JIM MORIARTY
It shouldn’t have surprised anybody.
It did, of course. That was half the fun of it.
But it shouldn’t have.
Who would believe that I, of all people, would throw my life away for the sake of a childish rivalry? Apparently all of London had. Even he did, and he wasn’t even ordinary. Pitiful.
Why would it shock anyone to learn that I had faked my own death when he had done the same? Apparently, it makes more sense to fake your death by leaping from the top of a hospital than it does to blow your brains out. Obvious, really. Obvious and boring.
I don’t do boring. Hence the roof. Hence the gun. Hence not being dead. Psych! No-one saw that coming.
Not London.
Not Mycroft.
Not Mary.
Not Johnny-boy.
Not him.
Not The Virgin.
Not Sherlock Holmes.
I rubbed the bandages behind my ears. They bloody itched. The surgeon would make them not itch, if he knew what was good for him. Still, all things considered, it was a small price to pay for a continued mortal existence. Sherlock was stupid. If he’d been paying more attention to me and less to how to beat me, then he might’ve seen the telltale scars behind the lobule, even in spite of the makeup. He might’ve guessed the ruse - that it wasn’t me at all.
It wasn’t hard, finding someone to blow their head off for me. All you have to do is threaten their entire family, and suddenly you can have a whole line of people waiting to commit suicide for you. So much for sentiment.
A scalpel, a hairline cut, a cautious shifting of skin, of hair, of follicles. If you have the money, plastic surgery can make you a twin in two hours. One, if the surgeon is good. And he had to be good. I couldn’t let just any street corner doctor wannabe swap my beautiful face out for an afternoon. I had to be good, too. It was hard, finding someone in England who was my stature, weight, and hair color with a loving wife and children that could be bumped off if compliance even looked like it might be an issue.
Harder still was finding someone who sounded like me. Oh, that was dull. Hours and hours of CCTV feed, audio enabled, waiting for that special someone. I found him, of course. In a world of nine billion people, statistics demands that there be someone genetically similar to you somewhere.
The rehearsal was boring. It was fun at first to watch him shake and cry, but it got so dull so quickly. It was important, though. I couldn’t let Sherlock doubt the authenticity of the Moriarty in front of him for even a millisecond. So we practiced, he and I. I invented the most probable dialogue. I gave him a flesh-colored ear mike, invisible to the naked eye. I sat in one room, he in another, and relayed instructions. How to sit. What to say. Sometimes even when to blink.
I knew it was unimaginative, that I was repeating myself. But this time, there were no bombs. No semtex. Just two men on a roof, one of whom had a little voice buzzing in his ear.
The test run was the visit to Baker Street after the trial. It hadn’t been hard to swap our places in prison the night before. It hadn’t even been vaguely challenging. How Scotland Yard kept anybody at all under lock and key was a mystery. He didn’t have to speak at the trial - that was the point. The jury gave the verdict - not guilty. Surprise, surprise.
I walked him out of the courthouse. I had him hail a cab. He entered 221B, paused on the stair when I told him to. The conversation with Sherlock went flawlessly. I’d predicted most of it ahead of time, of course. The bit with the apple was improvised, the minute my camera angle showed them sitting on the table, but he handled it perfectly. Funny how having one’s entire life on the line can do that to a man.
And on the rooftop - perfect. A story well-told drawn to conclusion. My mimic spilled his brains all over the roof and Sherlock jumped. The balance of probability said that there were 16 ways the detective could have survived, if he were clever enough to think of them all. So then it became the Great Waiting Game. Two years passed, and I saw signs of my magnum opus, my global crime syndicate, falling to pieces. Not dead, then. Good.
Sherlock Holmes is not ordinary.
When my Twitter account started blowing up with #SherlockLives, I knew it was time to start watching. I watched, and I found an ally. Someone new, but not new.
Someone unexpected.
Someone in media.
I liked Magnussen. He knew how to play. He was creative. It was his proposal to have Johnny-boy kidnapped. Not the most original idea, I grant you, but crashing the kids' Bonfire Night party was a clever touch, and it sure was cute watching Sherlock pull his pet out from the flames.
Oh, that video. Mmm. There was artistry there. The panic in the detective’s eyes as his poor dear heart burned - literally burned - was like listening to my own personal orchestra reach crescendo. If he would have known I was watching, I’m sure he could have appreciated the irony.
I wasn’t sad to see Magnussen die.
He was clever.
He knew how to play.
And that was the problem, really. He was in too good a position to try and unseat me. Had Sherlock perished as I’d intended, then fighting the businessman would have been an acceptable distraction. As it was, I had bigger fish to fry, so I watched Sherlock pull the trigger and knew it was my turn.
There was a new game to play.
The stakes were higher.
The pawns were on the front lines, within shooting distance.
Did you miss me?
I knew he had.
Did you miss me?
He was nothing without me.
Did you miss me?
It would appear that I still owed Sherlock Holmes a fall.
And now, thanks to Magnussen, I knew exactly where to begin.
*****
JOHN WATSON
It was a Thursday, just past mid-afternoon. John sighed, sweeping his eyes for the umpteenth time over the corpse sprawled on the floorboards. Obvious death by strangulation - Even I could see as much, he thought blithely - but what no-one could fathom was how the murderer had gotten into the room. Sherlock had not been interested initially, bored by the recent upswing in locked-room mysteries, but upon surveying the crime scene, he was forced to admit it was intriguing.
A lone man, 45, overweight, presumable liver damage, walks into an abandoned manor house on the edge of London and locks all the doors and windows from the inside. There are no other apparent openings into the building; besides there being no skylights to speak of, the fireplace was walled in a few years ago. 48 hours later, the man is found dead by the groundskeeper, an elderly fellow with the only key to the house.
Lestrade had detained the groundskeeper on the premise that, self-admittedly, he was the only one with the key and ergo the only one who could have entered, killed the victim, and left, securing the door behind him. Sherlock, however, had dismissed that theory immediately upon seeing the suspect. The gardener was old, ailing, and though still wiry from years of yard work, certainly in no condition to asphyxiate a younger, if slightly obese, man.
Sherlock, having once interrogated the groundskeeper, who knew nothing of the affair and had seen no-one suspicious on or near the premises, turned to the crime scene itself. The old manor was deserted and had been for nearly two decades. The bank owned the property and the gardener's salary was paid by a contracted trust fund left by the deceased owner. The old man came in once a week to trim the grass and the shrubbery. Once upon a time, he had also touched up the paint, but age had taken his ability to climb a ladder, and so the white trim was flaking and the siding had definitely seen better days. It was, in John’s opinion, altogether spooky.
Sherlock first went over every inch of the landscape, front and back. All the evidence suggested that no-one had approached the house but the victim in the last week, which corroborated the gardener's claim that he hadn't been in since the previous week's Tuesday. Sherlock announced that some workmen had passed by yesterday morning, judging by the imprint of the boots in the rain-softened gravel road, but that they too were free of suspicion as they had continued south away from the manor, and anyway, the murder had occurred two days prior, not one.
Inside the house, things were even more dilapidated than the exterior. There was an utter dearth of furniture - the DI's records showed that everything had been auctioned off after the last owner's funeral. The oak floor was molding and bowed with damp, and though there were fittings for the electric light, there were no bulbs in any of the light sockets.
The body lay face-down in the center of the living room, a thin, purpling bruise running around his neck like a mocking piece of jewelry.
"Suicide?" Lestrade suggested. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched.
"Hardly. Observe - the bruising is more severe on the back of the neck. Had he strangled himself, the bruises would have been most noticeable on his front, unless you're telling me that he succeeded in reaching around his considerable girth and choked himself from behind. Besides, if he did this himself, then where's the weapon? No cord, no rope, no chain... Surely even you can see quite plainly that whoever did this was behind the victim."
"Yeah, alright, fair enough," Lestrade grumbled. "So how did they do it, then? The killer?"
The dark-haired detective frowned. "Give me a moment."
John and the detective inspector watched in silence from the doorway as Sherlock padded around the room's perimeter, taking note of everything - the length of the floorboards, the pattern of mold clinging to the plaster walls, the height of the useless chandelier off the floor - and though the doctor had seen him do it countless times on countless cases, he still could not fathom what conclusion the detective would draw from the scant evidence.
"John," Sherlock said eventually. "Remind me what we know about the victim."
Lestrade withdrew a Manila folder from his briefcase and handed it to the blonde man. He’d perused the contents this morning, but for those mere mortals without a mind palace, it was nice to have a reference sheet.
"Uh, George Rockwell," John read, "45 years old, and working as a tube driver for the last ten. He had a wife, Linda, and an eighth-year boy named -"
"Right, that'll do." Sherlock cut him off, not even bothering to look up from his examination of the deceased. "Rockwell was using his position as a tube driver to run a small smuggling operation - nothing major, probably fine jewelry forgeries, judging by his ring. You can see from the contents of his pockets that he was a gambler - a casino card, for starters, and a personalized die. A gambler, then, who forges jewelry. Likely put one of his pieces down as a wager and got himself in over his head when the fellow he played learned about the swappery."
"Brilliant." John had said it, and it was true. Sherlock put two and two together and didn't just get four - he got four and the life story of the guy who'd posed the equation.
"But that doesn't solve it, does it?" an exasperated detective inspector exclaimed. "How did the killer get in?"
"Simple," Sherlock replied, smacking his lips in satisfaction. "There is absolutely no way that the killer could have broken into the house after Rockwell was inside."
"Then why -"
"So he was here earlier?" John asked, cutting in. "The killer beat Rockwell to the house?"
"Exactly," Sherlock nodded. "They probably set up a meeting in advance to settle the issue - something like 'bring what you owe to the old Shadwell manor on Tuesday, or else'. The killer got to the house before Rockwell, and either let the victim barricade himself inside before he strangled him or locked everything up after he finished the job as a blind. He had a copy of the gardener's key with him to lock the door on his way out. And there it is. Arrest Matthew Saltzberg on the charge of hiring an assassin to solve his personal problems, and you'll have a case fitted."
Lestrade gaped at the detective. "Saltzberg? The director of the leading arts emporium in central London? And how could you possibly know the killer had another key? I swear you make these things up to infuriate the rest of us."
Sherlock groaned. "Yes, Gray, that Saltzberg."
"Greg."
"Whatever. He's the only frequenter of The Sportsman Casino with a good reason to accept a silver bracelet as a wager."
"A silver bracelet?"
"Obviously. As for the key -" Sherlock withdrew a gold key on a nylon cord from his coat pocket and tossed it to the detective inspector. "There's your key and your murder weapon. I found it in the tools shed. The assassin was trying to frame the gardener and dispose of his materials at the same time. The key is not the groundskeeper's - look at the metal, it's brand-new. And the weave of the cord matches the bruise pattern on the victim."
"So who's the assassin?" I asked, jotting down Sherlock's explanations on my phone's notepad app.
The detective shrugged. "It's a professional job. No identifying insignia. Could be any number of people. The only way to know for sure is to arrest Saltzberg."
"Right." Lestrade clapped his hands and nodded to the forensics team, who were waiting with varying degrees of patience outside. "That's that, then. Thanks for the help, Sherlock."
The taller man smirked. "What would you do without me, Lestrade?"
"Have fewer spontaneous inclinations to sock you one, for starters."
"Sherlock." I motioned to the detective. "Come on. I'll call a cab, yeah?"
He followed me, but at the door turned back to the DI.
"Do let me know when you've got Saltzberg, would you? I've a few questions I need to see him answer."
...
Inside the cab at last, John leaned back into the black leather seat and exhaled slowly.
"That's the fifth mystery in as many days," he remarked, eyes closed. "You're doing a fair job keeping busy for a change."
"Mmm. It passes the time."
"You alright?"
"Mmm."
Tilting his head slightly, John could see his flat-mate staring pensively out the window.
"I mean, it's just that something so trivial doesn't usually appeal to you."
Sherlock turned to him then, a dark eyebrow arching.
"Are you attempting to deduce something about me, Doctor?" He asked it with a hint of a smile, but John could hear the curiosity masked behind the question.
"You're worried," the doctor replied simply. He could see immediately from the way the detective’s brow creased that it was true. Sherlock shifted back to the window, hiding his face from sight. When at last he spoke, his voice was quiet.
"Moriarty made a spectacle of his apparent come-back, but he hasn't been in touch. I keep thinking that perhaps these little crimes are somehow hints, clues into his next big scheme, but if they are, then I'm afraid I can't see his game. So yes, I am... concerned."
It was his choice of words that left John more apprehensive than anything else. Sherlock Holmes was not afraid of anything. The doctor did not reply, but spent the remainder of the return trip watching his companion out the corner of his eye. The cab dropped the detective off at 221B, Baker Street, and, as per the usual, John ended up paying the other man's fare. At his request, the cabbie then took the doctor home as well.
Number 5, Elvanston Street was a quiet, first floor apartment in Kensington, not far from Hyde Park. The Watsons went walking there sometimes when the sun had burned off the London fog. Mary herself came to greet her husband at the door, having seen the cab stop, and John kissed her briefly, tenderly.
“Afternoon, love,” she said, drawing John into the small living room. “I wasn’t expecting you to be home until late. Did Sherlock solve it quickly, then?”
John chuckled. “‘Course he did. It barely took him half an hour to examine the grounds, and then five minutes looking at the body. We spent more time driving out there and back than we did actually at the crime scene.”
“Bloody pleased with himself, too, I’d imagine,” she laughed.
The doctor paused, frowning. Her words reminded him suddenly of the conversation in the taxi. “Pleased, certainly,” John said slowly. “You know how he is. But he’s worried, too. Moriarty has to be planning something, and Sherlock doesn’t know what.”
“Well, that’ll drive him straight up the wall, won’t it?” Mary said, still smiling, albeit more gently. “Not knowing? At least it’ll keep him from getting bored. No more holes in the wall for Mrs. Hudson.”
“True.” John stretched, pulling off his overcoat and tossing it over the back of the settee. “Where’s Sheryl?”
This time, Mary’s smile turned mischievous. John loved to watch her; her face was so expressive. He felt sometimes that, no matter how mysterious her past, her life’s story was written in her features to read if he cared to look hard enough. Was that how Sherlock felt all the time?
“Sheryl’s upstairs,” Mary replied. “She wouldn’t stop crying, so I laid her in her crib and put in that CD of Sherlock playing the violin.”
“Ahh.” Once again, John too was smiling. Their daughter loved nothing better, it seemed, than to listen to her namesake’s music.
“She’s sleeping like a baby now.”
“‘Course.” The doctor clapped his hands together. “Come on, love, let’s do dinner tonight. We can go out, do something nice for a change.”
“Or,” Mary said, wrapping her arms around his waist and pulling him to her, “we could do dinner in. Light some candles, enjoy the atmosphere...”
Her lips closed over her husbands, a gesture which he appreciated fully, but which was interrupted by a soft whine from the bedroom.
“Ah, she’ll be hungry again,” Mary sighed.
“It’s probably for the best,” John answered gravely. “Snogging each other like a couple of teenagers is exactly how we ended up with her in the first place.”
“Alright, alright,” his wife giggled. “We’ll do it your way and go out for dinner. But you get to carry the diaper bag tonight.”
“Done and done,” John said cheerfully. “Where shall we go?”
*****
SHERLOCK HOLMES
Where are you?
Musty-damask-wallpaper-that-went-out-of-style-but-Mrs.-Hudson-likes-because-it-reminds-her-of-her-childhood backed cheap-computer-paper-John-bought-because-he’s-having-financial-issues-but-is-too-embarrased-to-tell-me-about-it printed with water-soluble-black-and-white-inkjet-printer-ink. The pictures showed Jenny-a-homeless-girl-who-frequents-Trafalgar-Square-because-the-patrons-tend-to-be-generous, and Bruce-the-drugs-dealer-from-Wales-who-moved-here-to-escape-prosecution-after-a-gunfight, and a dozen other indicator-persons connected to one another by pins-and-red-linen-strings-of-webbing-tying-together-the-web-of-the-underworld.
Somewhere in that criminal web sat a spider. A resurrected spider. A spider with its web trashed, who even now would be spinning sticky threads of threats and bribes, trying to rebuild an immense network.
Moriarty.
A name that sent thrills of terror through most of London. A name that sent street rats bolting for secret safe houses. And now, it was everywhere. Echos of the word haunted every bar, every newspaper tabloid, every blogger’s ramblings, though they grew progressively fainter as the weeks and the months passed by.
Why come back with such pomp and circumstance if you weren’t going to act?
Why announce it at all?
Why wreck the element of surprise?
Why not call?
Why not text?
Why?
Moriarty.
The man terrified me.
Not because the consulting criminal was doubtlessly constructing my unpleasant demise. That was expected. Not because of how the man would use my own friends against me, like pawns on a chessboard. That was expected, too. That was the price of having friends.
Moriarty terrified me because I know exactly how close I myself am to belonging to that other extreme. When I stare at my map-web-plan-gameboard-thought-bubble-thinktank, I do not say to myself, “What would Moriarty do?”. I say, “What would I do?”.
I am him. I know it. I know he knows it. I know he knows I know it.
But I do not want to be him.
I do not care about hurting people. I did once, but gave it up after realizing how pointless they all were.
I do not like to hurt people, though. Or at least, that is what I try to convince myself of. Moriarty likes it, enjoys seeing people in danger, in pain. I don’t. Although, I cannot deny that I relish the look of shocked loathing on Anderson’s face when I remind him that I know he’s having relations with Donovan. I cannot deny that my job isn’t nearly so intense, so dramatic, so fun when there’s no lives on the line. And it’s that tiny degree of pleasure that throws Doubt on everything else.
I do not like Doubt. I have made it a point to not to feel it. But Moriarty makes it impossible to ignore, the niggling, nagging, naughty Doubt that says “You would enjoy being the bad guy”.
I don’t care. That’s another emotion I make it a point to ignore - caring.
John cares.
John chastises Donovan for calling me “freak” even though he knows it doesn’t bother me. John chastises me for not caring enough about lives that are in danger. John wants me to be a hero. And I want to make John happy.
He is my friend.
I am not a hero.
But sometimes, being with him, I almost think about wanting to be one.
There is an east wind coming.
I know Moriarty is planning something.
There is an east wind coming.
I do not know his movements yet.
There is an east wind coming.
But I will find out. And this time, I will put an end to our little game once and for all.