TWO
the perpetrator
The girl lay on her cot in Moriarty's stronghold. She was crying. Her name was Alana, and the amount of security she was under was absolutely ridiculous. If her situation hadn't been so horrible, she might have laughed. Hey Mum! Hey Dad! My prison cell is guarded by twenty-five armed men! Thought I wasn't worth much, huh? Well, guess again!
That thought just made her cry harder, her pale grey eyes welling up with tears. She wanted to sleep, to forget everything that had happened two weeks ago, but she knew she couldn't, because if she slept, the dreams-that-weren't-really-dreams would come, and Moriarty would be watching. He was always watching. Watching, and recording, and using it against the only person who could save her. But she couldn't think about him, she couldn't, what if the scanners in her room worked and he could tell? Sherlock was- no, stop, stop thinking about him, stop it Alana, get him out of your head, you know what happens next and then he can use you, stop it NOW!
Her brainwaves must have spiked on the screen outside, because one of the guards shot a bullet into the ceiling outside, making her flinch. Bullets, guns, men with no faces, blood, pain, Mum, Dad, no, stop, stop. Her life was a horror movie, and there was no hero to save her. None. And she couldn't even save herself.
Voices mumbled in the corridor, if she wanted to she could hear them but – he's there, Moriarty's outside, he's there, I can feel him, no, stop, haven't I done enough for you already?
A beeping of security locks, the whirring of the thumbprint access, the retinal scan and finally, James Moriarty, consulting criminal and destructor of her life, stepped into the room.
"Pleased to see me?" he said with a smirk. "Or, are you yearning to smash my brains out, push me off cliffs, and invade my mind until I become a vegetable?"
Alana didn't respond, only glared at him.
"Oh, I see, it's the latter. Well, fortunately for you, dear Alana, you will never, ever get the chance to DO THAT!" he screamed, and then composed his face again.
"I just hate it when people threaten me, even when they think I can't hear. It makes me so… put out. Do you know what I mean?" he said, sounding almost childish. "It just makes me so mad. And do you know what happens to people when I get mad?" he said softly, walking towards her cot, like a snake in motion.
Alana refused to bait him. She'd learned that swearing and attacking were pointless. The first time she swore at him, he hit her. The second time, he'd deprived her of water for two days.
"Well, you see… you happen. I take you out somewhere, we find you a victim, some unsuspecting person, but do you know what that's for? Practice," he hissed. "Practice. And oh, one person's made me very cross indeed. Do you know his name? Perhaps you've heard of him."
"Sherlock."
Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. The name echoed around the cell. Alana felt sick. Of course, she had expected this. Of course. Moriarty's grudge against Sherlock Holmes was almost as big as his ego, and that was saying something. But so soon? She'd wanted to try a bit more, lower her brainwaves enough to try and communicate, with someone, anyone, but Moriarty had other plans.
"Now, my sweet, do your little trick. I want Sherlock this time, not Doctor Watson, don't think you can pretend you don't know which is which. Now."
Alana closed her eyes, searching, praying that he was asleep, trying to hope, but in vain. Does he ever sleep? she wondered. His consciousness was burning, burning in her mind, searing, flaming, his genius and his thoughts and his deductions, running through her so quickly that she winced and shuddered.
While Alana was finding Sherlock, Moriarty stood watching, his head cocked to the side like a curious child, smiling at her pain, smiling because he had the greatest weapon in the whole entire world, smiling because Sherlock would finally be his.
Alana gasped and opened her eyes. They were piercing blue and seemed to look through Moriarty in scorn. He repressed a shudder, because they were his archenemy's eyes; Sherlock's eyes. He turned on a small recorder in his pocket, waiting for what would happen next.
"Moriarty where why how weapon what weapon not possible not physical weapon JOHN STOP I'M THINKING possible victim who is she where's Lestrade with the kidnapping names if he calls John can pick up calling's bad what about Molly she's a girl might need her for girl if found kidnapping and Moriarty and everything victims unrelated why don't I know Moriarty Moriarty the game is on Moriarty I need to find Moriarty no one hurts my John and stop stop stop no back to Moriarty how how HOW? NOT YOU JOHN, I'M THINKING OUT LOUD how could he possibly do that some sort of logical explanation must find stronghold ask Mycroft tomorrow I hate Mycroft Moriarty will be captured once and for all –"
Alana gasped and flinched, her eyes turning grey again. She hadn't been strong enough to keep up the connection for longer and she hoped Moriarty wouldn't be angry with her. She chanced a glance up at Moriarty.
He was laughing. Laughing.
"Thanks, pet," he said, and walked out of the door.
Shivering, Alana curled up on her bed, knowing that it would be a long and sleepless night, but wishing that morning would never come.