Fic: Run, Neon Tiger 2/6
Title:Run, Neon Tiger (2/6)
Author: Unsentimental Fool
Rating: PG-13 (this part), R/NC-17 (whole)
Pairings (approximately): (whole) John/Sherlock, Sherlock/Moriarty, Moriarty/Moran, Moran/John
Word count: (this part) 5,000
Summary: John's old friendship with Seb Moran draws Sherlock's interest, and Jim Moriarty's.
Notes: Sequel to Burning Bright.
back to chapter one
Sherlock was reading an online testimonial when John came up to look over his shoulder.
"Tigris Security is a bona fide business, accounts filed at Companies House, genuine customers, genuine payments, four employees and several subcontractors all currently out in Afghanistan and Pakistan carrying out commercial security services for satisfied clients. He didn't tell you anything."
John didn't bother asking how Sherlock had known that.
"Operational issues, he said. Nothing. Not the zoo, not Moriarty, not being the sniper at the pool. He knew what I was talking about though, Sherlock. He's involved, somehow."
He chucked his coat at the sofa, frustrated. He should have been able to get Seb to talk to him properly. The guy was a murder suspect and knew it. Even Moran's legendary nerve ought to be slipping a little, at that.
"I told you that. Did he talk about anything else?"
John switched his annoyance to Sherlock. "Yes, actually. He told me that you were mad, bad and dangerous to know."
Sherlock smirked at that. "Was that it?"
"He sent you his regards. Now why would Moriarty's bodyguard do that, Sherlock?"
"Courtesy? It's probably time to get Lestrade to pull him in for questioning."
John shook his head. "He's waiting for that. Says his cover story is ready. He seemed very confident, but then that's Seb Moran for you."
Sherlock frowned at John. "Is it? Tell me one thing that you remember about him. Not personal. Something about him as a soldier."
John could feel himself reddening slightly. "How did you...never mind. OK." He settled into his chair, tipped his head back, eyes half closed, remembering. It wasn't an incident he was ever likely to forget.
"There was a report of a medical emergency in a house right on the edge of the wild. An isolated household and they'd given us some useful info about the local insurgents, so my CO asked if I'd go, with Moran's unit as escort. I'd only met him a few days earlier; we'd barely spoken.
"It was a set up. There was a firefight, and we got split up. We could hear the rest of the patrol fifty yards away exchanging occasional fire with someone with a semi-automatic but Seb and I were holed up in this tiny room and a kid outside with a rifle taking pot shots if we went near the door. And I mean kid; about twelve, I reckon."
It had been the first time he'd come under fire and memory of the fear and the anger and frustration was still acute. Moran had been pressed up close up against him, absolutely silent after the first few snapped sentences, focussed on that door, rifle set. Almost as scary as the other side.
"Our cavalry were going to be on the way shortly, but Seb reckoned theirs would arrive first and then things would get even more messy. Every few seconds we'd catch a glimpse of the kid. Moran tried scaring him off with a few bullets but he wasn't running anywhere. Seb could have shot him half a dozen times over and taken out the semi-automatic by now. Rescued his men; real hero stuff. But he didn't."
He waited for Sherlock to ask what happened next, because narratives worked that way. Sherlock merely watched him, frowning slightly.
"Ok. Well, eventually five armed men turned up. Moran killed them with seven shots and left the kid shrieking over the bodies while he went to get his guys out."
"And got his commendation anyway. It's in his records."
"Yeah." John glared at the other man. "What do you deduce from that, Sherlock?"
"That he's got control, patience and judgement, and he follows orders. Moriarty's not careless in his choices."
Bloody hell! Sherlock was wrong! John slammed his hand down on the chair arm. "For God's sake, Sherlock. I know him far better than you do, and he's a decent man!"
"Is that what you said to him about me?"
"Yes! What I should have added is that you're both damn stubborn idiots! You're chasing the wrong person. Jim Moriarty must be laughing his head off round about now!"
"Jim Moriarty" Sherlock said, thoughtfully, "doesn't know about your connection to Moran. Or didn't, at least. I wonder how he'll react to having been kept in the dark about your affair."
"Hang on." That really needed clarifying. "It wasn't an affair, Sherlock. We were friends, and we ended up in bed two or three times. That's all."
"Which?"
"Which what?"
"Two times, or three?"
John closed his eyes. "Five." Opened them again. "And don't look smug. It's not relevant."
"No? You've shown no inclination whatsoever to jump into bed with any of your male friends in the time you've lived here: your energies have been directly solely towards women. What made Moran different?"
He tried to come up with something, but it was difficult. He and Seb, it had just happened, really. No big deal. "I guess he was just good at picking his moments'"
"What sort of moments?"
"Do we have to talk about this?"
"It's for the case, John."
Sure it was. John was pretty sure that this had nothing to do with eight people dead. Also that Sherlock wouldn't let it go. "Angry ones, mostly, I guess. Not necessarily with him. I'd be furious about something and he'd just smile that lazy smile of his and figure out some way to get me alone."
"And then?"
"What do you mean, and then? You can use your imagination, Sherlock, if you really have to."
His flatmate was considering him, carefully. He didn't like the feeling. "Did you hurt him?"
"Seb? He's got several inches and at least two martial arts on me, and he's tough as nails. It would take a bloody tiger to hurt him."
"But you did fight."
"Yeah. We scuffled a bit." What was Sherlock thinking of him? "It's not... It's never been like that with anyone else. I'm not violent, Sherlock. I've never hit a woman. I don't need that."
"But the capacity is there." Sherlock was matter of fact. "Moran saw it. It's always been obvious to me. Moriarty..." His face paled. "I'm an idiot! Get the gun and your passport. I'll meet you downstairs. Hurry!"
Thoroughly unsettled, John moved without questions, met Sherlock at the front door.
"Stay out of sight until the cab door is open. Then run." Sherlock pushed the door open, strolled casually onto the street. He stood for a couple of minutes contemplating Speedy's menu as the traffic rolled by, then took a couple of quick steps to stop a taxi, seemingly at random.
John pelted across the pavement, threw himself inside. "What on earth...?"
"Not here." Sherlock was typing on his phone. He pressed send, looked out of the window, away from John, for the rest of the trip towards the City.
As they passed St Paul's Sherlock turned to him, murmured quietly. "Onto the bridge. Quick, but don't run." The taxi drew up close to the river. "Go."
The familiar sway of the Millennium footbridge under John's feet; he walked fast, aware of Sherlock at his shoulder. As they reached the centre Sherlock pulled in front of him, slowed until they were both shoulder to shoulder looking out at the wide, slow Thames.
"What the hell are we doing here?" John demanded.
"Making things difficult for Moran."
Away from high buildings. "You think he's going to shoot at us?"
"Not us. You."
"No." John shook his head in irritation. Sherlock hadn't been listening to him at all. "I know Seb doesn't want to kill me."
"No, he doesn't. But Moriarty isn't going to give him a choice. It's not just an old friendship that he's concealed from Jim for months. It's a rival. Jim Moriarty won't tolerate that, not for a moment. Moran's in very deep trouble and killing you may well be his only chance for forgiveness, and survival."
This was crazy. "I'm no rival to Moriarty! He might think you are, but never me! He doesn't think anything of me."
"You're a rival for Moran's attention. That will be enough."
He hadn't seen Seb for years. This was insane. "We can't stay out here forever."
"Working on that. I'm waiting for a reply."
"From whom?" Who could get them out of this? "Your brother?"
"No." His phone rang and he flicked it on. "Good afternoon Jim. How's the new rug?"
Sherlock held the phone to his ear, listening, for a very long time. "Not acceptable." Another long pause. John could hear the voice hissing just below decipherable level."Spare me your paranoia. None of us knew, except Moran. Do what you like to him."
John shifted, ready to protest but Sherlock waved him into silence, still listening to Moriarty. "Negotiating." Pause. "Name it and I'll consider." A couple of seconds later he thumbed the phone off, dropped it in his pocket.
"Well?" John took a deep breath, pushed down the trepidation. "What the fuck have you promised him, Sherlock?"
"So far? Tea at the Dorchester, five fifteen pm. He'll book the table."
The anti-climax had John staring at Sherlock in confusion.
"A hotel? Can't you just get Lestrade to arrest him there?"
"Not without things getting very messy, no."
John wasn't letting Sherlock go off to meet Moriarty again. "I'm coming with you. Don't even think of arguing."
Sherlock blinked at him. "Didn't I say? He invited you, this time."
"Oh. Good." Tea with Jim Moriarty. Lovely.
Sherlock was striding back across the bridge. "He'll call Moran off for now. We should make the most of it. Taxidermists."
"Sorry?"
"Jim won't entrust that hide to anyone but an expert, and he won't wait."
Museums, gunshops. An hour and a half later they'd identified one of the capital's leading taxidermist by a short string of missed appointments and unanswered emails.
"His home, next?"
"No time. Lestrade can pick it up. We need to get back to 221B. You'll want to change."
"Dress up for Jim Moriarty?" John was scathing. "If he wants to talk to me he can put up with what I'm wearing."
Sherlock was amused. "For the Dorchester's tea room, then?"
"No! Anytime you want to take me out for posh tea I'll smarten up. Not for him."
That got another smile. "Elderly jumper and jeans it is then. That gives us time to drop into the Yard."
Lestrade was looking considerably more harassed than he had a few hours earlier. "Sherlock. For God's sake tell me you've got our man. Did you see that press conference? Absolute bloody murder!"
"Adrian Trenton. Taxidermist. Moriarty's kidnapped or possibly just hired him to deal with the tiger skin."
"So where is he?"
"I've no idea. I suggest you try looking. Also I need your latest forensic report with the tests I ordered."
Lestrade waved an irritated hand. "Get it from Anderson. Is that really all you've got?"
"So far, yes. We're following a lead. How's the surveillance on Moran getting on?"
Lestrade looked disgusted. "Took an hour or so to set up, then we promptly lost him for a couple of hours, then he turned up back at his office, did paperwork for ages, went out ten minutes ago to post some letters and slipped my guys again. He knows he's being tailed?"
"Of course. Was he injured at all, when he came back?"
Lestrade frowned. "Report didn't mention it. So should I pick him up next time he surfaces? Because I've got absolutely no-one else, so far. I could at least see what he has to say."
"Not yet. Give us time." Sherlock glanced at the office clock. "Talking of time, we need to be off."
"Keeping you from a hot date, am I?" Lestrade waved a hand. "You might as well go and have fun. Some of us are going to be working all night."
"Not keeping me, no." Sherlock smoothed his collar up and started to the door. "Get Anderson to send the report by email. Better still, do it yourself. Don't forget."
The taxi pulled up on the edge of Hyde Park. John glanced across the road at the hotel, started towards the crossing. Sherlock checked him.
"It doesn't do to be too prompt. We might as well take a walk, first." He turned into the park interior.
"A walk, Sherlock? Come on, what's up?" Was the detective nervous about the meeting? John was frankly terrified, and determined not to show it. Moriarty was not sane, could do anything at all.
Sherlock took a few paces in silence, then began.
"It is possible that Moriarty will choose to make certain assertions about our meeting last month."
"Okay," John said cautiously. "Is that a problem? I mean, he's not going to kill me for knowing stuff that he tells me himself, surely?"
"Probably not. However Jim sees his relationship with me in an unusual way. It might be described as having erotic undertones.
Erotic? Moriarty with Sherlock? John couldn't think of anything more unlikely. "He's not going to tell me you two had sex, is he? Because I'll probably laugh in his face and them he'll have to have me murdered, which is not a particularly good end to what has been a pretty unsatisfying day."
"No, it isn't. So if you could avoid laughing, that would be good. Try for that man-of-the-world air, if you can. No outbursts of any sort."
John stopped walking. "He is going to say that, then?"
"Probably, yes."
"But you didn't. Of course."
"Events might have occurred that he interprets that way. The term covers a very wide range of activity."
"Yes it does." Of all the stupid, insane, incomprehensible things to do. To let Moriarty think for a moment that he had that sort of connection... what was Sherlock playing at? "Which particular activity can I look forward to being told about?"
"He might not even mention it. Time we were going in." Sherlock was walking faster. Why would he...? Shit. He might not have been given a choice. John caught his arm.
"God, Sherlock. Did he do any... unwanted... stuff to you?"
Sherlock looked down at him, expressionless. "Certainly not."
And with that John had to be satisfied for the moment because Sherlock wasn't slowing down again.
There were several groups in front of them at the doors to the tea rooms. As they waited a waiter approached John.
"Excuse me, Sir. I'm afraid there is a dress code."
"Fine." John snapped. "We'll leave. I didn't want..."
Sherlock spoke over him. "We're guests of Mr Moriarty."
"Ah. This way, please, gentlemen."
John walked behind Sherlock, trying not to look too out of place. Orange marble pillars, huge ferns; this wasn't quite what he'd expected from tea.
They were led to a corner with two plush couches on either side on the white tablecloth, on which an unopened bottle of champagne stood in a silver bucket. Each couch had a single occupant. Moriarty, in deep red embroidered waistcoat, greeted him with a huge smile, all teeth, Moran, in a plain black suit, was studying the cup of tea in front of him, didn't look up at all. What the fuck had Seb got himself into?
John stopped.
"Sir?" The waiter was waiting for him to sit. He didn't like either of the options. Sherlock took the decision from him, moving past him to take the cushion next to Moriarty. John slid in next to Moran, careful not to touch him. The waiter poured them tea, departed, and another arrived with platters of crustless finger sandwiches.
"Well. This is delightful, isn't it?" Jim's eyes were bright. "Isn't it, Sebastian?"
Seb lifted his head, looked briefly across at Sherlock. "Good evening, Mr Holmes." And without turning, "John."
Sherlock was eating a sandwich. John thought that looked like a good excuse not to talk. They were remarkably nice, even though his stomach was churning. He kept his eyes between Sherlock and his plate as he ate. Sherlock was watching Moran, whose focus was back on his cup. No-one appeared to be paying any attention to Moriarty. He wondered how long the man would tolerate that.
About fifteen seconds.
"Do you like this music?" Jim enquired to the table in general.
John looked across automatically to the small quartet playing on the dais. It was innocuous enough, he thought. Classical music wasn't really his forte.
Sherlock sighed. "Do you really have to make a scene about every little thing, Jim? The musicians are adequate. I believe there will be scones in a few minutes. John is particularly fond of scones."
Moriarty's response was hissed. "I don't much care for John's preferences. Unlike everyone else here I'm not particularly fond of John. "
"The feeling," John said, a little more aggressively than he'd meant to, "is mutual."
"Precisely." The hiss became a purr. "You and I, Johnny boy, have the only uncomplicated relationship out of everyone around this table. We'd both simply like each other dead, full stop. It's quite refreshing, and so easily resolved."
Join wasn't arguing with that. Except, the only one? He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, took another sandwich.
"You are rather overstating my attachment to your henchman, Jim. If you recall, we didn't bond." Sherlock sounded thoroughly uninvolved.
"I think you did, a teensy bit. What do you think, Seb?"
"You don't pay me to have attachments. Just follow orders." His voice was low.
"Ah, but you don't, petal." Moriarty's voice turned to an erratic whine. "You keep things from me, Sebastian. Important things. Why is that?"
Moran raised his head to look at his employer. "It was a mistake. I'm sorry." John could see the tension in the twitch of the hand lying next to his own. The Seb Moran he remembered didn't apologise to anyone.
"Of course you're sorry now. Nobody wants to die horribly. Answer the question." Jim's voice was oddly gentle.
"Because you'd tell me to off him as soon as you knew." Seb's voice was low but clear. "If you needed him dead for business, fine, I'd do it, but I didn't want him killed just because we'd screwed a couple of times years back."
"Five times, apparently." Sherlock said. John kicked him under the table. A waiter approached.
"Can I bring you gentlemen some fresh tea, and scones?"
"Wonderful!" Jim's voice was high and delighted. "That would be just lovely, thank you." As the waiter cleared the table he turned to Sherlock. "You see what I have to put up with? What would you do in my situation? Be honest, now."
"I'm not interested in your employee problems. Resolve them as you like, as long as you leave my interests alone."
"No." John was pretty sure that Sherlock would want him to keep quiet, but Seb's current troubles had apparently come from protecting him. He couldn't let that pass. "Whatever you're negotiating here covers both of us."
Now everyone was looking at him, and no-one looked pleased. After a few seconds Moriarty shook his head.
"That's very generous of you. Very considerate. Tell me, who do you imagine will be paying the frankly astronomical price to keep both of you alive? Because you have nothing to bargain with, John Watson. Nothing at all."
Sherlock. Who could say no; he wasn't going to deal for Moran's safety as well. But he'd sat back looking a little weary and distinctly unhappy and John knew with a pang of guilt that he would do it.
John was tempted for a moment to take the claim back, leave Seb to Jim, but he'd tipped his hand and chances were Moriarty would kill his sniper out of spite, now. Which was why Moran looked ready to murder John. One short sentence and he'd screwed up everything. God, he hated Jim Moriarty!
Here came scones, and jam and cream, and fresh tea poured by waiters with warm smiles, all utterly incongruous. Laughter came from the tables nearest to them. Moriarty buttered a scone, apparently utterly focussed on the task, and John realised with unease that the rest of the table was watching the man as if there was something to be learned from the quick movements. He looked away, tried putting jam on his own scone, but something dragged his gaze back to Jim, his hands stilling of their own accord.
Eventually Moriarty took a bite, looked across at John again. He spoke around a mouthful of scone, "Does this rekindled affection of yours extend to keeping him out of prison? There is the trivial matter of ten corpses at the Zoo."
John could feel Moran shift beside him. He had no idea what that meant. For a moment he considered claiming again his faith in his friend's innocence, but that faith had been shaken; Seb was here, with Jim, had talked about killing for him. All three of them might just laugh at his naivety.
"I don't believe there's any evidence to convict." That should be safe enough.
Jim smiled like a gecko. "Like to see some?" He pulled a glossy smartphone out of his pocket, tilted the screen towards John. A naked man, sprawled face down- Seb; John knew that figure intimately, but what the hell had happened to his back?- on an unevenly orange and black striped surface.
Sherlock's hand came out to seize the phone and turn it round so he could see it. "Sumatran," he confirmed to John. "The pattern of stripes is distinctive." And to Moriarty, "You couldn't wait until it was tanned, then? Your obsession is filthily unhygenic. Did you at least sterilise the claws?"
"He didn't use them." Seb spoke out unexpectedly, with a touch of something that might have been regret. "Work to do."
John had only the vaguest idea of what they were talking about, but that was enough to turn his stomach. A photo of Seb on the dead tiger's skin; he supposed that was proof enough. He'd been wrong. Seb Moran was nothing but a brutal killer after all, and Jim Moriarty's boyfriend to boot.
"Poor John." Moriarty was delighted. "He's really not the hero you were dreaming of, is he?" And, lower, conspiratorial, "Don't you think it would be better on reflection to just leave Sebastian to me?"
He didn't know. He couldn't think. All those dead bodies, this morning. Seb, silent next to him. And Sherlock would have to pay and he still had no idea how... "Sherlock?" His voice was quiet.
Jim cackled. "Finally it dawns on the man that he's way out of his depth! Go on, Sherlock. Your turn."
The waiter approached. "Would you like me to serve the champagne, gentlemen?"
"Not quite yet." Moriarty grinned at him. "I imagine that I may shortly have something to celebrate. Sherlock, pet? I'm waiting?"
Sherlock had pulled out his phone in response to an alert, was scrolling through something, ignoring Moriarty.
"Sherlock!"
"Yes?" He looked up, finally.
"What's that?" Jim spat out the words.
"Forensic report. You were asking?"
"Give it to me."
"Why would you need it? You already know what happened." He slipped the phone back into his pocket. "I intend to make sure that the murderer at the Zoo lives long enough to stand trial. Does that answer your question?"
"Don't be flippant with me, sweet." Moriarty's voice was cold. "I can ensure that you regret it."
"I'm never flippant." Sherlock turned a shoulder to Jim. "Isn't it time you contributed something, Moran?"
Seb shrugged."It's all talk. You've still got nothing on me."
Moriarty laughed."Not yet. But I could give them all they need. Couldn't I, Sebastian? "
"Yes." Expressionless.
"Shall I do it?"
Moran shrugged again. "You're the boss. You'll do what you want."
Cat and mouse. John felt sickened by both of them. "So if you're a damn gunman why the fuck haven't you just shot the bastard?" he demanded of Seb, a little too loudly. The table nearest to them turned to stare.
Seb smiled, without humour. "Why haven't you?" His eyes flickered to the concealed gun in John's belt.
Not yet justified self defence, but he could hope.
"John." Sherlock's voice was a warning.
"Fine. Can we get on with whatever we're doing here, Sherlock? My appetite has gone in this company." He glared across at Moriarty, who blew him a kiss.
"Come on, Sherlock. Make me an offer for them," he purred.
"How should I know what you want?" Sherlock countered.
"You're the deductive mastermind. Take your best shot."
Sherlock was looking down at his long fingers, interlaced. "Twenty four hours." God. John stayed silent with an effort.
"Don't be stupid. " Jim shook his head, disappointed. "I could have you for a day anytime I want. Make me a real offer. Something I can't just take." He brushed scone crumbs off his fingers, waved at the staff. "More tea, please."
"Forget it, Sherlock." John couldn't listen to any more of this. "I'll take my chances. I can defend myself. So could Seb, if he wanted to."
Sherlock lifted his head to meet John's eyes. "The odds aren't good. This is really not your area, John. Be quiet and leave it to me."
Moriarty just sniggered. John wondered what would happen if he slapped the man. A lecture from his flatmate, at the least.
"So, something you can't take." Sherlock went back to contemplating his hands. "I can offer you something considerably more interesting than mere compliance."
"Like?"
"Originality."
Moriarty turned scathing. "You didn't show much originality last time, did you? You didn't do anything except lie back and take it, as I recall, and nor did Sebastian. I had to do all the work. Hardly an inspiring prospect for next time."
"It wasn't necessary then. Now it's on offer."
"Sherlock, darling!" Jim sounded exasperated. "Your entire sexual experience had been limited to an excellent blow job that I got the most cursory of thanks for and a bit of voyeurism. You may think this is enough to make you into a daemon lover, but I'm going to need rather more convincing."
He looked across the table. "John's not buying it either. He's been wondering whether to have a go at you for months now but he didn't think a fumbling self obsessed virgin would be worth the effort. Why don't you try to persuade both of us? I get the first few rides, obviously, but he might get the crumbs."
John's hand impacted hard and flat against Moriarty's cheek, in a silence that seemed to go further than their table. Why someone hadn't thrown them out by now he didn't know. He leaned further forward to hiss, "You're a sick little beast. Ever been offered anything you don't bully or blackmail someone into? "
Moriarty's eyes were wide, staring at him. Sherlock was muttering "Don't!" in urgent warning but John wasn't interested. He was watching the red mark flare across Jim's cheek, waiting for a response.
And oh God but platters of cake were arriving, now, in a rush, speechless waiters trying to head off a scene. As the silence lengthened he reached out for a slice of chocolate cake, attempting to look in control, and his fingers brushed Moran's, headed for the same piece.
"Still going for the sweet stuff every time? It's all yours." Seb flipped his hand over, offering the cake. Oh fuck, the man couldn't start flirting with him now? He'd lost his temper and Seb, bloody idiot that he was, was reacting to that. Of course. Even when his psychopathic boss was likely to kill them both for it.
Jim sat back in his chair, unsmiling. "Sebastian. Why don't you take the over-excitable doctor out for some fresh air while Sherlock and I have a little chat?"
John shook his head. "I don't think so."
"I do." Sherlock, definite. "Go away, John. You're being a hindrance."
"That's because what you're proposing is insane, and you know it. What makes you think I'm going to let you prostitute yourself to this animal?" His voice had risen again. The people at the next table were collecting up their bags and leaving.
"What makes you think you have any say over the matter?" Sherlock was impatient, dismissive. "Who I choose to have sex with is, I believe, my business. Isn't that how it works? I don't recall you ever asking my permission first."
"It's a choice, is it?" John clenched a fist.
"Of course it is. I would be hardly likely to offer myself if I found the idea repugnant. Don't be utterly naive, John. Why do you think I went to that assignation last month?"
Oh God. They'd met up- Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty had met up- for sex. Sherlock had wanted those slimy hands all over him, had wanted Jim's mouth touching him- John found himself nauseous. He looked across at the tall man, that clear, arrogant expression, and next to him Jim Moriarty grinning like a deformed ape.
"Did you...have you let him...?" For some reason it seemed essential that he knew how far it had gone.
"Not yet." Sherlock sounded calm.
"Not yet? Bloody hell, Sherlock! I really don't know what to say." Real anger was building. How could Sherlock do this to him, after everything they'd gone through together?
"Say nothing. Go away. I'll call when we're done here."
Go away was clear message enough. "Right." He stood up. "Right, then." And he started to walk out. Behind him Jim's voice, cold and amused, hissed "Behave, now," and he had no idea which of the three of them the words were spoken to.
Chapter 3 Watching the Detective
Author: Unsentimental Fool
Rating: PG-13 (this part), R/NC-17 (whole)
Pairings (approximately): (whole) John/Sherlock, Sherlock/Moriarty, Moriarty/Moran, Moran/John
Word count: (this part) 5,000
Summary: John's old friendship with Seb Moran draws Sherlock's interest, and Jim Moriarty's.
Notes: Sequel to Burning Bright.
back to chapter one
Sherlock was reading an online testimonial when John came up to look over his shoulder.
"Tigris Security is a bona fide business, accounts filed at Companies House, genuine customers, genuine payments, four employees and several subcontractors all currently out in Afghanistan and Pakistan carrying out commercial security services for satisfied clients. He didn't tell you anything."
John didn't bother asking how Sherlock had known that.
"Operational issues, he said. Nothing. Not the zoo, not Moriarty, not being the sniper at the pool. He knew what I was talking about though, Sherlock. He's involved, somehow."
He chucked his coat at the sofa, frustrated. He should have been able to get Seb to talk to him properly. The guy was a murder suspect and knew it. Even Moran's legendary nerve ought to be slipping a little, at that.
"I told you that. Did he talk about anything else?"
John switched his annoyance to Sherlock. "Yes, actually. He told me that you were mad, bad and dangerous to know."
Sherlock smirked at that. "Was that it?"
"He sent you his regards. Now why would Moriarty's bodyguard do that, Sherlock?"
"Courtesy? It's probably time to get Lestrade to pull him in for questioning."
John shook his head. "He's waiting for that. Says his cover story is ready. He seemed very confident, but then that's Seb Moran for you."
Sherlock frowned at John. "Is it? Tell me one thing that you remember about him. Not personal. Something about him as a soldier."
John could feel himself reddening slightly. "How did you...never mind. OK." He settled into his chair, tipped his head back, eyes half closed, remembering. It wasn't an incident he was ever likely to forget.
"There was a report of a medical emergency in a house right on the edge of the wild. An isolated household and they'd given us some useful info about the local insurgents, so my CO asked if I'd go, with Moran's unit as escort. I'd only met him a few days earlier; we'd barely spoken.
"It was a set up. There was a firefight, and we got split up. We could hear the rest of the patrol fifty yards away exchanging occasional fire with someone with a semi-automatic but Seb and I were holed up in this tiny room and a kid outside with a rifle taking pot shots if we went near the door. And I mean kid; about twelve, I reckon."
It had been the first time he'd come under fire and memory of the fear and the anger and frustration was still acute. Moran had been pressed up close up against him, absolutely silent after the first few snapped sentences, focussed on that door, rifle set. Almost as scary as the other side.
"Our cavalry were going to be on the way shortly, but Seb reckoned theirs would arrive first and then things would get even more messy. Every few seconds we'd catch a glimpse of the kid. Moran tried scaring him off with a few bullets but he wasn't running anywhere. Seb could have shot him half a dozen times over and taken out the semi-automatic by now. Rescued his men; real hero stuff. But he didn't."
He waited for Sherlock to ask what happened next, because narratives worked that way. Sherlock merely watched him, frowning slightly.
"Ok. Well, eventually five armed men turned up. Moran killed them with seven shots and left the kid shrieking over the bodies while he went to get his guys out."
"And got his commendation anyway. It's in his records."
"Yeah." John glared at the other man. "What do you deduce from that, Sherlock?"
"That he's got control, patience and judgement, and he follows orders. Moriarty's not careless in his choices."
Bloody hell! Sherlock was wrong! John slammed his hand down on the chair arm. "For God's sake, Sherlock. I know him far better than you do, and he's a decent man!"
"Is that what you said to him about me?"
"Yes! What I should have added is that you're both damn stubborn idiots! You're chasing the wrong person. Jim Moriarty must be laughing his head off round about now!"
"Jim Moriarty" Sherlock said, thoughtfully, "doesn't know about your connection to Moran. Or didn't, at least. I wonder how he'll react to having been kept in the dark about your affair."
"Hang on." That really needed clarifying. "It wasn't an affair, Sherlock. We were friends, and we ended up in bed two or three times. That's all."
"Which?"
"Which what?"
"Two times, or three?"
John closed his eyes. "Five." Opened them again. "And don't look smug. It's not relevant."
"No? You've shown no inclination whatsoever to jump into bed with any of your male friends in the time you've lived here: your energies have been directly solely towards women. What made Moran different?"
He tried to come up with something, but it was difficult. He and Seb, it had just happened, really. No big deal. "I guess he was just good at picking his moments'"
"What sort of moments?"
"Do we have to talk about this?"
"It's for the case, John."
Sure it was. John was pretty sure that this had nothing to do with eight people dead. Also that Sherlock wouldn't let it go. "Angry ones, mostly, I guess. Not necessarily with him. I'd be furious about something and he'd just smile that lazy smile of his and figure out some way to get me alone."
"And then?"
"What do you mean, and then? You can use your imagination, Sherlock, if you really have to."
His flatmate was considering him, carefully. He didn't like the feeling. "Did you hurt him?"
"Seb? He's got several inches and at least two martial arts on me, and he's tough as nails. It would take a bloody tiger to hurt him."
"But you did fight."
"Yeah. We scuffled a bit." What was Sherlock thinking of him? "It's not... It's never been like that with anyone else. I'm not violent, Sherlock. I've never hit a woman. I don't need that."
"But the capacity is there." Sherlock was matter of fact. "Moran saw it. It's always been obvious to me. Moriarty..." His face paled. "I'm an idiot! Get the gun and your passport. I'll meet you downstairs. Hurry!"
Thoroughly unsettled, John moved without questions, met Sherlock at the front door.
"Stay out of sight until the cab door is open. Then run." Sherlock pushed the door open, strolled casually onto the street. He stood for a couple of minutes contemplating Speedy's menu as the traffic rolled by, then took a couple of quick steps to stop a taxi, seemingly at random.
John pelted across the pavement, threw himself inside. "What on earth...?"
"Not here." Sherlock was typing on his phone. He pressed send, looked out of the window, away from John, for the rest of the trip towards the City.
As they passed St Paul's Sherlock turned to him, murmured quietly. "Onto the bridge. Quick, but don't run." The taxi drew up close to the river. "Go."
The familiar sway of the Millennium footbridge under John's feet; he walked fast, aware of Sherlock at his shoulder. As they reached the centre Sherlock pulled in front of him, slowed until they were both shoulder to shoulder looking out at the wide, slow Thames.
"What the hell are we doing here?" John demanded.
"Making things difficult for Moran."
Away from high buildings. "You think he's going to shoot at us?"
"Not us. You."
"No." John shook his head in irritation. Sherlock hadn't been listening to him at all. "I know Seb doesn't want to kill me."
"No, he doesn't. But Moriarty isn't going to give him a choice. It's not just an old friendship that he's concealed from Jim for months. It's a rival. Jim Moriarty won't tolerate that, not for a moment. Moran's in very deep trouble and killing you may well be his only chance for forgiveness, and survival."
This was crazy. "I'm no rival to Moriarty! He might think you are, but never me! He doesn't think anything of me."
"You're a rival for Moran's attention. That will be enough."
He hadn't seen Seb for years. This was insane. "We can't stay out here forever."
"Working on that. I'm waiting for a reply."
"From whom?" Who could get them out of this? "Your brother?"
"No." His phone rang and he flicked it on. "Good afternoon Jim. How's the new rug?"
Sherlock held the phone to his ear, listening, for a very long time. "Not acceptable." Another long pause. John could hear the voice hissing just below decipherable level."Spare me your paranoia. None of us knew, except Moran. Do what you like to him."
John shifted, ready to protest but Sherlock waved him into silence, still listening to Moriarty. "Negotiating." Pause. "Name it and I'll consider." A couple of seconds later he thumbed the phone off, dropped it in his pocket.
"Well?" John took a deep breath, pushed down the trepidation. "What the fuck have you promised him, Sherlock?"
"So far? Tea at the Dorchester, five fifteen pm. He'll book the table."
The anti-climax had John staring at Sherlock in confusion.
"A hotel? Can't you just get Lestrade to arrest him there?"
"Not without things getting very messy, no."
John wasn't letting Sherlock go off to meet Moriarty again. "I'm coming with you. Don't even think of arguing."
Sherlock blinked at him. "Didn't I say? He invited you, this time."
"Oh. Good." Tea with Jim Moriarty. Lovely.
Sherlock was striding back across the bridge. "He'll call Moran off for now. We should make the most of it. Taxidermists."
"Sorry?"
"Jim won't entrust that hide to anyone but an expert, and he won't wait."
Museums, gunshops. An hour and a half later they'd identified one of the capital's leading taxidermist by a short string of missed appointments and unanswered emails.
"His home, next?"
"No time. Lestrade can pick it up. We need to get back to 221B. You'll want to change."
"Dress up for Jim Moriarty?" John was scathing. "If he wants to talk to me he can put up with what I'm wearing."
Sherlock was amused. "For the Dorchester's tea room, then?"
"No! Anytime you want to take me out for posh tea I'll smarten up. Not for him."
That got another smile. "Elderly jumper and jeans it is then. That gives us time to drop into the Yard."
Lestrade was looking considerably more harassed than he had a few hours earlier. "Sherlock. For God's sake tell me you've got our man. Did you see that press conference? Absolute bloody murder!"
"Adrian Trenton. Taxidermist. Moriarty's kidnapped or possibly just hired him to deal with the tiger skin."
"So where is he?"
"I've no idea. I suggest you try looking. Also I need your latest forensic report with the tests I ordered."
Lestrade waved an irritated hand. "Get it from Anderson. Is that really all you've got?"
"So far, yes. We're following a lead. How's the surveillance on Moran getting on?"
Lestrade looked disgusted. "Took an hour or so to set up, then we promptly lost him for a couple of hours, then he turned up back at his office, did paperwork for ages, went out ten minutes ago to post some letters and slipped my guys again. He knows he's being tailed?"
"Of course. Was he injured at all, when he came back?"
Lestrade frowned. "Report didn't mention it. So should I pick him up next time he surfaces? Because I've got absolutely no-one else, so far. I could at least see what he has to say."
"Not yet. Give us time." Sherlock glanced at the office clock. "Talking of time, we need to be off."
"Keeping you from a hot date, am I?" Lestrade waved a hand. "You might as well go and have fun. Some of us are going to be working all night."
"Not keeping me, no." Sherlock smoothed his collar up and started to the door. "Get Anderson to send the report by email. Better still, do it yourself. Don't forget."
The taxi pulled up on the edge of Hyde Park. John glanced across the road at the hotel, started towards the crossing. Sherlock checked him.
"It doesn't do to be too prompt. We might as well take a walk, first." He turned into the park interior.
"A walk, Sherlock? Come on, what's up?" Was the detective nervous about the meeting? John was frankly terrified, and determined not to show it. Moriarty was not sane, could do anything at all.
Sherlock took a few paces in silence, then began.
"It is possible that Moriarty will choose to make certain assertions about our meeting last month."
"Okay," John said cautiously. "Is that a problem? I mean, he's not going to kill me for knowing stuff that he tells me himself, surely?"
"Probably not. However Jim sees his relationship with me in an unusual way. It might be described as having erotic undertones.
Erotic? Moriarty with Sherlock? John couldn't think of anything more unlikely. "He's not going to tell me you two had sex, is he? Because I'll probably laugh in his face and them he'll have to have me murdered, which is not a particularly good end to what has been a pretty unsatisfying day."
"No, it isn't. So if you could avoid laughing, that would be good. Try for that man-of-the-world air, if you can. No outbursts of any sort."
John stopped walking. "He is going to say that, then?"
"Probably, yes."
"But you didn't. Of course."
"Events might have occurred that he interprets that way. The term covers a very wide range of activity."
"Yes it does." Of all the stupid, insane, incomprehensible things to do. To let Moriarty think for a moment that he had that sort of connection... what was Sherlock playing at? "Which particular activity can I look forward to being told about?"
"He might not even mention it. Time we were going in." Sherlock was walking faster. Why would he...? Shit. He might not have been given a choice. John caught his arm.
"God, Sherlock. Did he do any... unwanted... stuff to you?"
Sherlock looked down at him, expressionless. "Certainly not."
And with that John had to be satisfied for the moment because Sherlock wasn't slowing down again.
There were several groups in front of them at the doors to the tea rooms. As they waited a waiter approached John.
"Excuse me, Sir. I'm afraid there is a dress code."
"Fine." John snapped. "We'll leave. I didn't want..."
Sherlock spoke over him. "We're guests of Mr Moriarty."
"Ah. This way, please, gentlemen."
John walked behind Sherlock, trying not to look too out of place. Orange marble pillars, huge ferns; this wasn't quite what he'd expected from tea.
They were led to a corner with two plush couches on either side on the white tablecloth, on which an unopened bottle of champagne stood in a silver bucket. Each couch had a single occupant. Moriarty, in deep red embroidered waistcoat, greeted him with a huge smile, all teeth, Moran, in a plain black suit, was studying the cup of tea in front of him, didn't look up at all. What the fuck had Seb got himself into?
John stopped.
"Sir?" The waiter was waiting for him to sit. He didn't like either of the options. Sherlock took the decision from him, moving past him to take the cushion next to Moriarty. John slid in next to Moran, careful not to touch him. The waiter poured them tea, departed, and another arrived with platters of crustless finger sandwiches.
"Well. This is delightful, isn't it?" Jim's eyes were bright. "Isn't it, Sebastian?"
Seb lifted his head, looked briefly across at Sherlock. "Good evening, Mr Holmes." And without turning, "John."
Sherlock was eating a sandwich. John thought that looked like a good excuse not to talk. They were remarkably nice, even though his stomach was churning. He kept his eyes between Sherlock and his plate as he ate. Sherlock was watching Moran, whose focus was back on his cup. No-one appeared to be paying any attention to Moriarty. He wondered how long the man would tolerate that.
About fifteen seconds.
"Do you like this music?" Jim enquired to the table in general.
John looked across automatically to the small quartet playing on the dais. It was innocuous enough, he thought. Classical music wasn't really his forte.
Sherlock sighed. "Do you really have to make a scene about every little thing, Jim? The musicians are adequate. I believe there will be scones in a few minutes. John is particularly fond of scones."
Moriarty's response was hissed. "I don't much care for John's preferences. Unlike everyone else here I'm not particularly fond of John. "
"The feeling," John said, a little more aggressively than he'd meant to, "is mutual."
"Precisely." The hiss became a purr. "You and I, Johnny boy, have the only uncomplicated relationship out of everyone around this table. We'd both simply like each other dead, full stop. It's quite refreshing, and so easily resolved."
Join wasn't arguing with that. Except, the only one? He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, took another sandwich.
"You are rather overstating my attachment to your henchman, Jim. If you recall, we didn't bond." Sherlock sounded thoroughly uninvolved.
"I think you did, a teensy bit. What do you think, Seb?"
"You don't pay me to have attachments. Just follow orders." His voice was low.
"Ah, but you don't, petal." Moriarty's voice turned to an erratic whine. "You keep things from me, Sebastian. Important things. Why is that?"
Moran raised his head to look at his employer. "It was a mistake. I'm sorry." John could see the tension in the twitch of the hand lying next to his own. The Seb Moran he remembered didn't apologise to anyone.
"Of course you're sorry now. Nobody wants to die horribly. Answer the question." Jim's voice was oddly gentle.
"Because you'd tell me to off him as soon as you knew." Seb's voice was low but clear. "If you needed him dead for business, fine, I'd do it, but I didn't want him killed just because we'd screwed a couple of times years back."
"Five times, apparently." Sherlock said. John kicked him under the table. A waiter approached.
"Can I bring you gentlemen some fresh tea, and scones?"
"Wonderful!" Jim's voice was high and delighted. "That would be just lovely, thank you." As the waiter cleared the table he turned to Sherlock. "You see what I have to put up with? What would you do in my situation? Be honest, now."
"I'm not interested in your employee problems. Resolve them as you like, as long as you leave my interests alone."
"No." John was pretty sure that Sherlock would want him to keep quiet, but Seb's current troubles had apparently come from protecting him. He couldn't let that pass. "Whatever you're negotiating here covers both of us."
Now everyone was looking at him, and no-one looked pleased. After a few seconds Moriarty shook his head.
"That's very generous of you. Very considerate. Tell me, who do you imagine will be paying the frankly astronomical price to keep both of you alive? Because you have nothing to bargain with, John Watson. Nothing at all."
Sherlock. Who could say no; he wasn't going to deal for Moran's safety as well. But he'd sat back looking a little weary and distinctly unhappy and John knew with a pang of guilt that he would do it.
John was tempted for a moment to take the claim back, leave Seb to Jim, but he'd tipped his hand and chances were Moriarty would kill his sniper out of spite, now. Which was why Moran looked ready to murder John. One short sentence and he'd screwed up everything. God, he hated Jim Moriarty!
Here came scones, and jam and cream, and fresh tea poured by waiters with warm smiles, all utterly incongruous. Laughter came from the tables nearest to them. Moriarty buttered a scone, apparently utterly focussed on the task, and John realised with unease that the rest of the table was watching the man as if there was something to be learned from the quick movements. He looked away, tried putting jam on his own scone, but something dragged his gaze back to Jim, his hands stilling of their own accord.
Eventually Moriarty took a bite, looked across at John again. He spoke around a mouthful of scone, "Does this rekindled affection of yours extend to keeping him out of prison? There is the trivial matter of ten corpses at the Zoo."
John could feel Moran shift beside him. He had no idea what that meant. For a moment he considered claiming again his faith in his friend's innocence, but that faith had been shaken; Seb was here, with Jim, had talked about killing for him. All three of them might just laugh at his naivety.
"I don't believe there's any evidence to convict." That should be safe enough.
Jim smiled like a gecko. "Like to see some?" He pulled a glossy smartphone out of his pocket, tilted the screen towards John. A naked man, sprawled face down- Seb; John knew that figure intimately, but what the hell had happened to his back?- on an unevenly orange and black striped surface.
Sherlock's hand came out to seize the phone and turn it round so he could see it. "Sumatran," he confirmed to John. "The pattern of stripes is distinctive." And to Moriarty, "You couldn't wait until it was tanned, then? Your obsession is filthily unhygenic. Did you at least sterilise the claws?"
"He didn't use them." Seb spoke out unexpectedly, with a touch of something that might have been regret. "Work to do."
John had only the vaguest idea of what they were talking about, but that was enough to turn his stomach. A photo of Seb on the dead tiger's skin; he supposed that was proof enough. He'd been wrong. Seb Moran was nothing but a brutal killer after all, and Jim Moriarty's boyfriend to boot.
"Poor John." Moriarty was delighted. "He's really not the hero you were dreaming of, is he?" And, lower, conspiratorial, "Don't you think it would be better on reflection to just leave Sebastian to me?"
He didn't know. He couldn't think. All those dead bodies, this morning. Seb, silent next to him. And Sherlock would have to pay and he still had no idea how... "Sherlock?" His voice was quiet.
Jim cackled. "Finally it dawns on the man that he's way out of his depth! Go on, Sherlock. Your turn."
The waiter approached. "Would you like me to serve the champagne, gentlemen?"
"Not quite yet." Moriarty grinned at him. "I imagine that I may shortly have something to celebrate. Sherlock, pet? I'm waiting?"
Sherlock had pulled out his phone in response to an alert, was scrolling through something, ignoring Moriarty.
"Sherlock!"
"Yes?" He looked up, finally.
"What's that?" Jim spat out the words.
"Forensic report. You were asking?"
"Give it to me."
"Why would you need it? You already know what happened." He slipped the phone back into his pocket. "I intend to make sure that the murderer at the Zoo lives long enough to stand trial. Does that answer your question?"
"Don't be flippant with me, sweet." Moriarty's voice was cold. "I can ensure that you regret it."
"I'm never flippant." Sherlock turned a shoulder to Jim. "Isn't it time you contributed something, Moran?"
Seb shrugged."It's all talk. You've still got nothing on me."
Moriarty laughed."Not yet. But I could give them all they need. Couldn't I, Sebastian? "
"Yes." Expressionless.
"Shall I do it?"
Moran shrugged again. "You're the boss. You'll do what you want."
Cat and mouse. John felt sickened by both of them. "So if you're a damn gunman why the fuck haven't you just shot the bastard?" he demanded of Seb, a little too loudly. The table nearest to them turned to stare.
Seb smiled, without humour. "Why haven't you?" His eyes flickered to the concealed gun in John's belt.
Not yet justified self defence, but he could hope.
"John." Sherlock's voice was a warning.
"Fine. Can we get on with whatever we're doing here, Sherlock? My appetite has gone in this company." He glared across at Moriarty, who blew him a kiss.
"Come on, Sherlock. Make me an offer for them," he purred.
"How should I know what you want?" Sherlock countered.
"You're the deductive mastermind. Take your best shot."
Sherlock was looking down at his long fingers, interlaced. "Twenty four hours." God. John stayed silent with an effort.
"Don't be stupid. " Jim shook his head, disappointed. "I could have you for a day anytime I want. Make me a real offer. Something I can't just take." He brushed scone crumbs off his fingers, waved at the staff. "More tea, please."
"Forget it, Sherlock." John couldn't listen to any more of this. "I'll take my chances. I can defend myself. So could Seb, if he wanted to."
Sherlock lifted his head to meet John's eyes. "The odds aren't good. This is really not your area, John. Be quiet and leave it to me."
Moriarty just sniggered. John wondered what would happen if he slapped the man. A lecture from his flatmate, at the least.
"So, something you can't take." Sherlock went back to contemplating his hands. "I can offer you something considerably more interesting than mere compliance."
"Like?"
"Originality."
Moriarty turned scathing. "You didn't show much originality last time, did you? You didn't do anything except lie back and take it, as I recall, and nor did Sebastian. I had to do all the work. Hardly an inspiring prospect for next time."
"It wasn't necessary then. Now it's on offer."
"Sherlock, darling!" Jim sounded exasperated. "Your entire sexual experience had been limited to an excellent blow job that I got the most cursory of thanks for and a bit of voyeurism. You may think this is enough to make you into a daemon lover, but I'm going to need rather more convincing."
He looked across the table. "John's not buying it either. He's been wondering whether to have a go at you for months now but he didn't think a fumbling self obsessed virgin would be worth the effort. Why don't you try to persuade both of us? I get the first few rides, obviously, but he might get the crumbs."
John's hand impacted hard and flat against Moriarty's cheek, in a silence that seemed to go further than their table. Why someone hadn't thrown them out by now he didn't know. He leaned further forward to hiss, "You're a sick little beast. Ever been offered anything you don't bully or blackmail someone into? "
Moriarty's eyes were wide, staring at him. Sherlock was muttering "Don't!" in urgent warning but John wasn't interested. He was watching the red mark flare across Jim's cheek, waiting for a response.
And oh God but platters of cake were arriving, now, in a rush, speechless waiters trying to head off a scene. As the silence lengthened he reached out for a slice of chocolate cake, attempting to look in control, and his fingers brushed Moran's, headed for the same piece.
"Still going for the sweet stuff every time? It's all yours." Seb flipped his hand over, offering the cake. Oh fuck, the man couldn't start flirting with him now? He'd lost his temper and Seb, bloody idiot that he was, was reacting to that. Of course. Even when his psychopathic boss was likely to kill them both for it.
Jim sat back in his chair, unsmiling. "Sebastian. Why don't you take the over-excitable doctor out for some fresh air while Sherlock and I have a little chat?"
John shook his head. "I don't think so."
"I do." Sherlock, definite. "Go away, John. You're being a hindrance."
"That's because what you're proposing is insane, and you know it. What makes you think I'm going to let you prostitute yourself to this animal?" His voice had risen again. The people at the next table were collecting up their bags and leaving.
"What makes you think you have any say over the matter?" Sherlock was impatient, dismissive. "Who I choose to have sex with is, I believe, my business. Isn't that how it works? I don't recall you ever asking my permission first."
"It's a choice, is it?" John clenched a fist.
"Of course it is. I would be hardly likely to offer myself if I found the idea repugnant. Don't be utterly naive, John. Why do you think I went to that assignation last month?"
Oh God. They'd met up- Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty had met up- for sex. Sherlock had wanted those slimy hands all over him, had wanted Jim's mouth touching him- John found himself nauseous. He looked across at the tall man, that clear, arrogant expression, and next to him Jim Moriarty grinning like a deformed ape.
"Did you...have you let him...?" For some reason it seemed essential that he knew how far it had gone.
"Not yet." Sherlock sounded calm.
"Not yet? Bloody hell, Sherlock! I really don't know what to say." Real anger was building. How could Sherlock do this to him, after everything they'd gone through together?
"Say nothing. Go away. I'll call when we're done here."
Go away was clear message enough. "Right." He stood up. "Right, then." And he started to walk out. Behind him Jim's voice, cold and amused, hissed "Behave, now," and he had no idea which of the three of them the words were spoken to.
Chapter 3 Watching the Detective