S3E3 - The Uncanny Valley - Part Ten: Risorgimento
Episode number: s03s03 of Series 3: Unfinished Business
Title: The Uncanny Valley
Subtitle: Risorgimento
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word Count: 2,200 - 2,300
Rating: R
Warnings: violence, kidnapping, language
Molly felt something off about the whole affair.
The masked woman removed the clip from John's gun as well as the batteries from their mobile phones, but then she handed the weapon back to him, unloaded. Molly didn't know what that was supposed to mean, but she didn't like it.
She also didn't like that neither the driver nor his gun-pointing companion made any attempt to conceal their destination or their route. Molly half-expected a passerby to spot the woman's pointed gun through the car's windows and call the police.
Once they arrived at an old building in the East End, they were escorted to a drab flat. No one bothered to tie them down or lock them in. Instead, both assailants stepped just outside of the living room and pointed their weapons at John and Molly.
"Is it just me, or is this weird?" Molly asked.
"Why are you asking me?" John replied.
"You've been kidnapped a lot, haven't you?"
"No, I... well, no, not that often. It's not as if it happens every day."
"Very nearly so recently," a new voice said. It was crisp and light.
The speaker was a burly man, nearly two meters tall, with bold, dark eyes and an oddly small nose. His features were fine, almost delicate, but his relative bulk overshadowed this until he stood directly under the dim lights.
"Ah, hello," John said, stepping in front of Molly.
"Don't bother. When I'm ready to kill you, you'll both be dead." He changed his disposition drastically and added, "We've not met. I'm Sebastian."
"Molly," she replied. "I hear you're the reason I was attacked in my morgue."
He laughed. "Sorry, love, but you? Ha! You were the one who stabbed Wen in the arm? Brilliant. The way he told it, you were an eight foot security guard!"
"What do you want?" John asked.
"Why, Sherlock Holmes of course!"
"He's dead," Molly said. "Maybe you missed the news."
"Oh, I know all about that," Sebastian said. "Sure, he's dead, but he's dead like all my guys. Guys. I used to say boys before, but these days... the 'sexual revolution' they call it. Can't really call 'em boys, not with half of them being women, now can I? So it's guys these days, isn't it? Anyway, it's like I was saying, Sherlock Holmes is just like all my guys: dead but alive. Part of his own Risorgimento. Cleaning up cases. Cutting up my mentor's good work."
"Your mentor?" John repeated. "That would be?"
"The Great James Moriarty, you prat," Sebastian glowered, sneering like a gargoyle.
"Ah, right him," John said, his hand automatically gliding towards his now-useless gun.
"Normally I don't bother with extras, you see. But you two just kept making it harder to pass you by. See, you," he said to Molly, "first I thought, if Jim didn't see you as worth a bullet, then why should I? But then, you convinced Mycroft Holmes, of all people, that his brother was dead. Looked him straight in the eye and said it, and there it was. That's a penny I could pick up later, now isn't it?"
"What do you want?" Molly asked.
"And this one here," Sebastian continued, indicating John. "He's suddenly all around the country, chasing after, what was it? Some kind of heart condition? You managed that one before me."
"Sorry, what did you manage?" Molly asked John.
"Nothing. Never mind," John said quickly.
"Now what's this about? You shy?" Sebastian asked. "That's sweet. But what I really need to know is how much you've gone and gotten on me and mine. So, who here is feeling up to chatting?"
Sebastian had asked one of the masked individuals to put on a pot. He made a show of taking off his shoes and getting comfortable and insisted, with this revolver, that John and Molly sit down to tea.
When the tray was set, neither Molly nor John took a bite of their biscuit or a sip from their cups.
"Don't be rude," Sebastian said as he started on his tea.
"Right, and we know this isn't poisoned or drugged how exactly?" John asked.
"Why would I do that?"
"Why would you drag us to this flat and hold us at gun point?" John asked.
"I just want to know what you know about my operation," said Sebastian. "And Sherlock Holmes, of course. You two are the only people in the world that can give me both."
"And you've, what, brought us here to talk?" John asked.
"How else?" Sebastian asked. "We're not animals here, Dr. Watson, Dr. Hooper."
"So, we'll be off, then," Molly said quickly as she stood up.
"Ah, thought we might hit that snag," Sebastian said, pointing his revolver till Molly returned to her seat. "See, I'm civilized. No reason to have any more blood or tears than absolutely necessary. And I'm patient. I can wait till you're willing to gab, sure. No need for drugs or death, as far as I'm concerned. But until I have what I want, you two won't be going anywhere."
"How do you mean?" John asked. "We'd, what, stay here?"
"I've got a lovely number to be your host. Two beds in the guestroom. All yours. 'Course, if you try to leave, you will be shot. Just a matter of principle, of course."
"You're just going to keep us?" Molly asked.
"Or you can tell me everything, and I'll let you go."
"Right, yeah, sure you will," John said. "Or you'll shoot us in the head."
"And why would I do that?"
"This is the man who left people to starve to death," John said. "Can't imagine what he has planned for us."
"You should take your tea," Sebastian said. "Before it gets cold. As for me, I've got other things to be getting on with. But I'll be back here for tea tomorrow, love."
He collected himself, put on his shoes, and turned to leave as John and Molly shared incredulous looks on the couch.
As he turned, Molly grabbed the teapot and yanked off the lid. In one solid throw, she cracked the pot across the back of Sebastian's neck, allowing the boiling water to spill across his beck and upper back.
John was right behind her. Sebastian staggered into a large chair, which put his head just low enough for John to crack it with his gun. Sebastian fell to the floor, dazed and blistering.
The two lackeys came in from the other room. The man was first, gun ready to fire. Molly chucked the lid of the pot at him, but she missed horribly. John tried to knock her out of the way before the man fired -
It sounded like a bone breaking under force, followed by three muffled screams from the masked man's mouth. His body fell sideways into the wall opposite the window, which had shattered inward.
Molly and John backed away from the remaining lackey, the masked woman, who had a Glock on them. She took a plastic bag and threw it over Sebastian's head, wrapping a cord around his neck for good measure.
John tried to put everything together: the shots were fired from outside, so she must be working with a partner. She was suffocating their enemy but that certainly didn't make her a friend.
Once Sebastian was unconscious, she ripped the bag open.
"What do you want?" Molly demanded. "What do all of you want? Who are you people?"
"Listen, my name is Riley, and all I want is out. Your detective friends will be here soon. You can wait for them here, or you can push off. I recommend the latter. Whatever you do, do not follow me."
Keeping her gun up, she backed out of the flat.
As soon as she was gone, Molly checked the fallen man's pulse. Begrudgingly, John followed her lead and checked Sebastian's.
"He's dead. Shot with a very large caliber bullet," Molly said.
"Moran's alive," John said. "I'm gonna tie his hands, just in case."
So, Molly and John waited in the flat as the sound of sirens became overwhelming.
Donovan sat with Molly in Lestrade's office as he took another go at John Watson.
"It won't be much longer," Donovan said, almost sympathetically. "Sebastian Moran is wanted for questioning in three countries. For criminal conspiracy and other charges in a few more. Nobody's questioning why you had him bound and unconscious."
"Then what are you questioning us about?" Molly asked, exhausted.
"John met with a woman called Isabelle Hennessy. Do you know who that is?"
"No," Molly answered honestly.
"Hennessy is an alias. Her real name is Indigo Kendall Berwyn. Do you know who that is?"
Molly nodded. "Of course I do. She, uh, John mentioned her. Said he wanted to find her because of what she did for Sherlock."
"Huh," Donovan said. "And this trip to Edinburgh. Care to explain?"
"Love to but I don't know myself. There was a lead... We thought it would lead us to the man who attacked me, and we were right."
"That's Gregory Wendell? The real Gregory Wendell, I mean," Donovan said.
"Yeah."
"And the woman who bagged Sebastian Moran. She said her name was Riley?"
"She did. But like I said, we didn't see her face."
"Wendell's wife's name is Riley."
"You think the man who attacked me, his wife is the person who saved us? That doesn't make any sense."
"That's not the only thing," Donovan said. "Dr. Hooper, I need to know. Is Sherlock Holmes alive?"
"That'd be nice," Molly replied. "I'm a pathologist. I don't investigate or any of this rubbish. Oh, sorry I didn't mean to... not that investigation is rubbish, just... I mean, I do post-mortems. I don't run around with guns and plastic bags and... it'd be nice, if Sherlock was here. He'd know what to do. He'd say horrible things, but he'd put it all together."
"Sorry, but you didn't answer my question. Is Sherlock Holmes alive?"
"'Course not," Molly replied. "Is that what this is about?"
Donovan didn't answer.
John Watson woke up the next day in his own bed. His memory was foggy, but he had half a mind to give to Sherlock for all the trouble. So he stumbled downstairs to his bedroom door.
It was only after he pushed it open that he realized that Sherlock wasn't there. Instead, Molly Hooper slept soundly in his place.
As quietly as he could, John backed out of the room and closed the door. As he became more alert, he realized that he hadn't heard from Sherlock since the day before, when he sent the two of them to Lestrade. He had specifically told them that he was following up a lead, and John was sure he mentioned contacting them later.
The clock read eight in the morning. So clearly, it was later, so where the hell was he?
Having no other recourse, John picked up his mobile and called Mycroft.
"Mycroft Holmes," he answered.
"It's John."
"Are you all right?"
"Yes. So's Molly. But we've not heard from Sherlock since yesterday, before they captured Moran."
"Is that unexpected? He is supposed to be hiding, you know."
"Maybe, but I expected him to come back and explain everything over again," John said. "Telling me how it's obvious that the woman who saved us was Wendell's wife because she tucked the left pant leg into her shoe or something."
"What?" Mycroft asked. "That's not a deduction."
"No, no. Lestrade told me one of Moran's men, Wendell, his wife had the same name as the woman who helped us," John replied. "I assumed Sherlock would show up and fill in the blanks. Give Molly the clear to go back to work. That kind of thing."
"It's true my brother has never missed an opportunity to show off," Mycroft said. "He didn't mention anything?"
"No, just a lead he was looking into. If it wasn't from you, must be from the homeless network. He showed me how his communication with them goes. I can touch base, retrace his steps - "
Mycroft interrupted, "Don't worry about this, John. I'm sure he'll turn up with ridiculous facial hair and a bad suit as soon as he gets the chance."
"I'd rather know where he is," John replied.
"If I discover anything, I will contact you. In the meantime, it might be prudent to cease contact, lest we draw the suspicions of Gregory Lestrade again."
"Right, of course," John said as he hung up.
Mycroft hesitated before hanging up. John Watson had often bridged the gap between the Holmes brothers, listening to Mycroft when Sherlock wouldn't take his calls. The man gave him a broad insight, a compass direction, on his younger brother's current condition. And though he assured John nothing was amiss, a knot had formed in his stomach.
It wasn't like Sherlock to miss a chance to tie a case together. Certainly not with Molly and John both wrapped up in the situation.
He didn't know, and couldn't know, where his brother was.
About an hour after the call between Mycroft and John, Sherlock Holmes came-to.
He couldn't remember what happened... his first thought was using. He'd fallen back on drugs more than once during his 'death' to dull the senses when he didn't have a case.
No. He was working a case. Closing in on Sebastian Moran, actually. But his memories were all frayed and broken, like a bad hang over. If it wasn't his own drug use, than someone must've knocked him out or drugged him. He quickly iterated through the affects and concluded the likely drug used was some form of GHB.
Sherlock moved. Dust and dirt cascaded around him. His wrists ached and felt chaffed, but there was no rope burn. Someone slipped him a drug and bound him to transport him somewhere. That didn't add up to anything good. He tried to lift his head. Everything ached.
As he took stock of his location, he slowly came to realize that someone had stuffed him inside of a wall. He had a nagging sensation that that person was the last person he spoke with before he blacked out: the Engineer.
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Part Nine: A Little Inconvenience
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S3E4 - Four Elizabeths
Primary Post: The Uncanny Valley - Series 3, Episode 3
Primary Post: Unfinished Business, or Series 3 (s03ff)
Title: The Uncanny Valley
Subtitle: Risorgimento
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word Count: 2,200 - 2,300
Rating: R
Warnings: violence, kidnapping, language
Molly felt something off about the whole affair.
The masked woman removed the clip from John's gun as well as the batteries from their mobile phones, but then she handed the weapon back to him, unloaded. Molly didn't know what that was supposed to mean, but she didn't like it.
She also didn't like that neither the driver nor his gun-pointing companion made any attempt to conceal their destination or their route. Molly half-expected a passerby to spot the woman's pointed gun through the car's windows and call the police.
Once they arrived at an old building in the East End, they were escorted to a drab flat. No one bothered to tie them down or lock them in. Instead, both assailants stepped just outside of the living room and pointed their weapons at John and Molly.
"Is it just me, or is this weird?" Molly asked.
"Why are you asking me?" John replied.
"You've been kidnapped a lot, haven't you?"
"No, I... well, no, not that often. It's not as if it happens every day."
"Very nearly so recently," a new voice said. It was crisp and light.
The speaker was a burly man, nearly two meters tall, with bold, dark eyes and an oddly small nose. His features were fine, almost delicate, but his relative bulk overshadowed this until he stood directly under the dim lights.
"Ah, hello," John said, stepping in front of Molly.
"Don't bother. When I'm ready to kill you, you'll both be dead." He changed his disposition drastically and added, "We've not met. I'm Sebastian."
"Molly," she replied. "I hear you're the reason I was attacked in my morgue."
He laughed. "Sorry, love, but you? Ha! You were the one who stabbed Wen in the arm? Brilliant. The way he told it, you were an eight foot security guard!"
"What do you want?" John asked.
"Why, Sherlock Holmes of course!"
"He's dead," Molly said. "Maybe you missed the news."
"Oh, I know all about that," Sebastian said. "Sure, he's dead, but he's dead like all my guys. Guys. I used to say boys before, but these days... the 'sexual revolution' they call it. Can't really call 'em boys, not with half of them being women, now can I? So it's guys these days, isn't it? Anyway, it's like I was saying, Sherlock Holmes is just like all my guys: dead but alive. Part of his own Risorgimento. Cleaning up cases. Cutting up my mentor's good work."
"Your mentor?" John repeated. "That would be?"
"The Great James Moriarty, you prat," Sebastian glowered, sneering like a gargoyle.
"Ah, right him," John said, his hand automatically gliding towards his now-useless gun.
"Normally I don't bother with extras, you see. But you two just kept making it harder to pass you by. See, you," he said to Molly, "first I thought, if Jim didn't see you as worth a bullet, then why should I? But then, you convinced Mycroft Holmes, of all people, that his brother was dead. Looked him straight in the eye and said it, and there it was. That's a penny I could pick up later, now isn't it?"
"What do you want?" Molly asked.
"And this one here," Sebastian continued, indicating John. "He's suddenly all around the country, chasing after, what was it? Some kind of heart condition? You managed that one before me."
"Sorry, what did you manage?" Molly asked John.
"Nothing. Never mind," John said quickly.
"Now what's this about? You shy?" Sebastian asked. "That's sweet. But what I really need to know is how much you've gone and gotten on me and mine. So, who here is feeling up to chatting?"
Sebastian had asked one of the masked individuals to put on a pot. He made a show of taking off his shoes and getting comfortable and insisted, with this revolver, that John and Molly sit down to tea.
When the tray was set, neither Molly nor John took a bite of their biscuit or a sip from their cups.
"Don't be rude," Sebastian said as he started on his tea.
"Right, and we know this isn't poisoned or drugged how exactly?" John asked.
"Why would I do that?"
"Why would you drag us to this flat and hold us at gun point?" John asked.
"I just want to know what you know about my operation," said Sebastian. "And Sherlock Holmes, of course. You two are the only people in the world that can give me both."
"And you've, what, brought us here to talk?" John asked.
"How else?" Sebastian asked. "We're not animals here, Dr. Watson, Dr. Hooper."
"So, we'll be off, then," Molly said quickly as she stood up.
"Ah, thought we might hit that snag," Sebastian said, pointing his revolver till Molly returned to her seat. "See, I'm civilized. No reason to have any more blood or tears than absolutely necessary. And I'm patient. I can wait till you're willing to gab, sure. No need for drugs or death, as far as I'm concerned. But until I have what I want, you two won't be going anywhere."
"How do you mean?" John asked. "We'd, what, stay here?"
"I've got a lovely number to be your host. Two beds in the guestroom. All yours. 'Course, if you try to leave, you will be shot. Just a matter of principle, of course."
"You're just going to keep us?" Molly asked.
"Or you can tell me everything, and I'll let you go."
"Right, yeah, sure you will," John said. "Or you'll shoot us in the head."
"And why would I do that?"
"This is the man who left people to starve to death," John said. "Can't imagine what he has planned for us."
"You should take your tea," Sebastian said. "Before it gets cold. As for me, I've got other things to be getting on with. But I'll be back here for tea tomorrow, love."
He collected himself, put on his shoes, and turned to leave as John and Molly shared incredulous looks on the couch.
As he turned, Molly grabbed the teapot and yanked off the lid. In one solid throw, she cracked the pot across the back of Sebastian's neck, allowing the boiling water to spill across his beck and upper back.
John was right behind her. Sebastian staggered into a large chair, which put his head just low enough for John to crack it with his gun. Sebastian fell to the floor, dazed and blistering.
The two lackeys came in from the other room. The man was first, gun ready to fire. Molly chucked the lid of the pot at him, but she missed horribly. John tried to knock her out of the way before the man fired -
It sounded like a bone breaking under force, followed by three muffled screams from the masked man's mouth. His body fell sideways into the wall opposite the window, which had shattered inward.
Molly and John backed away from the remaining lackey, the masked woman, who had a Glock on them. She took a plastic bag and threw it over Sebastian's head, wrapping a cord around his neck for good measure.
John tried to put everything together: the shots were fired from outside, so she must be working with a partner. She was suffocating their enemy but that certainly didn't make her a friend.
Once Sebastian was unconscious, she ripped the bag open.
"What do you want?" Molly demanded. "What do all of you want? Who are you people?"
"Listen, my name is Riley, and all I want is out. Your detective friends will be here soon. You can wait for them here, or you can push off. I recommend the latter. Whatever you do, do not follow me."
Keeping her gun up, she backed out of the flat.
As soon as she was gone, Molly checked the fallen man's pulse. Begrudgingly, John followed her lead and checked Sebastian's.
"He's dead. Shot with a very large caliber bullet," Molly said.
"Moran's alive," John said. "I'm gonna tie his hands, just in case."
So, Molly and John waited in the flat as the sound of sirens became overwhelming.
Donovan sat with Molly in Lestrade's office as he took another go at John Watson.
"It won't be much longer," Donovan said, almost sympathetically. "Sebastian Moran is wanted for questioning in three countries. For criminal conspiracy and other charges in a few more. Nobody's questioning why you had him bound and unconscious."
"Then what are you questioning us about?" Molly asked, exhausted.
"John met with a woman called Isabelle Hennessy. Do you know who that is?"
"No," Molly answered honestly.
"Hennessy is an alias. Her real name is Indigo Kendall Berwyn. Do you know who that is?"
Molly nodded. "Of course I do. She, uh, John mentioned her. Said he wanted to find her because of what she did for Sherlock."
"Huh," Donovan said. "And this trip to Edinburgh. Care to explain?"
"Love to but I don't know myself. There was a lead... We thought it would lead us to the man who attacked me, and we were right."
"That's Gregory Wendell? The real Gregory Wendell, I mean," Donovan said.
"Yeah."
"And the woman who bagged Sebastian Moran. She said her name was Riley?"
"She did. But like I said, we didn't see her face."
"Wendell's wife's name is Riley."
"You think the man who attacked me, his wife is the person who saved us? That doesn't make any sense."
"That's not the only thing," Donovan said. "Dr. Hooper, I need to know. Is Sherlock Holmes alive?"
"That'd be nice," Molly replied. "I'm a pathologist. I don't investigate or any of this rubbish. Oh, sorry I didn't mean to... not that investigation is rubbish, just... I mean, I do post-mortems. I don't run around with guns and plastic bags and... it'd be nice, if Sherlock was here. He'd know what to do. He'd say horrible things, but he'd put it all together."
"Sorry, but you didn't answer my question. Is Sherlock Holmes alive?"
"'Course not," Molly replied. "Is that what this is about?"
Donovan didn't answer.
John Watson woke up the next day in his own bed. His memory was foggy, but he had half a mind to give to Sherlock for all the trouble. So he stumbled downstairs to his bedroom door.
It was only after he pushed it open that he realized that Sherlock wasn't there. Instead, Molly Hooper slept soundly in his place.
As quietly as he could, John backed out of the room and closed the door. As he became more alert, he realized that he hadn't heard from Sherlock since the day before, when he sent the two of them to Lestrade. He had specifically told them that he was following up a lead, and John was sure he mentioned contacting them later.
The clock read eight in the morning. So clearly, it was later, so where the hell was he?
Having no other recourse, John picked up his mobile and called Mycroft.
"Mycroft Holmes," he answered.
"It's John."
"Are you all right?"
"Yes. So's Molly. But we've not heard from Sherlock since yesterday, before they captured Moran."
"Is that unexpected? He is supposed to be hiding, you know."
"Maybe, but I expected him to come back and explain everything over again," John said. "Telling me how it's obvious that the woman who saved us was Wendell's wife because she tucked the left pant leg into her shoe or something."
"What?" Mycroft asked. "That's not a deduction."
"No, no. Lestrade told me one of Moran's men, Wendell, his wife had the same name as the woman who helped us," John replied. "I assumed Sherlock would show up and fill in the blanks. Give Molly the clear to go back to work. That kind of thing."
"It's true my brother has never missed an opportunity to show off," Mycroft said. "He didn't mention anything?"
"No, just a lead he was looking into. If it wasn't from you, must be from the homeless network. He showed me how his communication with them goes. I can touch base, retrace his steps - "
Mycroft interrupted, "Don't worry about this, John. I'm sure he'll turn up with ridiculous facial hair and a bad suit as soon as he gets the chance."
"I'd rather know where he is," John replied.
"If I discover anything, I will contact you. In the meantime, it might be prudent to cease contact, lest we draw the suspicions of Gregory Lestrade again."
"Right, of course," John said as he hung up.
Mycroft hesitated before hanging up. John Watson had often bridged the gap between the Holmes brothers, listening to Mycroft when Sherlock wouldn't take his calls. The man gave him a broad insight, a compass direction, on his younger brother's current condition. And though he assured John nothing was amiss, a knot had formed in his stomach.
It wasn't like Sherlock to miss a chance to tie a case together. Certainly not with Molly and John both wrapped up in the situation.
He didn't know, and couldn't know, where his brother was.
About an hour after the call between Mycroft and John, Sherlock Holmes came-to.
He couldn't remember what happened... his first thought was using. He'd fallen back on drugs more than once during his 'death' to dull the senses when he didn't have a case.
No. He was working a case. Closing in on Sebastian Moran, actually. But his memories were all frayed and broken, like a bad hang over. If it wasn't his own drug use, than someone must've knocked him out or drugged him. He quickly iterated through the affects and concluded the likely drug used was some form of GHB.
Sherlock moved. Dust and dirt cascaded around him. His wrists ached and felt chaffed, but there was no rope burn. Someone slipped him a drug and bound him to transport him somewhere. That didn't add up to anything good. He tried to lift his head. Everything ached.
As he took stock of his location, he slowly came to realize that someone had stuffed him inside of a wall. He had a nagging sensation that that person was the last person he spoke with before he blacked out: the Engineer.
<<< Previous Part:
Part Nine: A Little Inconvenience
Next Episode: >>>
S3E4 - Four Elizabeths
Primary Post: The Uncanny Valley - Series 3, Episode 3
Primary Post: Unfinished Business, or Series 3 (s03ff)