Orphan on Baker Street

Twenty Eighth: Graves

I sit on a barstool at "The Velvet Poodle" and eye the door warily. It's been almost an hour of me waiting; shouldn't it be the other way around? My palms are sweaty, so I wipe them on my jeans. Despite my choice of trousers, I look nicer than I did the last time I came here. This time, I look like I showed up voluntarily. A soft piano plays in the background as my eyes focus on the opening door. My heart beat speeds up as I see that it's Moriarty.

Don't get me wrong: I'm happy that he's here after waiting for so long, but I'm still pretty nervous. He smiles at me as he walks over, giving my exposed arms goosebumps.

"I'm glad you got with the program. That's a nice shirt," he says smoothly, sliding onto a stool beside me. It's a black peplum top with short sleeves and a rhinestoned collar.

"Thanks," I respond shyly.

"I was worried you wouldn't be here," he tells me sadly. Then he waves the bartender over and orders a whiskey. "I'm glad you showed, though. I've got a nice night for us planned."

"What do you mean?" I ask. "How do you know I'm even going to accept?" I continue playfully. "Maybe I'm just wasting your time."

"Maybe you told Sherlock, and maybe you two devised a plan," he says evenly. The bartender sets down a short, square glass filled with a bronze liquid in front of Moriarty. "I've got eyes everywhere, Mick. It was clever of you to go to that diner," he grins at me. "And it was so convenient that you sat in the back corner behind Bruce."

Suddenly, he frowns at me. "Poor little Mickey and Sherlock didn't even notice. Then Greg came in and just lit up the room, didn't he? Sherlock thinks he's going to help. I've already got people on Lestrade; if Sherlock thinks Lestrade's there to help, he's going to be in for a treat." Moriarty takes a slow sip from the glass in front of him. I imagine myself tipping it up further and ruining his clothes before using the distraction to flee, but I stay still.

The man pushes back his sleeve to glance down at a watch. "We've got places to be, Mickey!" He smiles over at me. Then a hand grips me firmly by the elbow. I flinch and glance behind myself.

A tall, broad-shouldered man stands in a suit and glares down at me. When I look back over at Moriarty, he's standing and knocking back the rest of his whiskey.

"Come on, you two." Then he walks towards the door with the tall man pulling me behind him. I try not to struggle; Moriarty has lived up to Sherlock's expectations. Did anyone anticipate this happening, other than Moriarty?

We walk up to a black car on the curb, and the man holding my elbow opens the back door. Moriarty reaches under the seat and pulls out a white cloth with pink polka dots.

"I have an odd taste in blindfolds," he tells me with a casual chuckle. Now I struggle.

My foot swings up and kicks the taller man's knee; he screams in pain and reaches for his leg, and I wriggle from his grasp. Moriarty reaches for my hair, and I almost fall to the ground. He pulls me back to him awkwardly, and I try to turn so that I can see him. My face points down, and someone limps behind me. A polka dotted cloth enters my line of vision, and I feel it being tied behind my head.

Moriarty releases my hair and smooths it down for me, placing part of it over one shoulder. "I'm sorry I had to do that," he says angrily. "I just thought I could trust you." There's silence, and I'm nudged forward. A hand guides me into the car, pushing my head down; the door slams shut.

We drive in silence for a while. A few times, we stop, and my heart becomes erratic, but then we turn or just continue straight. Eventually, we stop and stay there. I hear car doors open and close and open again. Someone's long fingers latch around my arm and helps me out of the car. My lack of fear surprises me, and I focus on walking without falling.

The hand moves over, arm across my back, and rests on my shoulder. "Tell me, Mickey: where do you think we are?"

"Um," I stutter. "Maybe some sort of house."

"Some sort of house," Moriarty chuckles. "Smell the air." I breathe in deeply. The scent of wet dirt hits my nose full force, and my face scrunches up.

"Swamp?" I try again.

"That's a better guess," he tells me. "Let me give you a hint: it's in your near future."

I quickly yank my blindfold down. In front of me is a wide, flat field; there's dew on the grass, which means it rained and explains the wet dirt smell. But when my eyes fall to a few feet in front of Moriarty and me, I see a pile of mud beside each of the 5 rectangular shaped holes in the ground. I gulp.

"Are these... graves?" I ask. Now I feel fear.

"How observant of you. Yes, these are graves. Can you guess which 5 people from your life I chose to bury here?"

I shake my head, too sick to think. The smell of mud is so strong that I can practically taste it. My gaze wanders over to look at Moriarty, whose hair looks very shiny under the moon; everything is illuminated by the moon, which makes it all the more eery - and a little suspicious, seeing as it recently rained.

"Let's go over here," he says, lacing his fingers into mine. I limply wrap my fingers around his as I follow him like a zombie not very far away from our original spot. Two fresh graves sit beside each other under a lone tree. Its branches are sprouting new leaves, and I notice flowers buds here and there.

"I thought it was a nice place to put them," he says fondly. "And I thought you might like it." I look over at him to find him watching my face.

"Who are they?" My voice is shaky and low. Moriarty flashes a smile at me.

"Actually, there's just one full grave. The shadow of the tree makes it look like the second one is filled."

"Then who is it?" I ask again, baring my teeth.

"Your mother," he says lightly. My bottom lip quivers as I stare at him, taking in his nonchalant expression.