Sherlock didn't like the case as much as he had leaving the flat.
He had whipped up Donovan into a bit of a fit, which was nice as she had to leave the scene for a few minutes, but he had no one to congratulate him for it. He had out-witted Anderson (which, in all honesty, wasn't hard at all) and had him frothing with half-minded insults by the time Lestrade had actually done anything important. However, when Lestrade saw how incensed his team had become due to his observations, Sherlock had quickly found himself in a holding cell.
"You must be kidding, George." Sherlock sneered, crossing his arms and inspecting the cell with disgust. "I won't stay here." He gave the DI a meaningful look and tapped his foot. He started toward the door, fishing for his phone, but then it clanged closed in front of him; as he watched, Lestrade turned the key and rattled it for good measure.
"I'm not really giving you the choice, Sherlock." In the quiet of the precinct, Lestrade's voice was authoritative and fierce; he meant business and Sherlock's forehead creased. "I can't let you keep disrespecting my team like this. Or me, for that matter!"
"Please." Sherlock brushed it off and turned away from the other man. He only turned back when he heard a retreating pair of footsteps. He saw Lestrade reach the end of the hall and gripped the door tightly. "George! Let me out of here! This is not funny!"
"It's Greg." And the detective was alone, with only his thoughts for company. He stared at the empty hall, dumbfounded by Lestrade's new-found confidence, but a smirk broke across his face. He could just call John, and he would have him out of there in no time. Reaching into his pocket, Sherlock let go of the door and reclined on the dingy little bed, and stiffened.
His pockets were empty.
Sighing with relief, Lestrade took the steps of the precinct lazily, his hands resting deep in his coat pockets, and he smiled to himself.
Pulling out a cigarette, he lit it and took a light puff before he pulled out his other hand and grinned widely at the mobile phone resting in his palm.
That ought to teach him.
Tossing it up once, Lestrade pocketed the device once more and headed home, eager for a more peaceful night and the privilege of unlocking Sherlock's cell the following morning- or afternoon, depending on how contrite the consultant seemed.
John woke up dazedly one part at a time and, in a moment of fear, he groaned: "I'd sooner die than talk."
"Admirable." Moran wandered forward, his civilian clothes mostly traded for a silk shirt and a suit jacket; the jeans, however, had remained. "Someone told me 'a dead man has few secrets,'"
"-and a flayed man has none." Growled a feminine voice, the tenor low and dangerous. "Kill him, Sebastian. I told you he wouldn't help me. This was an utter waste of my" A harsh intake of breath cut the woman off and she hissed, "time..." John cocked his head in her direction, feeling his arms slowly return to life, and he struggled to sit up as his world spun and tilted. He was lying on a floor that, however nicely carpeted, was making his back ache.
"And who might you be?" John quipped, realizing he was not bound in any way. And that Moran had left the door open; a very sloppy move, even if it was an intentional one. He couldn't see the female speaker but that wouldn't stop him from making a mad dash as soon as his legs were strong enough to hold him.
"Oh, Johnny-boy, that hurts." A sneer evident in her voice, the woman used a nickname John hadn't heard in a while and iced his blood like beers in a cooler. His skin pimpled into goose flesh, dampening his hands with a thin layer of cold sweat, and John felt his heart hammer against his ribs. He was quick to calm each adrenaline rush; Moriarty definitely couldn't sound that feminine. "Don't you recognize me?"
"I'd remember a girl like you, I suspect." John said carefully, pushing up on his elbows and hearing his spine crunch to release the tension. "And don't call me that."
"Oh, someone's cranky." John scoffed at the accusation. "What's wrong? Not happy to see me?"
"Moriarty's right hand got me with a syringe, trundled me off, and I'm lying on the floor." John pointed out, unimpressed with his situation altogether and uncertain that he would make it out of there alive. "One of you has my phone, and I have no idea where I am. I'm not happy about anything. And I can't even see you, so no, I'm not."
"Oh, poor baby," Covers rustled and a chair scraped forward. "let Daddy help you. Sebastian, if you please."
"Yes, sir." Suddenly John was blinded by the lights that came on and he winced, giving a quiet gasp as he squeezed his dazed eyes shut and rubbed them with one hand. He gave his fingers time to rub the sting of fluorescent glare from them, groaning quietly, and risked cracking one eye open to have a look around.
The room was all dark woods and rich reds and browns; the occasional green or gold popped against the darker tones, and the lights the man had lit illuminated only the better half. With the rest of the room in shadow, eerie shapes cast in the black and the woman's face was framed in shapeless devils of blackness and light.
Her cheekbones were soft and smooth, rounding her heart-shaped face in toward her piercing eyes. They sucked in the lamplight like two wells, ever-empty and hungry for whatever might fall into their depths; John gawked, surprised by the youthful face, and the tousled mass of waving hair helped none with the intensity. It framed her like a photograph in thick black and popped her pale skin; she sniffed once and looked down her nose at him, wrapped in a comforter and bundled into the expensive chair.
"Do you remember me now?" She asked, arching an eyebrow with the Irish lilt to skew her words into a more mocking question. "Or do I need Sebastian to get you another jacket?"
John's blood turned cold again, this time beyond his control, and equal parts of fear and confusion mixed across his expressive features. He stared up at the woman in the chair, a self-made queen on her throne, and his jaw dropped in the silence between them.
"Moriarty..." John breathed, and her smile was a wicked wind, raising the hairs on the back of his neck as she bared white teeth.
"Finally. Now we can get down to business..."