Author's note: I think I might disappoint people. Anyway, this is the chapter where we learn who the consulting criminal is.
"I do not think they gun will help you, but it is better to be on your guard. Trevelyan surely installed traps."
Moriarty wasn't saying this to help them; for all his hate for Trevelyan, he wouldn't help them, he would stand by and watch. If they died and he possessed the device, he could bring Trevelyan back and extract his own revenge. He was saying that to confuse them. Maybe not even because he wanted them to fail, but because he wanted some entertainment.
Mycroft ignored him, or acted like he did. Greg knew that he was watching the man's every move.
The DI was certain that the possibility Moriarty might be holding something back was the only reason he was still alive.
"What kind of traps?" Mycroft asked. "You must know him rather well."
It wasn't particularly clever, at least from Greg's perspective, to passive-aggressively remind Moriarty how long he had been under Trevelyan's control, but he couldn't deny the satisfaction he felt when the man's face fell. Barely noticeably, but he had spent enough time around people who knew to hide their emotions to see.
"Possibly explosives, although nothing too large. Just enough to destroy the house."
Neither of them reacted; it would have been what Moriarty wanted.
The house was dark and apparently empty.
"Window?"
Mycroft shook his head.
"It will be safer to pick the lock".
Greg went first. He had learned many things over the years, and lock-picking was one of them. He wasn't as good as Sherlock, but he could manage.
"What would your colleagues say?"
"Before or after they arrested you?" he shot back, but when he saw the gleam in Moriarty's eyes he realized he was having fun and concentrated on the lock. It took him longer than he would have liked, but the door finally opened.
He turned on his flashlight and shone it into the dark house. He couldn't see any explosives, or other traps, but that didn't mean they weren't there. Trevelyan had built a machine that allowed him to travel to different dimensions. He couldn't underestimate him.
Maybe there was something, a code, an eyeball scanner, that would only allow Trevelyan to enter? No, he reasoned; he wouldn't do that. It would be evidence that he had been in the house if he was captured and someone found out what he had been doing. Highly unlikely but, as they proved, not impossible, and Trevelyan would want to be covered on all bases.
He stepped forward. Nothing. They were keeping the consulting criminal between – so that one of them had his eyes on him at all times and he couldn't run away – but he had to admit that, as prudent as the measure had seemed at first, he would have liked him to go first.
He swallowed and took another step.
He waited until he had reached the living room to allow himself to slightly relax.
And even then, there could always be a trap in another room.
"Where?"
The question wasn't directed at him, and for a moment Greg wondered why Mycroft thought Moriarty could answer, but apparently he was capable of it. He easily replied "The bedroom is the most likely candidate. After you".
Greg wanted to go first again, but Mycroft pushed past him and the DI glared at Moriarty until he moved.
It was a small house, no first floor, and he was grateful for it. At least it wouldn't take long to search, even if the bedroom proved a dead end.
Moriarty sauntered before him, obviously bored, and Greg shuddered. He would have to deal with him only a little while longer, he told himself. Either they could change things back to the way they were before, or they would make sure that Moriarty didn't run around in another way.
Mycroft cautiously opened the bedroom door. Greg hoped he would let him go first, but the other man didn't turn around and simply entered the room.
A few seconds later, Moriarty followed. Greg hastened to be right behind him.
In the middle of the bed, there was a machine looking like nothing he had ever seen before.
He wasn't particularly interested in science, but he normally knew what machine could do what. But this one –
It was round, there were many buttons glowing, and it hummed.
It almost looked alive.
Mycroft was staring at it, frowning. When Greg opened his mouth to ask, he pointed at a small box that was lying under the machine, partly hidden.
"There are explosives" he explained, "and they will go off if the machine isn't handled correctly."
They both knew that Trevelyan wouldn't have told Moriarty how it worked. He wouldn't have risked that.
Moriarty said "Looks like we have a problem" and Greg couldn't tell if he was sorry or not.
John soon caught up to Sherlock.
"Who is it?"
It was clear that he was puzzled, that he didn't understand what Sherlock had seen, and the consulting detective couldn't blame him.
He hadn't deduced it – not really; it was a feeling, a suspicion that he couldn't shake, that he knew to be right, that he felt must be right.
Bill and John were in danger.
"What is going on?"
He was certain that the only reason John didn't grab him and force him to stop was that he'd informed him that their friends needed help.
He only explained once they were in the cab.
"How do you avoid being detected?" he asked, silently urging the cab to go faster.
"I don't – "
"Of course you do. Tell me".
John looked at him and answered, "Hiding in plain sight."
"Exactly. No one suspects you if you are always there, if you have been there from the beginning."
"From the beginning? But –"
For once, Sherlock wasn't annoyed that someone needed time to figure something out. He would have to, in his universe. He had only been able to think about it because he was outsider, didn't know this world.
If he'd been home, he would never have considered it.
"You are saying..." John trailed off, and Sherlock glimpsed the man behind the mask. This John wasn't less emotional than his; he was simply better at controlling his emotions, and now, with him finally understanding what was going on, he was starting to crumble. Before he shook himself and the mask slipped back in place.
"The symbolism of the book – she probably couldn't resist." Otherwise she wouldn't have left a clue, but everyone tended to be dramatic now and then.
"What exactly do you want to know?"
It wasn't an unexpected question. Sherlock needed information, and he was going to give it to him.
"How did you meet her?"
It was the first time he had used the word "her", the first time that it became more believable, more tangible, and he was surprised that he could be so calm.
In his world, he had thrown a man out of a window for her.
"I needed a place to live. She came to me with a boring case – a ring from her mother had disappeared – and I found it. Instead of paying, she gave me a special deal on the flat."
"So you didn't go to Florida. You never ensured her husband was executed."
"Was that how you two met?"
John looked surprised before he continued, "No. Her husband died before she came back to England, but she doesn't talk about him. I think she's told Bill more than me, and I believe he was abusive."
"He ran a drug cartel..." Sherlock began before the truth flashed through his mind. "She did. In this universe, she did."
"Mr. Hudson was a drug lord in your universe?"
"And in this one, it was her. I don't know why she chose to come back – maybe she feared detection, maybe she wanted a change of scenery – where you known when she returned?"
"I wouldn't say I was well-known, but my website had attracted some attention."
Mrs. Hudson hadn't been looking for a ring. She had learned about John and wanted to see how good he was. And then she had made him a deal. Not because she wanted to play. She wanted to control him. To make sure he never suspected her.
He had always thought much of Mrs. Hudson. She was motherly, very intelligent, but she could be calm in the face of danger and do what she needed to do. If she had decided to do so, she could have become a formidable criminal.
He remembered how she had cried so she could hide the phone. She would be deceptive, and she wouldn't hesitate to protect her identity from being found out.
Trevelyan knew her. They were working together.
He must have told her.
John had understood; he didn't ask any question, simply waited for the cab to stop. It must have been the longest cab ride of Sherlock's life, but they finally arrived.
Sherlock raced up the steps, John close behind him.
They entered the room in a hurry, and Sherlock was relieved to find John and Bill sitting on the sofa and staring at him.
Until he saw the tea set.
Author's note: After I had thought it through, I decided that Mrs. Hudson was a better fit than Molly. With her backstory, I felt it wasn't that far off.
I hope you liked it, please review.