Fic: Run, Neon Tiger 1/6

[unsentimentalf]

Title:Run, Neon Tiger (1/6)
Author: Unsentimental Fool
Rating: PG-13 (this part), R/NC-17 (whole)
Pairings (approximately): (whole) John/Sherlock, Sherlock/Moriarty, Moriarty/Moran, Moran/John
Word count: 4,400 (this part)
Summary: When there's a massacre at London Zoo Sherlock has no difficulty identifying the culprit, but John is sure that this time Sherlock has to be wrong.
Notes: Sequel to Burning Bright.

Run, neon tiger, there's a price on your head (The Killers)



"Wake up. We're going to the Zoo."

"What?" John propped himself up, blinked at his clock. "Sherlock! It's five in the morning! I don't think they even open until nine."

"Six bodies so far. The whole of the night shift is dead or missing. Come on, John! Before the evidence is trampled." Sherlock was wrapped in his dressing gown, impatiently opening John's drawers, pulling out clothes. "If you don't move I'll go without you."

"OK. I'm coming. Give a man a chance. Five minutes. And you do know that you need to dress too?"

"No more than five minutes." Sherlock tossed what appeared to be a random selection of items on the bed. As he walked out John blinked, surprised. "Sherlock!"

"What?" Sherlock's long frame bent back around the door.

"What's that on your ankle?"

"Nothing. Hurry up." And the man disappeared. John could have sworn he'd seen a flash of metal around the bare skin. It might have been one of those magnetic bracelets, but John couldn't see Sherlock going in for pseudo science. Some sort of experiment, he supposed, and Sherlock in too much of a hurry to explain.

If there was anything it was neatly hidden by trousers and socks when John got downstairs. Sherlock was pacing. How he could dress so immaculately in such a short time baffled John, but then a lot of things about Sherlock were beyond his comprehension.

"Right, I'm ready. I hope they have breakfast. It's years since I've been to the Zoo. Do you think anyone will notice if I sneak off to see the elephants?"

"I doubt if anyone, myself excepted, will notice you're there at all, John. But if you could leave your elephant watching until I have no further use for you that would be appreciated."

Sherlock was right, as usual, if unflattering. Holding Sherlock's coffee was about all he usually contributed directly to these cases. Still, he wouldn't miss it for the world, so if Sherlock wanted his coffee held, that was fine by him.

"What do you know so far?"

"Lots of bodies with bullets in them. Lestrade thinks it's animal rights extremists." That with some disdain.

"You don't, then?"

"Data, first."

Regent's Park was five minutes in a taxi. As John paid the driver he could see the entrance to the zoo already crowded with police. Staff arriving for the morning shifts were being turned away. Sherlock and John got waved through by one of Lestrade's people, and met by the man himself just inside.

"We've got bodies all over the place," he started without preamble. "Eight of them. All the night staff are now accounted for, meaning dead. No sign of anyone else. No reports of a disturbance. The shift change just came in and found them."

"Show me where the bodies are." Sherlock reached out for a guidebook from the kiosk, turned it to the map.

"Three in the control room, here. Five out on patrol; roughly here, here, here, here and here." He pointed at places widely spaced on the map.

"All the same cause of death?"

"Rifle bullets. Silenced, we presume; we didn't get any reports of gunfire."

"What about CCTV?"

"The whole zoo's blanked from 2:34am onwards. This is a frighteningly professional job, Sherlock. We didn't think the animal rights nutters could pull off something like this."

Sherlock turned the map round in his hands. "Control room first."

John followed him up to the main buildings. There wasn't much to be gained from his examination of the bodies at Sherlock's request. They'd been murdered from the doorway, one well placed shot each, had been dead for two to three hours. The doors had normally been kept unlocked; there was a security pass system that Sherlock snorted derision at. "How many people had London Zoo marked passes? Fifty? One person lost a pass, or had it stolen, or sold it, that's all it takes. That's not a security system, that's an open invitation."

The remaining five men and women were lying where they had been shot around the walkways of the zoo. It took a couple of hours for Sherlock's painstaking examination, them his reconstruction of angles and distances to be complete. Eventually he gestured to the map.

"See, John. One gunman, alone. This was his route; control first, then around each of these loops of pathways, entirely systematic, making sure that the patrollers never encountered a body to raise the alarm."

He lifted his head. "Are animals always this noisy?"

Now he'd mentioned it, John couldn't ignore the continuous bellowing and shrieking. "I don't know."

"Find me someone who does." He went back to looking at his map.

Someone turned out to be a Dr Robinson, the Curator of Mammals, who was arguing vehemently with Lestrade. John persuaded them both back to where Sherlock was now sitting on a park bench contemplating the silent giraffe.

"Zoo animals are creatures of routine, Mr Holmes. Regular meals, regular visits from keepers- you can hear their distress. As I have been explaining to the Inspector, my people have to be allowed back to work."

Lestrade shook his head. Later, John knew, Greg would be tired and distressed himself by the deaths but now he was working."I have eight murder victims and a major investigation spread out across the whole of the zoo. I can't possibly allow staff back in yet. If there's anything at particular risk tell me and we'll see what we can do. Otherwise the animals will have to go hungry for a few hours longer."

The curator was starting again when Sherlock interrupted. "So no-one has actually checked that everything is still in its cage?"

"I did think of that by myself, thank you, Sherlock." Lestrade said. "These people usually release animals but I've had everyone on the lookout and no-one's reported any strays at all. I guess that they must have been disturbed before they got a chance."

"A particularly poor guess, given that everyone who might have disturbed your single gunman is dead. He had plenty of time to do what he came for; nothing whatsoever to do with animal liberation."

"Theft?" The curator sounded even more anxious.

"Can you steal zoo animals? Would anyone buy them?" Lestrade asked, sceptically.

"Oh yes. Our parrot collection alone would be worth millions. Then there are the marmosets, and the reptiles- it really is essential that we are allowed to check the animals, Inspector! If they've been stolen for the black market we need to recover them urgently. The conservation consequences could be huge."

"I suppose a limited audit, accompanied by my officers..."

Sherlock snorted. "Don't bother. Whatever a marmoset might be I imagine it's safe. This hunter was after big game." He swept his coat up and set off down a pathway, came to a halt in front of a large enclosure. "What's kept in here?"

"Sumatran tigers. One of our rarest species."

"How many?"

"Two. We're hoping for cubs in the Spring."

"You're going to be disappointed."

The curator shook his head. "No, stealing a tiger would be impossible. One of them's on its platform- see? Just the edge of its back? It can be quite difficult if you're not used to... where are you going? That shouldn't be open!"

That was a metal side door, lock smashed. Sherlock pushed it open, went inside. John could see another door hanging open inside.

"You mustn't go in there! The tigers are extremely territorial! Mr Holmes!"

Sherlock stuck his head out. "Watch the one on that platform, John, and if it moves, please shout "Run" very loudly indeed."

"Sherlock!"

He disappeared again. John resisted the temptation to follow; instead he watched the stripe of orange and black, heart in his mouth. It would be just like Sherlock to get eaten by a bloody tiger.

Silence for a couple of minutes, then movement next to the tiger stripe. He was about to shout when the figure on the platform stood up.

"You can all come in." Sherlock called. "Two less Sumatran tigers, Doctor, I'm afraid."

The dead tiger seemed huge, stretched out on the platform, face frozen in a snarl. John knelt down to touch the soft fur, expose the singed bullet hole in the chest. Shot at point blank range. "Where's the other one?"

Sherlock jerked his head towards the headless and bloody carcass that John had assumed was the tigers' dinner. "He took the male's pelt."

Robinson was shaking his head, clearly horrified. "This is dreadful."

"More dreadful than eight of your staff being murdered?" Lestrade asked, curtly.

"No!" His response was sharp. "Of course not! But these animals are entrusted to our care. Who would have done something like this?"

"More relevant, who could have done something like this?" Sherlock said. "There might be a handful of men in London capable of killing all your staff and two tigers without raising an alarm, but I believe there is only one capable of skinning one of them quickly and neatly afterwards."

He pulled out his phone, flashed a photo at Lestrade. "Colonel Sebastian Moran. 35 years old. Ex-British Army, dishonourable discharge, ran a mercenary unit in south Asia. Officially he now runs a legitimate security consultancy for firms trading in Pakistan and Afghanistan. Actually he shoots people for Jim Moriarty. No criminal record. Tigers are a bit of a hobby of his. He's got a number of identifying scars but I suggest you start off with Yellow Pages; his company's listed.

Lestrade frowned at the picture. "Evidence? I can't get a warrant on "Sherlock Holmes says it was him".

"He's not going to leave fingerprints scattered around or buy guns on the open market. Hard evidence will be difficult."

"Right. Evidence that he works for Moriarty?"

"None."

"Illegal weapons? Parking tickets? Library fines? Anything at all that I can pick him up on?"

"You won't find a thing. He'll be clean."

Lestrade sighed. "What the hell am I meant to do, then? I could at least get the contraband group on it, see if they have any ideas about where the skin will be sold. It must be worth a fortune."

"Don't bother. It won't be sold. Jim Moriarty wanted a new rug, and he's got it."

Lestrade hissed shock and disapproval. "You're telling me that I have eight bereaved families to deal with because your Moriarty wanted to redecorate his living room? That's really sick."

"Not 'my' Moriarty." Sherlock said. "And would it have been better if he'd wanted to sell it for a million pounds and redecorate his living room with the proceeds?"

"No, I suppose not. But it would have been less insane."

John had barely heard most of that exchange. "Let me see that."

The man in the snap was leaning back in a chair behind an laptop on an office desk. His blue eyes were bright and he was smiling, lips closed. He'd picked up a couple of scars, but other than that he barely seemed to have changed in the eight years since John had last seen him. Seb Moran.

"You can't be sure it was him."

Sherlock was watching him. "Ah. You know him. You served together." A pause. "You were friends." And softer, unusual for Sherlock. "I'm sorry. Yes I can."

He wanted to challenge Sherlock about where the photo came from but he suspected it was dirty linen and Lestrade was present. "Yes, I knew him. A long time ago. I think I'll go and find those elephants. Give me a call if you need me."

He'd have to talk to Sherlock. He'd have to talk to Lestrade. This was a murder investigation; his feelings didn't count for anything compared to the dead, and justice for them. But for now no-one called him back as he walked away.

The police had set up operations in a lecture theatre heavily plastered with educational posters about wild animals. John drank coffee and tried not to read a display about the disappearance of big cats in the wild between Lestrade's questions about Moran.

He was aware of Sherlock sitting quietly to one side, for once not interrupting. John was pretty sure that neither questions nor answers were important. His recollection of army life with a man he'd not seen for eight years wasn't going to give the police any breakthroughs. It was routine, done only because the connection was there. If it was there. Still nothing but Sherlock's conviction linked Moran to the zoo or to Moriarty.

"What was he like? He was a good officer." He shrugged. "A bit reckless, sometimes, but not aggressive. He was a damn good shot, and a good tactician. If you'd asked me what I thought would happen to him, I'd have said he had a promising military career ahead of him. If he really had any involvement in this I can't explain it, except that war damages people sometimes. I guess he might have got damaged."

He could see the slightest shake of Sherlock's head; whether for the question or the answer, he couldn't guess. He suspected that Sherlock had much better questions, but was waiting until they were alone. That was all right; he had questions for Sherlock of his own.

Lestrade nodded. "I'll call you if I think of anything else. I'll keep your theory in mind, of course, Sherlock. I can put limited surveillance on Moran and get border controls to watch for him leaving the country but I can't do anything else without any evidence at all."

"I'll get you evidence." Sherlock promised. "But it might take time."

"Don't take too long. The media are in a frenzy already and we haven't released the news about the dead tigers yet. I can't hold that back longer than the press conference this afternoon. Cute animals and mass murder- speculation is going to go absolutely wild and no-one's going to like it if we look as if we have nothing at all."

John half expected Sherlock to start haring across London but the taxi deposited them at their own front door. They went up in silence.

"I need something to eat." They'd missed breakfast and it was getting late for lunch. "Do you want a sandwich, Sherlock?"

"Yes. Fine." Sherlock had gone straight to his laptop, didn't raise his head. John rolled his shoulders, aware of the tension in them, and in the room. He put the kettle on, made them both cheese sandwiches, took plates and mugs back into the living room.

"Are you researching Seb, then?"

Sherlock looked up. "Seb. Not Moran. You were rather closer than you admitted to Lestrade, John."

John settled into his chair with a plate. It was disconcerting to have Sherlock analyse him like this, today. "Not very close, really. But he was a friend, yes. Where did you take that photo?"

"His office." Sherlock's gaze was back on the screen again.

"What were you doing there?" Silence. "Sherlock! You're accusing my friend of murder. At least let me know why!"

Sherlock's head came up again and he looked at John without expression. "Sebastian Moran was my escort to meet Jim Moriarty."

Three weeks ago Sherlock had left John a message claiming that he was following a new lead on a rather old and cold blackmail case and that he might be absent for a couple of days. John had waited through 24 hours of not getting any replies to calls or messages before he'd contacted Mycroft, who had been given an equally vague but completely different story.

Mycroft had traced Sherlock's phone to a country hotel with an unidentifiable owner and a remarkably unbreachable level of security, and the two of them had been debating the merits of sending in a team to recover Sherlock, given that he appeared to be there of his own free will, when he had called to demand extraction.

Faced with the two of them, Sherlock had reluctantly come clean. He'd gone to meet Jim Moriarty, by prior arrangement, with the intention of getting as much data as he could on the man. It had always been obvious that Jim knew far more about Sherlock than he did about the criminal; this was a chance to even up the score. Moriarty's motives for the invitation were less clear, as usual. It had taken the best part of a day of being shunted around before they'd actually met, talked, had dinner, talked again until Sherlock had decided that it was time to leave. That was all. He had some better insight into the man now, some clues that Moriarty dropped about his plans. Since neither John nor Mycroft would have appreciated the risk involved, he'd chosen not to tell them.

Sherlock had refused to say what the talks had been about. Moriarty had been adamant that they were to remain private. If he thought Sherlock had talked about them the consequences could be unpleasant, not so much for Sherlock but for his audience.

"You didn't mention Moran."

Sherlock spread his hands, possibly genuinely innocent this time. "There are thousands of British Army officers. He left shortly after you enlisted. I had no reason to think that you'd know him."

"What was he doing there?"

"He was Jim's bodyguard. The tiger stuff's online."

"And the rug? How did you know about that?"

"Moriarty mentioned it."

John exhaled sharply."That couldn't be an accident. He knew you'd immediately think of the two of them together when the tiger was killed. He's framing Seb for it, Sherlock. He has to be. You said yourself there's no evidence."

"Interesting theory." Sherlock's expression hadn't changed. "Unnecessary, but interesting. Why would he need to frame Moran? The man works for him."

"Because...." John paused. Inspiration struck. "Because Moran's Special Ops. That's why he left the army, why he's hanging out with with Moriarty. And Moriarty's found out, but instead of just killing him he's going to get him framed for a massacre because he's that sort of sick bastard. It all makes sense, Sherlock!"

"Possibly. However I favour my rather simpler explanation, which is that Sebastian Moran killed eight people because his boss told him to, and skinned the tiger. I met him, John. He's not one of the good guys."

John's chin was set. "What did you actually see him do, Sherlock, that was so terrible?"

"He's Moriarty's favourite sniper. His hands are hardly going to be clean."

"Nothing, then." John said triumphantly.

"I did the research. He's rumoured to be implicated in a dozen killings, John, and that's before Moriarty."

"Rumours. You met him, he did that Clint Eastwood impression he's always been so good at, and you took a look at his carefully puffed up reputation and decided he's a cold blooded killer. I know him, Sherlock. He's a soldier, not a murderer. He didn't do this." For once Sherlock had to listen to him. It couldn't have been Moran.

"John!" Sherlock's voice was sharp. "Seb Moran is not a secret agent and not just a bodyguard. He doesn't only kill for Moriarty; he lets the man inflict sex with extreme violence on him. He's into Jim's affairs up to his neck. Either you were wrong about the sort of person he was, or he's changed."

"No." John was adamant. "I'm going to talk to him, find out what's going on. He probably doesn't even know that I know you."

Sherlock huffed amusement at that. "He knows all about you, John. He had a little red laser sight on your chest. One gesture from Moriarty and he would have blown a hole straight through his old army comrade's heart. Don't rely on sentiment keeping you safe from him."

"Seb won't hurt me." John was certain. "I'm not going to threaten him. Just talk."

"Tigris Security."

"I'd like to speak to Sebastian Moran, please."

"Speaking." The voice was matter of fact.

"Right. This is John Watson. From the Fusiliers? Ex-Fusiliers, I should say. I'm a civilian now."

"John!" Seb's voice turned warm. "This is unexpected. What can I do for you?"

"Could you spare some time for a chat, Seb? It's important."

"Of course. I was on my way over to the office; have you got the address?"

"Yeah, I've got it. Half an hour?"

"See you then."

John hung up, looked across at Sherlock. "I am going."

"Obviously." Sherlock said. "Remember he's a murder suspect. This could be dangerous. You should let me come with you."

"No, thank you. I'll do this on my own."

The door carried a small sign; "Tigris Security". John rang the bell and waited.

Seb Moran opened the door. "John. Come in." Downstairs was a neat office, looking well established. Seb went straight for the kettle. So much for Sherlock's warnings of danger.

"Still one sugar?"

John exhaled. Of course he would remember. "No. Given it up. I don't get as much exercise as I did."

"Spend too much time behind a desk myself these days." Moran was casual, as if it hasn't been eight years and whatever else in between. And Moriarty- John couldn't hold Jim Moriarty and Seb Moran in his head together. It made no sense.

He took a seat in front of the desk familiar from Sherlock's photo, wondering how to start.

"You know why I'm here, I suppose. Do you know why I'm here?"

"I can guess." Moran turned round from the drinks. "You shouldn't have come. I can't help you."

"I just need to know a few things."

"No." Moran's voice was harsh. "I can't talk about active operations, Watson. You know how that works."

"Is that what this is? Whose operation?"

"No. No guesses, no denials, no processes of elimination. I'm not talking, John."

John watched the familiar face, the bright blue eyes, the frown. When Seb declared something like that he didn't shift. "You're going to have to talk to the police. They think you killed those people at the zoo."

"No they don't." Moran poured hot water onto instant coffee. "Your partner thinks that. If the police thought that they'd have been here. Instead I get you. Here."

"Thanks," John looked around for a coaster, and Moran pushed a blank pad of paper towards him. "Did you kill them?"

Seb tipped his head to one side, considering John. " Now why would you take his word without evidence?"

"I didn't say I did."

"Enough to feel the need to come and ask me if I've become a murderer. What did he tell you about me, John?"

John sipped at his coffee, wondering how to respond. Eventually he put the mug down.

"He told me that you're working for Jim Moriarty. That you kill people for him."

Moran raised an eyebrow, waiting.

"That's it, really."

"Really?" Sceptical.

"And he sort of indicated that... that you might be in a relationship with Moriarty," John tried, uncomfortably.

Moran's snort was amused but uninformative. "You're used to believing him, aren't you?"

"Yes. Absolutely." He paused, considering. "About murderers, anyway. About whether he used the last of the milk- less so. He's not so reliable at the personal level."

Seb was watching John's fingers wrapped around the coffee mug. "How personal do you two get?"

"I'm not..." John swallowed the routine phrase. Seb would laugh at him. "We're just friends. Not that it's your business."

"Listen to me. Your Holmes- all this is at the personal level, for him. Just remember that."

"You mean Moriarty?"

"I mean all this. Watch yourself, John. You're hooked up with someone far more unreliable and dangerous than you imagine and you've got to keep your head or he'll drag you down with him."

John grimaced. "I think I came to say that to you."

"No stars in my eyes. Not this time."

John shook his head, rejecting the reference, the memory. "Sherlock Holmes is a good man, Seb."

"No he isn't. Not the way you want him to be."

He felt indignation, warm across his stomach. "You don't know him like I do."

"That much is certainly true." Moran drained his mug. "I think we're done here, for now. Meeting like this is possibly unwise for either of us." He reached out a hand to John. "It was good to see you again, though."

John pulled away, stood up, still annoyed. "According to Sherlock you've seen me before. Wrong end of a laser sight."

"No comment." Seb's mouth twisted upwards. "Operational issues."

"It's not funny!" He contemplated Seb's widening smile. "Okay, it's a bit funny." Only for two old soldiers. "But eight people died last night, Seb. Unarmed security guards, not soldiers, and Sherlock says you killed them. I thought if I talked to you I'd know that you couldn't have done it."

"Instead now you think I could have done?" Seb was dry, apparently unconcerned.

John took a deep breath, met the sharp blue eyes. "No. I know Sherlock, but I know you as well. Nothing would have induced you to do it eight years ago. I don't think you've changed that much. I don't know what you're into, here, but you're still a good man."

"Me too? John Watson, you have an unshakeable belief in the virtue of the people around you. Attempting to live up to your expectations has always been almost too tempting to resist. Unfortunately I do have other commitments."

He pulled the door open. "Send my regards to Mr Holmes. I believe I owe him a set. I expect I'll see you both shortly in Scotland Yard if he's sufficiently insistent about pinning the zoo murders on me."

"What are you going to do about not talking about operational issues then, Seb?"

Sebastian looked back, amused. " I have done you the courtesy, as an ex-comrade in arms, of not spinning you the cover. I have no such scruples with the police."

"Or Sherlock?"

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't matter, not if the police won't act on his suspicions. Goodbye, John." His handshake was warm and tight and utterly unyielding.

Chapter 2 Afternoon Tea