Nocturne in Tempo Rubato
part tenMary's murderer had a smoother sounding voice than John had imagined. Evil didn't have a sound any more than it had a look but somehow John had imagined a croak like an old man grown hoarse from a lifetime smoking, the kind of voice that had age carved into it, each rasp and rumble like a ring on an old tree to demonstrate the life cycle of an army Colonel. Sebastian Moran sounded like a normal bloke of good health though the strictness in his delivery was as unwelcome as it was familiar. He might have saluted this man out in the desert. There was no way of knowing outside comparing army records, stationed dates and battle notes that could have meant they'd crossed paths. He might have tended to the man's wounds at some point. Through a series of events he might have saved a life that saved a life that saved Moran's. War made heroes and villains of them all and John despised the thought of this man once having been among the ranks of those he entrusted with his life and whose lives he vowed to protect and save.
There were many facets to the level of betrayal he felt in being thrown together with Moriarty's replacement. Brothers in arms, there should have been more honor and respect shown each other. Moran killed his girlfriend then made a mockery of John's Hippocratic oath in the name of a pointless game all crafted for his own amusement. The man had no honor and deserved no respect. But it was the fear of him that made John hold his tongue. He thought back to the Hall, to the stretchers and the rubble and the bodies and the list of the dead and wounded waiting for him on his laptop. If it was true, if there were more bombs, he had no choice but to play and to obey every order the sadist gave him.
Truth was hardly a word he would ever chose to describe the words that followed from the earpiece of his phone, though. Only an idiot accepted everything he was told to be Gospel. John Watson was nobody's fool. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"
"Would you like a demonstration? I thought last night might be enough to prove I'm serious but if you insist on-"
"Moran, wait-"
"You don't get it, do you?" The man chuckled lightly, amused to no end. "Last night never had to happen. I called, you know. I've called you many times and you just never answered. Time was up for the Royal Albert Hall and so..... But alright. You want proof? I'll have one of my men call in the bomb threat. Not to the school, no, the location of your current incentive isn't something I'm willing to share. Too easy for you. There's a tube station, though, with a bomb secured in a duct. Hell, I'll even let them know where in the vents. They can't stop it without the code. Any attempt to remove or disarm it will cause it to explode. Let's see if they believe me any faster than you do."
John could feel the chill of sweat on his brow, his body throbbing with excitement and fear. No matter how much he had missed this life, the danger was still overwhelming at times. "How does that prove anything to me?" he asked, waiting for something more, mindful of the minutes that passed and ticked away towards detonation.
"You'll see. I doubt he'll disappoint me." Moran wasn't about to give John any time to consider his words let alone his options, though. He continued on talking, his serious voice edging on the side of wistful as he spoke. "Sherlock Holmes the Consulting Detective is a very difficult man to plan around when you're trying to keep business going. You never know what clues are going to lead him straight to your door. When it comes to Sherlock Holmes the man, though, nearly everything is easy to plan and manipulate. Jim used to say dancing with the detective was an improvised work of art while the man alone was a choreographed number of rehearsed precision. Jim labeled every move and sequence, could point out every strength and weakness in the tired performance and I've had more than enough time to study it all.
I liked his metaphors. You don't get that kind of creativity in most of your employers. Metaphors make even the most complex of ideas so much simpler to grasp. He spoke to us as both stupid children and capable idiots. And it never once pissed me off. It's a different sort of power than the kind used in the services. But you know all about that. Before it was orders and attitude, commanding respect with might. Not him. Moriarty commanded respect with his mind, the fear of what he was capable of and knowing even he wasn't quite sure of his own limitations. His potential for genius and cruelty was limitless. Everyone, kings to crooks and allies and enemies alike, respected James Moriarty. Funny that almost no one respects Sherlock Holmes. Do you know why that is, Captain? Would you like me to tell you? Why not; still got a few more minutes to kill.
No one does or will ever respect Sherlock Holmes because he's capable of being a villain and no one can quite understand what holds him back from his potential. His enemies find his choices hilariously naive and his colleagues are just waiting for him to slip. Evil is evil but good can sometimes just be the kind of bad that hasn't been caught yet."
John breathed loudly, anger flaring through his nostrils. "You don't know him like I do."
"No, I'd say I know him better. Because I knew Jim. You might say they were two sides of the same coin, two extremes of the same kind of genius, but how different are they really? If two boys pull the wings off a butterfly, does it really matter that one wanted to test how long it took it to die while the other just felt like watching something beautiful suffer? In the end there are two happy boys playing with a dead bug. Now, I believe I just heard your text alert. Read it to me, Captain."
"... Bomb in Oxford Circus. Take a cab. SH."
"Wise words. You've wasted enough time as it is."
John shook his head, pacing towards the door and his jacket on the hook though his feet were heavy as lead. "None of this necessary!" he shouted through closed teeth, shouldering on his coat as he headed down the stairs. "These games are meaningless! If you want us dead, just kill us! Come at us, don't involve the whole of London!"
"If you don't want to play, just end the game. It's very simple. The game ends when either Sherlock Holmes or myself is dead. You don't know where I am but you spend nearly every waking minute with my opponent."
"No."
"Then hurry, Captain." Moran ordered, amusement coloring his tone. "It's your turn, and time is running out."
+ + +
The cab driver was Indian and very quiet. There were no personal touches to the cab, no photos or iconography, nothing that really said anything about the man behind the wheel. The few words they had exchanged were enough for John to assume the man was native to London, the lack of an accent ruling out his being a recent immigrant. Probably not even second generation. With his close cut hair and a straight backed posture, he reminded John of an office worker or student, someone struggling to make a living but putting up a good appearance to the business world. He looked to be only a few years younger than John, maybe as much as a decade but certainly no child and far from an old man. John was grateful to that point of fortune. The senseless deed he was to carry out for a meaningless game all part of pointless entertainment was bad enough without having to make it assault on the elderly as well.
The car-park he'd asked to be taken to was not in a location John was familiar with, making it hard to assess how close or far they were from reaching their destination. It gave him time, though. Not much but some; enough at least to try and work out his strategy, how to incapacitate the man and wound him superficially so as not to leave him with anything more lasting than the terror of an unwarranted attack. The driver looked fit. He would probably be able to put up a fight so the element of surprise was John's best bet to knock him out and down before a struggle escalated to a brawl. John needed to be well enough to get the information from Moran once it was over. Simply failing to fight and getting his ass handed to him in the attempt was not going to save anyone. Needs required he play along exactly as Moran instructed him and therein, hopefully, would lie the errors to trap him.
If Moran was going to know he'd completed his task as asked, surely there would be someone or something there to be his eyes. John hoped for the former, someone he could get a good look at and track down, someone he could bully into giving him answers. Anything was preferable to games. Anything was better than possibly hundreds of lives at risk across the city and nothing but compliance keeping them alive.
John's mobile sounded its text alert, his hands trembling strangely as he pulled the phone from his jacket pocket and looked to see his new message. From Sherlock. Always from Sherlock. The second one in the past five minutes and marking the man's impatience with each jarring trill.
"Wake up! This is no time to be sleeping. -SH"
John rested his thumb against the buttons, tempted to text a reply but knowing he could not. Being thought of as asleep was the best cover he could ask for in a call to arms. Sherlock would be grossly annoyed at him but people would at least be alive. Sherlock included. He was probably with Lestrade, face nearly pressed against the bomb like the idiot he was, wondering if he could figure out the code and itching to try. Lestrade wouldn't let him though. Greg had more than enough sense for the both of them at least, giving John some sense of relief as he headed for his first criminal foray. Sherlock didn't need someone to keep him from doing something stupid--usually--but he did tend to need someone to remind him that curiosity was responsible for more than just feline fatality. Or to at least have his back as he reaffirmed what could and could not kill through trial and error.
Sherlock would figure it out. He'd find a clue, he'd find Moran, and he'd end the game before anyone else got hurt. Not in time to keep the cab driver unharmed but eventually. It was John's job to buy him time for London's sake.
It felt better to think of it that way. He wasn't following Moran's orders, he was letting Sherlock work. And Sherlock would win. He had to. It was a when, not an if. Closing his eyes with a deep breath, John felt sure of it.
The cab pulled up to the curb in front of a cement structure, slowing to a stop with no sense of hesitation. They'd arrived. The tremor in John's left hand made his fingers buzz against his knee.
"You sure you want to get out here?" the man asked, apparently noting the same isolated landscape that John was. It was deserted and marked heavily in graffiti with rusted chain fencing along an overgrown perimeter that no longer served to keep anyone either out or in.
John swallowed, chewing on the inside of his lip. "Yeah... this is the place... what do I owe you?" He took out his wallet, pretending to flip through notes as he half listened to the man read out the numbers on the lit meter. He needed them both to leave the cab here; he couldn't attack a man kept safe behind a locked door and a hard plastic partition. While he wasn't a master criminal or even a well versed actor the likes of Sherlock Holmes, he was far from without resources. He was was a doctor. As much as it pained him, he knew what to do. With a less than award winning performance, John began to convulse and slide down in his seat, letting his eyes roll back in his best impression of what laymen thought a seizure looked like. He felt like an idiot and knew he looked like an utter buffoon to any trained professional. The sound of the car door opening and the shadow of a concerned face looking over him at least showed that his own meager means of deception worked when needed. The driver held him by the shoulders, surveying him for signs on how to help. He seemed to mostly ignore the sharp jut of his knee into his stomach, perhaps writing it off as a product of John's convulsions. The fist in his face that sent him stumbling backwards out of the cab set that record straight instantly.
John did not give either himself or the driver any time to think. He launched himself at him, throwing him to the ground, giving himself the advantage as the driver grabbed to still his arms. On his back, on the cement, there was only so much the cabby could do that wasn't purely defensive. He held his arms up to protect his face, leaving his ribs unguarded for the hard jab to the left, a follow up aimed hard at his diaphragm to knock the wind from his lungs. He coughed, instinctively curling, his head suddenly left vulnerable as he hugged at his aching trunk. John sent a blow to his temple which made the man's eyes grow wide, then a second hit to the chin that knocked his head back to the ground, bouncing his skull hard against the pavement, rolling his dark brown eyes back as they finally fell closed and his body went limp.
The soldier's blood was pumping fast, adrenalin fueling him as he leapt off the man, stumbling back against the cab, his fists aching from the blows and his left hand completely stilled from the fight. He breathed hard through his nose, the whistle of it the only sound as he looked down at the man with blood on his lips. He felt sickened by the thrill of it. It felt like ages since he last had a brawl, even if this victory was tainted by poor sportsmanship.
His phone rang, his steady hands pulling it from his coat pocket to give the caller ID a quick glance. Not Sherlock; unknown number. With a final deep breath he pressed the receiver to his ear. "Hello?"
"Well done, Captain. I was wondering how you'd get him out of the cab. I'd assumed you'd use your gun but faking a seizure? Sherlock Holmes must be rubbing off on you."
John looked around, seeing nothing and no one. No cars, no cameras, no strangers in the shadows. Moran wasn't there and whatever he was using as his eyes was not readily visible. It was far less than what he'd hoped for. He pressed the phone close to his face, watching the unconscious man at his feet. "The address," he reminded him. "The code."
"Sir James Barrie Primary School. The ventilation in the music room. The code is 326e64."
"And the tube station?"
"You'll figure it out."
"No, not good enough! I did what you asked!"
"And I asked you to do that for the school's code." The colonel's no-nonsense tone was back, his grave voice marked by irritation. "I've practically given you the third one. I'm sure you can solve it in time. The tube is tomorrow's bomb. You have nearly twenty four hours to work it out. Besides, I think you have more important things to worry about right now."
"Such as?"
"Such as how you're going to get home. How you're going to alert the police about the other bomb without giving yourself away. How you're going to keep the man you just assaulted quiet. Ma’a salama, Captain." The line went dead.
John stared at the empty cab he couldn't drive and the long walk down the roads he hadn't paid any attention to. The multitude of curse words that filled his mind gave him little pleasure in light of his new dilemma. The answer to one question was simple enough. He set about that task first with very little hesitation.
In the cabby's pocket was the man's mobile. John scowled slightly at the newer model, his eyes wandering over the touch screen for the button that would allow him to text. It took him longer than he felt necessary but the capability became open to him. It was vital he got this right. Sherlock's mobile number was on the website; anyone could text him anything at anytime. Today, Sherlock was going to meet a new friend.
"Bomb. Sir James Barrie Primary School. Music room duct. 326e64."
He sent the text and shifted the phone into his other coat pocket, looking down at the man who could identify him, who's phone number they could trace the text to, who could tell the police everything they needed to know to track John down and end them all.
So mugging became kidnapping or murder. Somehow John figured that was how Moran planned it to be. Two bombs, two crimes. He hurried into the abandoned carpark, looking for a place to hide a man with a million thoughts running through his mind as to how he'd get back to the location make sure he was okay and how to hide the cab till things blew over. Killing him would be so much easier and so very out of the question. The carpark offered plenty of dark corners to hide a body but nowhere safe and quiet to hold a human being.
The phone--not his but the other man's--gave an unfamiliar buzz in his pocket. John pulled it out, smiling slightly to see the digits he knew so well.
"Who is this? What of the bomb in Oxford Circus? -SH"
John worried his lip, typing his response slowly, double checking for errors and purposefully changing his own texting habits.
"You have all you need to know. First the school. Next the tube."
He pocketed the phone as he ran back to the car, a little worried to see the man still out of it but pleased all the same. If he could drive it wouldn't be too difficult to get them all far away from the isolated location but as he couldn't it was pointless to consider. This was what he had to work with: one unconscious man, one black cab, and an abandoned car park. The need to think and work fast went without saying.
Another buzz, another text.
"Who is this? What is your involvement? -SH"
John frowned as he typed.
"I'm helping. I'm a friend. Trust me."
The interruptions were not helping his cause, however. John grabbed the driver, pulling him up into the back of the cab and laying him out on the floor. He frisked him for his wallet, taking from it his ID card. It was a very bad day to be Ashwin Preeti. John tossed the wallet in beside him, leaving everything else inside. He checked the driver's seat of the cab for paper and pen, glad to find Mr. Preeti was a fan of Sudoku. He picked up the half completed book and the pen marking his place, ripping off the back cover for a clear page to leave a message. He wrote simply: "Do not go to the police. I will know if you do and I know where to find you. If anyone asks, you lost your phone. Say otherwise and you will lose much more. Say nothing.". He hoped the threat was clear enough, the intent unmuddled. If the want for justice was stronger than fear, he'd fail Moran's game and forfeit hundreds of lives. There was no other option worth considering, though. It simply had to be enough.
"Helping who? - SH"
You, John thought as he tucked the page under the man's arm, pinning it against his chest to not go unseen. He locked and closed the doors with the keys still inside, at least letting the man sleep protected in the middle of nowhere. His wounds weren't severe. He'd wake up with a headache and some sore ribs but he would be fine. Everyone would be fine if he just obeyed the note.
John took off down the road at a jog which soon became a run as he raced suspicion home.