Fic: So I'll Finish part 11/12
Title: So I'll Finish part 11/12(ish)
Author: Unsentimental Fool
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: (this part) PG
Word count: (this part 2,225)(total to date 17,534)
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: Sherlock shows his mettle as a detective at last, by finding a missing cat.
back to part 1
"Can you get a van with false plates here in five minutes?"
Moran's thumb flickered over his phone's keypad. A reply within seconds. "It's downstairs now."
He'd got men surrounding the house, of course. Moran acted like a solo player but he wasn't anything of the sort. Worth remembering.
"Let's go." Sherlock picked up his coat.
There were two burly men in the back of the white van. Armed, Sherlock noted. They were deferential to Moran, quietly watchful.
Sherlock had brought paper and pen to sketch a map. "We're going into the Zoo by the front gates. The van waits here, by this back gate, in fifteen minutes."
"She's in the bloody zoo? How the hell did she get in there?"
Sherlock didn't bother to reply. The journey to Regent's Park from Baker Street only took a few minutes and he had other instructions. "We'll have to buy tickets, I imagine, to get in, then then track down the curator for the big cats section. "
"Hell we will!" Moran tossed him a wallet. "My territory now. Dig out the membership pass in there. I know where we need to go. And Watson's staying in the van, just in case you get any ideas."
Wildlife photographer. Of course. "Don't ask questions," Sherlock warned. "Just get them to show us the cub."
Ian Moran and companion got them both past the gates. Moran steered them to a low office building and knocked on the door.
"Is Brendan in?"
The middle-aged man greeted him enthusiastically. "Ian! I didn't know you were back in the country. Come in! What can we do for you?"
"Hi, Brendan. This is Sherlock Holmes. We're after the jaguar cub."
"Sherlock Holmes! So it is! Just like off the telly! A pleasure, man. Yes, the cub. You're investigating where she came from, then? We'd love to know. She's through in the quarantine pen. Friendly little thing; hand reared, obviously."
He led them through to a set of cages away from the public view.Moran called "Moira" gently and the pile of yellow and black resolved itself into the young jaguar who bounded up to the wire and rubbed herself close against him. He buried his left hand in her fur, his right still close against the gun holster. She was chirruping at him enthusiastically.
"As you can see," Sherlock said to Brendan, "the jaguar belongs to Mr Moran. She was stolen from him, but he'll be taking her back now."
"Oh." The curator was temporarily wordless. Then "We weren't aware that Ian kept... We'll, that's good. Good. Of course we'll need a Home Office permit to move her, and we'll need to see your dangerous wild animal licence and import documentation, and confirm that the conditions she's moved to are suitable, but I'm sure that can all be arranged within a few days."
Moran gave Sherlock a long, level look. A great deal at stake, and for a moment Sherlock thought he might back down but after a couple of seconds he stood a little straighter, spoke to Brendan. "I'm a little short on documentation, I'm afraid. Will this do instead?" He drew the gun out of its holster, pointed it, steady handed, at the curator.
"Ian! What are you doing?"
"Taking my cub back. Open the cage."
The man appealed to Sherlock. "I can't!"
"He has a gun, and won't hesitate to use it. You have no alternative, I'm afraid." Sherlock dropped his voice to sound more reassuring. "The animal is tame. It is unlikely to hurt anyone before the police are able to retrieve it, and I'm sure Mr Moran will take good care of it. I can confirm that you are acting under compulsion. No-one will blame you."
Brendon took another look at Moran's hard eyes. "Ian. This is crazy. You're throwing away your career, everything, for a pet. You know you won't possibly be allowed to keep her."
"Get this cage open or I'll start shooting people. You first."
The cage was opened, and the small number of zoo employees who had happened to come past were locked inside with Brendan.
"You can carry her," Moran directed Sherlock.
He looked at the restless animal. It was going to shed hair. "Hardly my area of expertise."
"Just do it. Carefully. Or I'll shoot you and find a staff member to do it. I don't need you for anything but manual labour now, Holmes."
Reluctantly he hauled the animal up under its forelegs. A good fifteen kilos and it wasn't keen on the idea. "Can't it walk?"
"Not in a straight line. She's a cat and we're on a timetable here. Put a hand under her back legs for support." Sherlock did so and the animal stopped struggling.
There was a small office next to the back gate; Moran knocked on the door and got them to unlock it with a bit more gun waving. Sherlock dumped the animal in the back of the van and inspected his fairly minimal scratches as they pulled away fast.
"How did you know she was there?" Moran demanded, both hands now soothing the cub, the other gunmen covering them.
Sherlock tried without success to brush his trousers down. "Simple. What's Hubris done today? Abductions, yes, but what else?"
John spoke up. He sounded fairly calm for someone who'd had a gun pointed at him for hours without a break. "Tipped off the Irish police, and got the Met to arrest Riley."
"Exactly. He uses the police to do his dirty work, so when he needed a home for this jaguar cub he's picked up- Moira, interesting choice of name, by the way. I'm not surprised you tried to keep that quiet- he found it easiest to dump it on them. And standard police procedure in London with exotic wild animals is to take them to London Zoo to look after. Simple."
"So you still don't know who he is?"
"No. But I'll find him soon. Would you mind dropping us at Paddington?"
Moran gave the cub another rough stroke. "Police report will be out any time now. We'll change vehicles in a few minutes and I'll take you wherever you need to go. I've a score to settle with your Hubris. He's cost me fifteen years' cover and that's going to be bloody inconvenient."
"Absolutely not." Sherlock retorted. "There are a number of people's lives at stake here. I'm not bringing a man with guns and his own agenda into the middle of events."
"You haven't got a choice." Moran's voice lowered. "You're still a hostage, you and Watson both."
"And are you really going to kill John when I refuse to walk into a police station with you? With all the consequences that would have? Or kill me, and lose your chances at Hubris for good?" His voice was as persuasive as he could manage. "You know I'm the only one who can hunt the man down. I will not take you anywhere where you might kill Hubris before those kidnaps are safely resolved, regardless of your threats, Sebastian. That's a bottom line. You're a poker player. Recognise it."
He was bluffing. He'd let Hubris and all the hostages die- Sigur, the children, all of them-rather than risk John's life, but Moran had worked for Moriarty for years; that had to skew his judgement.
They watched each other for a tense few seconds, then Moran shook his head. "I've already got enough enemies to be going on with." He took the gun from its holster, tossed it to John. "Take that. I'll come unarmed and unaccompanied. But I will come."
"And the police alert?"
"You deal with it. Tell them you need me. It's true enough. If I get arrested then all hell will break loose, I promise you that, and when you catch up with Hubris you'll need allies."
John was silent still, both hands wrapped around the weapon that he'd spent long and helpless hours at the wrong end of. Moran was focussed only on Sherlock. People did that, Sherlock had noticed; used John and then forgot him, as if he were a mere adjunct to the detective.
John was unlikely to accept Moran as an ally, but he would do nothing to make things worse, not right now. Sherlock would rather have Moran with him and unarmed than following and in control of an unknown force. "Oxford, then. Three of us."
Sherlock's phone rang halfway up the M40. Lestrade.
"Have you found that bloody cat yet?"
"Yes."
"Good. You're done with that creepy client, then."
Moran, in the driving seat in front of Sherlock, twitched. It might have been a laugh.
"So you're flying over here?"
"No, I'm going to Oxford. What's happening in Dublin?"
Lestrade sighed. "Bloody mess, like all hostage situations. Best you can say is that no-one's dead yet. I've had the full briefing and while this Murtagh's a nasty son-of-a-bitch I'll be damned if I can see what he's got to do with Moriarty."
"He's got nothing at all to do with Moriarty. Have you got anywhere with the source of the police tip off?"
"Bloody hell, Sherlock! Sometimes you just.." He stopped, sighed. "All right. Yes. Though paramilitary activity's much reduced these days, the Real IRA still provide regular codewords to the police so they can prove their responsibility for stuff. The call to the police about Murtagh used one of the current words, so they presume it's an inside job. I could probably be a great deal more use if you told me what the hell's going on."
"Any news on Kitty Riley?"
"Yeah: she's not been abducted, just made a run for it. Seen getting into a car with her suitcase at five am and she left a note, all about how sorry she was that she'd been a show off, something like that."
Sherlock frowned. Remorse for showing off didn't sound like Kitty, not at all. "Whose car?"
"No idea. Could have been a private hire. She'll be picked up soon. She's not that smart."
John had been silent almost the whole journey. Now he nudged Sherlock's arm. "'Show off' could be 'hubris'" he muttered.
He was right. How had Sherlock missed it? "I want that note emailed to me immediately."
"Of course you do. I'll get it done. Now can I please have some explanation of what I'm doing in Dublin and you're about to do in Oxford, and what Riley's got to do with any of it? You might not have to worry about expense forms but I've got to justify the airfare somehow or it's coming straight out of my pay packet."
Sherlock was reluctant to admit to how little he knew, but he had stretched Lestrade's willingness to act without explanation to the limit.
"Everyone that I have questioned or looked into in connection with my recent investigations into the Moriarty questions has had a seriously bad day today. The person behind all this is identified only as Hubris. I believe he's making a point to me, but I don't know how far he's prepared to go to make it. Kitty could turn up dead at any moment. So could Sigur- my father. Murtagh's doubtless guilty and the hostage situation genuine but the timing- the push at the Gardia today- is all Hubris's."
"Christ. Your father. Oxford?"
"Yes."
"OK. I'll check if anyone's got anything on the name Hubris here, but after that I'm coming back. There's nothing else I can do as a visitor here, and someone needs to take charge of the Riley case. Elveden are mostly a bunch of accountants; they aren't up to abduction. Why the hell didn't you tell me all of this this morning instead of chasing bloody cats?"
"It was a particularly unusual cat, and its admittedly somewhat creepy owner had gone to the trouble of bringing a loaded gun with him, just to make sure I gave the case appropriate priority. When you've got a minute check the London Zoo police alert."
"Bloody hell! You're both OK?"
"Yes. Get me that note."
"Will do."
Sherlock flicked the phone off. "Show off. Hubris. Why didn't I make that connection?" It bothered him. "Tunnel vision. It was just a name to me. Why?"
John smiled, the first time since Moran had threatened him. "The name's an insult, Sherlock, He thinks you're an arrogant show-off. Of course you're not going to be thinking about that every time you hear the word."
The implication was clear. "But you are."
John hesitated. "It's not entirely fair, but it has a certain appropriateness.I guess I've been thinking about it so the connection was obvious. Your brother..." He trailed off.
"Called me an ungrateful little show-off. It's clearly a popular opinion."
Moran laughed out loud this time.
Had the Oxfordshire police reached Mycroft? He hadn't called. Maybe he was waiting for Sherlock to arrive. Hours late, and no-one had called him to ask why. Maybe Sigur had been found safe and well?
Sherlock did not go in for wishful thinking. He would find trouble in Oxford. The only consolation was that he was getting more information about Hubris's methods all the time; eventually there would have to be only one person who Hubris could be. He just hoped that this slow filter would work in time.
Author: Unsentimental Fool
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: (this part) PG
Word count: (this part 2,225)(total to date 17,534)
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: Sherlock shows his mettle as a detective at last, by finding a missing cat.
back to part 1
"Can you get a van with false plates here in five minutes?"
Moran's thumb flickered over his phone's keypad. A reply within seconds. "It's downstairs now."
He'd got men surrounding the house, of course. Moran acted like a solo player but he wasn't anything of the sort. Worth remembering.
"Let's go." Sherlock picked up his coat.
There were two burly men in the back of the white van. Armed, Sherlock noted. They were deferential to Moran, quietly watchful.
Sherlock had brought paper and pen to sketch a map. "We're going into the Zoo by the front gates. The van waits here, by this back gate, in fifteen minutes."
"She's in the bloody zoo? How the hell did she get in there?"
Sherlock didn't bother to reply. The journey to Regent's Park from Baker Street only took a few minutes and he had other instructions. "We'll have to buy tickets, I imagine, to get in, then then track down the curator for the big cats section. "
"Hell we will!" Moran tossed him a wallet. "My territory now. Dig out the membership pass in there. I know where we need to go. And Watson's staying in the van, just in case you get any ideas."
Wildlife photographer. Of course. "Don't ask questions," Sherlock warned. "Just get them to show us the cub."
Ian Moran and companion got them both past the gates. Moran steered them to a low office building and knocked on the door.
"Is Brendan in?"
The middle-aged man greeted him enthusiastically. "Ian! I didn't know you were back in the country. Come in! What can we do for you?"
"Hi, Brendan. This is Sherlock Holmes. We're after the jaguar cub."
"Sherlock Holmes! So it is! Just like off the telly! A pleasure, man. Yes, the cub. You're investigating where she came from, then? We'd love to know. She's through in the quarantine pen. Friendly little thing; hand reared, obviously."
He led them through to a set of cages away from the public view.Moran called "Moira" gently and the pile of yellow and black resolved itself into the young jaguar who bounded up to the wire and rubbed herself close against him. He buried his left hand in her fur, his right still close against the gun holster. She was chirruping at him enthusiastically.
"As you can see," Sherlock said to Brendan, "the jaguar belongs to Mr Moran. She was stolen from him, but he'll be taking her back now."
"Oh." The curator was temporarily wordless. Then "We weren't aware that Ian kept... We'll, that's good. Good. Of course we'll need a Home Office permit to move her, and we'll need to see your dangerous wild animal licence and import documentation, and confirm that the conditions she's moved to are suitable, but I'm sure that can all be arranged within a few days."
Moran gave Sherlock a long, level look. A great deal at stake, and for a moment Sherlock thought he might back down but after a couple of seconds he stood a little straighter, spoke to Brendan. "I'm a little short on documentation, I'm afraid. Will this do instead?" He drew the gun out of its holster, pointed it, steady handed, at the curator.
"Ian! What are you doing?"
"Taking my cub back. Open the cage."
The man appealed to Sherlock. "I can't!"
"He has a gun, and won't hesitate to use it. You have no alternative, I'm afraid." Sherlock dropped his voice to sound more reassuring. "The animal is tame. It is unlikely to hurt anyone before the police are able to retrieve it, and I'm sure Mr Moran will take good care of it. I can confirm that you are acting under compulsion. No-one will blame you."
Brendon took another look at Moran's hard eyes. "Ian. This is crazy. You're throwing away your career, everything, for a pet. You know you won't possibly be allowed to keep her."
"Get this cage open or I'll start shooting people. You first."
The cage was opened, and the small number of zoo employees who had happened to come past were locked inside with Brendan.
"You can carry her," Moran directed Sherlock.
He looked at the restless animal. It was going to shed hair. "Hardly my area of expertise."
"Just do it. Carefully. Or I'll shoot you and find a staff member to do it. I don't need you for anything but manual labour now, Holmes."
Reluctantly he hauled the animal up under its forelegs. A good fifteen kilos and it wasn't keen on the idea. "Can't it walk?"
"Not in a straight line. She's a cat and we're on a timetable here. Put a hand under her back legs for support." Sherlock did so and the animal stopped struggling.
There was a small office next to the back gate; Moran knocked on the door and got them to unlock it with a bit more gun waving. Sherlock dumped the animal in the back of the van and inspected his fairly minimal scratches as they pulled away fast.
"How did you know she was there?" Moran demanded, both hands now soothing the cub, the other gunmen covering them.
Sherlock tried without success to brush his trousers down. "Simple. What's Hubris done today? Abductions, yes, but what else?"
John spoke up. He sounded fairly calm for someone who'd had a gun pointed at him for hours without a break. "Tipped off the Irish police, and got the Met to arrest Riley."
"Exactly. He uses the police to do his dirty work, so when he needed a home for this jaguar cub he's picked up- Moira, interesting choice of name, by the way. I'm not surprised you tried to keep that quiet- he found it easiest to dump it on them. And standard police procedure in London with exotic wild animals is to take them to London Zoo to look after. Simple."
"So you still don't know who he is?"
"No. But I'll find him soon. Would you mind dropping us at Paddington?"
Moran gave the cub another rough stroke. "Police report will be out any time now. We'll change vehicles in a few minutes and I'll take you wherever you need to go. I've a score to settle with your Hubris. He's cost me fifteen years' cover and that's going to be bloody inconvenient."
"Absolutely not." Sherlock retorted. "There are a number of people's lives at stake here. I'm not bringing a man with guns and his own agenda into the middle of events."
"You haven't got a choice." Moran's voice lowered. "You're still a hostage, you and Watson both."
"And are you really going to kill John when I refuse to walk into a police station with you? With all the consequences that would have? Or kill me, and lose your chances at Hubris for good?" His voice was as persuasive as he could manage. "You know I'm the only one who can hunt the man down. I will not take you anywhere where you might kill Hubris before those kidnaps are safely resolved, regardless of your threats, Sebastian. That's a bottom line. You're a poker player. Recognise it."
He was bluffing. He'd let Hubris and all the hostages die- Sigur, the children, all of them-rather than risk John's life, but Moran had worked for Moriarty for years; that had to skew his judgement.
They watched each other for a tense few seconds, then Moran shook his head. "I've already got enough enemies to be going on with." He took the gun from its holster, tossed it to John. "Take that. I'll come unarmed and unaccompanied. But I will come."
"And the police alert?"
"You deal with it. Tell them you need me. It's true enough. If I get arrested then all hell will break loose, I promise you that, and when you catch up with Hubris you'll need allies."
John was silent still, both hands wrapped around the weapon that he'd spent long and helpless hours at the wrong end of. Moran was focussed only on Sherlock. People did that, Sherlock had noticed; used John and then forgot him, as if he were a mere adjunct to the detective.
John was unlikely to accept Moran as an ally, but he would do nothing to make things worse, not right now. Sherlock would rather have Moran with him and unarmed than following and in control of an unknown force. "Oxford, then. Three of us."
Sherlock's phone rang halfway up the M40. Lestrade.
"Have you found that bloody cat yet?"
"Yes."
"Good. You're done with that creepy client, then."
Moran, in the driving seat in front of Sherlock, twitched. It might have been a laugh.
"So you're flying over here?"
"No, I'm going to Oxford. What's happening in Dublin?"
Lestrade sighed. "Bloody mess, like all hostage situations. Best you can say is that no-one's dead yet. I've had the full briefing and while this Murtagh's a nasty son-of-a-bitch I'll be damned if I can see what he's got to do with Moriarty."
"He's got nothing at all to do with Moriarty. Have you got anywhere with the source of the police tip off?"
"Bloody hell, Sherlock! Sometimes you just.." He stopped, sighed. "All right. Yes. Though paramilitary activity's much reduced these days, the Real IRA still provide regular codewords to the police so they can prove their responsibility for stuff. The call to the police about Murtagh used one of the current words, so they presume it's an inside job. I could probably be a great deal more use if you told me what the hell's going on."
"Any news on Kitty Riley?"
"Yeah: she's not been abducted, just made a run for it. Seen getting into a car with her suitcase at five am and she left a note, all about how sorry she was that she'd been a show off, something like that."
Sherlock frowned. Remorse for showing off didn't sound like Kitty, not at all. "Whose car?"
"No idea. Could have been a private hire. She'll be picked up soon. She's not that smart."
John had been silent almost the whole journey. Now he nudged Sherlock's arm. "'Show off' could be 'hubris'" he muttered.
He was right. How had Sherlock missed it? "I want that note emailed to me immediately."
"Of course you do. I'll get it done. Now can I please have some explanation of what I'm doing in Dublin and you're about to do in Oxford, and what Riley's got to do with any of it? You might not have to worry about expense forms but I've got to justify the airfare somehow or it's coming straight out of my pay packet."
Sherlock was reluctant to admit to how little he knew, but he had stretched Lestrade's willingness to act without explanation to the limit.
"Everyone that I have questioned or looked into in connection with my recent investigations into the Moriarty questions has had a seriously bad day today. The person behind all this is identified only as Hubris. I believe he's making a point to me, but I don't know how far he's prepared to go to make it. Kitty could turn up dead at any moment. So could Sigur- my father. Murtagh's doubtless guilty and the hostage situation genuine but the timing- the push at the Gardia today- is all Hubris's."
"Christ. Your father. Oxford?"
"Yes."
"OK. I'll check if anyone's got anything on the name Hubris here, but after that I'm coming back. There's nothing else I can do as a visitor here, and someone needs to take charge of the Riley case. Elveden are mostly a bunch of accountants; they aren't up to abduction. Why the hell didn't you tell me all of this this morning instead of chasing bloody cats?"
"It was a particularly unusual cat, and its admittedly somewhat creepy owner had gone to the trouble of bringing a loaded gun with him, just to make sure I gave the case appropriate priority. When you've got a minute check the London Zoo police alert."
"Bloody hell! You're both OK?"
"Yes. Get me that note."
"Will do."
Sherlock flicked the phone off. "Show off. Hubris. Why didn't I make that connection?" It bothered him. "Tunnel vision. It was just a name to me. Why?"
John smiled, the first time since Moran had threatened him. "The name's an insult, Sherlock, He thinks you're an arrogant show-off. Of course you're not going to be thinking about that every time you hear the word."
The implication was clear. "But you are."
John hesitated. "It's not entirely fair, but it has a certain appropriateness.I guess I've been thinking about it so the connection was obvious. Your brother..." He trailed off.
"Called me an ungrateful little show-off. It's clearly a popular opinion."
Moran laughed out loud this time.
Had the Oxfordshire police reached Mycroft? He hadn't called. Maybe he was waiting for Sherlock to arrive. Hours late, and no-one had called him to ask why. Maybe Sigur had been found safe and well?
Sherlock did not go in for wishful thinking. He would find trouble in Oxford. The only consolation was that he was getting more information about Hubris's methods all the time; eventually there would have to be only one person who Hubris could be. He just hoped that this slow filter would work in time.