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janeofcakes · 6 months ago

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One Night in Palermo: Chapter 1

Hi, Everyone! I haven't done this in ages and I hope you'll all jump on board again for another story. It's 18 months after Sherlock jumped from Bart's and he's busily taking down Moriarty's web. He's also pining and worried for John, who thinks he's dead. Sherlock's trying to make his way to the Moran, the web's center, when another assassin comes on the scene. Find out what happens!

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One year to the day Sherlock leapt off Bart’s, his best friend watching in horror, found him creeping into a dank warehouse in the middle of Belgrade, Serbia. The dead detective had been all over the country in the last year, as well as those sharing its borders. Hungary and Romania, Bulgaria, North Macedonia, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, and Montenegro; all extensively traveled in the name of destroying Moriarty’s web of terrorists and murderers. He had just come through Kosovo from an assignment in Albania and tomorrow would take him to yet another location.

James Morairty may have died on the roof of Bart’s one year ago, but his criminal organization remained intact and Sherlock could not rest until Greg Lestrade, John Watson, and the beloved Martha Hudson were safe. Then maybe he could return to his old life of London and 221B and cases and John. Sherlock missed John most of all and had not been dead long before realizing the true extent of his feelings for his flatmate. Every moment not chasing down Moriarty’s criminals was spent wondering about John and what he was doing, or how he was doing. Worse yet, he dreamt of his flatmate as well, and they were becoming increasingly explicit in nature.

Sherlock gave a slight shake of his head to clear it. This was certainly not the time to go down that route of thinking. Mycroft’s intelligence indicated ten men in this building, making Sherlock’s full attention to the matter at hand imperative. The year’s assignments marked the longest period of time the detective had ever worked with his brother and there was at least another year to go before it would end. Remarkably, it had not been utterly intolerable as Sherlock had expected. Mycroft understood how Sherlock’s mind worked and gave him only the relevant information for each assignment. They met over virtual calls on a secured platform after each assignment was finished to discuss the next. Sherlock had needed serious medical attention on only two occasions and was immediately taken to a secret facility possessing everything required to address his injuries. The same short, blonde doctor cared for him each time, no doubt hand-selected by Mycroft to ensure Sherlock’s cooperation. The elder Holmes even made an appearance in both situations to make sure his baby brother was all right. He did not make himself tiresome either, much to Sherlock’s surprise, despite spending quite a lot of time by the detective’s side the second time around.

Sherlock had been caught during his last visit to Serbia. His captors quickly determined the usefulness of keeping him alive, but had no compunction with torturing him for the six weeks before his rescue. Mycroft even deigned to perform the extraction himself, he and his team infiltrating the base and killing every man in the bunker before carrying Sherlock out. It was at least a week before the detective could hold his eyes open for more than a few blurry moments at a time. When his senses and powers of deduction had returned, Sherlock was certain Mycroft had not left his side once. Oddly, the two brothers had grown closer as they worked together, but neither spoke of nor acknowledged it.

Having found no one in the warehouse thus far, Sherlock proceeded down a long hallway that led to a large meeting room. Intelligence supplied by Mycroft’s spies had shown it was where the ten men spent most of their time. A door at the left side of the room opened into an office used by a man named Markovič, the indisputable leader of this terrorist cell. He had worked closely with Moriarty on more than one occasion and murdered countless people around the world.

Two other doors entered the meeting room; one that opened to a hallway of small rooms wherein the men slept and the one Sherlock was steadily approaching. The ideal situation for Sherlock was finding all ten men in the meeting room. Slightly less ideal, was Markovič in his office and the other men in the meeting room. Some of them having a kip in their individual rooms was the least ideal, but this time of night typically saw them all together planning the events of the following day. Regardless, Sherlock was prepared for any eventuality, or so he thought.

Sherlock slowed his step as he approached the room’s half-open door, rendering his footfalls completely silent. While each of the ten men was a very skilled killer, all were also dim-witted. Even Markovič, though intelligent, was no more than slightly above average. Sherlock knew his appearance would be surprising, but once the first few shots were fired, he would have to act quickly to avoid retaliation. A scant few feet from the door, Sherlock angled his body for the best view of its occupants and what he saw boggled his mind.

Eight men lay sprawled on the floor, face down on the table, or slumped back in chairs. All of them were covered with blood still oozing from pin-point bullet holes in chests, throats, or heads. None of these men had a chance to do more than consider reaching for their own weapons before they dropped. Sherlock analyzed the scene and deduced the events as they had happened while he moved through the room to Markovič’s office.

The door was also ajar. Sherlock pushed it open slowly, already knowing what he would find. Markovič was sat at his desk, leaning back unnaturally in the chair. His eyes were wide open and unseeing as they stared blankly at the ceiling. A hole was perfectly placed in his forehead, creating an isosceles triangle with his eyes. Blood stained his face where it ran down his nose and cheeks, over his throat to soak his shirt. Significant spatter and gray matter decorated the wall behind him in a sickly red glow.

Without delay, Sherlock went to the third door in the meeting room to check bedrooms for the final missing man. Finding him was not difficult. The first door in the hall was the only one open, so Sherlock let himself in cautiously. He found the man on the floor in a pool of blood, bedsheets twisted around one leg, and a pistol held loosely in one hand. He had obviously been only halfway out of bed when the door was kicked open and fired one shot quickly, the evidence of which marred the door frame next to Sherlock’s left shoulder. The intruder had not done more than twitch his head slightly to the side before expertly placing a bullet in the man’s forehead and watching him drop.

*****

Hours later, Sherlock sat at a desk in a safe house across the border in Hungary. He had changed into jeans and a plain t-shirt in dark green. His eyes were fixed on the screen of a laptop as he waited for his brother to accept the call. When the connection was made, it was Anthea’s face that appeared instead of Mycroft’s.

“Sherlock,” she greeted him. She looked tired. Perhaps the last year had weighed heavily on her shoulders as well. “He wasn’t expecting you for another hour.”

“Nor was I,” Sherlock replied dryly. “The assignment did not go as anticipated.”

“But you’re alright? It’s done?” Anthea asked with a touch of concern in her voice. The two of them had become far better acquainted over the course of Sherlock’s assignments and now had a certain rapport.

“Unconditionally,” Sherlock answered and watched as the subtle creases at the corners of her eyes smoothed away, only for them to return when he asked, “how is John?”

Anthea opened her mouth to reply, but Mycroft entered the room before she said a word. He moved to the screen swiftly and sat, studying Sherlock’s face. He was wearing his usual three-piece suit minus the jacket, and his sleeves were rolled up. A haggard expression dominated his features, but a sense of overall relief washed over them at seeing Sherlock in one piece. Mycroft let the indifference that hid whatever modicum of emotion he had slide into place and sat ramrod straight, his typical persona fully recovered.

“You were able to complete the mission,” Mycroft said with only the hint of a question in his tone.

“In a matter of speaking, yes,” Sherlock replied vaguely.

Mycroft cocked an elegant brow and leaned in.

“What do you mean?” He asked with keen interest.

“I found the bodies of all ten men upon entering the warehouse,” Sherlock said simply.

“An opposing faction?” Mycroft speculated, sounding unconvinced.

“No,” Sherlock said flatly, “it was precise and clean. None of the torture and delay seen between these enemies. A single man walked in quietly, just as I did, and murdered them all with one shot each.

“He killed all eight men as he moved through the room, three before they could rise from the table. Markovič was in his office and posed no challenge to dispatch. The last was in a bedroom.”

Mycroft had narrowed his eyes while Sherlock spoke, considering each word carefully. When the detective finished, his brother raised his gaze to regard him in silent contemplation.

“The work of an assassin where there should only be one,” Mycroft muttered.

“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed, “and it had occurred within the hour.”

Mycroft caught Sherlock’s eye and considered him carefully.

“Sherlock,” his tone took on a condescending characteristic that always made the younger roll his eyes, “while the situation is unusual, it is not out of the realm of possibility.”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock began, but Mycroft cut him off quickly.

“You have a mission that cannot be delayed by a… mystery, no matter how intriguing,” Mycroft said snidely. “Need I remind you of its particular importance to you, brother mine?”

Sherlock closed his mouth with a snap and pressed his lips into a thin line. Closer though they may be, Sherlock hated his brother for consistently adopting this air of superiority at a perceived weakness.

“Fine,” Sherlock spat, “but you will find out who it was. If I’m known to this assassin, I want to know his every movement. I will not tolerate interference.”

“Of course, Sherlock,” Mycroft assured him smugly. “I will use every resource at my disposal.”

****

As confident as Mycroft had been, his channels found out nothing about the assassin in the coming weeks. No one was able to determine where the man came from or where he got his information. One thing became abundantly clear, however. He also seemed to be dismantling Moriarty’s criminal organization one piece at a time.

Sherlock completed two assignments over three weeks before encountering the assassin again. The circumstances were much the same as the first time. The target called Romania home and spent most of his time terrorizing every community within a fifty mile radius. He had assisted Moriarty several times over the last decade and had often welcomed the man into his home. If James Moriarty ever had anything even vaguely approaching a friend in his adult life, it would be this man.

Sherlock watched silently from the shadows as his target entered a small room and closed the door, leaving his guard outside in the dimly lit hall. They were inside a massage parlor not far from the man’s home. He spent four nights a week in this place, making rather dubious visits to a certain masseuse. Fortunately for Sherlock, the man’s guard made similar visits to the owner of the shop.

A quiet whistle echoed through the hall twenty minutes after Sherlock’s target entered the masseuse’s room. He watched as the guard looked right, then left, and then disappeared down the hall. Sherlock waited another five minutes to be sure the guard would not return before moving silently toward the door his target had entered. He stood next to it for a moment, his back to the wall, already knowing it was unlocked. He had spent the last seven days watching his target and tracking his movements. Sherlock knew every habit and routine in the man’s life, right down to leaving the door unlocked while he got a massage and a blow job so he could exit quickly if one of his enemies interrupted.

All Sherlock needed to do was open the door and pull the trigger. He had become quite a good markman over the last year and his gun was equipped with a silencer. He wouldn’t miss and no one would hear a thing. The only thing that made him hesitate was the masseuse. He had not yet decided what to do about her. He could kill her along with the target to prevent anyone being alerted by her screams, which were certain to follow her lover’s untimely demise. He could find some quick way to render her unconscious while she and the target were distracted. He could simply shoot his target and run, risking a successful escape. Sherlock was likely to be tortured if caught, a situation he could not afford. He scowled, the words ‘a bit not good’ echoing through his mind. The only option was knocking out the masseuse and hoping no one noticed him before he did it.

Sherlock looked up and down the hall, just as the guard had, and then moved to face the door. He twisted the knob silently with his left hand and pushed it open. The scene before him was nothing like he expected. Instead of finding the two of them fucking on the massage table, the woman was lying on the floor, unconscious and fully clothed. The target was clearly dead on the table, a bullet hole in his temple. Spatter decorated the wall next to the table and Sherlock could hear the quiet drip of blood as it fell from the headrest to the floor. Curious, he entered the room and squatted cautiously next to the woman. He might have risked touching her to find a pulse, but could see it clearly enough on her neck. The assassin had left her alive.

Sherlock’s gaze darted around the room until it came to rest on a small window near the top of the back wall, the only outside wall in the room. It opened on a hinge, a glass pane that lifted up and it was ajar. Several telltale scuffs left by opening and closing it marred the bottom of the pane. The assassin’s entrance and exit point.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stood. The guard would not return for another ten minutes, but the detective could not afford to be seen by anyone. He walked swiftly out the door and closed it behind him, looking up and down the hall again. Seeing no one, but hearing faint footsteps, he crept into the shadows to wait. Sherlock heard a faraway door open and the footsteps fade away slowly. After a few minutes of silence, he left the building and made his way to the next safe house.

A few hours later and a good two hundred miles away from the massage parlor, Sherlock stood in front of a laptop set in the small bedroom of a cozy flat. He had just relayed an account of the evening’s events to his elder brother and moved on to deductions made about the assassin. Mycroft’s less-than-enthusiastic response was quickly grating on Sherlock’s nerves.

“He has a conscience,” Sherlock argued vehemently. “He could have simply killed the woman, but chose not to.”

His brother’s unimpressed face looked back at him from the laptop screen, thoroughly unconvinced. Sherlock wished, just for a moment, that they were in the same room so he could grab Mycroft’s lapels and shake him.

“Very informative, brother mine, but I fail to see how it will help to find this mysterious assassin,” Mycroft intoned dismissively, glancing at his perfectly manicured nails.

“Finding him, no, but it goes a long way in determining what kind of man he is,” Sherlock sneered. “He is not a heartless killer and that tells us quite a bit.”

“Oh, very well,” Mycroft conceded impatiently. “He may not immediately put a bullet in your head should you meet, but will introduce himself first.”

Sherlock sighed loudly and rolled his eyes.

“I will take care of him,” Mycroft continued sternly and it rankled Sherlock. The tone was the same used to scold him as a child. “You concentrate on your assignments and put an end to this dreadful business so you can return to your precious doctor.”

“How is John?” Sherlock found himself saying. It wasn’t what he meant to say, but Mycroft’s words squeezed his chest so completely that saying anything else would have stopped his heart entirely. He hadn’t even been thinking about John and was blindsided by the rush of sentiment, though he tried to keep that hidden. Mycroft, for his part, looked very disconcerted at the slip. His frustration had gotten the better of him, something that happened far more often than he would like to admit since he and Sherlock began “this dreadful business”.

“Sherlock,” he said with a long suffering sigh.

“Don’t patronize me, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped. “Just tell me what I want to know.”

“He is…unaltered,” Mycroft replied carefully.

“Unaltered?” Sherlock repeated through clenched teeth.

“I said unwell the last time you asked,” Mycroft straightened his spine and looked down his nose at his brother. “You have not returned to Baker Street. Do you imagine he is any different?”

Sherlock glared at his brother, blood boiling, but said nothing. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He knew his brother wanted to infuriate him. It was a distraction. Mycroft did not want to answer questions about John. It was nothing unusual, but affected Sherlock differently this time. Sherlock suddenly felt exhausted and homesick. Every bit of energy left his body. He was sick for John and if his brother didn’t want to talk about John, Sherlock had no desire to pry. He was not prepared to hear that the doctor had teetered ever closer to a crumbling precipice that might give way at any time.

“Fuck off, Mycroft,” Sherlock snarled. He shut the laptop forcefully just as his brother closed his eyes in disdain at the vulgar choice of words.

Sherlock paced furiously. He was restless and frustrated and frightened out of his mind. Dozens of storylines played out in his mind as he took each step. The most disturbing thought ended with John’s broken body on the pavement at Bart’s, the same place they had both been just over a year ago, and it made Sherlock’s heart stutter in his chest. He gasped at the pain and stumbled into the loo to be sick. He splashed water on his face once he could stand again without retching and tried to calm himself, but his chest only felt tighter. He buried his head in his hands and prayed to whatever deity would listen that John Watson be alright.

When Sherlock raised his head again, his movements were stilted and his face remote. He cleaned his teeth and changed into pajamas mechanically, getting into bed and turning out the lights. Staring into the darkness, he parted his lips and breathed slowly. If he didn’t let his thoughts out of his mind, didn’t give them life, his brain and heart would surely burst from his body.

“Wait for me, John,” he whispered into the darkness. “Please.”

****

The next time Sherlock ran into the assassin, the circumstances were quite different. It was three assignments from the last and in Montenegro. The target had not been difficult to finish, but her brother had spotted Sherlock as he made his escape and set off after him. They ran through the compound, ducking this way and that. Every corner the detective turned should have put more distance between the two, but the man behind only grew closer. Sherlock was getting tired and he knew it. On impulse, he ducked into a stairwell and barely tripped as he flew down the steps. He quickly pushed open the heavy wooden door he found there and hurried into an open courtyard full of towering shrubs and fountains. The moon shone brightly, dazzling stars surrounding it, lighting a path of escape. Unfortunately, the man following Sherlock was too close not to make a move for him.

The man dove for the detective and caught him around the waist with his arms. They went down hard, but Sherlock rolled swiftly and struck out at his attacker. They exchanged a few blows before strong hands wrapped around the detective’s throat. Without hesitation, he slid his own arms in-between his attacker’s and wrenched them outward. The other man’s elbows bent, giving Sherlock the leverage to pull his hands away and ram their foreheads together.

At first, only the other man was dazed, so Sherlock shoved him to the side and hopped to his feet. However, the after-effects caught up with him after one or two steps. Suddenly, his head swam and his sense of balance failed completely. Tumbling to his knees, Sherlock tried desperately not to fall any further. He gasped for breath and felt incredibly hot, but resisted the urge to tear the mask from his face. He preferred assignments that did not require a mask, ones where he could maintain a safe distance from targets and their associates. On this particular occasion, his passage through the compound could find him face to face with anyone and he could not be recognized.

Sherlock took a few deep breaths until his vision began to clear. Getting to his feet, he glanced around to check that his attacker had not similarly recovered. He saw nothing as rough hands grabbed his right arm and twisted it behind his back. A cold knife blade touched his throat before he could make any move to free himself. He was trapped. His mind raced, analyzing his options and discarding them; all the while, the blade pressed into his throat, breaking the skin ever so slightly. He nearly jolted at the sound of hoarse laughter in his ear.

“You thought you would get away?” The man holding Sherlock steady chuckled loudly. He pulled the blade more tightly and the detective winced. “You killed my sister, you son of a bitch.”

A gasp filled Sherlock’s lungs, but not for fear of his life as his attacker assumed. It was what he saw in the dark window in one of the tall buildings that lined the courtyard. A sight Sherlock never would have seen, if not for a glint of metal in the moonlight. As soon as he saw that flash of light, his eyes made out the figure of a man with a gun. Standing in the tall window was the assassin, covered in black from head to toe. His face and hair were covered with the usual balaclava. Any other details were lost to the darkness of his clothes and surroundings. His gun was aimed and ready, if the location of the reflection Sherlock had seen was anything to go by.

Sherlock stood very still, not even listening to the rants and threats from the man holding a knife to his throat. One way or another, Sherlock was going to die tonight. If the idiot behind him didn’t do it soon, he would be robbed of the pleasure by the assassin, who would certainly shoot them both. Sherlock could get away from only one of them, not both. He kept his eyes on the assassin as time ticked by and wondered why he hadn’t pulled the trigger twice already. The man couldn’t be weighing his options. It was simple: Aim and fire.

Just as Sherlock thought the word “fire”, a bright flash of light appeared from the assassin’s weapon and Sherlock felt a whoosh of air on his cheek. He expected pain or instant oblivion and got neither. The air around him was suddenly quiet and his mind registered his attacker’s hands going lax. The knife tumbled to the brick floor as the man leaned heavily against the detective’s back. Going down slowly, Sherlock maneuvered the man onto his back and looked at his face. There, between his unseeing eyes, was a perfectly placed bullet hole.

Sherlock’s head shot up to the window to see the assassin, but the man was gone. The pane held nothing but darkness. Without a second thought, the detective gathered himself and stood. It wouldn’t be long before his target’s body was discovered and the compound filled with people who would be happy to kill him. He crept through the courtyard and silently made his way out, encountering no one as he went.

Hours later, ensconced in one of Mycroft’s safe houses, Sherlock booted up the waiting laptop and entered his credentials. His mind was awash with deductions and questions and theories. If nothing else, the evening confirmed the standing deduction that the assassin had a strong moral compass. Quite a bit of additional data had been revealed as well, but Sherlock had not yet sorted through it. He needed to spend some time in his mind palace, arranging the pieces.

The laptop screen caught his eye when his brother’s face came into view. Sherlock had hoped to speak with Anthea first, but had no such luck. He leaned forward and placed his hands on either side of the keyboard, a posture he often adopted when speaking to his brother.

“The assassin was there,” Sherlock stated without preamble. “I beat him to the mark, but he was there.”

“And you know this because?” Mycroft asked with an arched brow.

“I had a knife to my throat and he shot the man holding it,” Sherlock replied without hesitation.

Mycroft’s eyes widened and he leaned in closer to his own laptop.

“He saw you?” He probed with an edge to his voice.

“Not as such. I was wearing a mask. My whole head was covered,” Sherlock answered evenly. “There was nothing to give me away. I was merely a man in distress.”

He could see his brother relax a fraction and then noticed that his eyes were locked on the small bandage Sherlock had fitted to his own neck. The detective furrowed his brow and shook his head dismissively.

“It’s fine,” he told Mycroft in a dull tone. “Superficial. I’ll be able to go without the bandage in the morning.”

“Good,” Mycroft approved, looking more at ease. “That is to say, I am glad you are safe. I must admit, however, I am somewhat troubled by the assassin’s actions. Surely killing you both would have been more to his advantage.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock replied with satisfaction. “It would’ve been easier as well; hitting my attacker with pinpoint accuracy to ensure his demise before he cut my throat requires much more skill than shooting us both. It proves my point.”

“That the assassin has a conscience,” Mycroft supplied in a long-suffering tone. He sighed. “Sherlock, you are a romantic.”

“I most certainly am not!” Sherlock objected, his good mood quashed in the blink of an eye. “I have merely analyzed the data and reached the logical conclusion, as I have in countless other situations.”

He glared at his brother, who returned the look with a smug smile on his face. Sherlock didn’t feel the need to continue the conversation because his pig-headed brother would not relent. He never had before and would not start now. Growing weary of him, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Tell me about the next assignment,” he demanded, wanting nothing more than to move the call along so he could retreat to his mind palace.

“Yes, of course. Let’s get down to business, shall we?” Mycroft smirked and began debriefing Sherlock on the next target, The detective both listened and imagined how best to have revenge upon his return to London.

****

The following assignment was easily completed in as much as it was finished before Sherlock even arrived. Four days after Montenegro, the detective stealthily entered a caravan dealership that was closed for the day. His target and a small band of men in his employ had taken refuge there, believing no one would find them. After entering the dealership, Sherlock followed music lilting through the air until he reached an extra-long caravan, knowing what he would find before reaching it. While the music played loudly, the absence of all other noise led him to one inevitable conclusion: The assassin had been faster this time.

Five of the six men Sherlock expected lay dead in the caravan’s central room. It occupied more or less the entire vehicle, housing a kitchenette along one side, a narrow couch and table on the other. Two seats and the steering column filled the front of the room, windscreen before them. A small loo cut into the back of the room with closets opposite. In between the two was a narrow hallway that led to a bedroom. Judging by the positions of the men and the angles of the bullets that killed them, the assassin had come from the hallway. He must have climbed in a bedroom window and used the element of surprise.

Sherlock moved cautiously into the bedroom, expecting to find the body of the sixth man, but the room was empty. It was also a mess. A lengthy struggle had clearly taken place in the cramped room and Sherlock could read it all in the broken and overturned furniture. The upper hand had shifted a few times throughout the fight. A stray shot was fired once, twice, and then Sherlock’s eyes came to rest on a piece of bloody glass lying on the floor near a cabinet on the far side of the room. He went to it in three long strides. It was part of a broken mirror that had been affixed to the wall above a waist-height cabinet. One of the two men had grabbed hold of it and stabbed the other, but which was which? Sherlock’s eyes tracked their movements through drips and smears of blood. The injured man eventually broke free and tumbled out the room’s only open window. The other man must have followed because the caravan door would have been left open had he used it.

Gun still at the ready, Sherlock hurried out the door and around to the back of the caravan. He walked silently along the trail of blood and shoe prints. More and more of the sticky, red substance stained the concrete as he went. There wasn’t enough to indicate that the injured man was bleeding out, but was still a troubling amount. Sherlock quickened his pace, anxious to learn which man was injured. He found himself hoping it was not the assassin. It made little sense, but he felt some odd camaraderie with the man. They did seem to have the same goal and were inextricably linked by it.

Sherlock wove his way through the parking lot, around one caravan and another, until he turned a corner and stopped dead. Twenty feet ahead of him, next to a chain link fence, was the body of a man. He was on his back and was obviously dead. Sherlock’s throat went dry and he quickened his pace. He and the assassin had narrowly missed one another for almost three months. They didn’t know the other’s identity and hadn’t even been in the same room together, but had come to expect one another. At least, Sherlock had. He supposed the same might not be true of the assassin, but he liked to think it was, especially after Montenegro. The man had blatantly made the decision not only to save, but also spare Sherlock’s life and the resulting sentiment had softened his heart toward the man. The detective would have considered these feelings a weakness in the past. Now, he saw it in a completely different light. The assassin gave him something familiar to look for, to count on. He couldn’t have John or home, but could at least have something, though it paled in comparison.

Sherlock was jogging by the time he reached the dead man. He couldn’t see his head properly until he stood right next to him. Once he did, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. The man before him was not wearing a mask of any kind, nor was there one near the body. Instead, he matched the description of one of the six men Sherlock was sent to kill. The assassin had escaped.

Relief quickly turned to trepidation, however, as he got a better look at the dead man. He had no stab wounds on his body and looked to have been killed by blunt-force trauma. Sherlock’s eyes darted around the scene, picking out a heavy metal bar and more blood. He followed a trail of it with his eyes for a short distance. It led to, and passed through, an old opening in the chain link fence. Something had weakened the links and broken through long ago. The assassin must have used it to sneak inside or he would not have known to use it as an escape. Sherlock looked as far beyond the fence as he could see, but saw no body and no large pools of blood. It seemed the assassin had escaped, indeed. But how far had he gotten and how badly was he injured?

When he recounted the night’s events later for Mycroft, Sherlock left out the possible extent of the assassin’s injuries and hid his concern for the man. He knew precious little about the man. It made no sense for Sherlock to feel at all connected to him and yet, here he was. He couldn’t stop himself from viewing the connection as a separate but united force against what was left of Moriarty. As such, not knowing the assassin’s fate unsettled Sherlock in a way he couldn’t explain and he hoped their paths would cross again soon.

****

The next assignment was long and tedious. Sherlock spent nearly three weeks just garnering enough trust through various acts of theft and bullying as assigned by the target’s second in command to even be told the target’s location. He then spent another six days planning out how to neutralize successfully. His frustration grew day by day at having to waste an entire month on this one target, lengthening his time away from John. John, who he knew was struggling. His last few conversations with Anthea were vague at best, but informative enough to know that John’s grief had renewed.

The knowledge slowed Sherlock’s progress with the assignment and he knew it. He couldn’t bring himself to care. He would rather know at least something about John and be distracted than know nothing at all. He dreamt of his friend every night again; comforting him and assuring John he would be home again. He awoke each morning with renewed vigor at having spent the time with John, even if only in his mind. Part of him hoped dreams did the same for John, but they more likely only discouraged him. Sherlock had the advantage of knowing they would meet again, whereas he was dead in John’s world. Sherlock tried to ignore the regret and guilt that ate at him for it.

Motivated by the desire to end his exile and return home to John, Sherlock lost his patience and brought the assignment to an abrupt end. While in the target’s bunker for a debriefing, Sherlock broke into his office and waited. Nearly two hours later, the man and his second opened the door. Sherlock greeted them politely with one bullet each and left as fast as he could.

His work done, after the agonizingly long month, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to move on to the next assignment. He grimaced as he logged onto the secure server he and Mycroft used to communicate, knowing his brother would berate him for his slowness. Maybe Sherlock would get lucky and Anthea would debrief him. He hoped as he pushed enter and waited, then sighed when Mycroft’s smug face came into view.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock murmured in greeting, saying nothing else. Mycroft more than made up for it.

“Good evening, Sherlock. I am glad to see you have finally finished your assignment. I was beginning to think that your target had persuaded you to stay on,” Mycroft’s snide words pushed Sherlock over the edge. The last thread tethering his frustration over the assignment snapped and he nearly swept the laptop off the table.

“Fuck off, Mycroft!” Sherlock shouted. “You know this is not how I wanted it to go. Just tell me about the next assignment and go back to your cake. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your greatest pleasure.”

“Sherlock, has it really come to this?” Mycroft began with an epic eye roll.

“You started it!” Sherlock interrupted. “Just tell me what I want to know.”

“In due time, brother mine,” Mycroft dismissed Sherlock’s anger out of course, “I have come into some information about your mythical assassin.”

“Oh, yes, perfect. Just what I want to know,” Sherlock snarked back, crossing his arms. “Tell me, Mycroft, how many assignments has he completed while I’ve been stuck on just one?”

“On the contrary,” Mycroft said blandly. “It seems both of you have succeeded in doing nothing. I have no indication he has made any movements during the last forty-two days.”

It was then that Sherlock remembered the trail of blood he had followed so long ago and the strange sense of loneliness he had felt. He had mentioned neither to Mycroft after that assignment.

“He was injured,” Sherlock stated almost without thinking, “in that caravan dealership in Skopje. I followed a trail of blood. He must need time to recover.”

“You failed to mention that in the debriefing,” Mycroft answered, his tone rife with skepticism.

“It was not relevant,” Sherlock replied haughtily.

“Wasn’t it?” Mycroft speculated. “Hm. I wonder.”

“Is there a point to this, Mycroft?” Sherlock snapped, growing tired of the conversation. His brother had a certain knack for analyzing his motives at the most inconvenient times.

“Could it have been a more serious injury, brother mine?” Mycroft continued calmly, unfazed by his baby brother’s outburst. “We have no evidence of him at all in the time between today and that night. Could he have been neutralized?”

“Neutral- he’s not our enemy, Mycroft,” Sherlock countered. “He saved my life.”

“Because doing so suited his purpose,” Mycroft supplied, condescension slipping into his tone. “You are very obviously on a path similar to his own. Why would he want that assistance to end?”

Mycroft was right. It was only logical for the assassin to keep Sherlock alive so the man didn’t have to hit every target himself. The detective had allowed sentiment to color his views of the assassin and if Mycroft didn’t know before, he certainly did now. Damn him.

“No,” Sherlock gave a slight shake of his head after a moment of thought, “there wasn’t enough blood for the injury to have been life-threatening. He will appear again. Just give him time.”

Mycroft pressed his lips into a thin line and took a deep breath through his nose. He had more to say, but obviously debated on whether to do it now or save it. Sherlock knew Mycroft had chosen not to wait the moment his lips parted.

“You will have to deal with him one day,” Mycroft said carefully. “The time will come when you are no longer useful to him.”

Sherlock fought not to roll his eyes. As if he hadn’t considered that particular inevitability already.

“I will handle that when the time comes, not before,” Sherlock said flatly.

****

As if on cue, Sherlock found his next target in a private train compartment with a bullet in his head. They were on a train in Hungary. The man’s two most trusted associates were at his side, also shot dead. The assassin was back.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth curled as he stood in the compartment’s doorway. He gave a subtle salute to the scene, closed the door, and casually walked back to his own compartment. As he went, he was filled with a sense of satisfaction and hope. With his own efforts coupled with those of the assassin, his timetable would change for the better and he could return home to John earlier than expected. Mycroft may have been right about an eventual confrontation between Sherlock and the assassin, but until then they would each enjoy the other’s usefulness without question.

****

Another handful of assignments came and went, Sherlock and the assassin working in tandem, but never encountering one another. Shortly after leaving another scene in which the assassin beat him to the mark, Sherlock calculated their joint progress once again and found that their current rate would see him back in London a full four months early. He was delighted.

A particularly successful month for both of them resulted in another revision of the time required. They had shaved off a few more weeks, much to Sherlock’s satisfaction. That was how, at eighteen months post-Fall, Sherlock found himself in Palermo, Sicily with only two targets remaining before he could return home to London and his life.

------

I know it was a long one, but I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you so much for reading and for all your support! I've missed you all so much! Tune in next week for chapter 2 and remember, keep your stick on the ice. We're all in this together.

Love, Jane

#johnlock #john watson #sherlockholmes #sherlock #johnlock fanfic #sherlock fanfic

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ilikethisacompletelynormalamount · 6 months ago

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Since Andrew is taking some well deserved time away from the public at the moment, let's revisit (or visit for the first time, if you're new here) this stunning photoshoot from Mr. Porter, October 2019, when he was doing press for Modern Love and his Ripley casting had just been announced (yes, it's taken that long for it to come out).

Mr Andrew Scott’s big brown eyes are open wide in amused disbelief. “That was not an Irish accent,” he says in his musical Irish brogue. “That was a West Country accent.” How embarrassing for an interviewer who thought to connect with her subject by lightly mocking Mr Ed Sheeran’s – again – not-Irish accent in his cameo in Mr Scott’s episode of Amazon’s upcoming anthology series, Modern Love. Panic sets in. “It’s all right,” he says, soothingly. “It’s all right. Accents are such funny things.”

You know what else is a funny thing? Sitting with Fleabag’s “hot priest” – 2019’s most unexpected sex symbol – in a wine bar in Bermondsey, southeast London, talking about vulnerability, romcoms and love stories. Or, to take another angle: sitting across the table from the deranged Jim Moriarty and letting him pick out a rosé. That tickles, too. Having Hamlet express the need for a mini-break in, he doesn’t know, Copenhagen? Amsterdam, maybe? Surreal.

But actually, Mr Scott, who is wearing what can only be described as a modified sweatsuit (shorts and a zip-up sweatshirt, no shirt beneath) after our photoshoot isn’t funny funny. No, Mr Scott is serious: reserved and contemplative, but with the energy of a theatre nerd who, every once in a while, rests his head in his hands, cupping his fingers around his eyes to form blinkers while he thinks about a question you’ve just asked. In this quiet wine bar. He’s not an evil murderer, an agent of a shadowy organisation, or an overly excited (wink) cleric. He’s just a nice guy who sympathises about the difficulty of parsing the subtleties of the many accents in the British Commonwealth (and beyond).

Mr Scott is still hot off his run in Fleabag, even though the show ran from March to April of this year. A few weeks ago, he received a GQ Men of the Year Award, and just a few weeks after that, was in Los Angeles at the Emmy Awards where Fleabag cleaned up, winning three awards.

Of course, this is not Mr Scott’s big break. He’s been in the business since moving from Dublin to London 20 years ago to pursue acting. His dad worked in employment, helping young people find the right careers and his mother was an art teacher. “They were definitely into following your passion and doing that for the rest of your life,” he says. “Rather than, ‘You should be a lawyer,’ or whatever the fuck.”

And this has been a year for Mr Scott’s passions. Aside from Fleabag, and an episode of Black Mirror that landed on Netflix this June, he’s making a poignant appearance in the aforementioned _Modern Love,_ which will drop all at once on 18 October. A series of discreet episodes, each one features its own starry cast (Mr Dev Patel, Mr John Slattery, Ms Tina Fey, Ms Anne Hathaway and, of course, Mr Ed Sheeran, among others), based on the much-loved New York Times column from which it takes its name. Mr Scott’s episode, which co-stars Ms Olivia Cooke and Mr Brandon Kyle Goodman, is loosely based on an early column written by the sex-and-relationships writer Mr Dan Savage about the unusual experience he and his partner had with adoption. “It’s just a really sweet little story. It’s not about a romantic relationship,” he says, (many Modern Love entries are not). “It’s simply about the relationships between people.”

He’s also currently filming in Cardiff for the BBC TV series of His Dark Materials. And maybe there’s a Marvel movie in his future? “Oh, fuck. Completely false,” he says. “Someone said, ‘Are you going to be in a thing?’ I said, ‘No,’ and I said, ‘There have been discussions.’ And it’s like ‘Andrew Scott has been in discussions.’”

That’s what happens when suddenly everyone wants you – to use Twitter parlance – to run them over with your car. The Priest, unlike his other characters, was a sex symbol, one that wears the hell (forgive me, Father) out of a cassock. But who could be surprised that Mr Scott turned a priest into the “Hot Priest” simply by saying “kneel”? (If you don’t know what that means, stop reading now, watch the show, come back.) In fact, he has been making words positively drip with meaning for nearly a decade.

Consider Moriarty, the insane criminal puppet master Mr Scott played for six years across four seasons of the BBC’s Sherlock, opposite Mr Benedict Cumberbatch in the titular role. This particular Moriarty – Holmes’ famous nemesis, who has also been played by Messrs Orson Welles, John Huston and Sir Laurence Olivier – is indelible and utterly idiosyncratic. “If you’re going to do it, I don’t see there’s any point in doing it without putting your own stamp on it. I never look at any previous incarnations,” says Mr Scott. The result of this thinking – in Sherlock, at least – was a Moriarty who is all sing-song eeriness, molten physicality, and questionable cutaway collars. “He was quite theatrical; he was grotesque, sort of the archetypal villain,” he says. Archetypal, indeed: the role propelled him into the world of maniacal superfandom. He might not have received a dedicated stan nomenclature like his co-star (ahem, “Cumberbitches”), but the role made Mr Scott a household name.

Of course, establishing yourself as adept at playing evil incarnate probably leads to people wanting to cast you in more Moriarty-like roles. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yep, yeah,” he says, six times. “Yeah, exactly right,” (one more). “I turned down a lot. The shadow of that character took over for a little while.” The craze got to be so tiresome that he asked the interviewer for a recent profile in The Guardian not to ask him about Moriarty at all (two years after he last appeared in the series). But now he sees a bigger picture, understands how being the object of abject obsession can be a good thing. “I think to answer your questions,” he says, tapping his fingers on the table, “it’s been really good fun.”

Mr Scott demurs when asked what it’s like to be the quencher of many thirsts on the internet. “People don’t say that to me. People don’t say, ‘Oh my God...” He shakes his head and trails off, perhaps in horror of what fans could be saying to him. It’s a little hard to believe that he wouldn’t be mobbed as he walks down the street. After all, one major British publication declared that Fleabag and the Priest were the only couple worth talking or tweeting about this year. (We guess Meghan and Harry, and Kim and Kanye can relax.)

“If I’m honest, it’s only really just starting to dawn on me, the global effect the show has had. People like a bit of transgression, they just do.” Any follower of his career, though, understands that it’s more than just good writing that makes him so very watchable (though good writing, is, politely, what he puts it down to). His chemistry is electric with Ms Phoebe Waller-Bridge, as it was electric with Mr Cumberbatch, and palpable even if you weren’t lucky enough to catch his rendition of Hamlet and – like this interviewer – had to watch a clip on YouTube.

Mr Scott’s character, Tobin, in Modern Love is the most subdued we might ever see him. There’s very little shouting, and none of the wide-eyed glaring that has defined his roles to date. Instead, he plays sweetly, quietly off a tiny baby, and tells goodnight stories to an adorable little girl. Perhaps this is a harbinger of softer roles to come. “I’d love to be in a romcom,” he says. “I love watching people fall in love, and how mad it is.” And yet: it was just announced that he will be playing Tom Ripley in a new adaptation of The Talented Mr Ripley. So much for avoiding the nutters.

“What always amazes me is how innocent we are as human beings,” he says, sidestepping yet another probing question about being so irresistible right now. “We are very easily manipulated by stories. If someone puts scary music behind someone and they’re told this person’s eyes are absolutely terrifying, you go: ‘Oh my God, that person is scary, and his eyes totally freak me out.’”

“But then,” he continues, “[you’re told] ‘the priest is hot, wait till you see him’. And then you look at his eyes in a very different way and it’s the manipulation of the storytelling. It literally changes your character.” Hmmm.

“The success is the writing,” he tries, again, to argue. But it’s hard to be convinced that an actor who’s hopped from one iconic character to another is simply lucky with writing. He sees he’s not getting anywhere and changes tack. “Acting is just a way of experimenting with different parts of myself. Vulnerability is something I’m really, really interested in. I think vulnerability is at the centre of every character I’ve ever played even if they don’t appear or present as vulnerable.”

Throughout this conversation, his eyes have flicked around the bar, and he pauses from time to time to comment on the other patrons. At one point, a woman is coughing so vehemently, he stops mid-sentence to remark, humorously, on whether she might be dying. Now, he spots something on the bar. “Oh my God, she’s reading Brené Brown.” We both turn to stare at the book.

“She writes a lot about vulnerability,” he explains, excited. “[Being vulnerable] is how you get ahead. I really, really strongly believe that. [Vulnerability is] strong, it’s really strong.”

Perhaps this is the secret we’ve been trying to distil about his appeal: Mr Scott uses vulnerability to bring us all into a space of fear or sadness or lust or anger with him so that every character he plays – whether it’s the hottest priest in London, a gay man in Brooklyn trying to become a father, or a murderous villain – thrums with the heartbreak that comes with being human.

“The more I work,” he continues, “the more I just think every story is in some way concerned with love – or the lack of it.” He smiles an earnest little smile and we both know this is the place to stop. “That’s the way life is,” he says. “It’s so fast and furious.”

https://www.mrporter.com/en-hk/journal/fashion/the-softer-side-of-mr-andrew-scott-1052122

#andrew scott #fleabag #modern love #ripley #netflix ripley #mr porter #blast from the past

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secularbakedgoods · 8 months ago

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Masterpost: The Casefile of Jay Moriarty

The Casefile of Jay Moriarty is a queer romance series about a modern-day version of Sherlock Holmes' most famous enemy and his relationship with Sebastian Moran, his loyal partner in crime.

#1: Jay Moriarty Violates the Official Secrets Act

(11 000 words)

When ex-SAS security consultant Sebastian Moran runs afoul of a rich and powerful corporate client, he's thrown into the path of a brilliant hacker named Jay Moriarty. To survive, both of them must work together to unravel the secrets of Bruce-Partington Aerospace and take down its corrupt CEO, Sir James Walter.

Read as an ebook | Read on Ko-fi | Read on Medium

#2: Sebastian Moran Gets Mauled by a Tiger

(16 000 words)

Revenge brings black-hat hacker Jay Moriarty and former SAS operator Sebastian Moran together once again, with an egomaniacal real estate developer in their crosshairs. Derek Chapman is obsessed with high society and will do anything to climb the social ladder--which makes him the perfect mark for a confidence game involving a West End producer, a private sex club, and a live Bengal tiger. What could possibly go wrong?

Read as an ebook | Read on Ko-fi | Read on Medium

#3: Jay Moriarty Ruins Everybody's Childhood

(17 000 words)

After famous author Anya Clay incites a hate crime that hits close to home, hacker Jay Moriarty is hell-bent on revenge. To get it, he'll need the help of Sebastian Moran, the former SAS operator he may or may not be dating. But as Jay's plan hits one complication after another and the situation becomes more dangerous, Moran starts to worry just how far this will go—and what it could cost them both.

Read as an ebook | Read on Ko-fi | Read on Medium

#4: Jay Moriarty Has Seen You Naked

(26 000 words)

A spur-of-the-moment invitation brings Sebastian Moran along for the ride as Jay Moriarty recovers from surgery in a Spanish resort hotel. When Jay exploits a security vulnerability in the hotel network, he finds an array of exposed cameras — and comes across hints that one of the other guests is hiding a dangerous secret. A secret that, once uncovered, may put Jay and Sebastian's own lives at risk.

Read as an ebook | Read on Ko-fi | Read on Medium

#5: Sebastian Moran Inflicts Six Traumatic Brain Injuries

(12 000 words)

When an art heist goes wrong, Jay Moriarty calls for help — and in the middle of the night, Sebastian Moran heads out into the streets of London to find him. But he's not the only one hunting Moriarty, and it's not long before Moran's search leads him into a clash with a rogue mercenary company. To save his partner, Moran will have to take any help he can get … even from an untrustworthy cat burglar named John Clay.

Read as an ebook | Read on Ko-fi

You can also find The Casefile of Jay Moriarty on Gumroad and itch.io.

If you’d like email updates whenever I publish a new story, you can sign up for my newsletter here.

#original fiction #the casefile of jay moriarty #mormor #james moriarty #sebastian moran #queer romance #crime fiction #sherlock holmes

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eirinstiva · 11 months ago

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All the world's a stage: His Last Bow

Today I received the last story of the year from my dear friend Watson. Did he write it? Apparently he didn't. It was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle? Billy again? Mycroft Holmes? We don't know, but at least I'm sure the author wasn't Sherlock Holmes because there's not a single cry of "my Watson would do this better". We know our drama queen. My theory is that Mycroft wrote it after hearing Sherlock and John talking about this case, and then ACD edited it.

[ID: Cover of The Strand Magazine vol. 65, no. 321, September 1917. And illustration of a street in navy blue. Crossing the middle of the page there's a red band with Sherlock Holmes profile that says "Sherlock Holmes outwits a German Spy]

There are many reasons of why I love this story: Holmes has the chance to use chloroform:

[ID: Sherlock Holmes (as Altamont) with a goatee, using chlorofom-soaked rag to sleep Von Bork. Illustration by Alfred Gilbert]

Holmes and Watson working together once more:

[ID: Holmes and Watson walking Von Bork slowly. Illustration by Alfred Gilbert]

Holmes in disguise with longer hair and a horrible goatee, the references to professor Moriarty, colonel Moran and Irene Adler Norton, Martha the housekeeper (Mrs. Hudson? I don't know) there's a cat! but what I really like is how Sherlock Holmes used all his knowledge, talent and expertise to work as a spy.

This is his last case. This is his last play. That's why the title of this story has been translated into Spanish as Su último saludo en el escenario, El último saludo (as in my copy of Todo Sherlock Holmes) or La última reverencia. The detective works incognito for two years: he changes his appearance, he speaks with American accent and he travels to another places. Sherlock is an actor and all the world is a stage, and for his last show he calls his friend Watson to work with him at his side for the grand finale. Holmes takes the time to drink wine with Watson and to talk about everything and nothing while Von Bork is tied (somebody is third-wheeling here, or as we say in Chile, Von Bork is playing the violin). The detective takes the chance to steal £500, use his own book Practical Handbook of Bee Culture as a decoy, and make a dramatic identity reveal because Holmes loves to be dramatic, and he really loves to be dramatic when Watson is at his side. The previous short stories are the evidence.

What happened after this? my friend Doctor Watson answer this question in the preface of the book His Last Bow:

The friends of Mr. Sherlock Holmes will be glad to learn tha he is still alive and well, though somewhat crippled by occasional attacks of rheumatism. He has, for many years, lived in a small farm upon the downs five miles from Eastbourne, where his time is divided between philosophy and agriculture. During this period of rest he has refused the most princely offers to take up various cases, having determined that his retorement was a permanent one. The approach of the German war caused him however, to lay his remarkable combination of intellectual and practical activity at the disposal of the government, with historical results which are recounted in His Last Bow. Several previous experiences which have lain long in my portfolio have been added to His Last Bow so as to complete the volumen JOHN H. WATSON, M.D.

It's been a year since Letters from Watson reunited old and new fans to read the short stories on Sherlock Holmes and next year it's time to read the novels!

#letters from watson #sherlock holmes #john h watson #acd canon #his last bow #LAST #infinite love to letters from watson #todo sherlock holmes #lost in translation #alfred gilbert #drama queen #letters in the underground

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moriartyluver · 2 years ago

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Hello, you’re one of the very few accounts I know that write for Moriarty the Patriot and I really enjoy your writing. If you have time, could I request a William x Reader comfort? I just had an argument with my parents and they called me ungrateful and selfish and said that I owed them what they’re asking of me because they raised me, and I could really use some comfort. I’m asking for William because he seems like he would understand what it feels like to be around those kinds of adults but if you have another character in mind feel free to write for them too. The format can be whatever is easier for you with this type of request. Thank you!

A/N: hey nonnie! I understand how you feel. Having emotionally abusive parents really sucks but you’re really strong. Thank you for your request and i really hope things get better for you in the future!

Prompt: how would William comfort his lover who just had an argument with their parents?

Character: William James Moriarty x reader

Genre: hurt/comfort

Format: oneshot

warnings: emotional & physical abuse, bad parenting, arguing, angst at the beginning, reader’s gender isn’t specified, some cursing, mentions of violence, reader could be seen as implied female (forced marriages) but isn’t explicit, reader is engaged to William.

“Dammit (name)! You’re so ungrateful! Most parents would have thrown you out into the streets!” Your father yelled down at you.

Tears of a mixture of anger and disbelief welled in your eyes. You blinked them away and rubbed at them with your sleeves in an effort to not seem weak.

“Seriously, (name)! Listen to your father! The least you could do is get married to someone wealthy! Our family business is going to crash and all you can think of is yourself!” You mother agreed “We used to be nobles living lavish lifestyles! You owe us for all those years we raised you in comfort when deep down we knew you were a selfish child!”

Smack.

You held a hand up to your now red cheek. It stung so painfully that the tears you were holding back couldn’t take it any more. The tears could only make you cheek sting even worse.

“Damn you all.” You whispered to yourself. You voice was wavering and your throat felt as though there was a lump in it you couldn’t swallow. You sat up from the chair beside your mother and left in silence while those parents of yours watched in disbelief.

“Where in God’s name do you think your going?!” Your father demanded. You said nothing. You didn’t even turn back.

There was a slam of the manor door and then you were gone. Hopefully your parents would never see you again.

An hour or so later, you managed to turn up on the doorsteps of the Moriarty family manor where your fiancé lived. Strangely enough, you were planning on telling your parents of the engagement later that night at dinner, but after that disrespect, you decided they deserved nothing. They didn’t deserve you.

But even then you still felt somewhat guilty. Your mother had been feeling unwell due to the stress of your family going bankrupt and your father was terrified he may have to pay back loans with his own life. Could it really have been your fault? Were you really the selfish one?-

“(Name)? What are you doing here, my love?” The door opened to reveal a tall gentleman with blonde, somewhat messy hair ( he had been working intensely on a plan of his and fallen asleep earlier after overexerting his mind.)

At that moment, the tears came back. William looked somewhat confused, but let you wrap your arms around his neck and cry into him while he guided you to your soon to be shared bedroom.

“…so that’s when you left and ended up here, is it?” William repeated back to you once you finished your story of how you ended up crying on his doorstep. You were sat beside him on a lounge chair, wiping your tears away with a handkerchief.

His scarlet eyes softened when he gazed at your upset self. “Dear, whatever you may be thinking due to your own feelings of guilt, please know that you did nothing wrong..” he brushed a few strands of hair behind your ear with hand and held yours with the other “no matter how much your parents were struggling, they should have never taken it out on you.”

William placed a chaste kiss on your non- swelling cheek and another on your forehead. “(Name)… you aren’t selfish at all.. your parents are.”

“Thank you William, but now that I’ve walked out, I would rather not return. My issue is that I haven’t the faintest idea of what to do from now on…” your hand fell in your lap as you started down at your feet. “Knowing my parents, I doubt they would ever let me come back..”

“Then stay here, with me.” William offered “All we would need to do is move the wedding forwards and I can have Albert pull a few strings to ensure you get the life you deserve. You wouldn’t mind that, would you?”

Your eyes lit up at the proposal. “You mean it..?” The blonde nodded. You wrapped your arms around him in a close hug while muttering “thank you” over and over again and peppering his face with kisses of gratitude while he chuckled at your affection.

(And if your parents were to ever cause you any trouble….well they don’t call him the Lord of crime for nothing…)

#moriarty the patriot #william james moriarty #william moriarty #william moriarty x reader #yuukoku no moriarty x reader #sherlock holmes #yuukoku no moriarty #yuumori x reader #moriarty the patriot x reader #mtp william

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fancyfeathers · 5 months ago

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I saw your author darling idea and had an idea : due to some changes in the story, author is a noble lady , and after her success with her books, she is strangely seeing more potential suitors than she should, given the idea of her writing "grim and unladylike" things ( plain old desire of popularity). I think of her as eliose, dreading her future debut season, hoping to make it out single. The only issue, other than the annoying suitors vying for her, is her once "friend", a mathematics professor, whose secret she knows very well and is now watching out for him as well. What makes it all the more scarier, is him becoming all the more present at these debutante balls, stealing the attention of the many ladies, though his eyes only remain trained on her, always somehow swooping in and asking for a dance

And Then There Were None (Yandere William James Moriarty /w Author Darling Masterlist)

The way she would find out in this story would be a bit different than the other, she would still deal with the fact that her books are being used as methods to kill people and she still would be recruited by Sherlock to help solve it, but it wouldn’t take long for her high society parents to disapprove of her investigation and shut it down. She would be resolved back to her old life without her writing to prevent future deaths. She would have to leave her old writing friends behind that she used to work with on her drafts and proofreading, instead having to settle with making relationship with those in the social circle she was born into. So now she finds herself becoming rather close friends with the Moriarty brothers who live just a few doors down, especially William who has a similar enjoyment for the grim and gorey she does. The two of often enjoy tea together maybe once or twice a week and she tells him of the days she used to write for hours and then rush over to one of her old author friends where they would proofread, critique, and perhaps some days even make fun of each other’s choices, but it was all fun of course. But every time she remembered those days, she grew more and more melancholy, wishing she could go back to those days where her stories was the only thing that mattered to her, but now she has to worry about her upcoming social season and her controlling and desperate mama’s attempts to make her presentable to the public.

I think in this setting she would find out that night at the charity masquerade ball with Albert and Bonde, she is attending the party with one of her old author friends who is one of those who is trying to get her to pick up her pen again. She gets marked as one of the victims and has to leave the party and joining those two on the second floor. She just watches the party for a while, but she notices the strange nature of the conversation of the two gentlemen so she moves closer to listen in to their conversation and is immediately taken aback by the things she hears from the eldest Moriarty brother, the reveal of one of the faces of Lord of Crime.

She is clearly taken aback by this revelation but she pieces everything together in my mind from when she was investigating the murders based on her books with Sherlock. Albert wouldn’t do that, he never had been interested in her novels, nor would Louis who is another suspect in this, which leaves William.

God it all makes sense now, it was William all along. The interest he had in her books, the encouragement he always provided towards her continuing her work, the collection of her books that he had in his drawing room.

Her face must have turned to panic after she heard that because her friend that she came to the party with rushes up to her on the second floor even if he wasn’t the victims, because he can she the horror in her face from the ballroom floor. He rushed up and to her, past the two gentleman she was ease dropping over which surely catches the attention of the eldest Moriarty brother. Her friend tries to calm her down but she is in complete panic. Her friend announces that they have to leave and escorts her back to the carriage they arrived in to take her home.

“N-no, this i-is supposed t-to be fiction… n-not reality…”

“What is? What is wrong? You are worrying me-“

“William… William Moriarty, he is the one who been mimicking my books… it was him all along… it all makes sense…”

“God above…”

Meanwhile when Albert goes back to meet with his brothers after the party and reveals what happened, she knows. William just smiles, seems like she has finally to move again rather than just sitting idle.

When the social season starts, the two authors come up with a plan, her mother would have her make her social debut and they could not avoid that, but perhaps he could act as a shield. At every party from her debut, she is always accompanied by her closest friend, the fellow author. No one would think it scandalous since they were already close friends before her debut, he acts as her knight in shining armor keeping away any suitors so she could stay single. Think of their relationship in the season like the ruse between Simon and Daphne in Bridgerton, the only difference being that it is not romantic.

But beyond keeping suitors away it is also when William shows up one of the parties. She clings to her friend’s side when he approaches the two of them and asks her for a dance but her friend steps in to tell him that her dance card is full for this evening and sweeps her away from the mathematics professor. Upon the dance floor they keep an eye on him as they talk in hushed tones…

“You are truly a godsend, my dearest friend.”

“Oh think nothing of it, you are giving me inspiration for my next novel after all.”

“Do you are using my misfortune and the Lord of Crime as your inspiration, you truly are crazy.”

“No crazier than you who wrote about a mass murder at a dinner party.”

“Touché.”

Then as the season progresses, their relationship only makes her more desirable to the suitors who are looking for a wife, and a wife who is beautiful but also wealthy on her own from her novels, then to add on the fact of her being accompanied by one of the other most brilliant authors in the city makes her all the more desirable, even with that mind of hers that can come up with thoughts many do not wish to have, but her books were found almost everywhere nowadays.

But to William, she was already desirable, and now that she knows what he has been doing she is playing defensive which her friend. Every party he attends, she is arm in arm with her friend, keeping him away. She always runs off with him before William can get close, he would need to separate the two authors from one another.

Before one of these parties as the writing duo walks in and gets handed their dance cards and her friend goes to write his name in her slots, one of them is already taken, written before she even got her card…

William Moriarty

He was one step ahead of them this time, he was up to something this time. The two authors stand off from the crowd when they come to this realization, the two of them trying to piece together the why and what would he want.

Then when the time comes he takes her by the hand and pulls her to the floor to dance with her and she does it to save face.

“What do you want?”

“What ever do you mean?”

“I know what you have done, I have known for months.”

“And yet you have not done anything, well besides cling to that friend of yours.”

“He is protecting me.”

“Protecting you from someone who would never dream of hurting you.”

“And how do I know that is the truth?”

“Well because I am to marry you, I have already asked your mother’s permission when you were out this morning with him, and since I am well off and we had a rather good relationship in the past, she had no reason to say no.”

“You-“

By the time she can even respond she hears the sound of someone falling, the whole ballroom turns to see her friend, who was trying to protect her, on the ground dead.

She is taken in my the shock of the situation…

This is why William wanted to separate them, because he wanted her friend dead, her only protection.

Now she was all alone.

“I would burn the world for you, my dear.”

#william moriarty x reader #moriarty the patriot x reader #yuukoku no moriarty x reader #yuukoku no moriarty #william james moriarty x reader #yandere william james moriarty #yandere moriarty the patriot #yandere yuukoku no moriarty

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denimbex1986 · 8 months ago

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'Many iconic heroes from literary history, due to their status within the public domain, have been adapted countless times to the big screen. There's bound to be a new film or series about King Arthur, Robin Hood, Zorro, Tarzan, or the Three Musketeers every few years, but there isn’t a character with more screen appearances than Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes. Many adaptations of the character have tried to replicate the tone intrinsic to Doyle’s original stories, but the BBC series Sherlock made the radical decision to set the character in modern times, completely inverting expectations about his mythology. Although Sherlock did a great job of revamping some of the most iconic stories from Doyle’s era, Andrew Scott’s scene-stealing performance as the brilliant Jim Moriarty instantly ranked among television’s greatest villains.

Andrew Scott's Moriarty Added Legitimate Stakes to 'Sherlock'

What was most remarkable about Sherlock is that, despite minor shifts meant to reflect the new historical setting, the show was relatively faithful to the dynamics at play in Doyle’s original stories. Benedict Cumberbatch’s version of Sherlock is a dogmatic, isolated loner whose expertise at deduction makes him an integral (albeit obnoxious) ally to London’s Metropolitan Police Force, including Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade (Rupert Graves). After pairing with the veteran John Watson (Martin Freeman) to work on the “A Study in Pink” case, Sherlock realizes that the two have a potentially lucrative opportunity to work together in solving London’s most beguiling cases. As entertaining as the chemistry between Cumberbatch and Freeman was, Sherlock needed a legitimately intimidating villain in order to raise the stakes. Without a larger threat at play, Sherlock risked becoming just another network buddy cop mystery series, such as the rival Doyle adaptation Elementary.

A sure way to introduce a greater level of intensity to the series is to add Holmes’ most iconic villain, and the series did a great job at building up to Scott’s first debut as the character. Although initially Sherlock’s brother, the governmental agent Mycroft (Mark Gatiss) appears to be a barrier within his new detective agency, it’s eventually revealed that there are more insidious forces at play. Scott’s version of Moriarty is the show’s only character who is Holmes’ intellectual equal. While many of the most entertaining moments on Sherlock involve Cumberbatch belligerently proving his opponents wrong, Scott’s Moriarty is a man whose motivations he cannot crack. The conversations between Scott and Cumberbatch spark with energy because Holmes can’t be two steps ahead of his new rival; for once, Holmes is the one who is just trying to keep up.

Beyond the intellectual threat that he poses to the titular detective, Scott’s Moriarty has completely opposite morals compared to Holmes. Although Sherlock is often bewildered and willfully ignorant of the patterns of human behavior, he seeks to bridge a great understanding that would allow him to connect with others. None of that empathy is present within Moriarty; he views his intelligence as a commodity and callously disregards anyone who can’t keep up with him. While Sherlock seems to enjoy pointing out the errors in others’ ways, Moriarty takes a sick pleasure in creating scenarios where people are forced to make morally compromising decisions. By showing the negative effects that extreme intelligence can have, Moriarty forces Sherlock himself to find his inner heroism. It’s a level of nuance that simply isn’t present in other depictions of the character.

Andrew Scott’s Moriarty Is the Best Version of the Character

Scott certainly isn’t the first great actor to step into Moriarty’s shows; Jared Harris memorably appeared as the ruthless professor in Guy Ritchie’s action sequel Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows. While other versions of the villain tend to emphasize his formal background and influence upon London’s high society, Scott’s interpretation of Moriarty embodies modern fears about internet terrorism and outsiderism. Often concocting various schemes in order to catch the attention of the media, Scott’s Moriarty revels in the opportunity to “play the bad guy” on a public stage. While there are escalating stakes once he begins putting real people in danger, Moriarty can’t help but view his plans as one part of an elaborate game.

Sherlock utilized many of the best works from Doyle’s bibliography as inspiration for Moriarty, with great episodes inspired by the classic stories “The Great Game” and “The Reichenbach Fall.” Despite these classical inspirations, Moriarty’s depiction on Sherlock was retrofitted to reflect Scott’s personality. This is a version of Moriarty who is flamboyant, comically manipulative, and desperately seeking attention; in one instance in the finale “The Final Problem,” he has an entire dance sequence dedicated to Queen’s “I Want To Break Free.” It was a bold reimagining of the character that nonetheless reflected his literary roots as an agent of chaos, leading to Sherlock's Moriarty becoming one of the most defining villains of the modern “prestige television era.”

‘Sherlock’ Suffered Without Moriarty

While the early seasons of Sherlock sparked lively reactions with their creative new versions of classic narratives, the series began to suffer dramatically in terms of quality as it moved forward. Sherlock’s decline can partially be linked to the absence of Moriarty within the story; without a character that showed what Sherlock could become if his more chaotic impulses took over, Cumberbatch’s portrayal felt rather one note. The dark sense of humor that Scott had introduced to the series was also largely absent, leaving Sherlock in an uncomfortable place of self-seriousness.

Although the show attempted to introduce a few new antagonists, there wasn’t another villain on Sherlock who matched Moriarty’s screen presence. Compared to the energetic performance that Scott gave, Lars Mikkelsen’s Charles Augustus Magnussen felt like just another brooding terrorist, and Sian Brooke’s Eurus made for more of a half-hearted tie to Sherlock’s past. While these actors can’t be faulted for their performances, it’s hard living up to the incredible work Scott did in modernizing one of the greatest villains of all time.'

#Sherlock #Moriarty #Benedict Cumberbatch #Queen #“I Want to Break Free”#Mycroft #Mark Gatiss #John Watson #Martin Freeman #Andrew Scott #Ripley

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tiger-moran · 7 months ago

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The Conan Doyle Estate are back with their bullshit I see

"In recent years, only one other author, Anthony Horowitz, has been allowed to write a new authorised novel"

"authorised" means absolutely nothing except the Conan Doyle Estate want to tack their name onto someone else's work to try to profit from it

"Revealed: the next Sherlock Holmes author, with a twist in the tale The thriller writer Gareth Rubin focuses on Professor Moriarty, the great detective’s nemesis, in a new adventure approved by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s family"

How's focusing on Moriarty a twist, even their own 'officially authorised' author Horowitz already did that. And Kurland did that well before Horowitz did.

And I've never even heard of Gareth Rubin, is that name meant to impress me or something? At least I'd actually heard of Horowitz before.

"The family have endorsed Rubin’s book, Holmes and Moriarty, as a worthy successor."

LMAO, "family". Yeah right

"I also wanted to offer something that you don’t find in the Holmes canon. It took a lot of shut-away pondering to create a storyline in which Holmes and Professor Moriarty – a character who, incredibly, appears in person in only a single story – are forced to work together on a case."

So what the nonsense about the 'twist' actually means is this is something that doesn't happen in the canon which they're now trying to make out is new and radical solely because they're trying to claim it's now canonical even though in reality it's absolutely nothing to do with the canon and is just yet another pastiche. Meanwhile there are multiple other non-canonical things which have Holmes and Moriarty working together already, this is fundamentally no different to any of those.

“Gareth has drawn these characters very well, including Colonel Moran, who is key to this story,” added Pooley. “Moran was once described by Holmes as ‘the second most dangerous man in London’, and he tells half of this new mystery. As Moriarty’s right-hand man, he only crops up in a couple of original Holmes stories, I believe.”

'I believe'. They're supposed to be these expert keepers of the canon, Arthur Conan Doyle's family who are doing it for the love of him and for the stories and all that shite and yet they don't even bother to check how many stories a character appears in when doing the publicity for the new book. So yeah forgive me for being REALLY cynical about how well Moran is portrayed in this.

"“Gareth has really developed the personas and is so good at dialogue,” said Pooley, who suspects that Moran, “a young guy”, could now spawn his own series."

Why is Moran "a young guy" in this, I do not trust the reasons for this. I should be so excited about a possible series about Moran but again, given who is saying this I am so not excited at all. If you're going to make him some sort of young ~sexy~ (but heterosexual of course) action hero or something I don't want that.

"Also significant in the Holmes mythology, of course, are Sherlock’s reclusive brother Mycroft and the villainous Irene Adler"

Irene! Adler! Is! Not! A! Villain!

“We’re already talking to people who want to take Irene on to develop a television series"

I would not trust you as far as I could throw you with Adler

source 1

source 2

#Sherlock Holmes #James Moriarty #Professor Moriarty #Sebastian Moran #Irene Adler

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masked-disciple · 7 months ago

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*me not walking into a trap* Tell me about Hyacinthe and Iris! :) (genuinely though!)

So the actual chance tumblr would literally murder the quality of this is 50/50, but you should be able to view it in a new tab at proper resolution?? If that's not the case I'll rebagel with them broken-up so tumblr doesn't resize it.

Left to right we've got Iris, Hyacinthe, Katsuhito, and Yumiko! Iris obviously not an OC, the other three are. All of them are shown at roughly nine or ten years of age, although not at once: Iris is about twelve years older than Katsu, and about fourteen-fifteen older than Yumiko.

Under the cut, so I may ramble a bit!

Iris is Klint's daughter, born June 17, 1889. Hyacinthe is Barok's daughter, born February 6 1890. They're not twins, but they'll let you believe they are, because they act like it. They're sisters in every way that matters, and they refer to each other as such, and referring to them as anything else gets you shot.

They didn't meet until Iris was seven and Hyacinthe was six. Iris was living with Fionn, aware that he wasn't her father but not of anything about her blood family. Until one day, she went to look in her bedroom mirror, only to see a girl that wasn't her staring back at her, trees on the other side, as though the girl was looking through a pool of water to Iris.

Hyacinthe van Zieks died July 15 1891, a year and a few months' after her birth. She suffered from Magical Energy Waning Syndrome, the same condition that would have killed her Uncle Moriarty if the van Zieks forest hadn't killed him first. She died in her sleep, peacefully, resting against Barok's chest. Klint took her spirit away, and raised her in his brother's place, refusing to change into human form but doing what he could to be there for her anyway.

Two years and one day after Hyacinthe's death, Barok's life would be shattered again by the death of the woman who he called sister himself: Angharad Gingerson, Beatrice's eldest daughter. But theirs is another story. For now, Iris is seven years old, and the girl who is her dead sister is looking back at her through her mirror.

Hyacinthe knows how to talk: she learned from Beatrice and Osian and Ariadne, the latter of which who will tolerate her but makes no effort to conceal the fact she hates Hyacinthe's guts. She can talk well enough that the two can introduce themselves, and Hyacinthe can explain that they're sisters without disclosing who their family actually is.

The truth is, Hyacinthe doesn't know who her other parent is: she is the daughter of Barok van Zieks the Chainbreaker, for all they call him now the Reaper of the Bailey. She has been raised by a great white wolf of a ghost, who swears to her that she is family, that she will not be alone. She is the sister of Iris Wilson, and she wants to be friends.

They have tea together every day that they can. They talk about their days and brush their hair, they puzzle through inventions and magical theory together. Iris is not the resurrectionist her uncle is, not yet. She can't call the animals of the forest back to life by singing to them. She can't step through the mirror and hold her sister tight.

But she's an inventor, and she'll find a way. Hyacinthe likes reading theory, likes studying, wants to be a part of the hot, fast world her sister lives in. There's no mirrors in the van Zieks estate to watch Barok from, she doesn't know how he's coping with her death. She wants to take her sister's hand and meet him, hold onto the man who must be parent to them both.

They are determined, and they know better than to tell any adult of their relationship to each other, they know better than to admit what sort of magics they're willing to study if it means neither of them ever has to be lonely ever again.

By the time Barok is accused of murdering Inspector Gregson, they've managed it. Iris can pass through the mirror, sit in the ghostly forest of the twilight with her sister and have a tea party. It takes much more work, and much more power, to bring Hyacinthe into the daylight. They manage it anyway, just in time for Barok to be arrested, just in time for a homecoming a decade in the making to be sidelined by tragedy.

Hyacinthe runs in the daylight in the form of a wolf puppy, ribbons tied to the fur by her ears, Iris running beside her. They do not want to split up, but someone needs to tell the Queen, and someone needs to stay by Barok's side.

Iris goes. Hyacinthe stays. Barok recognizes his daughter, as he would in any form she took, and does not let go of her even as he watches the two men he loves more than he knows how to deal with argue over whether or not he will join his daughter in death. At this point, he might have said he no longer cared. At this point, he can see Klint's eyes in his daughter and in Iris and in the great white, ghostly wolf that flanks Kazuma even as Barok watches him fall apart. At this point, he is no longer thinking of what mercy the world could even still grant him, but what he can save before he goes.

After the trial, Susato and Gina are held up at the Old Bailey, being interrogated for their roles in the aftermath. The boys are holding fast to each other, Ryunosuke suggesting a nice pub to get blackout drunk at so that maybe come morning they'll remember how to hold to each other. Yuujin and Fionn are handling the fallout that they can, but they won't be home until late, either.

Klint van Zieks, the great white wolf that has raised Hyacinthe in his brother's stead, who allowed through no choice of his own for someone else to raise his eldest daughter, takes the two girls home, and explains to Iris who he is, and who, thus, she must also be.

It takes the two girls six months to build a life-sized balljoint doll for Hyacinthe to haunt, so she may be as close to alive as a dead girl may get. Mary Shelley's methods are, alas, some years' away from being viable.

Decades later, they can be found in Greece as tenured professors at Saint Shion's University, one as a pioneer of necromagy and artificing, and the other a magical theoretician who studies whatever catches her fancy. They'll argue with everyone and each other, send letters to their younger siblings and occasionally be cajoled into telling the story of Ryunosuke Naruhodo and the Time He Blew Up Iris' Invention Of An Electric Toaster.

They cannot, tragically, be cajoled into playing themselves when The Adventure of Ryunosuke Naruhodo, directed by Katsuhito Naruhodo, hits theatres in late 2000. But they do show up on set a few times for pictures and autographs, despite being over a hundred years old and looking like they're in their early seventies at best.

Hyacinthe, however, can still be cajoled into doing her best impression of Barok, and can pitch a chalice accurately at thirty yards behind her without looking. Because she's Hyacinthe van Zieks and she can do that.

#asks #arda-ancalima #sagiverse #thank you so much for the ask!!!!#;O;#I have another ask about katsu in my inbox from scout from ages ago #but I need to find the picture of his gotdang adult faceclaim first

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broken-clover · 6 months ago

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ooooh you've awakened my Steven Moffat DW pet peeve. usually he's fine but my major annoyance with his episodes, and MUCH WORSE in Sherlock where he had more creative control, is his obsession with having EVERYTHING fit into the overarching plot. Everything. Nothing is random nothing is natural its all part of the Big Plan That Will Surely Pay Off Amazingly. it's just so exhausting and takes the kick out of individual episodes because you can't focus on the actual stories there because Stevey is too busy drawing your attention to his ever growing cork board of a plot. like, jesus man WHY would Moriarty give half a wet shit about some random murdering taxi cab driver. Where does that fit in Steve. Bad Wolf worked ONCE Steve. Once.

Hoo boy. The short-form format of that post didn't let me go into detail but coming back to this series a lot of his episodes are so much worse than I remember them being.

And I'm glad you said that! Because it fits into another issue I didn't even bring up. Why is there such a weird fixation on who exactly is 'most important' to the doctor? Because it feels like that comes up so much in the Moffat era. The Ponds are important by being in-laws. River is important because of the weird timeline fuckery and them getting married once. Later Clara is treated as the most important person in his life because of more timeline fuckery. There's a point where it gets dull going 'but then *this* bond with *this* woman was even more deep and complex and unshakable than the last one, really!' multiple times. Characters can't just 'be,' they have to connect to him on a deeper level somehow. It's never just happening to bump into someone, there's always some time and space fate bullshit that pops up.

(And see, while 'The Doctor's Wife' was absolutely full of that as well, that's the one example where it *does* work, because it centers around the one character that's literally been at his side for the entire goddamn series)

One of the things that was fun about the RTD seasons, especially about the companions and recurring characters, was that there was nothing fundamentally special about most of them. Any specialness came from traveling and growing as as person and then doing something courageous based on that growth. Characters came and went and it was sad, but the doctor was a temporary part of their life in the same way that he was to theirs, not the main focal fixture of their existence that made it meaningful. The act of interacting with others added to the richness and sense of understand in one's own life. It feels weird to say in such silly phrasing but it felt like a lot of the first four seasons were simply about the power of friendship on a massive, cosmic scale

Yeesh and yep that's not even getting into the man's complexity addiction. Having an overarching narrative isn't inherently bad but I felt like hopping from season 4 to season 5 was like going from a show where most of the episodes could be watched as desired with a bit of seasonwide narrative to literally having to watch every episode in the designated order without fail unless you wanted to be completely lost. The plot-heavy episodes can be fun but when that's most of the season it becomes a bit harder to digest. It just feels a bit like it's taking itself too seriously

Also. Did I mention the horny? Can't remember if I mentioned the horny.

#ask #doctor who #steven moffat

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willsherjohnkhan · 8 months ago

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Rogue Male: A Sherlolly Story

Chapter 4: Identified

***

LONDON

Returning to England, making his way to London, and meeting up with Mycroft were all risky decisions. But they were necessary ones, for they gave him the upper hand on those that pursued him.

England was home, and London his domain. It was here he had his own vast network to assist him with whatever he was likely to need in order to apprehend the other members of Moriarty’s criminal organisation.

It didn’t take long after slipping away from The Diogenes Club for Sherlock to become aware that he had been tracked down. His shadow skilfully followed his every move. Whoever they were, they were remarkably adept at keeping well out of sight.

This simply would not do. It made Sherlock doubly determined to discover their identity, exposing them, if for no other reason than to assess the level of danger his shade posed, to himself and the public in general.

The question was, how best to get them to reveal themselves.

***

LONDON UNDERGROUND

Without warning Sherlock ducked into the Hollborn Underground Station, quickly buying an all-day pass before inserting the ticket into the machine and gaining access to the platforms. Once through he immediately made his way to the escalator that took him to the Central London Line.

Luck was on his side as a train had just pulled onto the platform.

While passengers on the train disembarked, and those waiting on the platform moved forward intent on getting onboard, Sherlock used the brief interlude to scan the crowd in search of his quarry. But to his growing frustration they remained irritatingly elusive.

The train was about to leave the platform when Sherlock jumped onboard, only to immediately turn around and hop off.

He ran for the stairs that would get him to the Piccadilly Line. As he began his descent he had the satisfaction of hearing someone having to force the train doors and leap out just as the train took off.

A brief glance over his shoulder was enough for Sherlock to identify his pursuer.

“Gotcha,” he murmured triumphantly as he made his way hastily down the steps.

His name was Parker, a short, stocky, yet powerfully built man, essential in his line of work. He was a garrotter by trade, and a member of Moriarty’s inner circle.

He was definitely the type you should be prepared for. Knowledge of your opponent was an invaluable asset.

With the distance between them and Sherlock’s longer stride that allowed him to reach the platform first, giving him a few precious moments to decide which car to enter, and find somewhere to sit.

The innocuous babble of schoolchildren that crowded around him, either sitting or standing, was only made bearable by the fact that they kept him shielded from the frantic searching gaze of his pursuer, who was forced to abandon his search in order to get on the train just as it took off.

Sherlock had no intention of staying put for long, but he also didn’t want to reveal his whereabouts if at all possible.

The obvious advantage for getting on the Piccadilly Circus Line was that it would take him to the Baker Street Station. But there was great risk in doing so, but as things stood at the moment, this was the best and quickest option. Sherlock could only hope that his run of luck thus far would continue.

When the train began to slow as it pulled into Baker Street Station, Sherlock was relieved to see the platform overrun by a mass of schoolchildren.

A number of passengers on the train began making their way towards the doors, all bracing themselves for the inevitable impact as the unruly hoards of children forced their way onto the already packed train car.

Sherlock made certain to be right in the middle of the mayhem, giving as good as he received in the pushing and shoving in order to get off the train as quickly as possible.

His luck held, with Parker this time unable to make it out of the door before the train left the station.

Using the few precious minutes before Parker could catch another train back, Sherlock made his way to a locker he had at the station. From it he retrieved items he had left instructions for a member of his Homeless Network to leave there: a backpack loaded with supplies for living off the grid, and a sleeping bag.

Then, using a public phone he rang a former client, who had offered his assistance should Sherlock ever require it, and made arrangements for where he was to be picked up.

***

ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF LONDON

Sherlock unfolded himself from the cramped confines of the man’s mini, and headed off without a backward glance.

His plan, to remain concealed from prying eyes for as long as possible, in order to give him the time he needed to get his plan of action up and running.

To that end he immediately left the road and headed over to some overgrown woodland that would help to keep him hidden and well out of sight.

Time was of the essence, for he knew that with their resources Moriarty’s operatives would soon track him down. So he needed to keep one step ahead of them for as long as possible, and use what time he had to set a trap.

***

#Sherlolly #Rogue Male #Sherlock #Molly

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janeofcakes · 6 months ago

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One Night in Palermo: Chapter 2

Hi Ho! Your friendly neighborhood Jane here. My apologies for the delay in getting out this chapter. The story is all written, so don't worry about it just ending 4 chapters in and without any resolution. Life just got in the way of editing, which I regret, but WE BOUGHT A HOUSE! Woo hoo!! Anyway, please enjoy the next installment.

-------

Sherlock had been observing Antonio Costa, a fairly prominent man in the Sicilian mafia who had oft worked with Moriarty, for two days. He was the man who provided killers for Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson on the day Sherlock had jumped. The detective had waited a long time to end this man and his organization. He had watched Costa’s movements and habits so as to catch the man when he least expected it. It would not be a difficult assignment. Sherlock planned to neutralize some of Costa’s men along with him, which posed some risk, but he intended to have the element of surprise on his side. The real question in Sherlock’s mind was: did the assassin have Costa in his sights as well or was the man already following the final target: Sebastian Moran?

Sherlock waited quietly in the darkness of an opulent office belonging to a man whose taste in decor rivaled that of Mycroft Holmes with its historic trinkets and mahogany furniture. Across Palermo, Antonio Costa would enjoy dinner with his wife and two children before he returned to the office. The information Sherlock had gathered since arriving in Palermo revealed that the night’s discussion would focus on the murder of twenty innocent people.

Costa’s aim was to turn the city against local government officials, forcing them to resign so he could fill their seats with his own candidates. Public opinion would dictate that if the government couldn’t protect twenty children on a school bus, they could not protect anyone. It was a particularly heartless endeavor. One of the children who rode the bus was his own daughter’s best friend. Collateral damage, he had said with a crass chuckle when first revealing the plan a mere twenty-four hours ago as Sherlock had spied. The detective’s lip curled in disgust as he thought of it. Costa was not a man he would waste any guilt on.

The detective looked to the ornate grandfather clock when it chimed nine o’clock. Costa would be back within the hour. Five men would be seated around the table with him, his most trusted and most likely to take over his affairs upon his death. With all of them neutralized as well, Costa’s influence would die with him. Not only would the children riding the bus to school in the morning be safe, but countless others the man would use as pawns in the future.

As Sherlock waited, his eyes scanned the dimly lit room, resting here and there on objects of interest. A carved, wooden box displayed on a wall shelf depicted the Eye of Ra. Several gold coins from Mesopotamia were mounted in a frame on the opposite wall. A small table held an 18th century chess set with pieces carved from ivory. As he continued to take in his surroundings, an antique magnifying glass on Costa’s desk caught his attention and he vowed to find one for himself once at Baker Street again. His eyes next fell on a leather-bound journal carefully placed on the bookcase behind the desk. It was at the end of a row of well-worn books, all propped against one another at an angle rather than held in place with a bookend. It was meant to look nonchalant, tossed on the shelf carelessly, but had clearly been placed there with reverence. It was the keeper of Costa’s secrets, the place he turned to when he could tell no other of his deepest feelings. Sherlock had seen the man write in it more than once while he tracked Costa’s movements over the last two days. Leaving the book in plain sight really was the best hiding place, despite what one might think. Costa’s enemies were more likely to sweep all of the books to the floor while looking for something secreted away than study any of the books themselves.

Both the appearance of the book; its soft, warm leather cover tied with a narrow strap to match, and its contents made Sherlock’s mind turn to John Watson. All warm and soft jumpers, tea and toast and cinnamon. Sherlock had not seen John since that first day he stood at the freshly placed grave marker, the name Sherlock Holmes etched elegantly across its surface. John’s shoulders were hunched and his whole body seemed to fold in on itself. Tears stained his face, dripping from his chin to land on coat sleeves or to coalesce with the dew upon every blade of grass. I was so alone and you gave me so much, John’s words had floated sadly through the still air, filling Sherlock’s heart with so much grief he thought it would burst. Please stop being dead. God, how Sherlock had wanted to step away from the cover of trees and take John in his arms and never let go.

Sherlock quietly eased back to lean against the wall behind his back, ensconcing himself further in the shadows. He was nearly in the same time zone as John, only an hour ahead. Was John having a late dinner? Was he in his dressing gown or talking with Mrs. Hudson? Maybe he and Lestrade were having a pint. Sherlock could see John’s face clearly in his mind’s eye; that lopsided grin or his tender smile. He closed his eyes and silently inhaled. The memories were so strong, he could swear the scent of his friend lingered around the edges of the breath he took. God, how he longed to be in his armchair across from John in 221B. Sherlock would tell him his secrets. All of them, keep nothing hidden, especially his most well-kept secret. It was time that John knew.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he forced his mind to banish the thought. He must not fall prey to distraction, even in the more boring moments. He scanned the room again in search of something interesting, which he found near the three windows along the north wall of the room. Each one was dark and left open to cool the room with night air. They had tall panes of glass and long, sheer curtains that moved slowly in the light breeze. The closest window, however, had something the other two did not: a movement ever so guarded that no one else would have seen it. To the most observant man in England, it was a neon sign.

Eyes fixed on the spot, Sherlock waited for them to pick out the lines and shapes in the dark alcove. He pieced them together as each new one emerged until he could see the full picture. It was a man. Sherlock could tell that easily. The man was crouching, waiting, steady and patient. He was wearing dark colors with his face and head covered. Sherlock caught a faint glint of metal on the man’s person. A gun. The assassin.

Sherlock quickly determined the best route to the man and began moving silently closer. Though they seemed to have the same goal, that did not guarantee he would not put a bullet in Sherlock’s head just as easily as Costa’s. The detective kept his eyes on the crouched man as he approached, his own gun gripped in both hands at the ready. He waited until he stood in the darkness only a few feet from the man, leveling his weapon at the assassin’s head.

“Put the gun on the floor and stand up,” Sherlock growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

The other man’s body was tense and motionless. Sherlock waited a few seconds, every sense on high alert. His mind processed every outcome and his fingers tightened around the gun in his hands. This man was not going to make it easy.

“Put it down,” Sherlock repeated.

The man moved his head to turn his face toward Sherlock. It was the slightest movement, not even an inch, but enough to tell the detective all he needed to know. This man was a mercenary.

“Did you really think I hadn’t heard you?” a gravelly voice replied and Sherlock could hear the cruel grin in the tone.

Fast as lightning, Sherlock moved, but not soon enough. The man spun on his heel, still crouching, and launched a footstool at Sherlock. He had just enough time to dodge, but could not avoid the man’s lunge as he plowed headlong into Sherlock’s legs. He hit the floor with a crash that knocked the wind from his lungs and the other man was on top of him. Sherlock did not know where his attacker’s weapon was as the man scrabbled for his hands, intent clear.

Sherlock cuffed the man and rolled their bodies so his full weight rested on him. Their arms stretched out overhead, reaching and hands grasping. Sherlock still held the gun in his right hand; both of the man’s were wrapped around his wrist. Sherlock’s left hand pulled at the man’s right wrist, attempting to pull it away from his own. Without warning, the man bent his right elbow and thrust it neatly in between their combined arms to crack Sherlock’s chin with bone. He twisted beneath the detective and flipped their bodies again, crashing Sherlock’s hand onto the floor and forcing him to release the gun. Suddenly, the man’s forearm pressed against Sherlock’s throat, supported at the wrist by his other arm and drastically decreasing the detective’s air supply. He gasped and grappled with the man’s arms, trying to gain purchase, but the man’s arms would not budge.

As he struggled, Sherlock ran through option after option and immediately discounted every one until he settled on the right approach. He twisted his hips and threw his long legs from side to side. The man was straddling his belly as opposed to his hips, supporting a position conducive to strangulation, but leaving Sherlock with the ability to use his own lower body to his advantage.

Sherlock’s thrashing legs and twisting hips took the man by surprise and, despite his valiant efforts, the arm against Sherlock’s throat began to give way. One more thrash and a shove with his arms rewarded Sherlock with a gasping breath as the man crashed to the floor next to him. He was free! Still, the detective could not rest on his laurels. He kicked the man’s knee, knocking it from beneath him as he began to rise. Using the delay to his advantage, Sherlock picked up his own gun from the floor and leveled it at the man once more. Unfortunately, his attacker had the same idea. So there they stood, each on his knees, a scant few feet apart with a gun pointed at the other’s head.

Both men were breathing hard, chests heaving with the effort to catch their breath. Suddenly, the assassin’s hitched in his throat in what could only be surprise. With the combined cap and mask pulled over his head and face, Sherlock could see nothing but the man’s eyes. Meanwhile, the skull cap Sherlock had used to hide his own distinctive curls had fallen off somewhere near the end of the struggle. Mycroft had encouraged him to cut his hair and dye it at the onset of his first assignment, which he did. It made sense to hide his identity so completely. After a few months though, Sherlock began to lose himself and feel further from John than ever. Within three months, his dark curls were back and he wore the skull cap anytime he was not in a safe house. To his credit, Mycroft said nothing.

Now, the curls were out and he was fully exposed. The man before him clearly knew who he was, but it did not concern Sherlock in the slightest. He knew the deep, ocean blue eyes well. They were the same eyes he saw in every dream every night since he leapt off St. Bart’s.

“Sherlock?” an all too familiar voice breathed into the air between them, full of disbelief and hope.

“Che cazzo!” a gruff voice called from across the room before shots rang out.

Sherlock fired back and then took cover as John fired his own shot, hitting Costa expertly between the eyes before diving for cover. Unfortunately, one of the shots from Costa’s men proved accurate and hit the doctor, changing his trajectory as he fell and making him run headlong into the curio cabinet he meant to duck behind. Stunned, Sherlock stared at John’s still body as bullets continued to whiz through the room. No no no! He just got John back. He could not lose him again!

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A shorter chap, I know, but WTF?!? JOHN???!!! Jane, what are you playing at, you say? Nyeh nyeh nyeh, you'll see. Alright, alright. I know John being the assassin isn't really earth-shatteringly shocking, but it certainly raises a lot of questions, eh? Will there be answers? Join me in the next nerve-tingling episode. 😱 Jane

#johnlock #sherlock #sherlockholmes #johnlock fanfic #sherlock fanfic #john watson #johnwatson

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