Human Error ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book IV}

Chapter CII - White Wedding

-Millie-

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There are so many people. I count seven individual men, all of them identical in their impeccable suits – save for slight variations in skin tone and hair colour – and identical in movement. They walk with alarming militarism, in unison, coming to a halt in front of us. 

At the centre of it all is James Moriarty: holding a cocktail in one hand, wearing a priceless pair of aviator sunglasses and, in a garish nod to warmer climates, a tropical lei around his neck.

He scans the room, lazy in his appreciation, taking in the blood and the bodies and the discarded gun. His gaze reduces them to children's toys; the bodies dolls, the blood artificial, the gun plastic. What was once a massacre is now distinctly unimpressive in the wake of this new threat. He smiles to himself, as if amused by our petty destruction, and then turns to the man next to me.

"Sorry I'm late. Just got back. You know, I think you'd have liked the Philippines – great drinks, lovely scenery, fantastic assassin scheme. I should have sent a postcard."

He reaches up and takes off his sunglasses, folding them neatly, tucking them into his trouser pocket. As he does so, I study the changes: he looks less like the heroin-frenzied mastermind in the Baker Street living room and more like the man from my memory; slick in a new suit, pricelessly tailored, deep burgundy, black shirt, black silk tie, silver serpent tie-pin. It stirs something strange in my mind, flickers, of a time I've marked as forgotten. Cigarette smoke. Umbrellas. Tea mugs. Long coats.

Moriarty lowers his glass. He points to the dead woman. "She was one of mine. So was he. And him. That's how I found you two. All that chasing, all those hitmen and code-breakers – in the end, it was easy. Isn't it funny? Little old me, winning over your friends, one by one, paycheque by paycheque. Isn't it familiar? Déjà vu."

I feel movement beside me – he's standing behind my chair, his hand on the back, his body warm. I look up at him. If he is anxious, he doesn't betray it; he regards Moriarty with apparent indifference. There is no signature ease, no charm, no warmth.

"I have no interest in your business," he says, evenly.

"Oh, but you should." Moriarty stops smiling. It drops suddenly, unexpectedly, and with it falls the charisma of his mask: his tone darkens, his voice lowers, his eyes take on a look that is restless and hungry and black with sinister excitement. "My business is your business now, Mr Yakovich. I'll show you."

Moriarty lifts his drink as if to salute his audience. It is a cue: five men move forward and, without stopping to slow their momentum, separate into two groups; one pair, one three. The pair take my arms, and I am hoisted from my seat, dragged to the left, held in front of James Moriarty like a choice meat in a butcher shop. It takes three men to restrain him. From what I hear, it is a vicious scuffle, but they have his arms, pull them back, keep him pinned between them like some savage animal prepped for euthanasia. The third man holds a silver gun to the back of his head, perhaps for additional security, but more likely for the theatrical tension it imparts.

"Miss Millie. How long it's been. Death really hasn't done you any favours." He lifts his gaze over my shoulder, addressing the sound behind me. "He's feisty, isn't he? Look at him go. I'm surprised he hasn't broken you yet – there's only so much action a porcelain girl can take. Tell me, how's motherhood treating you?"

His question echoes, rebounds, deflected off the inside wall of my skull. The words to my answer feel like glass in my mouth. I do not speak.

Moriarty continues without pausing to acknowledge my struggle. "I've got something for you. I know, I know, I shouldn't have, but I saw it and just couldn't resist." He holds out his free hand; one of the men at his side steps forwards and hands him a sheet of paper. "I can see you're a little tied up at the moment, so I'll read it for you. Are you ready?"