Sherlock

Four minutes and one fast but very thorough search later, Mies and I are sitting side-by-side on the platforms at Bank Station. She is watching me with the utmost caution. Folded arms are, for today, not a defensive behaviour but a cover for keeping her hand on the knife inside her jacket. Honestly. Way she's behaving you'd think I was a threat. On the one hand it's hard to blame her; I have every right to want revenge. On the other, it should be patently obvious that she has nothing to worry about.

As it is, for a woman who wanted to talk, Mies can't think of anything to say.

After a while, "Thank you. For the break, I mean, the phone number. I almost… almost didn't give it up."

"Why not?"

She thinks. "Hardly matters," is the conclusion. "It's done now." Part of me wishes it wasn't, but I can't tell her that. What I should tell her is that she's very welcome, and now she can pay me back in kind, by telling me the things she was so poisonously keen to cover up before. I've proven to her, after all, that I owe Mycroft no allegiance.

Well, I didn't last night. Whether or not that still holds true today remains to be seen.

But her silence appears to be infectious. Or maybe it's that I just don't trust myself to open my mouth. She's expecting the quid-pro-quo and looks around to me. I feel without seeing eyes move over my skin, searching out details, analysing what she must have known already at first glance. Long fingers, that broken nail, pass through my vision, moving hair from my forehead. "You're sick," she mutters. Pity on it. Pity from her, from a thief, who left me for dead, who knows everything and why should she tell me, because last night I shot up and today, all over again, yes, I'm sick. "Did I do this?"

Should tell her yes. It's more than she deserves. Should say it just to see her bitch face sink under the guilt. But that lets all the rest of them off the hook, Mycroft and Lestrade and everything else. Can't do that either. And when you come right down to it, only one person is responsible for this.

"You know there's nothing I can give you, don't you?" That's what makes me look to her, what gets her eye contact. It's instinctive, like turning toward a loud and terrifying noise. I turn just in time to see a train rumbling down the track, looking like it's coming right for me. "About," and here she pauses, looking round, checking how candidly she might speak, "About that rumour. The one you came to ask me about. I have nothing left to tell you. They already know."

"What?"

"That's what started all this. They already know. They went for… the person in question."

"But… But you said on the phone you wanted to talk."

"And it worked. They sent somebody to talk to me." The lights from the train, which is long gone now, are still burning behind my eyes, bringing up a wave of nausea. But even through all this, the facts, the hints, are starting to arrange themselves. They make more sense now. I hate them, because there is no room for me anymore. "How out-of-the-loop are you?" she asks. "Why were you even there if you didn't know any of this? They tracked the activity around the search term 'Diogenes' to an individual two nights ago and moved against him."

"So you made them think you were coming in from the cold, in order to kidnap the operative they sent for questioning. It won't work. They were right behind the van. There's no way it'll work."

Telling her all of this, my hand slips off the metal arm of the chair, onto her side. She catches it. Pulls me in against her, puts her other arm around me. I get it; it's no real gesture of comfort, it's so I look legitimately unwell. She mumbles to me, like words of security and relief, "You're absolutely right, darling. They were right behind the van. We're beat. Never work, not in a month of Sundays." Her hand is stroking my shoulder, and it's sing-song, like lullabies, and about as much of it is true. I shake her off with as much force as I can manage and sit up straight. I'm fine. Absolutely fine. Illness never used to hit me this quickly. This is a good sign, this is a sign of recovery, I can be proud, and pride will help.

There's a voice in the back of my head, sounding too much like Mies', saying, You keep telling yourself that.

I can't believe that Mycroft could have something on his mastermind and not tell me. The other night, when she says this happened, he was… at mine, maybe, or I spoke to him or… Things are hazy, and difficult. Can't believe he'd leave me out so completely, even to humiliate me. This all happened before I gave her his number, so… Things are swimming.

"You never wanted to talk at all. You were just bait."

She tries to touch me again, the vile hand reaching for mine, but I bat her away. With a martyr's patience, "Do you need me to get you home? I've got a bit of time on my hands. It's no trouble."

"This isn't even my line."

"Mh, where are you hiding yourself these days?"

"Haven't you had enough out of me?"

Her response to that is to take two cigarettes out of a pack in her pocket, light them between her lips and pass one to me. "I have nothing for you," she sighs. "I'm sorry your brother made an idiot of you but-"

"Twice." I've said that before I've quite thought about it. And then it's out anyway, so I might as well laugh about it. "Twice, twice, he's done it twice."

"What do you want, Sherlock?" she says. Says it with honesty too, and it's more than just an invitation, it's a genuine question.

"The long version or-" But there's a train just coming in, slowing, and she's starting to stand up. "Short then. Basically, to skip the next three months. To wake up at the far side of summer. Mycroft will have found some form of satisfaction, and will leave me alone. You'll be far away. And I'll have gotten this bloody killer."

She had started to walk away, content to leave me with thoughts like that. But at the word 'killer' she stiffens and comes running back, leaning in, "Say that again."

"This bloody serial killer business, it'll be done with."

"The Sleeping Beauty murders?"

"Yes."

"You're working on that?" I can only nod. "Oh, now that's interesting. That's very interesting."

"Why?"

Darting away to the closing doors, "Keep your phone on. We might still be able to help each other."

Jim

The beagle's name, or the one on his identification anyway, is Mr Bruce. I like Mr Bruce. So far he's being very stoical. I respect that.

The damage to him so far is minimal. His ankle is broken, and he's got a few cuts and bruises. That couldn't be helped. Moran's apologized about that already. It was all about getting him here, see, and about sending the spooks off on a wild goose chase so we can get a bit of work done. Poor things, following after that van. And yeah, sure, Moran was driving. There was nowhere along the route we could work a swap. But all they found was a van full of empty barrels going back to the brewery, and Moran with a thick West Indies accent giving it his very best 'Is it because I is black?' routine. They had no cause, no evidence, nothing to find and no warrant, so he drove away. Then went back and picked up Mr Bruce here.

You're not getting it, are you? Oh, alright, I'll tell you how he did it.

The white van was parked over a manhole, which had been moved off to one side by Sebastian's mysterious steel key, remember that? Upon obtaining Mr Bruce, and dragging him into the back, the captive was knocked out with a fine and very temporary spray of ketamine and other agents which effectively knocked him out. Then he was dropped through a trapdoor, down the manhole onto the walkway of the murky world below and left. That's how he broke his ankle. So it was really just a case of Moran getting clear and then going back for him.

Hence me, and Mr Bruce, waiting here. Because Moran stank to high heaven, so I let him go and change. It's worked out, anyway; Bruce is really, properly awake now. Ready for questioning. He doesn't know that yet, himself. He thinks he's not going to talk. Bless. I've seen so many come past me with that attitude. That's why I respect it. It's really not his fault he doesn't know any better.

So I'm just checking my watch. I'm in no real hurry, but it makes Bruce think there's something to be waiting for, keeps him on edge.

Me, I'm not all that on edge. I have two things I could maybe be worrying about. Neither of them are Mr Bruce. One is the Creep. I've had to leave him alone so I could be here personally. But he'd eaten himself to sleep in front of the telly. He probably doesn't even know I'm gone. Second thing is apparently there was someone else in the alley when Moran snatched Bruce. But he says Dani was dealing with that, and I've just had a text from her. She's going home, to get dressed so she can meet her copper for drinks tonight. So one can only assume that if there was a problem, it's been handled.

Me? I am free from all care. Not from anger, though. Not quite free from that yet. These people came at me, after all. All guns blazing. Turfed me out of my home and made me murder my computer. So I'm not quite free of anger yet.

Then the door opens and Moran comes in, looking fresh, looking ready. Wearing a white t-shirt. I know it sounds ill-advised, but think about it just one step further. What's more disconcerting than seeing your own blood stain another man's clothes? Time to get free, I think. Even Bruce sits up straighter. This is it, for him, and he knows it.

"Are you a smart person, Mr Bruce?" I ask, watching Moran cross the concrete. Do you know where we are, by the way? You know when you drive down the road, and the motorway is above you, roaring, and in either side of the bridge, if you look, you can see steps up the inside, without ever knowing where they go? This is where they go. Under the overpass, five feet of concrete in any given direction, traffic noise as good as concrete twice as thick, that's where we are. Mr Bruce can scream himself hoarse, if he wants. I hope he does.

Anyway, he hasn't answered me. Probably means he's quite smart, yeah.

"Because if you're smart," I tell him, "you'll be listening. I'm going to tell you everything. Let's start right from the top. Literally and metaphorically. My name," and here I indicate myself, placing my hand to my chest, "is James Moriarty. Look at me, Mr Bruce, get a good long look, because I want you to be able to put a decent photofit together when you get out of here." His ears prick up, just slightly, something he can't manage to hide. "Oh yeah. 'When'. And this big gent here, he goes by the name of Sebastian Moran. And the woman, the one you were hunting, her name is Danielle Mies. She couldn't make it, but just tell Mycroft the name, he'll know her."

Bruce glares hard at me, looking through, searching for answers.

I anticipate his question, "Why am I telling you this? Because I can. Are you paying attention? I want you to fetch all this back to Sulgrave, so you'd better be."

Sulgrave, if you remember, is the Grumpy gent I had pegged as Diogenes' top dog. Mr Bruce looks at me and tries to say, "Fetch it back to who?"

"Oh, you don't know him… Shite…"

Moran says to me, "Sorry, mate, did I get the wrong one?"

"Not your fault. Must be a compartment system. It's like trying to pick up a Sixer by taunting the Fives. It's just a pity for him, that's all."

Moran takes his favourite gun, his birthday gun, the nickel-plated one that picks up so much light in this dark little space it appears to be the source, and takes his first step towards Bruce. But Bruce, of course, knows when he's got a good thing going on. That's the thing about all these government types; they're climbers. They have to be to do the job they're doing. So once you give them this taste, this idea that there's information to be gained… they'll eat out of your hand. If they think they're playing you, they are yours, heart and soul.

"Oh," says Bruce, still being stoical, "That Sulgrave."

Me, "Don't believe you." And for such a stupid, obvious gambit, he is punished, gets the butt of the gun brought down hard on top of his head.

"Former Major-General Edwin D. Sulgrave. Head of the project. I just haven't had dealings with him. He slipped my mind."

Ah, it's all in how you ask for a thing. "'Course he did. Now tell me about Professor Olenska, how's she getting along these days? Is her hair still pink?"