Fic: The Light That Shines Behind Your Eyes (JMxSH) NC-17, TW - Part 4
The Light That Shines Behind Your Eyes
By AnonyMouseHatesCaptcha
Rated: NC-17 (overall)
Spoilers: TRF
Pairings/Characters (overall): Moriarty/Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Sebastian Moran
Warnings: Non-con, violence, language.
Summary: Sequel to "Stop Crying Your Heart Out". Set after the fall. Moriarty is alive and he's determined to keep Sherlock closer than ever.
Link to the original prompt is here. Note that it is super triggery.
A/N - Hope this was worth the wait :) Please note that previous chapters have been slightly revised and edited for mistakes (by me).
Part 1: The Groundwork
Part 2: The Sleeper
Part 3: The House
Part 4: The Redefinition
The case in Dubai ended as well they expected. That is to say, it ended with the death of their client and a hasty retreat from the country's borders. The assassination of the influential client took place far from the city and its countless security cameras. By the time the bodies were discovered the three of them were long gone. The local police had nothing to connect the tourists from room #1460 to the crime scene.
The case the client hired them for was awfully tedious. The wealthy client requested their help in staging his own kidnapping. His family was instructed to quickly and quietly transfer the money to an untraceable foreign account or risk his untimely death. Quite unimaginative.
No, the interesting part came after.
Three years previously, Jim Moriarty became infamous in certain circles for the possession of a code that would allow him access to any system he desired. They ploy to make him come in person was just that, a ploy (with the added bonus of becoming slightly richer.) The client was itching to get his hands on the key that could open any safe, unlock any door. He was intelligent, yet obviously self confident enough to believe he could pull one up on Jim. The man was incredibly wealthy, after all. Rich men usually were self assured to the point of delusion.
Both Jim and Sherlock reached the same conclusion from the first video correspondence with the client. Jim chose to go along with the case anyway.
Sherlock waited exactly one hour after Jim left for his final (and only, at least as far as the client was aware) meeting with the client before he set chase.
It had taken Sherlock just under two hours to locate the kidnappers. He was enjoying the chase, despite himself. He was in a strange country with very few tools at his disposal; it was some sort of a record for him, he was sure.
Sherlock should have allowed Jim to die there. He had everything he needed in the form of one Sebastian Moran. Enough to spin the story in his favour. Yet, the notion of allowing Jim to perish to his own recklessness crossed Sherlock's mind just briefly before he dismissed it without a second thought.
Unseen, he studied the warehouse from a safe distance. Of course it would be a warehouse. What a cliché.
The infiltration was easy. He did not need to direct Moran to the best firing position; the sniper easily identified the most accessible spot where he would be able to launch his attack from afar, unseen. He paused only to look at Sherlock in real concern, but nodded in assent at Sherlock's sharp look.
Sherlock waited until Moran started firing before he walked over to enter the warehouse through the main gate. Not one of the guards patrolling the perimeter noticed him; they were too busy ducking for cover. Sebastian had a talent for distractions. Sherlock slithered through the maze of shelves, avoiding the men who rushed outside to assist in the gunfight. The place was obviously a storage space of some kind. It was quite easy to find ways to conceal himself as he made his way closer to where they were holding Jim. It was almost as if they were trying to make this simple for him.
A few shots were fired back at Sebastian. They must have found his hiding place. The sniper stopped firing. The kidnappers obviously thought it was a good sign. So did Sherlock. He came closer to the backroom occupied by Jim and his former client.
"You should have brought more backup," The man said smugly, entirely too self confident.
"I have," Jim said happily. The man didn't have time to react before a fist hit the back of his head, and he crumbled to the floor, his gun wretched from his grip.
"Hi honey!" Jim said sweetly.
"Having fun?" Sherlock asked. He could hear the gunfire resuming outside. At least somebody was obviously enjoying himself.
"Loads," Jim drawled. He had been smacked around, Sherlock could see, yet his impression of a damsel in distress was terribly lacking. He was brimming with energy; grabbing Sherlock by the waist to twirl around with him as soon as he was released from his restrains. The smell of gunpowder stood in the air and Jim laughed in delight.
"My hero," He crooned, holding Sherlock close.
Sherlock couldn't quite grasp the point for their little adventure, as hard as he tried. Jim's actions at times were a complete mystery to him, no matter how long he'd known the man. It irritated Sherlock to no bounds.
"Did you find what you were looking for?" Sherlock asked against Jim's brow.
Jim stopped spinning, and held Sherlock loosely. He stared at Sherlock long and hard, the look on his face happy yet intense.
"Oh yes," He said.
Jim took the gun from Sherlock's hand and turned to look at his untrustworthy client, unconscious on the floor. Jim's other hand lingered at the small of Sherlock's back.
"Now, what shall we do with this?"
XXX
John Watson made his way up to Baker's Street. The weather was nice that day, and he left the Tube one station early on an impulse. He could really use the walk; he was spending more time sitting down than not, these days.
He wasn't sure what brought him back to Baker's Street so soon. He'd been thinking about the break in Mrs. Hudson told him about in his last visit, only a few days before. He probably should have called ahead to tell Mrs. Hudson he was coming, he thought, when he rang the doorbell and no reply came.
Instead of turning around, he fished in his pocket for his keys.
"Mrs. Hudson?" he called, knocking on her door. No answer. He tried her mobile and learned belatedly that she was out visiting her sister on the other side of London. He assured her that she didn't need to rush back, and that he will come visit her again very soon.
He turned to leave, but stopped before reaching the front door. He thought that maybe he should take another look around the flat. He still had a key to 221B after all this time. He tried to return it, but Mrs. Hudson shook her head and turned him down firmly. She said she wasn't planning on renting out the flat to anyone else any time soon, and that he was welcome to come back anytime he pleased. That was when he learned that Mycroft decided to keep the place as it was. The older Holmes brother arranged for the rent to be paid, and the flat to be kept clean and tidy. The way it never was when Sherlock was alive.
Mycroft Holmes. John couldn't hold back the twinge of anger he still felt at the thought of that name. During the years the cold fury he experienced at the mere thought of the other man had dulled considerably, but probably nothing would ever bring the resentment to rest completely. Not after fighting all this time to stop Sherlock's name from being dragged through the mud even after his death, knowing that the elder Holmes could have done something, anything, to prevent it, but elected to do nothing.
John had only seen Mycroft once after the funeral. It was only a week after he moved out of Baker's street in a hurry. He returned to the flat, after much delaying, to collect what few possessions he had. He found Mycroft there, sitting in Sherlock's armchair, his hands steepled under his chin. He didn't notice John standing there, seemingly too far lost in his own mind. John had to cough loudly to alert Mycroft to his present. It was uncanny, the other man always seemed to notice everything and everyone around him, but he seemed startled when he saw John standing there. He regained his composure quickly, and stood up to greet John, collecting his umbrella on his way up.
He remembered the short conversation he had with Sherlock's brother, right until the point Mycroft told him it was best to forget and move on. What happened next was mostly a blur to John, he couldn't remember if the angry tears had been what blurred his vision, or just blind rage, but the next moment Mycroft was clutching his bloody nose. It was the last he'd seen or heard of the man.
He tried contacting him again. Swallowed his pride and called, but no one ever picked up his calls. He came by in person, both to Mycroft's precious club and to his office, only to be dragged out from the former and be told in the latter that no one by that name worked there. John gave up in disgust. The man obviously didn't care about his brother's reputation, opting to hide away in his shame for bringing this whole mess on him in the first place.
John never once doubted Sherlock's innocence. Not when the police cited "new evidence" but very little else besides that every time he asked about the ongoing investigations (and that was all Lestrade knew, too. He was kept in the dark about everything that had to do with Sherlock.) John never started doubting even when verdicts were appealed and even overturned; criminals Sherlock helped put away returning to the streets once more.
John knew Sherlock. He never once believed the man was a fake.
As it turned out, John wasn't the only one.
It started, as all of it did, with John's blog. John was surprised by the onslaught of comments, emails, even phone calls he received from people he never even heard of. All of them giving their condolences, and saying that they did not believe for one second that Sherlock was a fake.
Sherlock helped countless people over the years. All of it done in his usual charming manner, no doubt, but help he did, and often without pay.
The first real push however, came from an American doctor John heard Sherlock mention in passing a few times. The man, who apparently worked as specialist for the FBI on high profile murder investigations, contacted John by email one day.
The FBI agent attached a file holding just under 12 minutes of recorded video correspondence between himself and a bedraggled Sherlock. Sherlock listened briefly to what the man had to say, then proceeded to tear the case wide open, sprouting a stream of deductions lifted from the few details the man showed him, casually insulting the doctor all the while, never pausing for breathe. John was shaking when the video ended, not with grief but with laughter for the first time in weeks. He asked the doctor for permission to share the video online.
The next day, John posted the video to his blog. The thing went viral in the blink of an eye. Sherlock's clever remarks on the video became catch phrases, and the video was reposted countless of times to YouTube, each new post sporting a brand new edit that John was sure Sherlock would not have appreciated.
Apparently the FBI agent who sent him the video was reprimanded for the leak, but as he told John after, it was the least he could do. He too, believed in Sherlock.
The video opened the door for many others, not all of them had videos as proof of the man's genius, but they shared their experiences online and offline. Graffiti in Sherlock's support began to pop up all over London, and the world, if the pictures sent to him were unedited. Protests were made in front of Scotland Yard by people sporting Guy Fawks masks and deerstalkers, carrying signs adorned with sarcastic messages. An indie documentary of The Movement (as people began to call it) was made by four aspiring film students. It was the first time John ever agreed to be interviewed.
For the most part, John wasn't really involved in the actual movement. It seemed like the whole thing blew up on its own. John was never a social crusader, or believed in grand gestures. But those who fought to clear Sherlock's name seemed to have declared John as their leader. John couldn't think of a better way to prove his friend's authenticity than continuing to write up their adventures. It was his own proof, and he wanted to share it.
All the while, the police investigation continued. It was kept extremely hush -hush, but what little John could perceive wasn't good. John was convinced Moriarty continued to try and pin more blame on Sherlock. The movement had quieted down considerably after two years, only to spark back to life by Moriarty's appearance on the BBC. Moriarty was long gone by the time John reached the studio. That was when John made another attempt to contact Mycroft, but to no avail
John was convinced he was behind the break-in too. Three years down the line and the criminal mastermind was still by-and-large. John was sure of it. But what was he after? Why would he arrange for someone to break into their flat now?
Whoever he had breaking in was obviously a professional. The place looked tidy and clean as always, now that Sherlock wasn't around to mess it up. The only reason Mrs. Hudson knew someone had broken in was because she woke up in the middle of the night, and was convinced she could hear footsteps upstairs. She alerted the police, but no one was there when they arrived, and they dismissed her fears as paranoia, as nothing was taken, not even the priceless violin sitting untouched on its stand.
John wished she'd told him before, but she said she didn't want to bother him, not when the police themselves said there was nothing to worry about.
Still, John thought to himself, it wouldn't hurt to take a closer look, find out if anything at all was stolen. If anything was taken, it might give him some clue as to what the hell Moriarty wanted.
John climbed the stairs to the flat, and palmed the door open. It was strange, being there alone after all that time. Three years ago John couldn't bear the thought of staying there on his own. It was too damn quiet, and it hurt too much. He still felt a pang of wistfulness, being there, but it was easier as time went by.
He set to work, going over Sherlock's possessions carefully, trying not to disturb his dead friend's property too much. It felt odd going through his things, but he stiffened his upper lip and tried to think back, to see if he remembered if anything seemed especially out of place or missing.
He gave up after less than an hour of searching. It was hopeless. How could he find something if he didn't know what he was looking for in the first place?
John returned a box to its place on the bookcase and stood back. He wondered…The door to Sherlock's bedroom was slightly ajar, he didn't remember it being open the last time he's been there, and he couldn't think of why anyone would want to go into Sherlock's bedroom. He stepped inside, carefully observing his surroundings. Perhaps he'd have better luck there. He looked around the room, and then paused when he glanced over the dresser.
There used to be a framed photograph hanging on the wall. The place was strangely vacant now. John stepped closed, noted the nail sticking from the plaster. Yes, definitely should have been a photograph there. One he'd teased Sherlock about once, he recalled.
The photo John remembered featured Sherlock and Mycroft together as children, sitting alongside their mother. She had a kind smile. The red tinged picture made even Sherlock look redheaded; he looked small and grumpy and rather adorable. It was the only family photo John remembered Sherlock of having. Why would anyone take it?
John considered Mycroft, but Mrs. Hudson would have told him at least if the older Holmes brother was dropping by for visits. She knew he tried getting in contact with the man more than once. And Mycroft wouldn't sneak in there in the middle of the night just to take one family picture. He didn't have to but even if he did, he wasn't one prone to sentiment.
John had an idea, and set out to test his hypothesis.
Sherlock was a notorious pack rat. He saved random items and documents over the years, refusing to throw away anything he deemed even mildly important, yet was too lazy to ever put it in proper order. It was the cause of many rows between the two of them, as Sherlock wouldn't let John move any of his things either. Yet, as far as John looked, he came to realise certain documents definitely seemed to be missing. Sherlock wasn't the sort to keep bank statements or bills, even he wasn't that bad. But other documents, like hospital records, documents relating to his family, papers from his school days, none of those things could be found. In fact, he could not find a single official document listing Sherlock's name. Random items were missing too, like the silly frayed pirate hat Sherlock had, though it was far too small for his head. He couldn't find Sherlock's passport in its usual place in the drawer. It was as if all records of Sherlock Holmes having been an actual human being, with a real history, were sponged. All that was left of him was the eccentric detective.
What that could possibly signify, John had no idea.
XXX
Their next stop would be London. For all they've travelled, Sherlock hadn't set foot there once in three years. He was rather convinced that had been intentional. Perhaps Jim thought Sherlock would run off after all if he were to confront the city he considered home, his friends' fates be damned. He shouldn't have worried.
Speaking of his friends, Jim hadn't brought that threat up in months. Perhaps he thought he had Sherlock trained well enough he wouldn't need to anymore. Perhaps that was the reason for the whole Dubai mishap, to see how fast Sherlock would run if he called. Given their current destination Sherlock assumed Jim found the result of his experiment quite satisfactory.
They were back at the cottage for the time being. Sherlock had recently showered, and was standing dressed only in his trousers at the foot of the bed. His hair was newly curling after the shower, dripping still. An open suitcase was laid on the bed; Sherlock was busy packing his clothes for the trip. If everything went as planned he won't be coming back to this place anymore. If everything went to plan, he was going to burn these clothes.
He glanced up at the closet hanger, where his coat had been resting nigh untouched for what seemed like forever. He hardly wore it anymore, but now he felt the need to take it with him. He picked it off the hanger, ran his fingers over the dark wool. It was stripped off of him three years ago, when he was brought as a prisoner to this very house. Jim returned it to him several days later, intended as a 'pick me up' gift. He was very good at those. It was dry-cleaned and achingly familiar, his scarf hung from its collar. Sherlock refused to touch it at the time.
The sound of footsteps broke his concentration and he threw the heavy coat on the bed, set to resuming his task. He heard Jim's steps stop at the doorway. Sherlock wondered at his mood. They came and went so quickly, although Sherlock came to categorise each and every one of them.
"What is going on between you and Sebastian?" Jim asked.
Sherlock paused, and glanced over at Jim questioningly, "What?" He said. Jim couldn't possibly know.
The man drew closer to Sherlock, who could read the nuances of his emotions in his face. At least it answered that question. Sherlock hoped he wasn't about to complicate things. He needed Sebastian still.
"You haven't fought in days," Jim murmured quietly enough that Sherlock had to strain his ears to catch his words. "Did something happen in Dubai?" a horribly insincere smile crossed his face briefly. "You can tell me. I won't be mad."
"We're having an affair, obviously," Sherlock said in a mocking tone before returning to his suitcase. He straightened slowly when the thing was flung off the bed. He sighed. Jim spun him around by his arm to face him.
"Sherlock," Jim said warningly.
"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock said, exasperated.
Jim hadn't looked appeased, but something caught his eye. He leaned against Sherlock to reach for the bed, grasping the coat in his hands.
"Oh," Jim said, drawing out the word. "What's this then?"
Stupid. Sherlock mentally berated. Of all the novice mistakes...
He carefully schooled his face into an expression of confusion. "I'm not sure what you mean?"
Jim obviously did not buy it, "You haven't worn this old thing in ages. What's changed?"
"It's a coat. It assists in preserving one's body heat."
"It's June - not exactly the cold season." Jim's face broke into a cheery grin. "Although if it's body heat you're after…" he tossed the coat aside and moved to press himself against Sherlock, running his hands liberally over his body.
"Must you turn everything into innuendo?" Sherlock snapped out in annoyance.
"Only when it comes to you, my dear."
"That's patently untrue."
"Jealous?" Jim breathed in his ear.
Sherlock shook off his embrace; face turned away, "Hardly."
Jim allowed him to back away for once. Sherlock could see him from the corner of his eyes, the slow, slow smile and tilted head, observing Sherlock closely.
A hand reached to turn Sherlock's head back to face him. It proceeded to cup the back of his neck and stayed there.
"Sebastian won't be coming to London with us," Jim said.
That was very interesting. "Oh, changed your mind again?" Sherlock asked.
"Would you like me to change it back?" Jim answered with a smile.
"I couldn't care less."
"Yes, you could," Jim said tightly, though he was still smiling. "Why is that, Sherlock?"
"You're being paranoid."
"Am I," Not a question.
"Yes," Sherlock intoned. He wrapped his hand around Jim's wrist. "Let go."
"Why, aren't you feisty today," Jim stated, tongue twisting. He removed his hand, only to lash out suddenly, shoving Sherlock back onto the bed.
Sherlock glared at him, sitting up.
Jim smiled cheekily, and began to tug off his own clothes. Sherlock lay back down with a sigh and closed his eyes. It was just as well; he couldn't afford to seem too restless that day, there was too much at stake. Soon enough he felt the other man crawling on top of him until their faces were levelled. He felt his breath on his face.
"Look at me," Jim said.
Sherlock's eyes blinked open. They locked gazes.
"Sherlock," Jim said softly, fingers ghosting on the side of his face. "I love you." He murmured and Sherlock's body stiffened despite himself. Jim smiled and leaned forward to touch his lips to Sherlock's face, leaving small caressing kisses.
"No, you don't," Sherlock said softly.
Jim pulled back, screwing up his face in annoyance. "Hello, having a moment here?" He growled. He sighed deeply when Sherlock didn't reply, and shuffled off of him, kneeling on the bed by his legs. He unzipped Sherlock's trousers and set to undress him completely. He then reached the bedside table for the lube, seemingly forsaking all thoughts of foreplay. He moved to kneel between Sherlock legs.
"I wasn't lying," Jim said as an afterthought.
"You're deluding yourself," Sherlock continued as if Jim hadn't spoken, "This isn't love."
"Oh, sweetie," Jim said in mock concern, twisting his fingers inside of him, "Am I not paying you enough attention?"
"If I said 'stop', right now, would you?" Sherlock asked quietly, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"I don't think you really want me to."
Sherlock laughed without humour, "That shouldn't - that doesn't matter!"
"You're right. It doesn't matter," Jim wriggled his fingers free, and brought their faces together.
He spoke quietly, staring intently at the man below him, "It matters to ordinary people, or at least they'll pretend it does. Their boring lives are dictated constantly by rights and wrongs and silly little moral convictions. Don't you see? We're different, Sherlock," He kissed Sherlock's mouth, sweet and unhurried. "We're better. You and me, we're the same, can't you understand?" He sighed, as if Sherlock was disappointing him, "I work so hard to show you."
Jim leaned down; kissing a scar on Sherlock's chest that was the exact shape of his teeth, "The difference between us," He said and then paused, rising back up and lifting Sherlock's legs to his shoulders. He kissed one of Sherlock's calves and leaned forward, punctuating his next words with his actions, "Is that I'm not afraid to take what I want."
"And I'll always want you, my love," He said between thrusts, panting slightly, "Always. You're mine, never forget that."
XXX
They arrived in London late that night, escorted by two of Jim's lackeys with more muscle than sense. They were handpicked by Sherlock himself, Jim trusting him with liberties these days more than ever.
The night's outcome all depended on Moran now. Jim ordered him not to come, not long after Sherlock spoke to him in private for the last time. He hoped Sebastian would draw the desired conclusion.
Their last conversation happened shortly before their return to the country, Sherlock taking advantage of a brief moment of privacy to exchange a few last words with the sniper.
"I'm beginning to tire of having a mouthpiece, Sebastian," Sherlock told him quietly, adopting the same barely felt Irish accent he used in their earlier conversation. The man listened intently, hanging on to his every word.
"Especially when that mouthpiece has been talking a little too much, if you catch my drift," Sherlock continued.
Sebastian's eyes widened, "You don't think…"
"Oh, I'm sure of it. The information could only be coming from one place."
Sebastian watched him, contemplative, "It makes sense, what with all of those failed operations lately. Jesus." He muttered. "I knew I couldn't have missed that target. Who has he been talking to?"
"Whoever pays the most, I'm sure." Sherlock smiled and said, "I'll be requiring your assistance again very soon. And Sebastian?"
"Yes?"
"Stay on your guard," He told him then.
Sherlock watched the city unfold behind the dark tinted windows of their vehicle, perhaps hoping to catch a familiar face among the city's pedestrians. Jim had been watching him like a hawk ever since they've entered the city.
They were en route to meet with some of Jim's associates. The agenda for tonight was the set up of a new drug smuggling route, their clients being a well known English crime family. The were the kind of people everyone knew to steer clear from, the sort of criminals you'd hear mentioned constantly in the news but never saw on any most wanted list. No charges ever seemed to stick against them.
Their meeting place was a seedy little club in one of the worst possible parts of the city. Sherlock knew it well. There will only be a handful of people allowed into the place that night, Jim only dealt with a select few in person. Sherlock saw the waiting line for the club stretching on the pavement as their car curved behind the building, all set to enter through the backdoor and away from any CCTV camera, if those were ever left intact in that neighbourhood.
A heavy set guard set to pet them down at the entrance, and Jim glowered at his presumption. Jim's own escorts walked up beside him, dwarfing him in comparison. The effect however was greatly diminished when they backed down immediately with the snap of Jim's fingers, cowering instantly. "Boys." Jim said in a warning, "Play nicely." He then broke out in a wide grin, eyeing the guard like a new chew toy. The man looked uncertain then, and a little bit unnerved. Jim had that effect on people.
"What do you think?" He turned to Sherlock suddenly.
"Divorced twice, no children. Lives with his mother, by choice, she has a bad heart. Recently quit drinking. Three separate prison sentences in the last ten years for assault and battery charges. Left shoe says still on parole. Has a cat," Pause, "Two cats."
Jim huffed in despair, and brushed past the gaping guard, "Boooring."
"You asked."
They met the club owner on the dance floor. The place was deserted from any patrons, although one couldn't tell judging by the loud music playing as if the room was packed. The owner was wearing an expensive yet utterly tasteless white suit. It looked as if tonight they were entering the den of stereotypes. Jim pulled a face at Sherlock. Apparently they were thinking the same thing.
"'Welcome!" The man yelled cheerfully over the music, shaking each of their hands with enthusiasm. He held a drink in his left hand, and gestured toward the bar, "Anything you want!" He shouted, "On the house!"
Jim rubbed his ear pointedly, then pulled out a handgun, and aimed it at the D.J. station. Immediately the music shut off.
"Thanks!" He said in a sing song voice, and tucked the weapon back in its holster under his jacket.
"Ah! Our guests are here!" Three men came out of the back room, greeting them like old friends. Sherlock recognised the one who spoke from various encrypted video conferences over the years, although they've never met in person. The men were all obviously related; even if he hadn't known who they were he could tell from their similar receding hairlines and familiar body language that the three men were brothers.
Like all of Jim's close associates, they recognised them both from the extensive media coverage they received during the "Trial of the Century", three years prior. They side eyed Sherlock in curiosity, but elected to say nothing. A common reaction. Very few ever made enquiries, and none of the ones who had lived very long. In fact, most of the people who met them in person, the unimportant ones, wound up dead mysteriously or simply vanished without a trace.
Like that unfortunate guard posted by the backdoor, Jim was probably already making plans for him. That one hadn't recognised Sherlock, though Jim tried so hard to refresh his memory. Not that it made much of a difference.
Sherlock glanced around the room superstitiously. Moran was already there, he noted, pleased. He wasn't completely sure the man would follow through.
None of the others noticed his presence yet, nor the presence of the other snipers, at least two that Sherlock could see. Of course, Sherlock knew what to look for. A two story building, thick brick walls and numerous locations where one could observe the dark room from above without being seen, perfect hiding place for a sniper. Sherlock would have to congratulate Moran later, and take a look around the place himself. He simply must find out how the snipers got in unseen.
"Shall we proceed?" Sherlock interrupted the group, their alpha-male dance shrouded in faux friendliness was grating on his nerves, and besides, it was time.
"Yes of course," One of the brothers said, turning toward the backroom. "Follow me."
"Yes," Sherlock said and then flattened a hand against Jim's chest, pushing him back roughly, "Not you."
The man spluttered in surprise and grabbed at Sherlock's arm, removing it from his chest, "And why is that, my darling?" He growled, dark eyes narrowing in anger.
Sherlock smirked. "This has gone on long enough," He said, loud enough for their audience to hear, "Wouldn't you agree, Richard?"
Jim blinked. "What?" he said, his expression darkening as realisation struck, "Oh? Oh!" He said, laughing, "Do you really expect that to work?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and walked over to the bar, bending over it to reach for a glass and a bottle of whiskey. He poured the drink before leaning back against the bar. Amused, he saluted someone unseen.
Instantly, a multitude of red laser points appeared, covering everyone in the room besides Sherlock. One of the dots stopped at Jim's forehead, dancing on his pale skin. The gangsters cursed loudly.
"What the fuck is going on?" One of the brothers cried out in anger. Another reached for his own weapon, although who he was planning on shooting wasn't clear.
Jim's eyes widened slightly. He looked down at himself, saw the dancing red dots.
"Seb?" Jim murmured.
"Don't worry," Sherlock assured the gangsters offhandedly, "They're not really here for you," Immediately all the dots moved to point at Jim, covering him from head to toe, "Did you really think you could cross me, Richard?" Sherlock asked with a note of amusement in his voice. His voice held a slight Irish drawl to it, barely noticeable but present nevertheless.
"What the hell is this?" One of the gangsters intoned loudly.
"House cleaning!" Sherlock announced and threw back his drink, drowning it in a single move. He set it back on the bar with a loud 'thunk'.
Jim gaped at Sherlock, his eyes wide. He was right; Sherlock did cherish the look of surprise on his face. Then a huge smile morphed his expression into glee. He made a move to walk toward Sherlock, but the other made no attempt to budge, he didn't have to. He had people to do it for him.
Jim was grabbed before he managed to take a single step toward Sherlock; his arms were wrenched behind him by the two escorts they brought along. His face never lost its joyful expression, as he stared at Sherlock in wonder.
"Touché, my love," Jim said quietly.
Sherlock's mild expression never faltered. He approached the other man and reached into his inner suit jacket's pocket, pulled out his mobile phone and handgun and tucked them both into his own pockets.
"Get him out of my sight," He told the escorts, "Take him to this address," He said, jolting down something on a piece of paper and slipping it into Jim's pocket. "I'll deal with him later."
He paused, contemplative. "I do hope I'm making myself clear, Mr. Brook. You're fired."
He turned back to the gangsters as Jim was pulled away. "Now gentleman!" he said, coat flapping around him as he spun to face the group of men staring at him suspiciously. He smiled briefly and pulled out Jim's phone, one of the gangsters twitched in alarm at the movement. He looked down at the mobile phone, unlocking it without hesitation.
He spoke again, not bothering to look up at his audience. "Shall we discuss business?"
"Who the hell are you?" One of them asked.
"James Moriarty," He said, drawling out the name. "Pleasure to formally make your acquaintance," He looked up and smiled crookedly, twirling the phone in the air once before pushing it into his coat pocket in a flourish.
XXX
It's done. Your move.
SH
[Msg. Received Wed. 23:35]
Welcome back.
MH
[Msg. Sent Wed. 23:39]
By AnonyMouseHatesCaptcha
Rated: NC-17 (overall)
Spoilers: TRF
Pairings/Characters (overall): Moriarty/Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Sebastian Moran
Warnings: Non-con, violence, language.
Summary: Sequel to "Stop Crying Your Heart Out". Set after the fall. Moriarty is alive and he's determined to keep Sherlock closer than ever.
Link to the original prompt is here. Note that it is super triggery.
A/N - Hope this was worth the wait :) Please note that previous chapters have been slightly revised and edited for mistakes (by me).
Part 1: The Groundwork
Part 2: The Sleeper
Part 3: The House
Part 4: The Redefinition
The case in Dubai ended as well they expected. That is to say, it ended with the death of their client and a hasty retreat from the country's borders. The assassination of the influential client took place far from the city and its countless security cameras. By the time the bodies were discovered the three of them were long gone. The local police had nothing to connect the tourists from room #1460 to the crime scene.
The case the client hired them for was awfully tedious. The wealthy client requested their help in staging his own kidnapping. His family was instructed to quickly and quietly transfer the money to an untraceable foreign account or risk his untimely death. Quite unimaginative.
No, the interesting part came after.
Three years previously, Jim Moriarty became infamous in certain circles for the possession of a code that would allow him access to any system he desired. They ploy to make him come in person was just that, a ploy (with the added bonus of becoming slightly richer.) The client was itching to get his hands on the key that could open any safe, unlock any door. He was intelligent, yet obviously self confident enough to believe he could pull one up on Jim. The man was incredibly wealthy, after all. Rich men usually were self assured to the point of delusion.
Both Jim and Sherlock reached the same conclusion from the first video correspondence with the client. Jim chose to go along with the case anyway.
Sherlock waited exactly one hour after Jim left for his final (and only, at least as far as the client was aware) meeting with the client before he set chase.
It had taken Sherlock just under two hours to locate the kidnappers. He was enjoying the chase, despite himself. He was in a strange country with very few tools at his disposal; it was some sort of a record for him, he was sure.
Sherlock should have allowed Jim to die there. He had everything he needed in the form of one Sebastian Moran. Enough to spin the story in his favour. Yet, the notion of allowing Jim to perish to his own recklessness crossed Sherlock's mind just briefly before he dismissed it without a second thought.
Unseen, he studied the warehouse from a safe distance. Of course it would be a warehouse. What a cliché.
The infiltration was easy. He did not need to direct Moran to the best firing position; the sniper easily identified the most accessible spot where he would be able to launch his attack from afar, unseen. He paused only to look at Sherlock in real concern, but nodded in assent at Sherlock's sharp look.
Sherlock waited until Moran started firing before he walked over to enter the warehouse through the main gate. Not one of the guards patrolling the perimeter noticed him; they were too busy ducking for cover. Sebastian had a talent for distractions. Sherlock slithered through the maze of shelves, avoiding the men who rushed outside to assist in the gunfight. The place was obviously a storage space of some kind. It was quite easy to find ways to conceal himself as he made his way closer to where they were holding Jim. It was almost as if they were trying to make this simple for him.
A few shots were fired back at Sebastian. They must have found his hiding place. The sniper stopped firing. The kidnappers obviously thought it was a good sign. So did Sherlock. He came closer to the backroom occupied by Jim and his former client.
"You should have brought more backup," The man said smugly, entirely too self confident.
"I have," Jim said happily. The man didn't have time to react before a fist hit the back of his head, and he crumbled to the floor, his gun wretched from his grip.
"Hi honey!" Jim said sweetly.
"Having fun?" Sherlock asked. He could hear the gunfire resuming outside. At least somebody was obviously enjoying himself.
"Loads," Jim drawled. He had been smacked around, Sherlock could see, yet his impression of a damsel in distress was terribly lacking. He was brimming with energy; grabbing Sherlock by the waist to twirl around with him as soon as he was released from his restrains. The smell of gunpowder stood in the air and Jim laughed in delight.
"My hero," He crooned, holding Sherlock close.
Sherlock couldn't quite grasp the point for their little adventure, as hard as he tried. Jim's actions at times were a complete mystery to him, no matter how long he'd known the man. It irritated Sherlock to no bounds.
"Did you find what you were looking for?" Sherlock asked against Jim's brow.
Jim stopped spinning, and held Sherlock loosely. He stared at Sherlock long and hard, the look on his face happy yet intense.
"Oh yes," He said.
Jim took the gun from Sherlock's hand and turned to look at his untrustworthy client, unconscious on the floor. Jim's other hand lingered at the small of Sherlock's back.
"Now, what shall we do with this?"
XXX
John Watson made his way up to Baker's Street. The weather was nice that day, and he left the Tube one station early on an impulse. He could really use the walk; he was spending more time sitting down than not, these days.
He wasn't sure what brought him back to Baker's Street so soon. He'd been thinking about the break in Mrs. Hudson told him about in his last visit, only a few days before. He probably should have called ahead to tell Mrs. Hudson he was coming, he thought, when he rang the doorbell and no reply came.
Instead of turning around, he fished in his pocket for his keys.
"Mrs. Hudson?" he called, knocking on her door. No answer. He tried her mobile and learned belatedly that she was out visiting her sister on the other side of London. He assured her that she didn't need to rush back, and that he will come visit her again very soon.
He turned to leave, but stopped before reaching the front door. He thought that maybe he should take another look around the flat. He still had a key to 221B after all this time. He tried to return it, but Mrs. Hudson shook her head and turned him down firmly. She said she wasn't planning on renting out the flat to anyone else any time soon, and that he was welcome to come back anytime he pleased. That was when he learned that Mycroft decided to keep the place as it was. The older Holmes brother arranged for the rent to be paid, and the flat to be kept clean and tidy. The way it never was when Sherlock was alive.
Mycroft Holmes. John couldn't hold back the twinge of anger he still felt at the thought of that name. During the years the cold fury he experienced at the mere thought of the other man had dulled considerably, but probably nothing would ever bring the resentment to rest completely. Not after fighting all this time to stop Sherlock's name from being dragged through the mud even after his death, knowing that the elder Holmes could have done something, anything, to prevent it, but elected to do nothing.
John had only seen Mycroft once after the funeral. It was only a week after he moved out of Baker's street in a hurry. He returned to the flat, after much delaying, to collect what few possessions he had. He found Mycroft there, sitting in Sherlock's armchair, his hands steepled under his chin. He didn't notice John standing there, seemingly too far lost in his own mind. John had to cough loudly to alert Mycroft to his present. It was uncanny, the other man always seemed to notice everything and everyone around him, but he seemed startled when he saw John standing there. He regained his composure quickly, and stood up to greet John, collecting his umbrella on his way up.
He remembered the short conversation he had with Sherlock's brother, right until the point Mycroft told him it was best to forget and move on. What happened next was mostly a blur to John, he couldn't remember if the angry tears had been what blurred his vision, or just blind rage, but the next moment Mycroft was clutching his bloody nose. It was the last he'd seen or heard of the man.
He tried contacting him again. Swallowed his pride and called, but no one ever picked up his calls. He came by in person, both to Mycroft's precious club and to his office, only to be dragged out from the former and be told in the latter that no one by that name worked there. John gave up in disgust. The man obviously didn't care about his brother's reputation, opting to hide away in his shame for bringing this whole mess on him in the first place.
John never once doubted Sherlock's innocence. Not when the police cited "new evidence" but very little else besides that every time he asked about the ongoing investigations (and that was all Lestrade knew, too. He was kept in the dark about everything that had to do with Sherlock.) John never started doubting even when verdicts were appealed and even overturned; criminals Sherlock helped put away returning to the streets once more.
John knew Sherlock. He never once believed the man was a fake.
As it turned out, John wasn't the only one.
It started, as all of it did, with John's blog. John was surprised by the onslaught of comments, emails, even phone calls he received from people he never even heard of. All of them giving their condolences, and saying that they did not believe for one second that Sherlock was a fake.
Sherlock helped countless people over the years. All of it done in his usual charming manner, no doubt, but help he did, and often without pay.
The first real push however, came from an American doctor John heard Sherlock mention in passing a few times. The man, who apparently worked as specialist for the FBI on high profile murder investigations, contacted John by email one day.
The FBI agent attached a file holding just under 12 minutes of recorded video correspondence between himself and a bedraggled Sherlock. Sherlock listened briefly to what the man had to say, then proceeded to tear the case wide open, sprouting a stream of deductions lifted from the few details the man showed him, casually insulting the doctor all the while, never pausing for breathe. John was shaking when the video ended, not with grief but with laughter for the first time in weeks. He asked the doctor for permission to share the video online.
The next day, John posted the video to his blog. The thing went viral in the blink of an eye. Sherlock's clever remarks on the video became catch phrases, and the video was reposted countless of times to YouTube, each new post sporting a brand new edit that John was sure Sherlock would not have appreciated.
Apparently the FBI agent who sent him the video was reprimanded for the leak, but as he told John after, it was the least he could do. He too, believed in Sherlock.
The video opened the door for many others, not all of them had videos as proof of the man's genius, but they shared their experiences online and offline. Graffiti in Sherlock's support began to pop up all over London, and the world, if the pictures sent to him were unedited. Protests were made in front of Scotland Yard by people sporting Guy Fawks masks and deerstalkers, carrying signs adorned with sarcastic messages. An indie documentary of The Movement (as people began to call it) was made by four aspiring film students. It was the first time John ever agreed to be interviewed.
For the most part, John wasn't really involved in the actual movement. It seemed like the whole thing blew up on its own. John was never a social crusader, or believed in grand gestures. But those who fought to clear Sherlock's name seemed to have declared John as their leader. John couldn't think of a better way to prove his friend's authenticity than continuing to write up their adventures. It was his own proof, and he wanted to share it.
All the while, the police investigation continued. It was kept extremely hush -hush, but what little John could perceive wasn't good. John was convinced Moriarty continued to try and pin more blame on Sherlock. The movement had quieted down considerably after two years, only to spark back to life by Moriarty's appearance on the BBC. Moriarty was long gone by the time John reached the studio. That was when John made another attempt to contact Mycroft, but to no avail
John was convinced he was behind the break-in too. Three years down the line and the criminal mastermind was still by-and-large. John was sure of it. But what was he after? Why would he arrange for someone to break into their flat now?
Whoever he had breaking in was obviously a professional. The place looked tidy and clean as always, now that Sherlock wasn't around to mess it up. The only reason Mrs. Hudson knew someone had broken in was because she woke up in the middle of the night, and was convinced she could hear footsteps upstairs. She alerted the police, but no one was there when they arrived, and they dismissed her fears as paranoia, as nothing was taken, not even the priceless violin sitting untouched on its stand.
John wished she'd told him before, but she said she didn't want to bother him, not when the police themselves said there was nothing to worry about.
Still, John thought to himself, it wouldn't hurt to take a closer look, find out if anything at all was stolen. If anything was taken, it might give him some clue as to what the hell Moriarty wanted.
John climbed the stairs to the flat, and palmed the door open. It was strange, being there alone after all that time. Three years ago John couldn't bear the thought of staying there on his own. It was too damn quiet, and it hurt too much. He still felt a pang of wistfulness, being there, but it was easier as time went by.
He set to work, going over Sherlock's possessions carefully, trying not to disturb his dead friend's property too much. It felt odd going through his things, but he stiffened his upper lip and tried to think back, to see if he remembered if anything seemed especially out of place or missing.
He gave up after less than an hour of searching. It was hopeless. How could he find something if he didn't know what he was looking for in the first place?
John returned a box to its place on the bookcase and stood back. He wondered…The door to Sherlock's bedroom was slightly ajar, he didn't remember it being open the last time he's been there, and he couldn't think of why anyone would want to go into Sherlock's bedroom. He stepped inside, carefully observing his surroundings. Perhaps he'd have better luck there. He looked around the room, and then paused when he glanced over the dresser.
There used to be a framed photograph hanging on the wall. The place was strangely vacant now. John stepped closed, noted the nail sticking from the plaster. Yes, definitely should have been a photograph there. One he'd teased Sherlock about once, he recalled.
The photo John remembered featured Sherlock and Mycroft together as children, sitting alongside their mother. She had a kind smile. The red tinged picture made even Sherlock look redheaded; he looked small and grumpy and rather adorable. It was the only family photo John remembered Sherlock of having. Why would anyone take it?
John considered Mycroft, but Mrs. Hudson would have told him at least if the older Holmes brother was dropping by for visits. She knew he tried getting in contact with the man more than once. And Mycroft wouldn't sneak in there in the middle of the night just to take one family picture. He didn't have to but even if he did, he wasn't one prone to sentiment.
John had an idea, and set out to test his hypothesis.
Sherlock was a notorious pack rat. He saved random items and documents over the years, refusing to throw away anything he deemed even mildly important, yet was too lazy to ever put it in proper order. It was the cause of many rows between the two of them, as Sherlock wouldn't let John move any of his things either. Yet, as far as John looked, he came to realise certain documents definitely seemed to be missing. Sherlock wasn't the sort to keep bank statements or bills, even he wasn't that bad. But other documents, like hospital records, documents relating to his family, papers from his school days, none of those things could be found. In fact, he could not find a single official document listing Sherlock's name. Random items were missing too, like the silly frayed pirate hat Sherlock had, though it was far too small for his head. He couldn't find Sherlock's passport in its usual place in the drawer. It was as if all records of Sherlock Holmes having been an actual human being, with a real history, were sponged. All that was left of him was the eccentric detective.
What that could possibly signify, John had no idea.
XXX
Their next stop would be London. For all they've travelled, Sherlock hadn't set foot there once in three years. He was rather convinced that had been intentional. Perhaps Jim thought Sherlock would run off after all if he were to confront the city he considered home, his friends' fates be damned. He shouldn't have worried.
Speaking of his friends, Jim hadn't brought that threat up in months. Perhaps he thought he had Sherlock trained well enough he wouldn't need to anymore. Perhaps that was the reason for the whole Dubai mishap, to see how fast Sherlock would run if he called. Given their current destination Sherlock assumed Jim found the result of his experiment quite satisfactory.
They were back at the cottage for the time being. Sherlock had recently showered, and was standing dressed only in his trousers at the foot of the bed. His hair was newly curling after the shower, dripping still. An open suitcase was laid on the bed; Sherlock was busy packing his clothes for the trip. If everything went as planned he won't be coming back to this place anymore. If everything went to plan, he was going to burn these clothes.
He glanced up at the closet hanger, where his coat had been resting nigh untouched for what seemed like forever. He hardly wore it anymore, but now he felt the need to take it with him. He picked it off the hanger, ran his fingers over the dark wool. It was stripped off of him three years ago, when he was brought as a prisoner to this very house. Jim returned it to him several days later, intended as a 'pick me up' gift. He was very good at those. It was dry-cleaned and achingly familiar, his scarf hung from its collar. Sherlock refused to touch it at the time.
The sound of footsteps broke his concentration and he threw the heavy coat on the bed, set to resuming his task. He heard Jim's steps stop at the doorway. Sherlock wondered at his mood. They came and went so quickly, although Sherlock came to categorise each and every one of them.
"What is going on between you and Sebastian?" Jim asked.
Sherlock paused, and glanced over at Jim questioningly, "What?" He said. Jim couldn't possibly know.
The man drew closer to Sherlock, who could read the nuances of his emotions in his face. At least it answered that question. Sherlock hoped he wasn't about to complicate things. He needed Sebastian still.
"You haven't fought in days," Jim murmured quietly enough that Sherlock had to strain his ears to catch his words. "Did something happen in Dubai?" a horribly insincere smile crossed his face briefly. "You can tell me. I won't be mad."
"We're having an affair, obviously," Sherlock said in a mocking tone before returning to his suitcase. He straightened slowly when the thing was flung off the bed. He sighed. Jim spun him around by his arm to face him.
"Sherlock," Jim said warningly.
"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock said, exasperated.
Jim hadn't looked appeased, but something caught his eye. He leaned against Sherlock to reach for the bed, grasping the coat in his hands.
"Oh," Jim said, drawing out the word. "What's this then?"
Stupid. Sherlock mentally berated. Of all the novice mistakes...
He carefully schooled his face into an expression of confusion. "I'm not sure what you mean?"
Jim obviously did not buy it, "You haven't worn this old thing in ages. What's changed?"
"It's a coat. It assists in preserving one's body heat."
"It's June - not exactly the cold season." Jim's face broke into a cheery grin. "Although if it's body heat you're after…" he tossed the coat aside and moved to press himself against Sherlock, running his hands liberally over his body.
"Must you turn everything into innuendo?" Sherlock snapped out in annoyance.
"Only when it comes to you, my dear."
"That's patently untrue."
"Jealous?" Jim breathed in his ear.
Sherlock shook off his embrace; face turned away, "Hardly."
Jim allowed him to back away for once. Sherlock could see him from the corner of his eyes, the slow, slow smile and tilted head, observing Sherlock closely.
A hand reached to turn Sherlock's head back to face him. It proceeded to cup the back of his neck and stayed there.
"Sebastian won't be coming to London with us," Jim said.
That was very interesting. "Oh, changed your mind again?" Sherlock asked.
"Would you like me to change it back?" Jim answered with a smile.
"I couldn't care less."
"Yes, you could," Jim said tightly, though he was still smiling. "Why is that, Sherlock?"
"You're being paranoid."
"Am I," Not a question.
"Yes," Sherlock intoned. He wrapped his hand around Jim's wrist. "Let go."
"Why, aren't you feisty today," Jim stated, tongue twisting. He removed his hand, only to lash out suddenly, shoving Sherlock back onto the bed.
Sherlock glared at him, sitting up.
Jim smiled cheekily, and began to tug off his own clothes. Sherlock lay back down with a sigh and closed his eyes. It was just as well; he couldn't afford to seem too restless that day, there was too much at stake. Soon enough he felt the other man crawling on top of him until their faces were levelled. He felt his breath on his face.
"Look at me," Jim said.
Sherlock's eyes blinked open. They locked gazes.
"Sherlock," Jim said softly, fingers ghosting on the side of his face. "I love you." He murmured and Sherlock's body stiffened despite himself. Jim smiled and leaned forward to touch his lips to Sherlock's face, leaving small caressing kisses.
"No, you don't," Sherlock said softly.
Jim pulled back, screwing up his face in annoyance. "Hello, having a moment here?" He growled. He sighed deeply when Sherlock didn't reply, and shuffled off of him, kneeling on the bed by his legs. He unzipped Sherlock's trousers and set to undress him completely. He then reached the bedside table for the lube, seemingly forsaking all thoughts of foreplay. He moved to kneel between Sherlock legs.
"I wasn't lying," Jim said as an afterthought.
"You're deluding yourself," Sherlock continued as if Jim hadn't spoken, "This isn't love."
"Oh, sweetie," Jim said in mock concern, twisting his fingers inside of him, "Am I not paying you enough attention?"
"If I said 'stop', right now, would you?" Sherlock asked quietly, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"I don't think you really want me to."
Sherlock laughed without humour, "That shouldn't - that doesn't matter!"
"You're right. It doesn't matter," Jim wriggled his fingers free, and brought their faces together.
He spoke quietly, staring intently at the man below him, "It matters to ordinary people, or at least they'll pretend it does. Their boring lives are dictated constantly by rights and wrongs and silly little moral convictions. Don't you see? We're different, Sherlock," He kissed Sherlock's mouth, sweet and unhurried. "We're better. You and me, we're the same, can't you understand?" He sighed, as if Sherlock was disappointing him, "I work so hard to show you."
Jim leaned down; kissing a scar on Sherlock's chest that was the exact shape of his teeth, "The difference between us," He said and then paused, rising back up and lifting Sherlock's legs to his shoulders. He kissed one of Sherlock's calves and leaned forward, punctuating his next words with his actions, "Is that I'm not afraid to take what I want."
"And I'll always want you, my love," He said between thrusts, panting slightly, "Always. You're mine, never forget that."
XXX
They arrived in London late that night, escorted by two of Jim's lackeys with more muscle than sense. They were handpicked by Sherlock himself, Jim trusting him with liberties these days more than ever.
The night's outcome all depended on Moran now. Jim ordered him not to come, not long after Sherlock spoke to him in private for the last time. He hoped Sebastian would draw the desired conclusion.
Their last conversation happened shortly before their return to the country, Sherlock taking advantage of a brief moment of privacy to exchange a few last words with the sniper.
"I'm beginning to tire of having a mouthpiece, Sebastian," Sherlock told him quietly, adopting the same barely felt Irish accent he used in their earlier conversation. The man listened intently, hanging on to his every word.
"Especially when that mouthpiece has been talking a little too much, if you catch my drift," Sherlock continued.
Sebastian's eyes widened, "You don't think…"
"Oh, I'm sure of it. The information could only be coming from one place."
Sebastian watched him, contemplative, "It makes sense, what with all of those failed operations lately. Jesus." He muttered. "I knew I couldn't have missed that target. Who has he been talking to?"
"Whoever pays the most, I'm sure." Sherlock smiled and said, "I'll be requiring your assistance again very soon. And Sebastian?"
"Yes?"
"Stay on your guard," He told him then.
Sherlock watched the city unfold behind the dark tinted windows of their vehicle, perhaps hoping to catch a familiar face among the city's pedestrians. Jim had been watching him like a hawk ever since they've entered the city.
They were en route to meet with some of Jim's associates. The agenda for tonight was the set up of a new drug smuggling route, their clients being a well known English crime family. The were the kind of people everyone knew to steer clear from, the sort of criminals you'd hear mentioned constantly in the news but never saw on any most wanted list. No charges ever seemed to stick against them.
Their meeting place was a seedy little club in one of the worst possible parts of the city. Sherlock knew it well. There will only be a handful of people allowed into the place that night, Jim only dealt with a select few in person. Sherlock saw the waiting line for the club stretching on the pavement as their car curved behind the building, all set to enter through the backdoor and away from any CCTV camera, if those were ever left intact in that neighbourhood.
A heavy set guard set to pet them down at the entrance, and Jim glowered at his presumption. Jim's own escorts walked up beside him, dwarfing him in comparison. The effect however was greatly diminished when they backed down immediately with the snap of Jim's fingers, cowering instantly. "Boys." Jim said in a warning, "Play nicely." He then broke out in a wide grin, eyeing the guard like a new chew toy. The man looked uncertain then, and a little bit unnerved. Jim had that effect on people.
"What do you think?" He turned to Sherlock suddenly.
"Divorced twice, no children. Lives with his mother, by choice, she has a bad heart. Recently quit drinking. Three separate prison sentences in the last ten years for assault and battery charges. Left shoe says still on parole. Has a cat," Pause, "Two cats."
Jim huffed in despair, and brushed past the gaping guard, "Boooring."
"You asked."
They met the club owner on the dance floor. The place was deserted from any patrons, although one couldn't tell judging by the loud music playing as if the room was packed. The owner was wearing an expensive yet utterly tasteless white suit. It looked as if tonight they were entering the den of stereotypes. Jim pulled a face at Sherlock. Apparently they were thinking the same thing.
"'Welcome!" The man yelled cheerfully over the music, shaking each of their hands with enthusiasm. He held a drink in his left hand, and gestured toward the bar, "Anything you want!" He shouted, "On the house!"
Jim rubbed his ear pointedly, then pulled out a handgun, and aimed it at the D.J. station. Immediately the music shut off.
"Thanks!" He said in a sing song voice, and tucked the weapon back in its holster under his jacket.
"Ah! Our guests are here!" Three men came out of the back room, greeting them like old friends. Sherlock recognised the one who spoke from various encrypted video conferences over the years, although they've never met in person. The men were all obviously related; even if he hadn't known who they were he could tell from their similar receding hairlines and familiar body language that the three men were brothers.
Like all of Jim's close associates, they recognised them both from the extensive media coverage they received during the "Trial of the Century", three years prior. They side eyed Sherlock in curiosity, but elected to say nothing. A common reaction. Very few ever made enquiries, and none of the ones who had lived very long. In fact, most of the people who met them in person, the unimportant ones, wound up dead mysteriously or simply vanished without a trace.
Like that unfortunate guard posted by the backdoor, Jim was probably already making plans for him. That one hadn't recognised Sherlock, though Jim tried so hard to refresh his memory. Not that it made much of a difference.
Sherlock glanced around the room superstitiously. Moran was already there, he noted, pleased. He wasn't completely sure the man would follow through.
None of the others noticed his presence yet, nor the presence of the other snipers, at least two that Sherlock could see. Of course, Sherlock knew what to look for. A two story building, thick brick walls and numerous locations where one could observe the dark room from above without being seen, perfect hiding place for a sniper. Sherlock would have to congratulate Moran later, and take a look around the place himself. He simply must find out how the snipers got in unseen.
"Shall we proceed?" Sherlock interrupted the group, their alpha-male dance shrouded in faux friendliness was grating on his nerves, and besides, it was time.
"Yes of course," One of the brothers said, turning toward the backroom. "Follow me."
"Yes," Sherlock said and then flattened a hand against Jim's chest, pushing him back roughly, "Not you."
The man spluttered in surprise and grabbed at Sherlock's arm, removing it from his chest, "And why is that, my darling?" He growled, dark eyes narrowing in anger.
Sherlock smirked. "This has gone on long enough," He said, loud enough for their audience to hear, "Wouldn't you agree, Richard?"
Jim blinked. "What?" he said, his expression darkening as realisation struck, "Oh? Oh!" He said, laughing, "Do you really expect that to work?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and walked over to the bar, bending over it to reach for a glass and a bottle of whiskey. He poured the drink before leaning back against the bar. Amused, he saluted someone unseen.
Instantly, a multitude of red laser points appeared, covering everyone in the room besides Sherlock. One of the dots stopped at Jim's forehead, dancing on his pale skin. The gangsters cursed loudly.
"What the fuck is going on?" One of the brothers cried out in anger. Another reached for his own weapon, although who he was planning on shooting wasn't clear.
Jim's eyes widened slightly. He looked down at himself, saw the dancing red dots.
"Seb?" Jim murmured.
"Don't worry," Sherlock assured the gangsters offhandedly, "They're not really here for you," Immediately all the dots moved to point at Jim, covering him from head to toe, "Did you really think you could cross me, Richard?" Sherlock asked with a note of amusement in his voice. His voice held a slight Irish drawl to it, barely noticeable but present nevertheless.
"What the hell is this?" One of the gangsters intoned loudly.
"House cleaning!" Sherlock announced and threw back his drink, drowning it in a single move. He set it back on the bar with a loud 'thunk'.
Jim gaped at Sherlock, his eyes wide. He was right; Sherlock did cherish the look of surprise on his face. Then a huge smile morphed his expression into glee. He made a move to walk toward Sherlock, but the other made no attempt to budge, he didn't have to. He had people to do it for him.
Jim was grabbed before he managed to take a single step toward Sherlock; his arms were wrenched behind him by the two escorts they brought along. His face never lost its joyful expression, as he stared at Sherlock in wonder.
"Touché, my love," Jim said quietly.
Sherlock's mild expression never faltered. He approached the other man and reached into his inner suit jacket's pocket, pulled out his mobile phone and handgun and tucked them both into his own pockets.
"Get him out of my sight," He told the escorts, "Take him to this address," He said, jolting down something on a piece of paper and slipping it into Jim's pocket. "I'll deal with him later."
He paused, contemplative. "I do hope I'm making myself clear, Mr. Brook. You're fired."
He turned back to the gangsters as Jim was pulled away. "Now gentleman!" he said, coat flapping around him as he spun to face the group of men staring at him suspiciously. He smiled briefly and pulled out Jim's phone, one of the gangsters twitched in alarm at the movement. He looked down at the mobile phone, unlocking it without hesitation.
He spoke again, not bothering to look up at his audience. "Shall we discuss business?"
"Who the hell are you?" One of them asked.
"James Moriarty," He said, drawling out the name. "Pleasure to formally make your acquaintance," He looked up and smiled crookedly, twirling the phone in the air once before pushing it into his coat pocket in a flourish.
XXX
It's done. Your move.
SH
[Msg. Received Wed. 23:35]
Welcome back.
MH
[Msg. Sent Wed. 23:39]