did he know, how did he always know…?
Molly looked up into the corner of the room and she saw the security camera looking back.
She reached into her pocket and checked the text that had come from Jim.
btw its not a trap….just a little joke.
####
You were gone for weeks! I was really worried!
####
lol
####
Its not funny…
What happened? Whats going on?
####
If you have to explain a joke, there is no joke.
…but come find me and we'll talk.
Molly sighed, slipping her phone back into her labcoat pocket.
Once again, Jim Moriarty had called and she was going to come running.
It's mice.
It's mice
It's mice that make the cats go round.
Jim found the normally shared, but now all-but empty bedroom the son of the diplomat slept in.
He paced around the room, examining the remaining items (which all probably belonged to Max—except for those accidently left behind).
He picked up the book Max had been reading from the bed, glancing at its front and then back, before opening it and flipping through.
It was an American comic book.
Batman.
Probably mailed to Max from his father working in the United States.
Max's bookshelf was full of books, Jim could see that he read a lot since watching television was against the rules at the boarding school—a rule which Max obviously resented, too, as he owned many books that had been made into popular movies recently ( a collection of Batman comics, the Harry Potter series, even James Bond novels, and the Bourne Trilogy) as well as some of the more famous Agatha Christie mysteries (which were worn, but not recently touched—used, probably given to Max by his mother).
Poor kid didn't have any dirty magazines, though.
And so Jim had to make due reading the comic Max had left on his bed, which flopped down on.
It kind of reminded him of Sherlock—
—but, then again, everything reminded Jim of Sherlock.
It also reminded him of Molly, though, and not everything did that.
Maybe he was just getting sentimental…
He thought he might leave her another flower soon, once he was finished babysitting, since the ones he'd brought her before must have wilted by now.
It's cats.
It's cats.
It's cats that make the dogs go round.
As soon as Detective Inspector Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan had come up the stairs and through the door into his flat, Sherlock had known.
Known that this case would be 'the one'—even if they hadn't.
It had been two months since Sherlock's 'friendly chat' with Jim Moriarty, who had told him that his 'fall' would be starting 'very soon'.
Ever since, Sherlock had been waiting patiently (distracting himself with other cases) for the 'consulting criminal' to make his next move.
He'd seen the little clues in the newspapers, someone named Richard Brook (Reichenbach) 'just happened' to be accusing him of being a fraud in an article that 'just happened' to be written by Kitty Riley.
The graffiti ('IOU') that 'just happened' to painted on nearby walls wherever he went.
Mycroft had told Sherlock (from when he was just a child to this very day) that there was no such thing as coincidence.
And so Sherlock knew.
The high-profile crime, size of the footprints he found at the crime scene, the envelope with the book of fairytales…
…all that just proved it.
So now all Sherlock had to do was pretend that he had no idea and go through the motions of solving the case as if it was any normal case.
He knew that if he solved it too quickly, too easily, then it would be suspicious—which was exactly what Moriarty wanted; more doubt cast upon the name Sherlock Holmes.
And Sherlock was not going to do what Moriarty wanted him to do.
No.
…He was going to pretend to.
It's dogs.
It's dogs.
It's dogs that make the boys go round.
"Problem?" Lestrade had asked.
And Sally had looked up from the files and photographs on the long table to see him standing there with a confused look on his face, pretending as if he actually had no idea exactly what her 'problem' was.
Sherlock Holmes.
He was the problem.
And it was just too suspicious how quickly he had located the missing children.
Sally had seen the articles (not that she'd actually read them—she'd never read tabloids. It was simply beneath her. definitely) claiming to explain how Sherlock had faked solving all those cases…and being genius.
Yes, that story was unbelievable…
…just as unbelievable as someone being able to 'solve' crimes the way Sherlock did.
Sherlock had to have been faking it, somehow and if not all of it, well, then at least some of it.
There was no way every deduction he had ever made could have been real.
And Moriarty making absolutely no defense for himself against the crimes he'd been accused of, and still getting acquitted…that was also incredibly suspicious.
It was more likely than not that Sherlock had paid him to do that—had paid him to do the crimes back in 2010, too, which were all ever-so nicely delivered directly to Sherlock…even though nobody had even heard of Sherlock Holmes yet (since John's blog hadn't the large following it did now and Sherlock's name wasn't in the newspapers).
So this was what Sally and Anderson had explained to Lestrade in his office and then, again, to the superintendent in his office.
And then Sally had waited at the bottom of the stairs while Lestrade tried to be reasonable with Sherlock, politely offering take him into custody without all the fanfare of handcuffs and flashing lights.
She had warned Lestrade that it would be futile (just like she had warned John to stay away Sherlock) but Lestrade had insisted that it would be better to keep things quiet (—not just for Sherlock's sake, but for Scotland Yards, as well…and their own).
But even Sally knew that Sherlock Holmes never gave up the fight.
And she was not going to let Sherlock win this time.
If Sherlock was indeed a criminal, then he would be going to jail and she was going to be the one who (happily) put him there.
Now, it was time.
Sally couldn't help but smile as she pushed past the flies unlucky enough to be caught in Sherlock's web (John, Mrs. Hudson), angrily buzzing at her and Lestrade, who went upstairs to make their arrest.
Everyone else was waiting patiently outside of 221b Baker Street, standing around or leaning against their police cars, their collective satisfaction of being right glowing in the dark.
(Yes! They were right! Sherlock Holmes was not a genius! Sherlock Holmes was a fake! Sherlock Holmes was a criminal! He was wrong and they were right! They were not stupid…)
Finally, Sherlock was led out of his flat, his hands cuffed together as the hands of the watching police officers applauded.
This was a large and loud event, arresting the famous world's only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.
Worthy of media attention.
And so Sherlock couldn't help but smile, either, as he was shoved against the police car to be pat down.
He was playing right into Moriarty's hand…
…and the police were playing right into his.
It's boys.
It's boys.
It's boys that make the girls go round.
Molly had been pulling on her coat, already hurrying on her way out the door when Sherlock (and John, who was always with him) stopped and turned her around, with just two bags of crisps and a smile that almost looked genuine (even though she knew it really wasn't—she knew what Sherlock's real smiles looked like and they were always directed at John).
It was too easy.
Too easy to keep Molly at his 'beck and call' that Sherlock actually felt a bit sorry about it (—but only because John felt sorry for poor, naïve little Molly who Sherlock so rudely 'used' and gave him that 'disappointed' look).
Molly Hooper came running whenever Jim Moriarty called…and whenever Sherlock Holmes called, as well.
And as if she was his personal assistant, Molly fetched all the items Sherlock had requested (books, equipment) and did the small, less important tests that he trusted her not to mess up for him.
He didn't thank her.
No, Sherlock hadn't even noticed her as she gave him an answer that he needed to solve his current case (some kind of kidnapping, he hadn't bothered to tell her the details), a piece of the puzzle that he needed to put together.
He had called her 'John'.
John had gone into the other room to read the medical encyclopedia, searching for more information necessary to their case.
Sherlock knew this.
And Molly knew that Sherlock knew this.
(She knew because she knew Sherlock actually cared about John and so wouldn't look as sad as he did in front of him as he did in front of someone he didn't care about (her).)
And since Sherlock looked so sad, Molly forgave (what was nothing but) the deliberate cruelty (of, once again, ignoring and not appreciating her), forgave him.
She sighed and told Sherlock that she'd give him whatever he needed—even though she knew he didn't want anything.
But she also told him that he should thank her.
It wasn't that she even wanted or actually expected him to thank her (or mean it if he did)…it was because Sherlock believed that Molly helped him (and put up with him) out of love.
And he was wrong.
(Once upon a time, he would have been right. But not anymore, not anymore…)
It was out of guilt.
The guilt of sleeping with Sherlock's worst enemy, a criminal mastermind and mass murderer…
…and using a trip to the vending machine as an excuse to go running back to him again.
Molly ducked out of the lab, practically running down the halls of the hospital as soon as she was a safe enough distance from Sherlock (and John, who was always with him).
Sure, she must have looked strange, rushing out of St. Bart's and down the street towards the coffee shop but Molly just didn't care what the people that stopped to stare at her thought about her, anymore (hey, at least they were noticing her now).
The only people whose opinions (judgments) she cared about now were those she bothered to lie to (Sherlock, Lestrade, family members)…
…and Jim Moriarty.
It had been weeks since she'd seen him and so she couldn't pass up the chance to see him now.
After all, it could be the very last time she did.
(Maybe, Molly hoped as she hurried, just maybe—if Jim was in a good enough mood—she could distract from killing Sherlock…and himself.)
But when Molly finally arrived at the coffee shop Jim wasn't there.
Their usual table was vacant and when Molly scanned the rest of the room she couldn't find him.
Just as she was about to turn and leave (and go running back to Sherlock who she'd left unsupervised in her lab—breaking the rules) the barista shouted past those already in line over to her.
" Excuse me, ma'am?" she called.
Molly looked up and over to the woman behind the counter, who motioned her over with a wave.
"Yes?" Molly asked, wondering if Jim had left some kind of message for her with the barista or something.
"You're not in here looking for your boyfriend, are you?" the barista inquired, in something resembling a whisper, leaning towards her.
"I…well…" Molly stammered, not knowing whether to still call Jim her 'boyfriend' and if the barista even meant Jim by 'boyfriend'.
"He was in here earlier." She stated, "Waited for about fifteen minutes then hurried out."
"…oh…" Molly said, unsure of what else she could say to this.
She'd missed her chance.
Her last chance.
"Yeah, well I already told you he was seeing other women on the side." The barista reminded, "So, in my opinion, it's good riddance. You can do better than him, the damn cheater."
In her opinion?
But Molly didn't care about her opinion.
"Um…okay…" Molly replied.
"Now, here." The barista said, reaching under the counter to pull out one of the pastries for sale and then handing it over to her, "This'll help. Chocolate's better than any man. On the house."
She smiled and so Molly smiled back, politely.
"Thanks." Molly accepted, taking the chocolate donut even though she wasn't hungry.
She decided that it would be a good excuse if Sherlock asked her why she took so long to get crisps from the vending machine.
She'd tell him that the machine took her money and so she went down to her favorite coffee shop to buy a snack there (not to see Jim Moriarty or anything. Definitely not).
But when Molly returned to the lab, Sherlock was gone.
Just like Jim.
It's girls.
It's girls.
It's girls that make the love go round.
"Why don't you just go down and play with them if you want to so bad?"
"Cause you said it was stupid."
"It is stupid."
"But why's it stupid?"
Max sighed, shutting his book looking up at Claudette who had turned from the window to face him.
Her brother was sitting up in his bed, the only bed that still wearing its clothes as all the other boys had packed up their covers, along with the rest of their stuff, to leave for the summer.
Max was the only boy left.
Claudette was the only girl.
The girls' room was down the hall from the boys', he knew she'd be scared that night, sleeping in her dark room alone.
She'd probably sneak out and try to sleep in his bed with him.
And since the other boys weren't around to make fun of him, he'd probably let her too.
Although Max didn't want to admit it, he really did love his younger sister—even though she was an annoying little seven-year-old.
"Why's it stupid, Max?" Claudette repeated, wide-eyed.
"I already told you, Claudette." Max said, "It's stupid because they're all leaving and we have to stay. They're all playing and having fun because it's summer. They get to go home. We don't. We're not like them…so why should we play with them?"
"Because they're fun to play with?" Claudette guessed.
Max rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, whatever."
"And," Claudette added, the mischief in her grin masked by her cuteness, "because if you don't let me play with them, then you'll have to play with me."
"I never stopped you from playing with them." Max countered, "I just said it was stupid and I wouldn't do it. You can do what you want. You always say I'm not the boss of you, anyway."
"But since our parents are gone, you kinda are." Claudette reasoned, "Since you're the oldest."
"Well, then." Max agreed, "As the oldest and the boss of you, I'm giving you permission to go outside and play with the other kids."
"But—"
"It's what you wanted, isn't it?"
Claudette stared down at her shoes, shaking her head.
"No…" she murmured, "What I really wanted was to play with you."
Max sighed again and rolled his eyes again.
"For god's sake, Claudette!" He declared, "I'm twelve years old! I don't 'play'."
Claudette giggled.
"Yes you do." She reminded, "I saw you pretending to be James Bond in front of mom's mirror at home!"
"That was a long time ago." Max contested, folding arms but blushing, "Before the divorce…"
The word 'divorce' was a sensitive one for the siblings and so sadness and silence took the room.
But silence was Max wanted.
He knew that despite not even understanding the situation between their parents, Claudette still blamed herself for their separation.
She went back over to the window, staring outside at the students playing below, waiting for their parents to come and take them home.
Claudette and Max's parents weren't coming.
And the boarding school was their home now.
Downstairs and outside, the boys and girls were playing together, no longer divided by the pathway.
Somehow, one of the boys' balls had rolled into the girls' side of the green grass and instead of taking it back and taking it back to their side, the boys were now sharing the ball with the girls.
Claudette had never seen anything like this before.
She thought boys and girls were supposed to stay away from eachother. She thought those were the rules.
She wasn't even allowed to be in her brother, or any boy's, room at the school. The only reason she was able to was because all the staff was outside so they didn't know.
Now Claudette wondered why the boys and girls could get along, but not her father and mother.
Max could see her reflection in the window.
Such a sad, sad face.
Max set down his book and got up from the bed, tip-toeing over to his sister and then surprising her by scooping her up into a big hug.
He couldn't lift her up all the way (she was getting big, now, and he wasn't yet as big as his father) but he knew she smiled and laughed when their father used to play with her, pretending she was a bird.
Claudette giggle and when Max set her back down in front of him, he could see her smiling.
"Play with me, Max?" she asked, as sweetly as she could (she knew her powers and how to use them—especially against her big brother), "Pretty, pretty, please..."
"Oh, alright." Max agreed, shrugging.
"Yes!" Claudette squealed, jumping up and hugging him tightly, "I love you, Max, I love you!"
"Love you, too, Claudette." Max returned, "Now let go of me, you're crushing my ribcage."
"…Sorry." Claudette apologized, dropping her arms back to her sides but her smile only faded for a second before reappearing on her face, she then grabbed Max's hand, "Now, come on, let's go play!"
Claudette led Max out of the room.
And then, Jim Moriarty led Max out of the room.
Hours later, a monster emerged from the shadows to steal the siblings away.
But before he was forced out of his bed at gunpoint, Max had been able to write a message in the invisible ink he and his sister had mixed up from supplies they'd stolen from the kitchen while playing spy earlier that day.
Max had seen the silhouette and the gun in the window and froze.
He knew what he was supposed to do.
(Leave a clue behind.)
But he was too afraid.
He knew this was his chance to finally live out what he had only ever read about, to finally have some excitement in his young life.
But he was too afraid.
And then the man was in the room.
He leaned against the doorframe, his face obscured by the darkness.
"Come on, Max," he said, "I know you know what to do…so just do it."
Max sat up in bed, still immobile—except for his shivers.
The intruder yawned, patting his mouth with the gun in his hand.
"Let's not take all night, now." He added, "We've got places to be, better things to do."
"Who—who are you?" Max finally stammered.
The intruder laughed, Max could see him throw his head back like a howling wolf.
"The name's Moriarty, kid." He stated, "You can paint it on the walls, if you'd like."
Max finally was able to make his shaking arm reach for the linseed oil.
He dipped his finger into it, spilling some in the process and started to draw on the blue-painted wall beside him.
But before he could complete his message, the intruder(—Moriarty—that was he said his name was, right? But it was probably a pseudonym, though...) snatched him by the wrist and pulled him out of bed, placing the gun right against the black of his head.
"Told you not to take to long." Moriarty grumbled.
Max felt himself being pushed by the barrel of the gun towards the door.
Deliberately they stepped in the mixture Max had accidently spilled onto the wood floors and Max knew there would be footprints left behind—he just didn't know why Moriarty wanted this.
In the hall, Max saw his sister waiting for him, also shaking in fear. Her wide eyes looked up at him when she heard them come through the door.
Max decided that had to be brave for her.
"It'll be alright." he told her.
Moriarty laughed again.
"Course it will." He agreed, and grabbed Claudette by the elbow.
A taxi picked the three of them up outside the boarding school.
It drove for a long time, taking them to the outskirts of the city and dropping them off outside of some kind of factory.
During the car ride, Max had wanted to hold his little sister's hand, but Moriarty had sat between them, separating them.
Max was finally able to comfort the crying Claudette when they were left alone on the floor of the dark, cold and very wide room.
"Don't worry." He whispered, "Someone'll find us…I left a trail."
"No one'll find us." Claudette sobbed, "We haven't got anyone to look. Our parents don't want us…"
"Yes they do!" Max insisted, wrapping his arms around her, "They love us. You remember what they said, right? Just because they were getting divorced from eachother…didn't mean they were getting divorced from us. And it's not our fault."
"I know that isn't true, though…" Claudette whimpered, "Even I know when the grown-ups are lying…"
"They weren't—"
"Yes they were and you know it, Max. I know when you're lying, too. They wouldn't have left us alone in that school if they loved us!"
"Shhh, Claudette! Don't shout! He'll hear us!"
And Max was right.
He and Claudia heard footsteps approaching, and someone whistling.
Moriarty, still only a faceless shadow in a dark room, stood before them again, this time holding a bag instead of a gun.
He tossed the bag in their direction and it slid across the floor towards them, its contents scattering.
"Brought you kids some candy." Moriarty grinned, teeth glinting, "I'm going to fatten the two of you up until you're ready to bake."
Max covered Claudette's mouth before she could gasp or scream (he wasn't sure which she would do, but he'd seen it start to open).
Then they just sat there, unmoving, and stared at their kidnapper.
"What are you waiting for?" Moriarty groaned, "Eat up! It's not like it's poisoned…"
Still, the children didn't move.
Sighing, Moriarty sat down cross legged across from them.
Max began to be able to make out his face, his eyes finally adjusting to the darkness.
….he looked…familiar…
Eyeing the children as they eyed him, Moriarty reached down and picked up a piece of candy from the floor, unwrapping it and popping it into his mouth.
"It's safe, see?" he smiled, chewing while he spoke (how rude!—but then again, kidnappers were supposed to be rude) "Now you kids must be hungry, I know I'm starving."
Moriarty lifted another piece of candy, this time offering it Claudette who nestled further into Max's embrace, trying to hide from him.
He extended his hand and the candy closer to her and Max glared at him.
Suddenly, Claudette reached out and snatched the piece from Moriarty's grasp, only half unwrapping it before shoving it into her mouth and returning to the safety of her older brother by making herself very small.
"Why are you doing this?" Max demanded, just as suddenly.
"Cause it's fun." Moriarty shrugged, "Do I even need any other reason than that?"
"Yes." Max asserted, "…usually it's money. People kidnap people to get the ransom money. You're trying to get money from our dad, aren't you?"
"Nope." Moriarty shook his head, "Try again."
"Someone paid you." Max tried again, still glaring.
"That-a-boy, Max!" Moriarty exclaimed, "Right on the money!"
"Who's paying you…?" Max questioned.
"A man named Sherlock Holmes." Moriarty answered, "Ever heard of him?"
"…I think so…" Max considered, trying to remember (but being distracted by the current stressful situation), "…he's that detective that's been in the papers lately?"
"Mmhm." Moriarty nodded, "The world's only consulting detective."
"Why would he want to kidnap us?" Max inquired, "I thought he was with the police, not a criminal."
"He's one of the good guys…" Claudette added in a mumble.
"He's a liar." Moriarty corrected, "And a fake."
"What?" Max replied, "What do you mean a 'fake'?"
"Sherlock Holmes's isn't really a detective." Moriarty informed, leaning in close towards the children and speaking in a whisper, "He's actually a spy. An evil criminal mastermind—"
"You're the liar." Max accused, "'spies', 'criminal masterminds', those aren't real! They're just in stories and movies!"
"Oh, they are real, Max, very real." Moriarty grinned, "Just like the monsters under your beds and the big, bad wolf."
Claudette shuddered and Max held her closer.
This 'Moriarty' man was creepy…strange…
Max didn't know what to make of him, which of his words to believe.
"Still…" he countered, "if Sherlock Holmes really is an evil spy, he'd still have to have a reason for having us kidnapped."
"He does." Moriarty affirmed. He stood, looming over the children, and started pacing circles around them, "You see, kids, there is a war going on in this world. One great big war that never stops. When countries fight each other, that's the war. When people kill each other, that's the war…and when parents don't love eachother anymore and get divorced, that, kids, is the war. Everything is war…and do you know why that is? Max? Claudette?"
"Why?" Claudette asked.
Max was old enough to know better than to take the bait.
"Because," Jim explained, "The world is at war with itself. Good and evil, chaos an order. Opposites in a never-ending battle to destroy eachother…but they don't realize that without eachother, they can't survive and when one dies, so must the other. It's all about balancing the equation. Opposites, enemies…all they really are is just two sides of the same coin and—"
"You're the one who stole my comic book!" Max interrupted, "I was wondering where it went!"
Moriarty stopped short, almost tripping over a piece of candy.
"…Well, what can I say?" he admitted, shrugging, "I'm a sucker for a good love story."
"'Love story'?" Max repeated, taken aback, "Ew! No! Batman is not a 'love story'. It's action and crime and mystery and-!"
"—and war?" Moriarty guessed, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes." Max confirmed, nodding, "and war."
Moriarty chuckled, shaking his head at the floor.
"Nobody gets it…nobody ever gets it…" he sighed, "it's not a war story, it's a love story…"
Max and Claudette stared up at him, as confused as they were scared.
They didn't get it.
Of course they didn't get it.
But if Moriarty had to explain the joke to them, then it wasn't a joke anymore.
It's love.
It's love.
It's love that makes the world go round.
Jim was gone.
Yes.
But that didn't Molly was going to just do nothing.
Back down in the cold, gray basement morgue, Molly decided to write her own note.
In full view of the PICA security camera that watched the room, Molly formed her message out of red petals torn from the rose ('he loves me, he loves me not') on top of the metal table.
Get Jim
As soon as she was sure the camera had seen it, she blew the petals, shaped like teardrops (shaped like blooddrops) away like birthday candles and made her wish.
It's cheese that makes the world go round.
...well that got a bit cheesy, didn't it?
I've always loved cheese.
I was a Girl Scout when I was younger too.
That's where I learned the song.
If they don't sing it over in the UK, I'm sorry...but I just couldn't help it lol.
I thought it fit.
And now there's about 2 chapters to go.
I'm gonna try to do 3 more, though, to make it an even 40.
Wish me luck.
In reviews, of course :)