CHAPTER 53: NO LAUGHING MATTER
In one fluid motion, John takes Giulia's gun from the waistband of his jeans and shoots twice at Moriarty's forehead. To his surprise, instead of spurts of blood and a fractured skull, his actions only result in a cacophony of broken glass and static-electric pop. He realises he has just opened fire at a projected image on a TV screen.
A few seconds later, at the far end of the darkened room, another monitor switches on with a snap; Jim's face dominates over a red background that highlights his features. He smiles serenely down at them.
"I expected that such an incident might happen and took some precautions, Doctor Watson."
Sherlock draws one quick conclusion: they aren't watching a pre-recorded video. He is transmitting live from... somewhere.
"Where are you?" His baritonal voice booms in the void.
"Close, but out of target, dearest. After our exciting meeting at the pool, I've learnt to stay away from your line of fire. At the time you hesitated, but I figured that both of you would be ready to shoot on sight, this time." Jim casts an eloquent glance at Watson without losing his seraphic smile.
John shrugs. He has no regrets. The last time they met, Moriarty abducted and wrapped him in explosives just to play hide-and-seek with his flatmate. Shooting at him today was fair retribution.
"What do you want, Jim?" Sherlock asks.
Moriarty appears disgusted at that question.
"I don't have desires—that is a low instinct of the basic human race. I don't want things; I don't have those impulses in me. I am far too refined for that. I only have ambitions. But passions? No, that's not a thing of my superior being."
Holmes nods sympathetically. "I can understand."
"But can you, Sherlock?"
Moriarty's lips bend in a cruel smile. "We will see about that. If that's not the case—if you are just an average person with human passions and affection—I am afraid this game will be quite impossible for you. Spoiler alert: this was always my intention. I'm dragging you in your personal hell, and you'll get out of it with a broken heart."
"Is it supposed to be a threat?" He replies conceitedly.
"You can consider it a warm welcome to a night you'll never forget." Jim scans every word with the tone of a TV presenter. "Just one more warning. Pay careful attention to everything I say. You know I love engaging in our little mind games, so I'll be leaving some clues for you in my words. Are you ready?"
At his rhetorical question, one lightbulb at the entrance of the room switches on. Next to the door, there is a small table with a marble figurine identical to the other two that Sherlock received in the previous days. The new statue represents a woman holding in one hand a mask with a grotesque smile and a shepherd's crook on the other hand; an ivy wreath is girdling her head.
John pales in shock, while Sherlock steals a long glance at the figurine, examining her emblems. Moriarty studies him for a moment.
"It would seem that you recognise her. Have you finally deciphered the meaning behind my gifts?"
Sherlock nods. "Your statues represent the Greek Muses. This is Thalia, the Muse of comedy. The comic mask and the crook (supposedly used to pull actors off the stage) are unmistakable. Given your record, should we expect to solve the murder of a stand-up comedian?" He says with a pinch of irony, feigning indifference.
Moriarty's grin glimmers menacingly on the screen. "Not quite. I decided to make things a bit more personal for this part. I hope you don't mind."
"What is this farce? When will you have enough?" John intervenes, throwing his arms open at that ridiculous scene.
Jim shoots him a reproachful look. "This is my show, and you are the leading characters. I understand your confusion, so let me specify some ground rules." He licks his lips in anticipation. "There will be multiple rounds—each one in a different room. You will have to solve some riddles to keep the game going."
"And what makes you think we are willing to play?" Watson clenches his jaw, looking straight at the monitor.
Moriarty stares right back, then smacks his forehead jokingly. "I forgot to mention that you'll have some incentives."
At that moment, another screen on the left of the room is switched on. The three of them stare in horror at the image of D.I. Lestrade tied to a chair.
"Greg!" John screams, while Giulia instinctively brings a hand over her mouth, aghast.
Sherlock is petrified. He doesn't utter a sound nor bats an eyelid. He remains immobile, gazing at the image of the inspector and the far-out look in his eyes. Despite having his wrists and ankles securely tied to the chair, the policeman appears calm, almost nonchalant.
A couple of seconds later, Sherlock lets the shock wash over and asks, "What does it mean?"
Giulia replies to him, coming to her senses, "It means this is why Greg didn't get your calls about the perpetrators of the tenor's murder and why Sergeant Donovan had to step in for her boss and make the arrest herself tonight. We guessed wrong; Lestrade wasn't spending a cosy Saturday night with his wife. He had been kidnapped and held hostage."
Sherlock blinks furiously, as his mind registers her words. He tries to hide his admiration while saying, "You connected the dots rather quickly."
Moriarty catches on his lukewarm compliment and barges in, "Isn't she clever? And lovely, too. You know, Sherlock, I believe you should thank me for this fated match."
Giulia frowns at that insinuation. "What on earth are you talking about?"
Jim emphatically lifts a hand over his heart with a mortified expression.
"How rude of me. I haven't even introduced myself properly. Hello Giulia, my name is Jim Moriarty, and among the many things I am, I was also your estate agent."
"What?"
"Have you ever wondered how, of all the places for rent in London, you ended up right at 221 Baker Street, sharing a house with the great detective Sherlock Holmes?" The Irish criminal chants his question in a sing-song voice.
She thinks back to her second day in London. The memories of the disheartening search for accommodation that led her to their flat, hopeless and exhausted, are still vivid in her mind.
"It was my only choice. The last resort," she affirms.
On the screen, Jim rests his chin on the palm of his hand, overdoing a contemplative pose.
"Isn't it odd that the five other options you considered before reaching their flat were too awful or expensive?"
"It was a coincidence," she rebuts, then freezes and gawks at him. "Hold on. How do you know I visited five other houses before getting to Mrs Hudson's property?"
He gives her a condescending look. "Coincidences don't exist. Didn't Mr Holmes instruct you on that?"
At that moment, Sherlock's jaw drops as he breathes out one logical conclusion, "You made her come to us."
"Of course I did. You, of all people, should have learnt not to underestimate me." Jim's voice is edged with pride and menace.
"How? The people I met at the university that day suggested to me all the addresses I visited. They gave me all the instructions," Giulia protests.
"You should really reconsider your choice of academic companionship; those people work for me," he replies in a deep voice that gives her the creeps. "Being new to the city, I imagined you'd try to seek advice from new acquaintances once you settled the paperwork for your PhD, so I placed some of my employees at your campus with the express task of befriending you. I arranged everything so that you would get to your last option (Baker Street) with no more strength or resources. Compared to all the dreadful houses you visited, you were likely to settle for this improbable yet intriguing duo." He gestures towards Holmes and Watson.
"I knew Sherlock isn't easy to convince, but he is even harder to live with, and that's why they were having a hard time finding a tenant for 221C. In the end, what they were looking for was just a person smart and desperate enough to accept their hellish lifestyle. You must admit I am quite the matchmaker," Jim boasts.
She takes a deep breath, regaining control over herself, then smirks. "I suppose Sherlock was right, then."
Sherlock turns to her with a bewildered expression. "About what?"
"The first time we met, you said that some of my university friends were untrustworthy," she recalls, shooting him a playful look. She still remembers every single detail of their first encounter, including the burning offence of his deductions.
Although, Sherlock is not in the mood for jokes and struggles to dominate his mounting rage. That's a controlling move he would have expected from his brother, certainly not from the most dangerous criminal around. He never believed in fate and destiny, but this revelation is torturing him. What is Jim's angle?
"Why did you direct her to Baker Street?" He questions, flaring his nostrils.
"Because I noticed you tend to grow fond of the people you live with. I figured I could use this weakness of yours to my advantage," Moriarty replies calmly with an allusive leer.
Sherlock swallows hard and bites down on his lower lip. He wishes he could discredit those insinuations, but he can't. He stays silent in the face of the disarming truthfulness of Moriarty's words. He has to accept that the bonds he formed with both his flatmates turned out to be his greatest vulnerability. Mycroft was right about caring, after all.
John chimes in, "I might be wrong, but I doubt this is the right time to discuss our living arrangements. We have some more pressing issues to worry about." He points at the screen showing Lestrade, and hisses, "Why is he here?"
"I already told you. Pay attention, Doctor Watson," Moriarty reprimands him. "This is the first level of our game. As Sherlock so wisely pointed out when he described the statue of the Muse Thalia, the theme of this first challenge is based on comedy. Scotland Yard's incompetence is there for Sherlock's entertainment—he only agrees to wade into police cases for recreational purposes," he emphasises, mocking the notoriously childish behaviour of the detective.
"Greg is not a challenge. He is a person," Giulia objects.
"Slightly more than that." Moriarty's smile fades as his mouth straightens in a stern line. "Sherlock, look at him and tell me: who is he?"
"Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Murder Division. I ignore his collar number," he says, unconcerned.
Jim shakes his head. "You clearly didn't understand. Let's try again: who is he to you?"
Sherlock frowns and pauses for a second, before replying, "An ally in the force. He allows me to access restricted crime scenes and lets me kill off boredom by bullying his colleagues during difficult cases. I should probably be grateful to him for never once punching me, considering I gave him a thousand reasons to," he concedes sarcastically.
Moriarty stifles a derisory yawn. "Such a cold, aloof description for someone you rely on. Is this making you uncomfortable? It looks to me that whenever things get too personal, you shy away from any direct confrontation."
At that observation, Giulia has to fight the urge to roll up her eyes. This Mr Moriarty does have a point.
Jim sighs and corrects him. "He is more than an ally. He is your friend, and we both know that. He has always believed in you and your less-than-conventional methods. He blindly trusts your deductions; he grants you favours that could cost him his job. He even tried to keep you clean and sober with his pretend drug busts. He cares about you, and I'm inclined to believe you care about him as well."
Sherlock narrows his eyes at the screen showing the police officer, as those words resound inside his mind. Deep down, he can't deny any of that. Lestrade has always been there for him, and Sherlock never failed to notice it and silently appreciate him. The D.I. would follow him anywhere, no questions asked. Actually, he does try to ask hundreds of questions, but hardly ever understands the answers. The only question now is, would he trust Sherlock with his life?
"I'm ready to play your game, but simply because I don't enjoy causing collateral victims," Holmes says in a cutting tone.
Moriarty looks at him almost with tenderness. He can't read Sherlock's mind, but doesn't need to; he can study the subtle tension on his forehead, his fidgety eyes, the twitching muscle in his cheek. His delicate features are betraying him. There's a crack in his icy facade, and Jim just can't wait for it to crumble down.
"In the end, these are your worst flaws; you are heroic, steadfast, and compassionate," Jim taunts him and dissects his personality. "Admit it: you always play the role of the hero in your little fantasy world—you adore being the man of the hour. Steadfastness is just a kinder word for stubbornness; your adamantine determination to go to the very end of everything (this rivalry of ours included) will be your undoing. And finally, the most unforgivable mistake: showing compassion for the fate of the people around you."
"Sherlock Holmes being compassionate? Are you sure you don't have him mistaken for someone else?" John interjects, his question edged in irony.
A corner of Jim's lips bends in an evil smirk. "Dear doctor, you are so perceptive for some things but so oblivious to others. Never mind, you'll find out the truth soon enough. And if I am indeed right, the great Sherlock Holmes will make it out of this game with a shattered heart."
John furrows a brow at those words. His friend's feelings are the least of his concerns at the moment. He moves on, focusing on the practical aspects of things.
"What do we have to do for you to let Greg go?"
Moriarty replies cheerfully, "Easy. Stop my threat against his life."
"What are you threatening him with?" John asks again, squinting at the monitor showing his captured friend. He can't distinguish anything; the framing of the camera is too narrow to even make out the room boundaries.
"That's what you have to find out. I'm giving you all the clues to solve this riddle," Jim announces solemnly.
At that moment, all the lights come on to illuminate a table in the middle of the room. There are only two items on it: a picture of the ozone hole and a rectangular piece of paper placed horizontally, which is divided into two by a straight line. On the left-hand side, there are some letters written in black ink, all caps: II XXX O. On the right, there are just three horizontal lines and a small rectangle in the top right corner. John steps forward and lifts the paper to turn it around: the back is blank. That's all they have.
"The life of your dear Scotland Yard's inspector is in danger, and you have to find out precisely how I am planning to end it. And to prevent it from happening, you have to give me the right code," Moriarty says.
"What code? What does it mean?" Giulia asks, eager to start. She hates that game but is ready to save a life.
Sherlock, who has been studying the room since the lights switched on, points at the left wall and explains, "There are three aligned wooden rollers on the wall. If you look closely, you'll be able to distinguish the strings of letters and numbers carved on each one. I can only imagine that when we rotate them into the right position, displaying the correct code, we will solve the enigma, and Jim will spare Lestrade's life. It's like finding the combination to a giant lock."
"Excellent explanation. It looks like the rules are clear. It is all about the right sequence. Will you be able to save the man who let you browbeat the police force and strut about like you were the head of the country? Detective Inspector Lestrade never doubted you for a second. Now, his fate is in your hands. Only you can ensure that he'll keep breathing. You have ten minutes." And with that, the screen with Moriarty's face turns off.
"Wait, what? How are we supposed to figure out what his crazy plans are in such a short time?" John shouts, turning towards the other monitor. "We are only shown a close-up of Greg tied to a chair. We don't know how big that room is, whether he is alone or there are armed men pointing guns at him. We don't even have a clue where in the world he is. As far as we know, he might be trapped in a room under an erupting volcano in the Philippines. There are a hundred different ways in which Lestrade could be threatened."
Sherlock shakes his head and gives him a stern look.
"No. You heard what Moriarty said; he is standing close. And if he wants to fly under the radar of the MI6 and not have his little show intercepted by their technology, he must be using closed-circuit cameras. It means Greg is in a room somewhere inside the National Theatre, so we can rule out a few overdramatic options."
There is no time to freak out about non-existent risks. Jim added a sense of urgency to play with their heads and emotions. And that is precisely what Sherlock is determined not to let him do.
He turns towards his friends. "This reminds me: Moriarty warned us. He wanted us to pay attention to his words. Anything he mentioned could be a clue. What did he say about Greg?"
"It's hard to keep track of all the nonsense coming out of his mouth, honestly," John groans. "But he said that his role in the police is for your entertainment and recreational purposes," he quotes.
"Those expressions could also be used to talk about a drug overdose. Maybe Greg was injected with some narcotic substances," Giulia ventures.
Sherlock ponders that option for an instant. "Valid point. It would also explain Lestrade's blissful expression in such a life-threatening situation. He looks far more relaxed than any sensible human being would be in his conditions."
Giulia lifts a brow at him and mentally comments, Apart from you. She glances at his impressive aplomb. How can he remain so calm in such a dire situation? Is his poker face only a bluff to keep morale high for them?
Sherlock walks to the table and takes the piece of paper in his hand.
"Let's start with this clue." He points at the first couple of signs: II. "I don't recognise any suitable acronym other than International Institute, Incident Investigation, and Illegal Immigrant. None of them makes any sense in this context, though."
John snatches the paper from his hand and shows off his pragmatism.
"What if those aren't letters at all? II could stand for the Roman numeral 2. We need to compose a code, after all."
Holmes gives his friend an impressed look and spins one roll on the wall, analysing the characters engraved in the wood. "That's a plausible solution."
John keeps following his train of thought. "By the same reasoning, XXX might be 30 in Roman numerals. But what are the numbers 2 and 30 supposed to symbolise? It cannot even be a date; there's no February 30th."
"We can't expect to apply one deciphering scheme to all the signs—it'd be too easy. I think the Roman numbers could only work for the II, while the three X and the O must have a different meaning," Sherlock says.
"Maybe it's meant to be some kind of love message," Giulia suggests.
Both men furrow a brow at her, and she explains it further.
"Looking closely at the format of the piece of paper with the three lines and the rectangle on the right side, I'd say it bears some resemblance to the back of a postcard with the space for the address and the stamp. In this case, three X and one O could stand for kisses and a hug. It's a common abbreviation in personal messages."
"I doubt Greg could die of love," John sarcastically replies then adds, "But I agree about the designated use of the paper. Although, what's the point of the blank front? The whole point of a postcard is to show the place of origin."
"It could be another part of the riddle. We have to identify a city," Sherlock reflects.
John steals a preoccupied look at his wrist out of habit, before remembering he forgot to wear his watch when he went out for his date earlier that night. Now, he has lost track of the time and can't say how long they have left until the countdown for Lestrade's life reaches zero.
"How?" He almost yells.
Giulia has a sudden realisation and squeezes the Sherlock's arm to get his attention.
"Sherlock, what were the three adjectives Moriarty used when he described your worst flaws?"
He glares at her, confused. Why should it be relevant right now?
"Heroic, steadfast, compassionate," he repeats mechanically. Those words are engraved in his mind. He isn't sure what bothered him most: Moriarty's scornful attitude or the terrifying thought that he might be right about him.
She widens her eyes. "I knew I recognised that list from somewhere. That's the motto of the city of Amsterdam. You were right; Moriarty did hide some clues in his words."
"It looks like a bit of a stretch. What is the connection with the postcard?" John asks, perplexed and anguished.
Giulia shuts her eyes to retrieve an image from her memory, then snaps them open again and stares at the postcard between John's hands.
"We assumed that the two vertical lines II are a number rather than letter 'i', and Sherlock suggested changing the deciphering scheme, so no more Roman numerals. But what if the Xs weren't even letters? They could simply be crosses. And here's the link with that city: on Amsterdam's coat of arms, the Dutch words of the motto are placed right under a red shield with three white crosses. In fact, the flag of Amsterdam always shows its characteristic three crosses. I guess that's the mysterious city the postcard is supposed to indicate."
"How do you know all that?" Sherlock gapes at her. He isn't one to be easily impressed by the depths of someone else's knowledge.
"During my year under MI6 protection and cover, before landing in London, I was constantly on the move. I changed several identities and lived in many cities for small periods. Amsterdam was one of them."
"You can tell us all about it in front of a pint of beer as soon as we get out of this trap," John says. "But right now, there's not a minute to lose. We should translate your intuition into a letter or a number for the wooden roller. What is the clue, then? A for Amsterdam as the second letter of the code?"
She is at a loss for words and shoots an alarmed look at Sherlock, seeking his help with pleading eyes. He stares into her panic-stricken gaze with an unusual feeling of helplessness. He wishes he had all the answers all the time, and he hates that he doesn't.
"I-I don't know. Maybe," he stammers. "Let's move on. What about the last clue on the paper?" He asks John, who is holding it.
Watson nervously waves the blank postcard in the air with a frown.
"Is it the letter O, or a circle, or a hieroglyph of some sort? Who can tell?"
Sherlock thinks out loud. "If we assume this is the only case it actually stands for a letter, it would leave us with the enigmatic combination of 2 A O. But it means nothing," he growls, frustrated. He closes his eyes and doubles over, bringing his head between his hands, while he rushes down the corridors of his mind palace and throws open all the doors, rummaging in the drawers where he stored all his knowledge of cyphers, codes, and acronyms. Nothing seems to serve the purpose. His subconscious plays tricks on him, and he'd swear to hear a ticking clock echo inside his skull. He is aware that time is inexorably passing.
"Perhaps we could rearrange the parts into a different order. There must be some clue about the right sequence," Giulia proposes. "We still haven't considered the link with the picture of the ozone hole. Is Moriarty concerned about climate change?" She tries to lighten the mood as the atmosphere in the room becomes oppressive. They don't seem even remotely close to solving the puzzle and saving Greg's life.
"Speaking of clues, what was your banter with Jim about the marble figurines representing the Greek Muses? Does she really represent the Muse of Comedy like you said?" John points at the statue near the door. "In all previous cases, the figurines had some connection with the victim or the cause of death. Does it mean that the threat against Greg's life is related to comedy, somehow? Will he die of laughter?" He uses sarcasm as his coping mechanism, feeling a wave of anxiety building up inside.
Sherlock snaps his eyes open and stares at the two people in the room, entranced. He blinks twice before clapping his hands together.
"That's it. Die of laughter... yes! The ozone hole and the right sequence... That's brilliant," he mumbles under his breath and shoots them a toothy smile. "John, Giulia, you two are fantastic."
They raise their puzzled looks at him. John—who has been openly complimented by his friend only on one occasion, at Baskerville, when he was rudely compared to a conductor of light, asks, "Could you please explain?"
"To answer your sarcastic question, Lestrade might not literally die laughing, but I think the potential murder weapon is laughing gas. It is commonly used for recreational purposes..." he trails off before exclaiming, "Recreational purposes! That was the first clue hidden in Moriarty's speech. You were both right, and Giulia also guessed the involvement of narcotics of some sort. Unlike more common drugs, though, the laughing gas is not a dangerous substance per se. However, if inhaled in large quantities in an enclosed space for a prolonged time, such as ten minutes," he says suggestively, "it can cause asphyxiation. It explains everything. Look at Lestrade." He points at the screen.
"He is bleary-eyed and looks dopey rather than scared right now. His sluggish status must be because of the euphoric effects of the gas. He is probably trapped in a room full of nitrous oxide, a.k.a. the laughing gas. I'm sure you probably ignore it, but nitrous oxide is a greenhouse gas with significant effects on global warming. Some studies consider it one of the most important emissions responsible for thinning the ozone layer. Here's the link to the picture of the ozone hole," he states, triumphantly slamming his hand on the table next to the picture of the Earth's atmosphere.
"Excellent. You've just identified the threat against him. Now, what's the code, Sherlock?" Giulia urges him.
"That's the next logical step. A few seconds ago, you talked about finding the right sequence, and I remembered that Jim too mentioned the right sequence before saying three more sentences about Greg. I suppose each one of those phrases contained a subtle hint at the three elements of the code. If we stick to the order used by Moriarty, we will have the right combination."
Sherlock massages his temples with the tip of his forefingers, recalling the exact words pronounced earlier by his nemesis.
"He said that the inspector allows me to behave as if I was the head of the country—that's the first clue. Giulia, you guessed right; the city is Amsterdam, but we need the head of the country. The right letter is the initial of the country of which Amsterdam is the capital, so N for the Netherlands."
The detective walks to the wooden rolls and spins the first one, stopping it in correspondence to the letter N. He lifts an expectant gaze on the monitor, but nothing seems to happen in Lestrade's room. They need to enter the complete code.
"Assuming we were right about the other signs, we are left with the number 2 and the letter O. Which one goes first? What was the second sentence about?" John presses him, following his reasoning.
"Jim said Lestrade never doubted me for a second. 'Second', as in the ordinal number for 2. John, your intuition about the Roman numerals was correct as well." Sherlock nods at him, twirling the second roller. Once the whole alphabet has passed before his eyes and numbers have started appearing on it, he concludes the rotation on number 2.
"What about the O sign that we haven't deduced yet?" Giulia's voice cracks, overwhelmed with fear.
"The last thing Moriarty said before starting the countdown was about Lestrade's survival, but he worded it in a very peculiar way: keep breathing. That should be easy, even for you. What do we breathe?" He asks with a hint of arrogance.
Watson widens his eyes in sudden realisation. "Oxygen. The last sign is indeed the letter O, as the chemical element on the periodic table."
"Far more than the element, John. The final code is the chemical formula of nitrous oxide or laughing gas: N2O. This is the right sequence," Sherlock affirms, placing his hand on the third roller and spinning it.
John and Giulia hold their breath and look up at the screen now showing a semi-unconscious Lestrade, his head lolling over his chest. When Sherlock gets past the letter N and finally positions the last cylinder on O, the monitor switches off, turning to black.
A simultaneous, heart-wrenching scream echoes in the room, "NO!"
Author's note: I just want to express my undying gratitude to everyone who has been reading and reviewing this story. A huge thank you to all my guest readers, and in particular to Reader4.0 and the7horcrux for their kind words.
If you all appreciate this fanfiction, I'd be forever grateful if you could spread the word as much as possible and invite some fellow Sherlock fans to read it. Thank you.