Fic: So I'll Finish part 8/12
Title: So I'll Finish part 8/12
Author: Unsentimental Fool
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: (this part) PG
Word count: (this part 1,813)(total to date 11,174)
Summary: When Sherlock is invited onto a TV celebrity quiz show he has his own reasons for accepting. The competition, however, does not go at all as planned. Can he uncover the author of the unexpected questions and prevent the whole thing from turning into a humiliating PR disaster?
Summary; this chapter: Searching for Hubris, Sherlock meets another unconventional animal lover with an unexpected pet
back to part 1
Once thought to have been extinct for 65 million years, the coalacanth had been rediscovered in 1938. Sherlock skimmed the notes next to the exhibit with a complete lack of interest. Now if it had faked its demise for its own esoteric reasons, hidden itself deep within the ocean, only to re-emerge when its plans were complete, it might have had some call on his attention. But fish had no motives, no mysteries, no guile. It had simply gone unobserved.
"It's fascinating, isn't it?" The voice came from behind him but he'd already seen John's reflection in the glass.
"The proper study of mankind is man."
"There's a whole gallery on human evolution, you know. You could donate your brain to it. The first ever specimen of Homo superior."
Sherlock turned away from the long dead fish. "Sorry but I'm still using it."
"Probably just as well. Given what a hash you made of that question on Darwin they might have refused to take it. You do actually believe in evolution, don't you?"
"Belief in anything is inappropriate. If it becomes relevant to a case I'll consider the matter logically. I doubt that it ever will."
John gestured around at the huge gallery, the dinosaur bones looming over them. "All this, a world of the most incredible creatures and you really care only about humans?"
"Much less even than that. I care only about the very few interesting ones. We need the second floor." He swept his coat around him again and led the way.
"So what are we looking for here, then?"
"Sebastian Moran. The most elusive of Moriarty's henchmen. The only certain fact that I have discovered about him is that he shoots tigers."
They took the wide staircase, bizarre creatures looking down on them from the cases up by the high stone roof.
"I've been looking for him amongst the traders in animal parts from that region, wildlife smugglers, with no success. Last night it occurred to me that my certain fact might be capable of different interpretations."
There was a separate charge for the exhibition, and it was nearly empty in the Monday midmorning. Sherlock bought two tickets and the exhibition catalogue from a slightly star struck assistant but declined to provide her with his autograph. He leafed through the catalogue while John oohed at the pretty pictures.
"41 to 50. Over here."
The row of big cats gazed at them from the wall, yellow eyes huge and menacing. Sherlock gave them a cursory glance, turned to the notes on the wall, under the replicated and enlarged signature of the artist
"Ian Moran. Award winning wildlife photographer, known primarily for his studies of big carnivores." He grimaced, amused despite himself at the way he'd been misled. "As I said, he shoots tigers."
John studied the photograph on the wall of the lean, weathered man with the camera around his neck. "This is Moriarty's man? Are you sure?"
"I am now. Look at the signature up there. Moran flows naturally, but Ian is a little angular. It's not the forename he was brought up with. That scar on his face is from bullet shrapnel, not an animal. He's carrying a handgun; the shape there, under his shirt, but it's too small to be any use against something the size of a tiger."
"It's a bizarre cover."
"It's useful. Turn up anywhere in the world without need for further explanation, charter planes, hire the locals. He can carry complex equipment with him across borders and disappear for weeks on end without anyone raising an eyebrow."
He turned to the phographs. "This close-up; the flat ears, bared teeth. Moran was well inside the animal's attack radius when he took this, but he wasn't hurt. He seeks out danger, but he also knows exactly what he's doing. A man like that is- was- perfect for Jim."
"Do you think he's Hubris?"
Sherlock was contemplating the photograph of the man again. "He's on my list of candidates." Right now it was a very short list indeed. "Shall we pay him a visit and find out?"
The white Georgian marble doorway had a single unlabeled doorbell. The neighbouring houses were all divided into flats. The price of a Nash townhouse at the edge of Regent's Park could run into tens of millions. If Moran owned this place he was extremely wealthy. If he rented it all he wasn't worth much less. Not wildlife photographer money.
He pushed the doorbell once, waited. Firm steps across a marbled hallway and the door opened.
"Sherlock Holmes. John Watson. Come in." The man was steady and unflustered. He'd been expecting them; the exhibition staff assistant, no doubt.
Sherlock followed Moran upstairs to a spacious living room. A large and handsomely marked cat sitting by the open fire froze, staring at him, then bolted under a sofa.
"She's not used to strangers."
Behind him John had stopped. "That's not a cat! Leopard?"
"Jaguar cub. She won't attack you, Doctor Watson and they are an endangered species, so I'd appreciate it if you would please take your hand away from that illegally held handgun."
"And have you a license for that illegally smuggled animal?" John retorted. "Or did the zoo just give it to you for services rendered?"
"Touche." Moran's smile was wide and unexpectedly good humoured. "Do sit down, both of you. Tea? Coffee?"
"I think not." Sherlock declined the gesture towards a richly upholstered armchair complete with claw marks, remained standing.
"Did you enjoy the exhibition?"
"It was enlightening." He glanced around. "Moriarty lived here." There were signs of his past presence everywhere, from the collection of books on astronomy and physics in the oak bookcase to the height of the pictures on the walls, set for a man much smaller than Moran's 6ft2.
Moran contemplated him from the doorway. "Come upstairs with me. Both of you."
They climbed two more flights of marbled stairs. Sherlock glanced back once, saw the animal slinking up behind them. An indoor swimming pool, with the glass roof panels closed to the sky. No smell of chlorine; possibly the cat didn't like it. A heap of black towels lay on one of the lounge chairs
"Bracing, I believe the term is." Moran started to undress. Naked, he dived gracefully into the pool, surfaced. "Do come in." His voice echoed around the tiled room.
"Please tell me what's going on, Sherlock?"
"He wants to talk to me, but not where there's a risk of being recorded." Sherlock folded coat and jacket neatly, started to unbutton his shirt. "I imagine he doesn't trust us at all. It's marginally more civil than simply demanding that we strip."
"I'd have to leave my gun. I don't think that's a good idea."
"I agree. Stay here, cover me. I'll talk to him." Sherlock unbuckled his belt.
"O. Kay." John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's bared crotch. "You look a bit vulnerable. Be careful."
"Of course. The jaguar is behind you, by the way."
John spun round, cursing under his breath, as the cat scampered past him and into the indoor greenery at the far end of the pool.
It had been a long time since Sherlock had gone swimming, if you discounted involuntary dips in the Thames. He lowered himself into the chilly water at the near edge. Moran was swimming in a fast crawl that Sherlock couldn't have matched even at the height of his physical fitness, eleven strokes to each short length and a fast underwater turn between them. Not bad for a man in his late 40s.
Impossible to meet naked and not compare, not be compared. If this had been Moran's other intention then Sherlock must take care not to misstep. Hubris was that sort of clever. Was this Hubris?
Moran came close to where he clung to the edge, turned, was off again. Sherlock counted four scars, none anywhere close to fatal. They were about equal, then. The jaguar cub had emerged just far enough to crouch at the water's edge, drinking. Cats didn't like water. He had no idea what jaguars liked and Wikipedia was out of reach.
It seemed that he was expected to swim as well. He contemplated refusing, out of principle, but that might seem to be an admission of inability. He had gone this far. He might as well swim. He launched himself off the edge in the meticulously accurate breaststroke that he'd been taught by Mycroft as a child, did three lengths and pulled up at the far end next to where Moran was talking to his pet. The cat hissed and retreated back into the pot plants. The man turned to him, unsmiling now.
"Why did you come?"
At the other end John was sitting straightbacked on a lounger, right hand in his pocket, on the gun.
"You've been interfering."
Moran shook his head, sharp. "Not me. I've kept strictly out of your way since he disappeared. I'm not his successor."
"You're living in his house."
Moran shrugged. "I was owed back pay. No-one argued. I live here. I do nothing else that would interest you."
"So you're just a photographer now? Is that what you claim?"
"I claim," blue eyes stony, "that I don't do anything that might appear on your radar, Mister Consulting Detective. I wasn't responsible for that Mastermind question that referred to Sebastian Moran, and I would very much like to know who was."
Dud he believe Moran? Sherlock wasn't yet sure.
"Did you take the body?"
"What body? He just disappeared on the day that you faked your suicide It took weeks before anyone dared even suggest that he was dead. Absolute chaos, there was."
"Someone must have taken it. It wasn't there when the police arrived."
"Not me. Not anyone who reported to me. Go hunting elsewhere, Holmes. And when you find whoever thinks it entertaining to bandy my name around in public- that name, not Ian Moran, photographer- do let me know."
Moran pulled himself out of the water. "It's been a pleasure to meet you at last, Sherlock. Now leave me alone. I may not be Jim Moriarty but I do have ways to protect myself. I'm sure you can let yourselves out." He towelled himself down with fast strokes, scooped up his clothes and walked out.
Sherlock eyed the twitching greenery and elected to swim back to the other end before getting out. He discouraged John from talking until they were outside.
"He didn't look too happy," John said as they headed off along the pavement in search of a cab.
"He's either a very good actor or a complete red herring. I believe the latter." Sherlock sighed. "Another false answer. But Hubris somehow knew about the body, and that it was taken before the police arrived. Back to Baker Street. I need to take stock."
to chapter 10
Author: Unsentimental Fool
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: (this part) PG
Word count: (this part 1,813)(total to date 11,174)
Summary: When Sherlock is invited onto a TV celebrity quiz show he has his own reasons for accepting. The competition, however, does not go at all as planned. Can he uncover the author of the unexpected questions and prevent the whole thing from turning into a humiliating PR disaster?
Summary; this chapter: Searching for Hubris, Sherlock meets another unconventional animal lover with an unexpected pet
back to part 1
Once thought to have been extinct for 65 million years, the coalacanth had been rediscovered in 1938. Sherlock skimmed the notes next to the exhibit with a complete lack of interest. Now if it had faked its demise for its own esoteric reasons, hidden itself deep within the ocean, only to re-emerge when its plans were complete, it might have had some call on his attention. But fish had no motives, no mysteries, no guile. It had simply gone unobserved.
"It's fascinating, isn't it?" The voice came from behind him but he'd already seen John's reflection in the glass.
"The proper study of mankind is man."
"There's a whole gallery on human evolution, you know. You could donate your brain to it. The first ever specimen of Homo superior."
Sherlock turned away from the long dead fish. "Sorry but I'm still using it."
"Probably just as well. Given what a hash you made of that question on Darwin they might have refused to take it. You do actually believe in evolution, don't you?"
"Belief in anything is inappropriate. If it becomes relevant to a case I'll consider the matter logically. I doubt that it ever will."
John gestured around at the huge gallery, the dinosaur bones looming over them. "All this, a world of the most incredible creatures and you really care only about humans?"
"Much less even than that. I care only about the very few interesting ones. We need the second floor." He swept his coat around him again and led the way.
"So what are we looking for here, then?"
"Sebastian Moran. The most elusive of Moriarty's henchmen. The only certain fact that I have discovered about him is that he shoots tigers."
They took the wide staircase, bizarre creatures looking down on them from the cases up by the high stone roof.
"I've been looking for him amongst the traders in animal parts from that region, wildlife smugglers, with no success. Last night it occurred to me that my certain fact might be capable of different interpretations."
There was a separate charge for the exhibition, and it was nearly empty in the Monday midmorning. Sherlock bought two tickets and the exhibition catalogue from a slightly star struck assistant but declined to provide her with his autograph. He leafed through the catalogue while John oohed at the pretty pictures.
"41 to 50. Over here."
The row of big cats gazed at them from the wall, yellow eyes huge and menacing. Sherlock gave them a cursory glance, turned to the notes on the wall, under the replicated and enlarged signature of the artist
"Ian Moran. Award winning wildlife photographer, known primarily for his studies of big carnivores." He grimaced, amused despite himself at the way he'd been misled. "As I said, he shoots tigers."
John studied the photograph on the wall of the lean, weathered man with the camera around his neck. "This is Moriarty's man? Are you sure?"
"I am now. Look at the signature up there. Moran flows naturally, but Ian is a little angular. It's not the forename he was brought up with. That scar on his face is from bullet shrapnel, not an animal. He's carrying a handgun; the shape there, under his shirt, but it's too small to be any use against something the size of a tiger."
"It's a bizarre cover."
"It's useful. Turn up anywhere in the world without need for further explanation, charter planes, hire the locals. He can carry complex equipment with him across borders and disappear for weeks on end without anyone raising an eyebrow."
He turned to the phographs. "This close-up; the flat ears, bared teeth. Moran was well inside the animal's attack radius when he took this, but he wasn't hurt. He seeks out danger, but he also knows exactly what he's doing. A man like that is- was- perfect for Jim."
"Do you think he's Hubris?"
Sherlock was contemplating the photograph of the man again. "He's on my list of candidates." Right now it was a very short list indeed. "Shall we pay him a visit and find out?"
The white Georgian marble doorway had a single unlabeled doorbell. The neighbouring houses were all divided into flats. The price of a Nash townhouse at the edge of Regent's Park could run into tens of millions. If Moran owned this place he was extremely wealthy. If he rented it all he wasn't worth much less. Not wildlife photographer money.
He pushed the doorbell once, waited. Firm steps across a marbled hallway and the door opened.
"Sherlock Holmes. John Watson. Come in." The man was steady and unflustered. He'd been expecting them; the exhibition staff assistant, no doubt.
Sherlock followed Moran upstairs to a spacious living room. A large and handsomely marked cat sitting by the open fire froze, staring at him, then bolted under a sofa.
"She's not used to strangers."
Behind him John had stopped. "That's not a cat! Leopard?"
"Jaguar cub. She won't attack you, Doctor Watson and they are an endangered species, so I'd appreciate it if you would please take your hand away from that illegally held handgun."
"And have you a license for that illegally smuggled animal?" John retorted. "Or did the zoo just give it to you for services rendered?"
"Touche." Moran's smile was wide and unexpectedly good humoured. "Do sit down, both of you. Tea? Coffee?"
"I think not." Sherlock declined the gesture towards a richly upholstered armchair complete with claw marks, remained standing.
"Did you enjoy the exhibition?"
"It was enlightening." He glanced around. "Moriarty lived here." There were signs of his past presence everywhere, from the collection of books on astronomy and physics in the oak bookcase to the height of the pictures on the walls, set for a man much smaller than Moran's 6ft2.
Moran contemplated him from the doorway. "Come upstairs with me. Both of you."
They climbed two more flights of marbled stairs. Sherlock glanced back once, saw the animal slinking up behind them. An indoor swimming pool, with the glass roof panels closed to the sky. No smell of chlorine; possibly the cat didn't like it. A heap of black towels lay on one of the lounge chairs
"Bracing, I believe the term is." Moran started to undress. Naked, he dived gracefully into the pool, surfaced. "Do come in." His voice echoed around the tiled room.
"Please tell me what's going on, Sherlock?"
"He wants to talk to me, but not where there's a risk of being recorded." Sherlock folded coat and jacket neatly, started to unbutton his shirt. "I imagine he doesn't trust us at all. It's marginally more civil than simply demanding that we strip."
"I'd have to leave my gun. I don't think that's a good idea."
"I agree. Stay here, cover me. I'll talk to him." Sherlock unbuckled his belt.
"O. Kay." John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's bared crotch. "You look a bit vulnerable. Be careful."
"Of course. The jaguar is behind you, by the way."
John spun round, cursing under his breath, as the cat scampered past him and into the indoor greenery at the far end of the pool.
It had been a long time since Sherlock had gone swimming, if you discounted involuntary dips in the Thames. He lowered himself into the chilly water at the near edge. Moran was swimming in a fast crawl that Sherlock couldn't have matched even at the height of his physical fitness, eleven strokes to each short length and a fast underwater turn between them. Not bad for a man in his late 40s.
Impossible to meet naked and not compare, not be compared. If this had been Moran's other intention then Sherlock must take care not to misstep. Hubris was that sort of clever. Was this Hubris?
Moran came close to where he clung to the edge, turned, was off again. Sherlock counted four scars, none anywhere close to fatal. They were about equal, then. The jaguar cub had emerged just far enough to crouch at the water's edge, drinking. Cats didn't like water. He had no idea what jaguars liked and Wikipedia was out of reach.
It seemed that he was expected to swim as well. He contemplated refusing, out of principle, but that might seem to be an admission of inability. He had gone this far. He might as well swim. He launched himself off the edge in the meticulously accurate breaststroke that he'd been taught by Mycroft as a child, did three lengths and pulled up at the far end next to where Moran was talking to his pet. The cat hissed and retreated back into the pot plants. The man turned to him, unsmiling now.
"Why did you come?"
At the other end John was sitting straightbacked on a lounger, right hand in his pocket, on the gun.
"You've been interfering."
Moran shook his head, sharp. "Not me. I've kept strictly out of your way since he disappeared. I'm not his successor."
"You're living in his house."
Moran shrugged. "I was owed back pay. No-one argued. I live here. I do nothing else that would interest you."
"So you're just a photographer now? Is that what you claim?"
"I claim," blue eyes stony, "that I don't do anything that might appear on your radar, Mister Consulting Detective. I wasn't responsible for that Mastermind question that referred to Sebastian Moran, and I would very much like to know who was."
Dud he believe Moran? Sherlock wasn't yet sure.
"Did you take the body?"
"What body? He just disappeared on the day that you faked your suicide It took weeks before anyone dared even suggest that he was dead. Absolute chaos, there was."
"Someone must have taken it. It wasn't there when the police arrived."
"Not me. Not anyone who reported to me. Go hunting elsewhere, Holmes. And when you find whoever thinks it entertaining to bandy my name around in public- that name, not Ian Moran, photographer- do let me know."
Moran pulled himself out of the water. "It's been a pleasure to meet you at last, Sherlock. Now leave me alone. I may not be Jim Moriarty but I do have ways to protect myself. I'm sure you can let yourselves out." He towelled himself down with fast strokes, scooped up his clothes and walked out.
Sherlock eyed the twitching greenery and elected to swim back to the other end before getting out. He discouraged John from talking until they were outside.
"He didn't look too happy," John said as they headed off along the pavement in search of a cab.
"He's either a very good actor or a complete red herring. I believe the latter." Sherlock sighed. "Another false answer. But Hubris somehow knew about the body, and that it was taken before the police arrived. Back to Baker Street. I need to take stock."
to chapter 10