The Spider
He sat bathed in the blue-white glow of four screens in the study of his opulent loft. Outside the dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows the city was quiet. It had just gone 3 a.m. Two of the screens were connected to his main desktop system, the one with dual Xeon quad-core processors, 8GB of memory and 2 TB of doubly encrypted RAID storage. In the eighteen open windows were spread sheets, forecasts and plans of execution covering jobs across four continents, including two actual executions. Next to the desktop's screens was a 17" XPS laptop which had idle secure satellite phone connections to Jaipur, Prague and Lima, as well as an open game of Mine Sweeper. His attention, however, was currently drawn to the fourth screen, a 52" Ultra HD LED television playing an episode of The Three Stooges. Although his lip twitched upward in apparent appreciation of the programme's antics, his nearly black eyes held no life or lightness only a shrewd, cold intelligence and crushing boredom.
He didn't start when the sat phone connection to Jaipur suddenly became active with ping. Instead he sighed, paused the Stooges and turned off the voice scrambler on the XPS's microphone. He didn't need it for Seb.
"Yes, what is it?" he snapped a bit peevishly, almost like a sulking child.
"Hope is dead. Holmes is not," Moran said curtly. Jim sat imperceptibly straighter while Sebastian began transmission of several jpgs.
"Don't tell me he got the wrong bottle," Jim's voice had a hint of a sing-song whine to it.
"Nope. Shot. Not by police either," Moran continued all business, knowing full well what Jim's reaction would be.
"By bloody who, then!" Jim screamed leaping to his feet only to sit back down again to swivel back and forth in his very expensive office chair. He petulantly clicked on the first file, a close-up forensics photo of a very dead Hope and shook his head. He had given an order. He didn't care how many enemies Hope had, he had given an order. The cabbie was his lure for Sherlock Holmes and was strictly hands-off, for everyone!
"I want to know who, then I want to see their finger nails in a jar before you dispose of them. Their toe nails, too." He ran a hand through his hair and rolled his shoulders as if to relieve tension. Sebastian nodded and closed the connection. Jim clicked open the other images one by one. The last was a full-on shot of Sherlock. Jim smiled a feral little smile intrigued by this new promise of distraction. He took no noticed - or to be more precise, because Jim noticed everything, every little thing, all the time - he noticed and summarily dismissed the short blond man at the edge of the frame.
/-/-/-/-/-/
Jim distractedly tossed popcorn into the air and caught it in his mouth as Sebastian described the whole debacle with the Black Lotus. He was going on at tedious length about the risk posed by Sherlock Holmes' knowledge of the tong and the identity of its leader, General Shan. Jim rolled his eyes. Yes, the artifact smuggling had been a lark (he had always had an interest in Chinese history) and very profitable but the solution was as obvious as it was simple.
"Oh, indulge yourself already and set up the hit," he drawled without interruption of his popcorn game. But then, he sat a bit straighter as a smile slowly over took his lips.
"Do it tonight. Best way to end one of her calls, really. They're always so boring," he was practically beaming now. Sebastian answered with his own cruel, twisted grin. It had been ages, almost three months, since he'd killed someone. Before Jim's pendulum could swing back he pressed on with his other business. He need to discuss the Asia numbers and the extortion plans for the Canadian Junior Minister for Trade but first he need to convince Jim of the threat that Holmes presented. Not the least of which being his elder brother.
"Who's that?" Jim said abruptly, out sync with Sebastian's report, tossing more popcorn in the air. He waved a hand at a picture on top of the folders on his desk. He had seen this man, somewhere. He never forgot a face. He never forgot anything. Sebastian glared at Jim in frustration.
"Do you listen to anything I say?" he snapped. "That," Moran pointed to the man in a black jacket. "Is John H. Watson, late of the Queen's Army."
"Oh, not another of your penniless ex-military strays, Seb, dear. If I've told you once I've told you a dozen times as long as they're useful and don't pee on the rug you can keep them," Jim giggled and munched some more popcorn. "Doesn't look like much, not very big. What's his skill set? Computers, explosives, communications?" Sebastian shook his head, exasperated.
"No, no ..." he sighed. He grabbed the laptop and typed before punching the return with unnecessary force. "As I was saying, Dr. John H. Watson is Sherlock Holmes' new flatmate. And probably, near as I've been able to figure, Jefferson Hope's shooter." He spun the laptop displaying John's blog to face Jim.
Jim scanned the blog page and clicked open the top entry, A Study in Pink. Then he looked back at the enlarged photo of John on the desk again.
"Really? Him? Are you certain?" Jim set his popcorn aside and picked up the photo. "I thought you said the shooter was good, a pro. He looks ... rather ... I don't know ... ordinary, don't you think?"
"I wouldn't be so quick. He's ex-RAMC. Spent his career going into forward areas with nothing but a backpack and a Browning. I'd reckon he learned to use it," Moran replied a tinge of professional respect in his voice. "Anyway, he was the only one I've been able to trace to scene excluding police. Still want his fingernails in a jar?"
Jim was perusing the blog now, his nose wrinkled in bewilderment and disdain. He answered distractedly,
"No ... not yet."
/-/-/-/-/-/
The volume dial on the Cambridge Audio Azur 651R amplifier was set to ten and the sound that poured from the custom, high fidelity Bang Olufsen speakers was painfully loud. Tchaikovsky, Swan Lake. Jim lay on his back on the leather sofa in a crisp white shirt, his pants and navy blue silk socks. His trousers were flung across the floor. He was staring at a spot on the ceiling, mouth hanging half-open and black eyes half-shut. He was so bored. Terminally bored, he was sure of it. His facial muscles twitched slightly as the music swelled to it's loudest. Not even Pyotr Ilyich* could chase his boredom today. This was intolerable. Ordinary life was so boring. He needed stimulation, distraction, something. He needed a challenge.
Twenty-odd minutes after the music ended he finally roused himself from his stupor and made his way back to his desk. Maybe there was some mayhem he could raise somewhere. He bumped the XPS laptop and its screen flickered to life. The latest surveillance photos of Sherlock were still on the screen and the thought hit him like a bolt of lightning. Jim reached out and touched the screen while a smile spread across his face. Finally, he thought, a worthy playmate. This was too good and too rare an opportunity to pass up. Now invigorated he worked non-stop and with laser like focus for the next 41 hours starting the wheels turning. He then slept for 15 hours. When he woke he checked on the final preparations and carefully set the board. It was time to play.
/-/-/-/-/-/
Well, that was fun! Jim was going to enjoy this game immensely. Playing Gay Jim from IT, he had just walked right up to Sherlock Holmes and introduced himself. He had even met the roomie, John Watson, too. Nothing special there. He'd have to figure that one out later. Until then, he wished Sherlock would hurry up and solve his first little puzzle soon. He did so want to go on playing.
/-/-/-/-/-/
Jim got his wish. Sherlock scrambled over the first hurdle and crashed through the second and third. Pity about the old woman, he guessed. But then, he had warned her not to deviate from the script. Why couldn't ordinary people just follow directions? He had no patience for stupidity. The Vermeer was a nice touch, bringing some culture to the proceedings. That one was probably his favorite puzzle but Sherlock had pulled it out in the end. Jim giggled. Sebastian probably scarred that poor kid for life. Now it was time for the grand finale.
/-/-/-/-/-/
"Good evening, Dr. Watson," Jim said in a chipper voice. Seb and his minions had been none too gentle (and very liberal with the drugs) when acquiring the good doctor. He was only now regaining consciousness. The man tied into the folding chair lifted his lolling head and blinked several times before his eyes seemed to focus. The confused look of recognition on his face was absolutely priceless.
"You ... you're ... " he slurred.
"You're right, I am," Jim teased.
"You're ... Moriarty?" John said thickly.
"I thought we'd just established that," Jim snapped back. Watson looked blearily down at the bricks of Semtex across his chest. Shaking his head he looked back up.
"Why?" he asked.
"Come now, Johnny, you know how this game is played. I strap people to bombs strictly as motivation. If Sherlock jumps through the hoops to my satisfaction then you live. Otherwise ... ah well ..." he ended in a bizarrely high-pitched sing-song voice. John found it supremely irritating.
"So you killed all those people just to keep a game going?" John could not hide his disgust.
"Of course," Jim replied immediately as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
John glanced down at the explosives again, closed his eyes and bit back his retort. He thought of his argument with Sherlock over the "caring lark".
Jim casually wandered away from John toward his chief henchman, the one he called Sebastian. Henchman. How had John ever become mixed up with people who had henchmen? John strained to listen as he tested his bonds. No good. Suddenly, he noticed the red dot of a laser sight trained on one of the bricks of Semtex and involuntarily sucked in a breath. He then heard a giggle from across the room. Moriarty was laughing at him. John glared back at the madman.
"Oh, look, Seb, we've made our Johnny angry," Jim said in mock horror before giggling some more.
Right, no way was he going to play the victim for this lunatic. Think. They would never "set him off" at this range. It would be suicide. Besides, he knew he was just a prop, an enticement for Sherlock. He wondered if his flat mate knew. Probably not, as he was the hostage mouth-piece and he hadn't talked to anyone yet. This was probably like the last time with the painting. He'd be a silent hostage until the end when he would be brought in for shock effect, like the child. No doubt, by this time, his flatmate had been given his fifth task and was probably over the moon and utterly engrossed in the new puzzle. John just had to trust that Sherlock would solve it. Four for four so far, the odds were good, he told himself. He sat as straight as he could in the chair, head-up, eyes straight ahead. Jim and Sebastian both smirked this time and returned to their conversation. Two minutes later, Sebastian abruptly wheeled and levelled his rifle at John's head. John could see the steady red laser out of the corner of his eye. He flinched slightly despite his best efforts. The message was clear. I can kill you (and only you) anytime I want.
Time dragged on endlessly. John's stomach started to growl despite the tension. He never had gotten his tea. Moriarty, Sebastian and the others alternately ignored and taunted him. He remain silent, tied to his chair. As near as he could figure Moriarty was a certifiable nutter, both cruel and mercurial. He was beginning to fear that his chances of surviving the night, even if Sherlock solved the puzzle, were not good.
/-/-/-/-/-/
Jim was bored. Why did Sherlock have to say midnight? Midnight was hours away. This was getting so boring now. Grabbing Watson had been all too easy. He was ordinary. He pulled out his phone and began another game of Scrabble. Twenty minutes later he stalked back to John and thrust the screen into his face.
"Look at this, 7 consonants. What the hell can anyone do with seven consonant. I'm Irish not Hungarian. It not fair." he whined, thumbed the screen off and put the phone back in his pocket. John made no reply.
"I must say, Dr. Watson, you're much more fun to play with than the others," Jim gushed suddenly, as if he were continuing an ongoing conversation. "Much more collected. None of that weepy business. All that snivelling got rather tiresome. So annoying, really." He paused as if considering.
"Wouldn't you say Johnny here's our best hostage to date, Seb?" he called across the room to his sniper. Sebastian made a noncommittal reply. Jim strolled in a circuit around John's chair circling him several times before stooping to look him in the eye.
"You are afraid, though, aren't you?" It took every ounce of self-control he had but John did not respond or react.
"If you're not, you really ought to be." Jim straightened and strolled behind the chair again. He suddenly grabbed John by the hair and yanked his head to the side. In a faux stage whisper, he spoke directly into his captive's ear.
"Because one day, sooner or later, John Watson, I will kill you."
Jim jerked John's head back to centre and released it. He smoothed his suit and headed for the door to the pool area. He paused at the door to regard John.
"You do know how the game is played, Dr. Watson. Say everything I tell you to say or you're dead." He started to leave then turned back again. "Sherlock, too ... but no pressure." Jim gave John a final, beatific smile.
"Get him dressed, Seb. It's show time," he said as the door swung closed behind him.
/-/-/-/-/-/
A/N – Sorry for the long wait for this chapter. I've just been so busy and uninspired. Several people have suggested a Moriarty chapter. The problem is that I don't think Jim every really gives John much thought. John's just another play thing to manipulate. Hope you like it.
Not beta'd or Brit picked.
* Pyotr Ilyich = Tchaikovsky's given names