sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2011-03-27 03:12 pm
sam_storyteller) wrote2011-03-27 03:12 pm
Entry tags:
Rematch 2/2
Title: Rematch
Rating: PG-13 (violence and language)
Warnings: Relatively graphic violence
Chapter One
***
Peter and Lestrade were engaged in a laconic debate about Neal's change of plans while Neal talked over them on the speaker. Neal had specifically left a clue that pointed to Baker Street, and Sherlock would have no way of knowing Neal couldn't get there because of the tracker. He'd probably figure it out, but there was a question of fair play involved. John was of the opinion that Sherlock should at least be told Neal's radius prevented him from getting to their flat; Peter and Lestrade were less certain.
"Well, we have to decide soon," Lestrade said, pointing to Sherlock's GPS, on the move towards Baker Street. "He'll be there, and it's not fair to waste his time."
"Call Neal," John suggested. "Have him send Sherlock a new clue."
Peter knew that the I should have thought of that expression on Lestrade's face was probably mirrored on his own. He took out his phone, which would at least interrupt Neal's ceaseless talking, when there was a sudden scuffling noise over the speakers. Neal broke off in the middle of a sentence.
"That's not Sherlock," John said, staring up at the speakers. "He's not close enough."
They heard a whistling gasp -- wouldn't have known whose if Sherlock hadn't been murmuring about the element of surprise -- and after a second Neal's voice, weak and frightened, called Peter!.
Then, suddenly, Neal's tracker went dark. With it, about half the ambient noise over the speakers went away.
Immediately the audience erupted in anger; cries of "Foul play!" echoed around the room.
"That wasn't a run. Neal wouldn't cut his tracker," Peter said to Lestrade, who fumbled for his radio.
"All units, all units, Neal Caffrey is in the wind, suspected assault," Lestrade said. "Last known location, Marylebone Road near Luxborough, at the wax museum. It's probably a malfunction," he said to Peter, even as John was texting Sherlock that there was a possible default.
"That was an assault. I know choking when I hear it," Peter insisted.
"We'll have a unit there in thirty seconds," Lestrade said. "Just -- "
The sound came back. They listened intently as someone swallowed.
"Well...hello," Neal's voice came over the wire, sounding hesitant. Everyone fell silent. "Inspector Lestrade. Agent Burke. You...didn't...think...you could...play...a game...without me."
"That's not Neal," Peter said. "He's reading something."
"Moriarty," John said, leaning over Lestrade, who was giving furious directions on his radio. "Lestrade, it's Moriarty."
"I know!" Lestrade snapped.
"Who's Moriarty?" Peter asked, bewildered.
"Now...we're going...to play the game...my way," Neal continued. "Catch...me...if you can."
The audio feed died on a whine.
"Get Sherlock on the phone, now," Lestrade ordered. John was already dialling.
"Sherlock, it's Moriarty. He's got Neal," he said.
"Bugger," Sherlock's voice boomed in the auditorium. "Right, I'll get to his last known."
"How are you going to -- "
"Don't be stupid," Sherlock replied. "There are half a dozen police cars converging. I'll hitch a ride."
"What the hell happened to my CI?" Peter demanded. "Who's Moriarty?"
"John, explain this to him," Lestrade ordered, already running for the door, a few other officers joining him from the seats. The audience was in an uproar, and Sherlock was swearing over siren noises on the speakers. "Burke, stay here and run the search. You don't know the city, you have no jurisdiction, stay here!" Lestrade repeated, seeing Peter open his mouth to object.
"Reinforcements are coming," John said into the phone.
"Shan't need them," Sherlock growled. He sounded livid. "Nobody interrupts my game."
John hung up, grabbed Peter's arm, and pulled him up the stage, into the shadowed area under the auditorium screen.
"James Moriarty is a psychopath, obsessed with Sherlock," he said urgently. Peter felt his blood go cold. "He's responsible for two bombings and several kidnappings, plus a string of crimes I couldn't even hope to list. He's violent and quite mad."
"What does he want with Neal?" Peter demanded.
John gave him a frightened look. "Neal's a friend of Sherlock's."
***
There was very little evidence at the scene when Sherlock arrived; the remains of Neal's anklet, some scuff marks, a few threads from some fabric-backed tape they'd probably used to restrain Neal (handcuffs wouldn't work, as Sherlock knew personally and Moriarty would know from research). Sherlock went over it all with calm, keen eyes, slowly, methodically, but he was nevertheless finished by the time Lestrade arrived.
"There's absolutely no way to tell where he's been taken," Sherlock said. "I've gone over it."
"You reckon he's still alive?" Lestrade asked.
"Oh, undoubtedly. What would be the fun in killing him with no witnesses?" Sherlock said. He saw a look of anger in the other man's face, quickly shuttered away. It was not an unfamiliar reaction to things he sometimes said, but honestly, they didn't have the time to be polite. "What did Moriarty say?"
"Nothing," Lestrade said. "He made Caffrey say it."
"As precisely as you can."
"He said..." Lestrade fumbled and Sherlock bit down on an urge to shake the man. "He said we shouldn't have tried -- no, he asked, You didn't think you could play a game without me? -- gave my name and Agent Burke's. Then he said that we'd all play the game his way and told us to catch him if we can."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, studying the scuff marks again. "Why was he here and not at Baker Street? Why take him from here?"
"Your flat wasn't in his radius," Lestrade replied, as though it should have been obvious. Sherlock's head snapped up. "What?"
"It was inside the radius yesterday. I checked. I was expecting him to hit my flat sooner or later," Sherlock said. "How do you know it wasn't in the radius?"
"He tried for it and tripped the alarm. He decided to go after the wax museum instead."
Sherlock looked around him. "This is a much more ideal spot to set an ambush," he said conversationally. He glanced back at Lestrade. "The radius was altered. I suggest you find out who controls the monitoring system and beat a confession out of them. Moriarty's been hard at work. Any word since?"
"Nothing. Sherlock, I can't just -- "
"Then he's..." Sherlock interrupted, casting around for something, anything, to indicate where they might have gone. "They must be in transit. He'll be in touch again. Is there any way to get me in on Neal's wire?"
"It's going in and out," Lestrade said. "Jammed, probably. We can get you a headset and route it through next time it comes on, but Sherlock -- "
"Do it," Sherlock said. He was busy texting; Come at once, he ordered John, and then, He will be safely returned, to both Peter and Elizabeth.
***
Well, at least they hadn't Tazed him yet.
Neal thought there were two people, maybe three, when they grabbed him. He'd been shoved back into the shadows with tape wound around his wrists so tightly it felt like it was cutting off his circulation. A knife sliced through the tracker, killing it. Not amateurs, he'd thought as a masked figure held a little light up to his eyes. It took them a second to adjust: the light was coming from a pager, old-school but expensive, with a large digital readout.
"Read it," the man had ordered. The barrel of a gun was pressed up against Neal's jaw, just in front of his ear.
The message had been disturbing, cryptic, and very, very worrying, but Neal had tried to keep his voice even, well aware that a lot of people were hearing this.
He'd barely finished before they'd thrown a hood over his head (déjà vu) and bundled him into a car. The transit hadn't taken long -- not more than ten minutes, and they'd circled one block at least twice. They hauled him roughly out of the car at the end of the journey and up a flight of steps (seventeen; he counted, just in case) and then up another (fifteen; sloppy architect, bad builder, or cheap remodel). He'd been thrown onto something soft, face-down, and the tape had been painfully ripped from his wrists, replaced with manacles so tight there was no hope of slipping them.
The full-body frisk had just been the icing on the cake, really.
"If you wanted to get friendly, you only had to ask," he managed through the hood and the soft thing under him. There was a ringing smack and a blaze of pain across his shoulders; it felt like a baton. He twitched and fell quiet.
Eventually he was pulled upright by his wrists, which hurt, and turned to sit on the edge of the -- bed, of course, he saw when the hood came off. He was sitting on a bed, in an eerily tidy bedroom, and sitting in front of him was a small, eerily tidy man. Behind him were three much bigger, scarily well-armed men.
"Hello, Neal," the man said. "My name's Jim. Jim Moriarty. I've been just dying to meet you."
***
John reached the crime scene in record time, only to find Sherlock had already moved on. He caught up with him ten minutes later and three miles away, at the Tower of London.
"Why are we here, again?" he asked Sherlock while Lestrade held a hurried discussion about emergency access with the guards.
"This is bollocks," Sherlock announced, pushing past Lestrade. "There's a bomb on-site. Probably in the White Tower -- less likely though possibly in the Jewel House."
That scattered the night guards and left the entryway open. Sherlock strode through like an oversized raven, stopped for a second to take his bearings, and then made for a large sign reading "FIT FOR A KING".
"Well, this is lovely," John said, following Sherlock through the easily-picked door and into a display room filled with medieval weapons and shadowed suits of armour. "Not at all creepy and unsettling."
"Impractical," was all Sherlock said. "But ideal for the purposes of planting a bomb. Help me search."
"Any idea what this bomb looks like?" John asked, peering into a display case.
"Bomb-shaped, I expect," Sherlock replied absently. He wandered into the next room. "Well, Henry the Eighth had a high opinion of himself," his voice echoed back.
"Most kings did," John murmured. "How do you know there's a bomb here?"
"Neal's next logical hit after Baker Street," Sherlock replied.
"Oh?"
"Of course," Sherlock said, without bothering to explain. "That's why I was coming here rather than chasing him down to Baker Street. Stood to reason."
John found that sometimes, as when he was searching a room full of creepy old armour for a bomb, it was easier just to agree with Sherlock. "Naturally."
"It's all just to distract us from the search, mind you, but until we know more..." there was a clank. John looked up. "...it's something to pass the time."
***
Neal had heard whispers about Jim Moriarty over the years, though never by name. People who spoke his name tended to die. Matthew Keller claimed to have met him once, but Keller was a lying asshole.
In America they just called him The Brit. In Hungary he was Kis Ember, the Small Man. In Japan -- well, it was hard to translate into English what they called him, but it was something like The Lucky Crook. There were other names. He was supposed to be a myth. Then again, Neal was a bit of a myth himself sometimes, so he could relate to the stress Moriarty must be under.
Didn't explain the fact that Moriarty was totally nuts, though. Neal decided that was probably attributable to heredity.
Neal, wrists still cuffed, had sat through a little speech about who Jim was and what he did, which had confirmed that this crazy little bastard was the guy known across Europe and large chunks of Asia for his ruthless ability to fix things. He pulled strings and people jumped. Neal wondered if he was really on a hair-trigger or if it was part of some act meant to put Neal at a strange kind of ease: people generally didn't feel as threatened by madmen as they did by geniuses.
Now he was just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"All right," Moriarty said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. "I love games. Let's have some fun. Let's take a step down the road together, shall we?" he said, and one of his goons used the back of Neal's shirt to hike him to his feet.
They left the bedroom and walked out onto a narrow little landing with hideous wallpaper, fifteen steps down to the next landing and through a door. Neal didn't dare look around openly -- no reason to incur Moriarty's wrath so soon. But as they walked into the room he cut his eyes to the right and swept them along, which was when he saw it.
To his knowledge, there were only four Neal Caffrey originals in private hands. June had two of the paintings he'd done for the exhibition that trapped the Red Painter; Peter and Elizabeth had one he'd done for them as an anniversary present; the fourth, a London skyline, had been a gift to Sherlock Holmes.
And there it was, hanging on a wall in the narrow, dusty sitting room they were passing through.
"What do you think of my hideaway?" Moriarty asked cheerfully as Neal was pushed none-too-gently into the kitchen. Moriarty sat down on a stool at a high kitchen table and patted a second one next to him. "Comfy-cozy, isn't it? I save this for my really special guests."
"I do feel singled out," Neal agreed, sitting gingerly. Moriarty set a small box on the table; Neal recognized it from Mozzie's tech stash as a frequency jammer. Explained why Moriarty was talking so freely to a man visibly wearing a wire.
"I'm going to take your handcuffs off now," Moriarty said. "But I wouldn't run if I were you. I really wouldn't."
"Oh?" Neal turned slightly, putting his back to London Skyline. "Why?"
"This is your phone," Moriarty held it up. "But it's also a handy detonator. See, I make one call from this phone, and something somewhere goes...kaboom."
"Something somewhere? That's all you have?" Neal asked.
"Oh, well, I don't mind telling you, I've always wanted to blow up a museum," Moriarty said. "It'd be a real shame to see the British Museum burning, don't you think?"
Neal shrugged. "Antiques aren't really my thing," he lied.
Moriarty gave him a toothy grin, like he approved. "You'd feel differently about a blast in the heart of the National Gallery, then?"
Neal kept quiet.
"I thought so. Bracelets off!" Moriarty said, clapping his hands twice, and Neal stretched his shoulders as the cuffs were removed. "Now, we have a little bit of business to transact. Then on to pleasure. Here you are," he said, offering Neal the pager from earlier. "You say what I tell you. You say anything else, you'll get a nasty smack for being naughty. You say anything rude, I might make something burn. Or someone. And you wouldn't want that."
Neal almost opened his mouth to ask why Moriarty didn't just write whatever message he wanted him to read, but a few seconds of reflection while Moriarty toyed with his phone put up a possible answer. Moriarty was secretive, and he obviously knew a little about Neal. Enough to know Neal could copy his handwriting if he had the chance.
Moriarty giggled. "Peter dear," he said, holding up the phone to show Neal's contact information. BURKE, PETER. BURKE, ELIZABETH. BURKE, HOME LINE.
He set the phone on the table, dialed Peter, and then hit the speakerphone. It rang one and a half times before Peter answered.
"Neal? Where the hell are you?"
Moriarty sat back and began to type on another phone. Neal, looking down at the readout on the pager, began to formulate a plan.
***
When Peter answered the phone, heart in his throat, there was a brief silence before Neal answered. It could mean one of two things -- he was hurt, or he was still voiceboxing for someone else. He had his answer when Neal's reply came over the speakers as well as down the phone line. This call wasn't so Peter could hear Neal; it was so whoever was with Neal could hear Peter.
"Safe for now I'm...in familiar hands...or soon...will -- " Neal cleared his throat, "be."
"Are you speaking against your will?" Peter asked carefully.
"In a manner...of speaking," Neal replied. Some of his words were oddly slurred; Peter wondered if he'd been hit in the head.
"Can I speak to whoever's with you?" Peter asked carefully.
"Don't play...coy with...me," Neal replied, and coughed again. There was a soft, remonstrative murmur. "You know who I...am."
There it was again, the slight slur on am. Peter frowned.
"Is this James Moriarty?" he asked.
"Have they told you...I'm insane?" Neal asked.
"They've told me enough," Peter said. "Is Neal okay?"
"Talking...to me...now...forming a bond?"
"Just trying to establish some communication," Peter said. "I'd like my CI back in one piece."
"You...don't want his...fingers sent...to...you in a box," Neal said. His voice was perfectly even.
"That's right. So tell me what we have to do to set this up," Peter said. "Tell me how I get Neal home safely. What is it you want?"
"I want what...Mr. Caffrey...owes...me," Neal said haltingly, and then in a rush, "Peter, I don't owe him anyth -- "
He broke off on a yelp of pain.
"Neal!" Peter called.
"I want what Mr. Caffrey owes me," Neal repeated, breath rasping in his throat. "Five hundred thousand...pounds or the...Titian."
A text message popped up on Peter's phone. He read it even as he was responding.
"What Titian? Neal, what Titian does he want?"
Moriarty planted bombs. Evacuate the auditorium. Lestrade handling the rest. -SH
There was soft murmuring over Neal's wire.
"The Holy Family with Shepherd," Neal said. "The one in the National Gallery's a fake -- " another yelp, and then heavy, wet breathing. "Mr. Caffrey got in...the way I...had invested...money...in plans for the...National Gallery and...he ruined...my...plans I want the...Titian."
"Neal, do you know where the Titian is?" Peter asked carefully.
Neal's voice was his own, this time. "Not anymore."
Peter sighed. Of course not. He'd probably fenced it. He was opening his mouth to respond when Neal spoke first.
"You have one...hour," he said, and the phone cut out. The wire crackled and died again.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Peter said. "I'm going to ask that all non-essential personnel leave the auditorium. I've just had reports that there may be a bomb."
The nice thing about police the world over, Peter reflected, was that they knew how to evacuate in an orderly fashion, and they rarely stopped to ask you if you were sure you wanted to stay.
***
"Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Moriarty asked. Neal, nursing his left hand against his chest, kept quiet. "You'll heal up good as new, promise. Well. If you live, anyway. Dead bones don't knit -- hey, that sounds like an aphorism. Or do I mean a moral?"
"I don't have the Titian," Neal said, through gritted teeth. The first time they'd just punched him in the ribs, though that hurt badly enough; the second time, they'd broken a couple of fingers.
"Pish, I know you don't," Moriarty said kindly. "And I know you haven't got five hundred thousand pounds, and the FBI and the London Metropolitan don't negotiate with kidnappers. Good lord, do you think I really want that stupid painting? Great ugly thing. There's an off-chance Sherlock might come up with half a million pounds -- resourceful little scamp, that one -- but I doubt it."
"Then why ask?" Neal ground out.
"To keep them entertained while we talk. See, what I want -- what I really want, Neal -- is you. All to myself," Moriarty sing-songed.
"You should have tried flowers first," Neal said.
"Funny! You're a funny boy, I like that. You see, Neal, there are two ways this ends. The first way, I fake your death after a failed hostage negotiation, and you can come live a glamorous new life with me. Charming thought, isn't it? All the best puppy chow, I promise."
"Or?" Neal asked.
"Or I can just kill you," Moriarty said. "I'd hate to do that. Such a waste. But then what's life without a little frivolity?"
Neal pretended to consider it. On the surface, it didn't sound so bad; Moriarty had a lot of power, and Neal liked people with power. A new life of adventure was his for the asking. He'd be free of the FBI.
But not, after all, free. And Moriarty probably wasn't as careful with his pets as Peter was. And he was the kind of man who used guns. Not to mention he was crazy.
"I'm afraid you really do need to decide soon," Moriarty said earnestly.
"You said Peter had an hour."
"Well, technically you said he had an hour, and either way that's just, well, it's a lie," Moriarty told him. "We both know the trade's not going to happen, so why wait?" He sat back, stretching. "We'll call back in half an hour. At that point either I pretend to shoot you, or I shoot you. Up to you."
"I'd like a little time to think," Neal hedged.
"Tick tock, Neal Caffrey," Moriarty said, and stood up. "Let's have tea. I wonder what's in the -- oh! A head!" he cried delightedly as he opened the fridge. "Someone left me a present!"
***
At some point in their search, Sherlock hesitated briefly; John saw it, and then saw Sherlock bend back to his investigation while putting his right hand to his ear where his headset sat. He nodded once or twice, and then reached for his phone a few seconds before it rang.
"Did you get that?" Peter's voice asked down the line, when Sherlock hit the speakerphone button.
"I heard all of it," Sherlock confirmed, still searching.
"Tell you anything?"
"Other than that they're on the first floor of a private home in a quiet street, nothing much," Sherlock replied. "No convenient foghorns, ticking clocks, or loudspeaker announcements, sadly."
"Think you could find the Titian?" Peter asked. Sherlock actually paused then.
"I was under the impression that the FBI didn't negotiate," he said.
"I'm not negotiating as the FBI."
"Ah. I see. Well, that gives one a brisk sense of purpose, doesn't it?" Sherlock barreled on before Peter could reply. "There are likely -- I'm not positive, he could be bluffing, but likely -- bombs planted at the National Gallery, under the floorboards of that auditorium, and possibly at the Design Museum on the waterfront. AHA!" he cried, crawling under a table display. "Found a bomb. Call you back."
"Sherlock?" John said hesitantly.
"Detonator here, fuse there." One long hand waved at the leg of the table. "At a guess I'd say that suit there is packed with enough explosives to bring down the building."
John followed his gesture, bending over to read the placard next to the frankly stunning suit of Japanese armour. "A gift to James the First by Tokugawa Hidetada, assembled by the personal armourer of Tokugawa Ieyasu, the first Tokugawa Shogun. Can you defuse it?" he continued, turning back to Sherlock.
"Likely. I'd stand well back in a doorway or something, if I were you. It'll still kill you if it goes, but they'll find more of your remains that way."
"Very comforting," John told him. "Can I help?"
"You can be quiet," Sherlock offered. John sighed and sat down next to the table where Sherlock was carefully disassembling something stuck to the underside.
It should have been suspenseful; it was always suspenseful in films. In reality, Sherlock grunted and talked to himself under his breath for a few minutes while rearranging things with a flick-knife from his boot. He eventually tossed some small metal bracket to the floor, sliding out from under the table.
"Right then," he said. "Bomb disposal team can deal with the rest. Ah! There they are," he added, brushing past a pair of men in heavy lead-lined clothes. "Detonator's off," he called. "Explosives are in the samurai. Be careful with it; it's four hundred and fifty years old."
Outside, Sherlock held up his phone to see how many bars he had and then hit the callback button.
"Agent Burke," he said. "I need you to re-play Neal's last call for me. There's something very off, but I need one more play-through...no, I don't know yet, that's why I -- please don't be tiresome," he snapped. "Thank you."
He held the phone between them and hit the speaker button. Neal's voice emerged, tinny on a recording.
"Do you hear that?" Sherlock asked, after about ten seconds.
"He's slurring his words," Peter said, over the top of Neal talking.
"Yes, yes, but that's not vital. Well, not vital yet. Listen to the pattern. Four words, three words, two words, one word. Even when he's interrupted, he picks up the pattern. One word and three is four, then three, two, one again," Sherlock said.
"Counting down?" John asked.
"Those are artificial pauses. Moriarty didn't put those there," Sherlock said. "Four, three, two, one. Over and over."
"Some kind of math formula," Peter suggested. "Ten? One and zero?"
"No, it's not right, it's not..." Sherlock gritted his teeth in frustration. "Factor in...he's slurring the three and the two."
"House number!" John said. "No, wait. Numbers code?"
"Not unless you're aware of a thirty-second letter of the alphabet," Sherlock snarled. "Shut up, I'm thinking."
"'D - F - A' doesn't make any sense," John muttered to himself.
Sherlock snapped his head up, suddenly. "Found him, call you back," he said, and hung up the phone in the middle of Neal's recording.
"Sherlock!" John said, as Sherlock took off running. "If you know where he is -- "
"Oh, he's clever, he's so clever," Sherlock called.
"Who? Moriarty?"
"No! Neal! Come on, we have to get a cab."
"At this time of night?" John stopped, heaved a breath, and then took off again. "Sherlock, what's the code? Where is he?"
"Morse code," Sherlock said, running into the street. "It's Morse code, it's so simple!"
"H...SIE," John said, bewildered.
"The slurs are dashes. H - O - M - E."
"America?" John asked, as a taxi miraculously pulled up the street. Possibly the miracle had something to do with Sherlock's whistled summons.
"Home, John, home!" Sherlock bundled him into the cab. "Where's your gun?"
"In my locker at....home," John said, illumination dawning.
"221 Baker Street," Sherlock told the driver. "Fast as you can, a man's life may depend on it."
"Why aren't we alerting Lestrade?" John asked. "He must have units in the area."
"Don't be deliberately dense, John," Sherlock chided. "This is best handled privately. No flashing lights."
"Do you have a plan?"
"I have about nine minutes to make one," Sherlock announced.
***
Moriarty moved around the little kitchen like he owned it, which made Neal nervous and also completely creeped him out. Nervous, because if Moriarty had stolen his painting from Sherlock, then they could be anywhere and his message to Sherlock would be pointless; creeped out, because if this was Sherlock and John's home, and it seemed like it probably was, Moriarty was way too obsessively familiar with their kitchen.
"I don't normally recruit Americans," Moriarty was saying, spreading jam on a slice of slightly elderly-looking bread. "They tend to be self-absorbed. And loud."
"You don't say," Neal replied, flexing his left hand carefully. Definitely a couple of broken bones. The dull ache in his ribs was beginning to get a lot sharper as time passed and the adrenaline faded.
"No proper appreciation of history or tradition, either. And Canadians! They're so...polite." Moriarty gave him another wide grin, the kind that said I'm picturing myself as a shark right now. "But you have special skills, Neal. And you're reasonably bright. Not Sherlock-bright, or me-bright, but bright enough. Jam?" he asked, waving the knife at Neal.
"No thanks," Neal told him. "I never eat when I'm looking death in the eye."
"Suit yourself." Moriarty took a big bite.
"Where'd you hear about all my special skills, anyway?" Neal asked, to keep him talking.
"Oh, here and there. You made such a splash in Amsterdam! And I hear you love the French, but I won't hold that against you. Think about it -- you could summer on the Riviera. New face, new name, no more boring FBI agents dogging your heels, no more Sherlock Holmes lording it over you, making you run for his amusement."
Neal studied Moriarty carefully. Undoubtedly he had a lot of good sources, but rumor was what it was, and it didn't sound like he had the full story on their little chases. It sounded like he thought Neal was some kind of involuntary participant.
"I do hate doing tricks for Master," he murmured. If Moriarty caught the real meaning of his statement, he didn't let on.
"I need a good right-hand man. Oh, I'd spare you the killing and the maiming -- I know you're fastidious, and I have people for that. I need someone with imagination, Neal. Not that I don't have plenty myself, but it's so hard to convey one's vision sometimes."
Neal glanced at the guards standing at his elbow, facing him and Moriarty. For a second, he thought he saw a shadow move behind them.
***
John had been skeptical about this plan, but Sherlock was reasonably confident it would work. After all, he knew multiple ways to silently break into his own home -- that was just good planning. And if he went in through John's window, as he'd done twice before on test runs ("You came in through my window while I was asleep in the bed?" "Is that a problem? You didn't wake up.") he could pick up the gun on the way.
The issue was the waiting. Moriarty would call Peter Burke again; taunting was what he did, after all. The Titian was a smokescreen, and so were the bombs, but it kept Burke and Lestrade out of the way, at least. And probably nobody would get blown up.
He had to wait for the second call, because then Moriarty's hands would be busy, and the phone would be in use. There were two guards, each armed, and Moriarty undoubtedly had a gun as well. Neal was hunched over, sweating and looking reasonably miserable, but his hands were free, even if they were clasped to his stomach.
With the guards there, he couldn't get a clear shot at Moriarty. If he shot them, they wouldn't fall fast enough for him to shoot Moriarty before he shot Neal, or at least hurt him badly.
Sherlock withdrew, silently, to the landing, avoiding the one squeaky board and the bit of carpet that crunched (they really ought to have it cleaned; carpets weren't supposed to crunch) and texted John.
On my next text, open and slam the downstairs door, then run away quickly. -SH
Understood, John texted back. It was so nice to have someone who didn't protest when you told them to run away.
***
When Moriarty called back, Peter answered the phone as calmly as he could.
"Neal," he said. "How they treating you?"
"Don't ignore me," Neal said, reading aloud once again. "I...am the one...you want...to...talk to."
"My mistake," Peter replied. "You looking after Neal for me?"
"This isn't...an adoption Agent...Burke this...is...a hostage situation and...I want my...Titian."
"I know you do, but an hour just isn't enough time. Hell, Neal's the one who covered his tracks. It might take years. Listen, let Neal talk. Let him tell me what he did with it."
There was a long pause, a faint noise; a voice giving some kind of order, and some footsteps.
"That...isn't...how this works I...want my Titian...or my...money."
"And I want to give it to you, but it's gonna be the Titian or nothing. Nobody's handing out that kind of money," Peter replied.
"Maybe I should just...shoot him now."
"No -- " Peter started, and a gunshot rang out over the phone. "Neal? Neal? Jesus Christ," he said to Lestrade. "Drive faster!"
"We've got the lights going. If we go any faster we're going to mow someone down," Lestrade replied, but he stepped up the speed of the squad car. "You're sure they're at Baker Street?"
"I'm not as fast as Sherlock Holmes, but I get there pretty quick anyway," Peter said grimly.
"I have a response team assembling around the corner. We don't want to tip our hand. You shouldn't even be here," Lestrade added.
"Consider me a civilian consultant," Peter replied, shoving his phone in his pocket as they careened up the street and skewed quickly around a corner, where a police barricade had been erected. Lestrade bolted out of the car.
"Right, ready lads?" he asked, as someone tossed him a Kevlar vest. "We go in silent and fast. Any eyes inside?"
"We've heard shots fired," one of the cops volunteered. "That's all we have."
"They're on the first floor," Peter said. They all looked at him. "What? Sherlock said it."
"You heard him. Bust the door, focus on the first floor. Let's get this bastard," Lestrade said. The special response team crept down the block, slowly. Peter watched through binoculars lifted from Lestrade's car.
He heard the yell before he saw what was going on. A few of the police had stumbled back into the street and there was a faint shout --
"Don't shoot, you idiots!" someone yelled. "They went out the back!"
Peter spared a minute to think, cynically, that this was the oldest trick in the book. On the other hand, this time it seemed to be the truth, and he dropped the binoculars and sprinted down the block when he saw two dark-haired heads emerge through the front door.
Sherlock stumbled down the last step, Neal's right arm slung over his shoulder; Neal's head was lolling worryingly, but he seemed to be moving on his own. Peter arrived as Sherlock eased him into the arms of two of the special response team.
"Mind his left hand," he said. "At least three broken bones. Probably some cracked ribs. Took a nasty header."
"What in the hell do you think you were doing?" Lestrade demanded, as Peter helped them drag Neal towards a fast-approaching ambulance. Blood was pouring down Neal's scalp.
"Not invading with semi-automatic weaponry and smoke bombs?" Sherlock suggested. "He was in my home, Lestrade."
"Am I going to find a body in your kitchen?" Lestrade asked.
"Not Moriarty's, more's the pity. I'd wager his brain is fascinating," Sherlock said, chill in his voice. Peter tipped Neal's chin up; his eyes were unfocused, glassy.
"It's really quite simple," Sherlock continued. "John lured the muscle downstairs. I waited for Moriarty to make a call, and when he raised the gun, Neal dropped to the floor and I shot the gun. Followed by the phone. I would have had his head next if he weren't such a quick little vole," he added. "Went out through my bedroom -- the fire escape. The muscle ran through the back door -- Mrs. Hudson will no doubt be livid about the mud they tracked down the hall. I thought it prudent to check on Neal before giving chase."
"Hit my head," Neal mumbled.
"Yes, your ducking needs work," Sherlock told him. Neal gave him a woozy grin, and then passed out into the embrace of the waiting paramedics.
***
The sun was well up in the sky by the time Neal woke. His ribs ached in a distant sort of way, and his left arm felt stiff. He lifted it and found a cast from elbow to knuckles, wrapping up over three of his fingers.
"Guess I should be glad he didn't break my painting hand," he murmured to himself.
"Good morning," a deep voice said nearby, and Neal turned his head to find Sherlock sitting at his bedside, closing some book he'd been reading.
"Hey, you found me," Neal beamed wide. He was aware that the wash of bonhomie he was feeling was probably the result of drugs. "Good job."
"Not soon enough, it would appear."
"What's the damage?"
"Hairline fracture of the ulna, three broken fingers at the proximal and, in the little finger, intermediate phalanges, no permanent damage. Bruised ribs, mild concussion, three stitches in the scalp."
"Your kitchen table has an edge on it," Neal complained.
"I'll have John put padding on it for our next kidnapping victim," Sherlock informed him gravely. Neal sat up a little bit, wincing.
"So," he said. "You got my message."
"It wasn't particularly subtle. I'm surprised Moriarty didn't decode it."
"He was busy giggling insanely. The bombs?"
"Nonexistent, except for the one at the Tower. To prove he meant business, I suppose. Bluff's as good as the real thing, under pressure."
"I pissed off big money, didn't I?"
"Of a sort. He's the mastermind of most of the more egregious crimes in Great Britain."
"I thought it was him," Neal said. "You get him?"
"No."
"But you will, right?"
Sherlock sat back. "Eventually."
Neal frowned.
"He's disappeared. It's what he does. But now he owes me twice -- last time John, this time you -- and I am known to hold a grudge," Sherlock said. "I doubt he'll bother you again; I imagine you've made your stance on things perfectly clear. I'm the one he wants to get at, anyway."
Neal eyed Sherlock. "How'd you know?"
"Moriarty's not interested in art," Sherlock said. "He's interested in talent."
"He ever try to recruit you?" Neal asked.
"No. He knows better. Perhaps he found you more corruptible, at least on paper."
"I wouldn't have."
"Yes, I know."
"Where's Peter?" Neal asked, sensing that Peter and his own newfound incorruptibility were probably related.
"Asleep." Sherlock waved a hand and Neal followed the gesture, craning his neck slightly. Peter was sprawled in a hospital chair next to a bank of medical equipment, head tipped back against the wall, dead to the world.
"Ah." Neal nodded vaguely. He turned back to Sherlock, who watched him impassively until he spoke again. "So. We both lost this one."
"Yes," Sherlock said. "I think this counts as a loss for all concerned."
"You want to know a secret?" Neal offered, and Sherlock leaned forward. "I only took one thing from the Tate Modern," Neal whispered.
Sherlock cocked his head. "Oh?"
"L'Etang de Trivaux," Neal said. "Matisse. Fun to forge. Original's...I'll send it to you," he assured him.
Sherlock looked him up and down. "You won't be able to fly for at least four days," he said. "I imagine you could break up a portrait sitting across a few days."
"Bring a book," Neal told him, relaxing back into his pillow. "So, do we call the whole thing a draw, or what? Maybe we're just not meant to know who's better."
"Perhaps," Sherlock allowed. "It does seem to add to one's mystique."
"Okay. Tie it is," Neal said. He turned his head to grin at Sherlock. "Hey, wanna sign my cast?"
END
Enjoyed Rematch? Like grammar? Check out The Beta Quotes File.
Notes:
For those of you who led a deprived childhood, the Rattlesnake Eggs Trick is illustrated here.
50 Berkeley Square is indeed the most haunted building in London, now occupied by Maggs Bros. Ltd., an antiquarian bookseller.
Batman climbed Buckingham Palace once.
I had Neal steal The Holy Family With Shepherd because I thought the shepherd kinda looked like Neal. Though as Junie pointed out, Joseph's head looks totally shopped in.
I just plain like L'Etang de Trivaux
Rating: PG-13 (violence and language)
Warnings: Relatively graphic violence
Chapter One
***
Peter and Lestrade were engaged in a laconic debate about Neal's change of plans while Neal talked over them on the speaker. Neal had specifically left a clue that pointed to Baker Street, and Sherlock would have no way of knowing Neal couldn't get there because of the tracker. He'd probably figure it out, but there was a question of fair play involved. John was of the opinion that Sherlock should at least be told Neal's radius prevented him from getting to their flat; Peter and Lestrade were less certain.
"Well, we have to decide soon," Lestrade said, pointing to Sherlock's GPS, on the move towards Baker Street. "He'll be there, and it's not fair to waste his time."
"Call Neal," John suggested. "Have him send Sherlock a new clue."
Peter knew that the I should have thought of that expression on Lestrade's face was probably mirrored on his own. He took out his phone, which would at least interrupt Neal's ceaseless talking, when there was a sudden scuffling noise over the speakers. Neal broke off in the middle of a sentence.
"That's not Sherlock," John said, staring up at the speakers. "He's not close enough."
They heard a whistling gasp -- wouldn't have known whose if Sherlock hadn't been murmuring about the element of surprise -- and after a second Neal's voice, weak and frightened, called Peter!.
Then, suddenly, Neal's tracker went dark. With it, about half the ambient noise over the speakers went away.
Immediately the audience erupted in anger; cries of "Foul play!" echoed around the room.
"That wasn't a run. Neal wouldn't cut his tracker," Peter said to Lestrade, who fumbled for his radio.
"All units, all units, Neal Caffrey is in the wind, suspected assault," Lestrade said. "Last known location, Marylebone Road near Luxborough, at the wax museum. It's probably a malfunction," he said to Peter, even as John was texting Sherlock that there was a possible default.
"That was an assault. I know choking when I hear it," Peter insisted.
"We'll have a unit there in thirty seconds," Lestrade said. "Just -- "
The sound came back. They listened intently as someone swallowed.
"Well...hello," Neal's voice came over the wire, sounding hesitant. Everyone fell silent. "Inspector Lestrade. Agent Burke. You...didn't...think...you could...play...a game...without me."
"That's not Neal," Peter said. "He's reading something."
"Moriarty," John said, leaning over Lestrade, who was giving furious directions on his radio. "Lestrade, it's Moriarty."
"I know!" Lestrade snapped.
"Who's Moriarty?" Peter asked, bewildered.
"Now...we're going...to play the game...my way," Neal continued. "Catch...me...if you can."
The audio feed died on a whine.
"Get Sherlock on the phone, now," Lestrade ordered. John was already dialling.
"Sherlock, it's Moriarty. He's got Neal," he said.
"Bugger," Sherlock's voice boomed in the auditorium. "Right, I'll get to his last known."
"How are you going to -- "
"Don't be stupid," Sherlock replied. "There are half a dozen police cars converging. I'll hitch a ride."
"What the hell happened to my CI?" Peter demanded. "Who's Moriarty?"
"John, explain this to him," Lestrade ordered, already running for the door, a few other officers joining him from the seats. The audience was in an uproar, and Sherlock was swearing over siren noises on the speakers. "Burke, stay here and run the search. You don't know the city, you have no jurisdiction, stay here!" Lestrade repeated, seeing Peter open his mouth to object.
"Reinforcements are coming," John said into the phone.
"Shan't need them," Sherlock growled. He sounded livid. "Nobody interrupts my game."
John hung up, grabbed Peter's arm, and pulled him up the stage, into the shadowed area under the auditorium screen.
"James Moriarty is a psychopath, obsessed with Sherlock," he said urgently. Peter felt his blood go cold. "He's responsible for two bombings and several kidnappings, plus a string of crimes I couldn't even hope to list. He's violent and quite mad."
"What does he want with Neal?" Peter demanded.
John gave him a frightened look. "Neal's a friend of Sherlock's."
***
There was very little evidence at the scene when Sherlock arrived; the remains of Neal's anklet, some scuff marks, a few threads from some fabric-backed tape they'd probably used to restrain Neal (handcuffs wouldn't work, as Sherlock knew personally and Moriarty would know from research). Sherlock went over it all with calm, keen eyes, slowly, methodically, but he was nevertheless finished by the time Lestrade arrived.
"There's absolutely no way to tell where he's been taken," Sherlock said. "I've gone over it."
"You reckon he's still alive?" Lestrade asked.
"Oh, undoubtedly. What would be the fun in killing him with no witnesses?" Sherlock said. He saw a look of anger in the other man's face, quickly shuttered away. It was not an unfamiliar reaction to things he sometimes said, but honestly, they didn't have the time to be polite. "What did Moriarty say?"
"Nothing," Lestrade said. "He made Caffrey say it."
"As precisely as you can."
"He said..." Lestrade fumbled and Sherlock bit down on an urge to shake the man. "He said we shouldn't have tried -- no, he asked, You didn't think you could play a game without me? -- gave my name and Agent Burke's. Then he said that we'd all play the game his way and told us to catch him if we can."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, studying the scuff marks again. "Why was he here and not at Baker Street? Why take him from here?"
"Your flat wasn't in his radius," Lestrade replied, as though it should have been obvious. Sherlock's head snapped up. "What?"
"It was inside the radius yesterday. I checked. I was expecting him to hit my flat sooner or later," Sherlock said. "How do you know it wasn't in the radius?"
"He tried for it and tripped the alarm. He decided to go after the wax museum instead."
Sherlock looked around him. "This is a much more ideal spot to set an ambush," he said conversationally. He glanced back at Lestrade. "The radius was altered. I suggest you find out who controls the monitoring system and beat a confession out of them. Moriarty's been hard at work. Any word since?"
"Nothing. Sherlock, I can't just -- "
"Then he's..." Sherlock interrupted, casting around for something, anything, to indicate where they might have gone. "They must be in transit. He'll be in touch again. Is there any way to get me in on Neal's wire?"
"It's going in and out," Lestrade said. "Jammed, probably. We can get you a headset and route it through next time it comes on, but Sherlock -- "
"Do it," Sherlock said. He was busy texting; Come at once, he ordered John, and then, He will be safely returned, to both Peter and Elizabeth.
***
Well, at least they hadn't Tazed him yet.
Neal thought there were two people, maybe three, when they grabbed him. He'd been shoved back into the shadows with tape wound around his wrists so tightly it felt like it was cutting off his circulation. A knife sliced through the tracker, killing it. Not amateurs, he'd thought as a masked figure held a little light up to his eyes. It took them a second to adjust: the light was coming from a pager, old-school but expensive, with a large digital readout.
"Read it," the man had ordered. The barrel of a gun was pressed up against Neal's jaw, just in front of his ear.
The message had been disturbing, cryptic, and very, very worrying, but Neal had tried to keep his voice even, well aware that a lot of people were hearing this.
He'd barely finished before they'd thrown a hood over his head (déjà vu) and bundled him into a car. The transit hadn't taken long -- not more than ten minutes, and they'd circled one block at least twice. They hauled him roughly out of the car at the end of the journey and up a flight of steps (seventeen; he counted, just in case) and then up another (fifteen; sloppy architect, bad builder, or cheap remodel). He'd been thrown onto something soft, face-down, and the tape had been painfully ripped from his wrists, replaced with manacles so tight there was no hope of slipping them.
The full-body frisk had just been the icing on the cake, really.
"If you wanted to get friendly, you only had to ask," he managed through the hood and the soft thing under him. There was a ringing smack and a blaze of pain across his shoulders; it felt like a baton. He twitched and fell quiet.
Eventually he was pulled upright by his wrists, which hurt, and turned to sit on the edge of the -- bed, of course, he saw when the hood came off. He was sitting on a bed, in an eerily tidy bedroom, and sitting in front of him was a small, eerily tidy man. Behind him were three much bigger, scarily well-armed men.
"Hello, Neal," the man said. "My name's Jim. Jim Moriarty. I've been just dying to meet you."
***
John reached the crime scene in record time, only to find Sherlock had already moved on. He caught up with him ten minutes later and three miles away, at the Tower of London.
"Why are we here, again?" he asked Sherlock while Lestrade held a hurried discussion about emergency access with the guards.
"This is bollocks," Sherlock announced, pushing past Lestrade. "There's a bomb on-site. Probably in the White Tower -- less likely though possibly in the Jewel House."
That scattered the night guards and left the entryway open. Sherlock strode through like an oversized raven, stopped for a second to take his bearings, and then made for a large sign reading "FIT FOR A KING".
"Well, this is lovely," John said, following Sherlock through the easily-picked door and into a display room filled with medieval weapons and shadowed suits of armour. "Not at all creepy and unsettling."
"Impractical," was all Sherlock said. "But ideal for the purposes of planting a bomb. Help me search."
"Any idea what this bomb looks like?" John asked, peering into a display case.
"Bomb-shaped, I expect," Sherlock replied absently. He wandered into the next room. "Well, Henry the Eighth had a high opinion of himself," his voice echoed back.
"Most kings did," John murmured. "How do you know there's a bomb here?"
"Neal's next logical hit after Baker Street," Sherlock replied.
"Oh?"
"Of course," Sherlock said, without bothering to explain. "That's why I was coming here rather than chasing him down to Baker Street. Stood to reason."
John found that sometimes, as when he was searching a room full of creepy old armour for a bomb, it was easier just to agree with Sherlock. "Naturally."
"It's all just to distract us from the search, mind you, but until we know more..." there was a clank. John looked up. "...it's something to pass the time."
***
Neal had heard whispers about Jim Moriarty over the years, though never by name. People who spoke his name tended to die. Matthew Keller claimed to have met him once, but Keller was a lying asshole.
In America they just called him The Brit. In Hungary he was Kis Ember, the Small Man. In Japan -- well, it was hard to translate into English what they called him, but it was something like The Lucky Crook. There were other names. He was supposed to be a myth. Then again, Neal was a bit of a myth himself sometimes, so he could relate to the stress Moriarty must be under.
Didn't explain the fact that Moriarty was totally nuts, though. Neal decided that was probably attributable to heredity.
Neal, wrists still cuffed, had sat through a little speech about who Jim was and what he did, which had confirmed that this crazy little bastard was the guy known across Europe and large chunks of Asia for his ruthless ability to fix things. He pulled strings and people jumped. Neal wondered if he was really on a hair-trigger or if it was part of some act meant to put Neal at a strange kind of ease: people generally didn't feel as threatened by madmen as they did by geniuses.
Now he was just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"All right," Moriarty said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. "I love games. Let's have some fun. Let's take a step down the road together, shall we?" he said, and one of his goons used the back of Neal's shirt to hike him to his feet.
They left the bedroom and walked out onto a narrow little landing with hideous wallpaper, fifteen steps down to the next landing and through a door. Neal didn't dare look around openly -- no reason to incur Moriarty's wrath so soon. But as they walked into the room he cut his eyes to the right and swept them along, which was when he saw it.
To his knowledge, there were only four Neal Caffrey originals in private hands. June had two of the paintings he'd done for the exhibition that trapped the Red Painter; Peter and Elizabeth had one he'd done for them as an anniversary present; the fourth, a London skyline, had been a gift to Sherlock Holmes.
And there it was, hanging on a wall in the narrow, dusty sitting room they were passing through.
"What do you think of my hideaway?" Moriarty asked cheerfully as Neal was pushed none-too-gently into the kitchen. Moriarty sat down on a stool at a high kitchen table and patted a second one next to him. "Comfy-cozy, isn't it? I save this for my really special guests."
"I do feel singled out," Neal agreed, sitting gingerly. Moriarty set a small box on the table; Neal recognized it from Mozzie's tech stash as a frequency jammer. Explained why Moriarty was talking so freely to a man visibly wearing a wire.
"I'm going to take your handcuffs off now," Moriarty said. "But I wouldn't run if I were you. I really wouldn't."
"Oh?" Neal turned slightly, putting his back to London Skyline. "Why?"
"This is your phone," Moriarty held it up. "But it's also a handy detonator. See, I make one call from this phone, and something somewhere goes...kaboom."
"Something somewhere? That's all you have?" Neal asked.
"Oh, well, I don't mind telling you, I've always wanted to blow up a museum," Moriarty said. "It'd be a real shame to see the British Museum burning, don't you think?"
Neal shrugged. "Antiques aren't really my thing," he lied.
Moriarty gave him a toothy grin, like he approved. "You'd feel differently about a blast in the heart of the National Gallery, then?"
Neal kept quiet.
"I thought so. Bracelets off!" Moriarty said, clapping his hands twice, and Neal stretched his shoulders as the cuffs were removed. "Now, we have a little bit of business to transact. Then on to pleasure. Here you are," he said, offering Neal the pager from earlier. "You say what I tell you. You say anything else, you'll get a nasty smack for being naughty. You say anything rude, I might make something burn. Or someone. And you wouldn't want that."
Neal almost opened his mouth to ask why Moriarty didn't just write whatever message he wanted him to read, but a few seconds of reflection while Moriarty toyed with his phone put up a possible answer. Moriarty was secretive, and he obviously knew a little about Neal. Enough to know Neal could copy his handwriting if he had the chance.
Moriarty giggled. "Peter dear," he said, holding up the phone to show Neal's contact information. BURKE, PETER. BURKE, ELIZABETH. BURKE, HOME LINE.
He set the phone on the table, dialed Peter, and then hit the speakerphone. It rang one and a half times before Peter answered.
"Neal? Where the hell are you?"
Moriarty sat back and began to type on another phone. Neal, looking down at the readout on the pager, began to formulate a plan.
***
When Peter answered the phone, heart in his throat, there was a brief silence before Neal answered. It could mean one of two things -- he was hurt, or he was still voiceboxing for someone else. He had his answer when Neal's reply came over the speakers as well as down the phone line. This call wasn't so Peter could hear Neal; it was so whoever was with Neal could hear Peter.
"Safe for now I'm...in familiar hands...or soon...will -- " Neal cleared his throat, "be."
"Are you speaking against your will?" Peter asked carefully.
"In a manner...of speaking," Neal replied. Some of his words were oddly slurred; Peter wondered if he'd been hit in the head.
"Can I speak to whoever's with you?" Peter asked carefully.
"Don't play...coy with...me," Neal replied, and coughed again. There was a soft, remonstrative murmur. "You know who I...am."
There it was again, the slight slur on am. Peter frowned.
"Is this James Moriarty?" he asked.
"Have they told you...I'm insane?" Neal asked.
"They've told me enough," Peter said. "Is Neal okay?"
"Talking...to me...now...forming a bond?"
"Just trying to establish some communication," Peter said. "I'd like my CI back in one piece."
"You...don't want his...fingers sent...to...you in a box," Neal said. His voice was perfectly even.
"That's right. So tell me what we have to do to set this up," Peter said. "Tell me how I get Neal home safely. What is it you want?"
"I want what...Mr. Caffrey...owes...me," Neal said haltingly, and then in a rush, "Peter, I don't owe him anyth -- "
He broke off on a yelp of pain.
"Neal!" Peter called.
"I want what Mr. Caffrey owes me," Neal repeated, breath rasping in his throat. "Five hundred thousand...pounds or the...Titian."
A text message popped up on Peter's phone. He read it even as he was responding.
"What Titian? Neal, what Titian does he want?"
Moriarty planted bombs. Evacuate the auditorium. Lestrade handling the rest. -SH
There was soft murmuring over Neal's wire.
"The Holy Family with Shepherd," Neal said. "The one in the National Gallery's a fake -- " another yelp, and then heavy, wet breathing. "Mr. Caffrey got in...the way I...had invested...money...in plans for the...National Gallery and...he ruined...my...plans I want the...Titian."
"Neal, do you know where the Titian is?" Peter asked carefully.
Neal's voice was his own, this time. "Not anymore."
Peter sighed. Of course not. He'd probably fenced it. He was opening his mouth to respond when Neal spoke first.
"You have one...hour," he said, and the phone cut out. The wire crackled and died again.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Peter said. "I'm going to ask that all non-essential personnel leave the auditorium. I've just had reports that there may be a bomb."
The nice thing about police the world over, Peter reflected, was that they knew how to evacuate in an orderly fashion, and they rarely stopped to ask you if you were sure you wanted to stay.
***
"Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Moriarty asked. Neal, nursing his left hand against his chest, kept quiet. "You'll heal up good as new, promise. Well. If you live, anyway. Dead bones don't knit -- hey, that sounds like an aphorism. Or do I mean a moral?"
"I don't have the Titian," Neal said, through gritted teeth. The first time they'd just punched him in the ribs, though that hurt badly enough; the second time, they'd broken a couple of fingers.
"Pish, I know you don't," Moriarty said kindly. "And I know you haven't got five hundred thousand pounds, and the FBI and the London Metropolitan don't negotiate with kidnappers. Good lord, do you think I really want that stupid painting? Great ugly thing. There's an off-chance Sherlock might come up with half a million pounds -- resourceful little scamp, that one -- but I doubt it."
"Then why ask?" Neal ground out.
"To keep them entertained while we talk. See, what I want -- what I really want, Neal -- is you. All to myself," Moriarty sing-songed.
"You should have tried flowers first," Neal said.
"Funny! You're a funny boy, I like that. You see, Neal, there are two ways this ends. The first way, I fake your death after a failed hostage negotiation, and you can come live a glamorous new life with me. Charming thought, isn't it? All the best puppy chow, I promise."
"Or?" Neal asked.
"Or I can just kill you," Moriarty said. "I'd hate to do that. Such a waste. But then what's life without a little frivolity?"
Neal pretended to consider it. On the surface, it didn't sound so bad; Moriarty had a lot of power, and Neal liked people with power. A new life of adventure was his for the asking. He'd be free of the FBI.
But not, after all, free. And Moriarty probably wasn't as careful with his pets as Peter was. And he was the kind of man who used guns. Not to mention he was crazy.
"I'm afraid you really do need to decide soon," Moriarty said earnestly.
"You said Peter had an hour."
"Well, technically you said he had an hour, and either way that's just, well, it's a lie," Moriarty told him. "We both know the trade's not going to happen, so why wait?" He sat back, stretching. "We'll call back in half an hour. At that point either I pretend to shoot you, or I shoot you. Up to you."
"I'd like a little time to think," Neal hedged.
"Tick tock, Neal Caffrey," Moriarty said, and stood up. "Let's have tea. I wonder what's in the -- oh! A head!" he cried delightedly as he opened the fridge. "Someone left me a present!"
***
At some point in their search, Sherlock hesitated briefly; John saw it, and then saw Sherlock bend back to his investigation while putting his right hand to his ear where his headset sat. He nodded once or twice, and then reached for his phone a few seconds before it rang.
"Did you get that?" Peter's voice asked down the line, when Sherlock hit the speakerphone button.
"I heard all of it," Sherlock confirmed, still searching.
"Tell you anything?"
"Other than that they're on the first floor of a private home in a quiet street, nothing much," Sherlock replied. "No convenient foghorns, ticking clocks, or loudspeaker announcements, sadly."
"Think you could find the Titian?" Peter asked. Sherlock actually paused then.
"I was under the impression that the FBI didn't negotiate," he said.
"I'm not negotiating as the FBI."
"Ah. I see. Well, that gives one a brisk sense of purpose, doesn't it?" Sherlock barreled on before Peter could reply. "There are likely -- I'm not positive, he could be bluffing, but likely -- bombs planted at the National Gallery, under the floorboards of that auditorium, and possibly at the Design Museum on the waterfront. AHA!" he cried, crawling under a table display. "Found a bomb. Call you back."
"Sherlock?" John said hesitantly.
"Detonator here, fuse there." One long hand waved at the leg of the table. "At a guess I'd say that suit there is packed with enough explosives to bring down the building."
John followed his gesture, bending over to read the placard next to the frankly stunning suit of Japanese armour. "A gift to James the First by Tokugawa Hidetada, assembled by the personal armourer of Tokugawa Ieyasu, the first Tokugawa Shogun. Can you defuse it?" he continued, turning back to Sherlock.
"Likely. I'd stand well back in a doorway or something, if I were you. It'll still kill you if it goes, but they'll find more of your remains that way."
"Very comforting," John told him. "Can I help?"
"You can be quiet," Sherlock offered. John sighed and sat down next to the table where Sherlock was carefully disassembling something stuck to the underside.
It should have been suspenseful; it was always suspenseful in films. In reality, Sherlock grunted and talked to himself under his breath for a few minutes while rearranging things with a flick-knife from his boot. He eventually tossed some small metal bracket to the floor, sliding out from under the table.
"Right then," he said. "Bomb disposal team can deal with the rest. Ah! There they are," he added, brushing past a pair of men in heavy lead-lined clothes. "Detonator's off," he called. "Explosives are in the samurai. Be careful with it; it's four hundred and fifty years old."
Outside, Sherlock held up his phone to see how many bars he had and then hit the callback button.
"Agent Burke," he said. "I need you to re-play Neal's last call for me. There's something very off, but I need one more play-through...no, I don't know yet, that's why I -- please don't be tiresome," he snapped. "Thank you."
He held the phone between them and hit the speaker button. Neal's voice emerged, tinny on a recording.
"Do you hear that?" Sherlock asked, after about ten seconds.
"He's slurring his words," Peter said, over the top of Neal talking.
"Yes, yes, but that's not vital. Well, not vital yet. Listen to the pattern. Four words, three words, two words, one word. Even when he's interrupted, he picks up the pattern. One word and three is four, then three, two, one again," Sherlock said.
"Counting down?" John asked.
"Those are artificial pauses. Moriarty didn't put those there," Sherlock said. "Four, three, two, one. Over and over."
"Some kind of math formula," Peter suggested. "Ten? One and zero?"
"No, it's not right, it's not..." Sherlock gritted his teeth in frustration. "Factor in...he's slurring the three and the two."
"House number!" John said. "No, wait. Numbers code?"
"Not unless you're aware of a thirty-second letter of the alphabet," Sherlock snarled. "Shut up, I'm thinking."
"'D - F - A' doesn't make any sense," John muttered to himself.
Sherlock snapped his head up, suddenly. "Found him, call you back," he said, and hung up the phone in the middle of Neal's recording.
"Sherlock!" John said, as Sherlock took off running. "If you know where he is -- "
"Oh, he's clever, he's so clever," Sherlock called.
"Who? Moriarty?"
"No! Neal! Come on, we have to get a cab."
"At this time of night?" John stopped, heaved a breath, and then took off again. "Sherlock, what's the code? Where is he?"
"Morse code," Sherlock said, running into the street. "It's Morse code, it's so simple!"
"H...SIE," John said, bewildered.
"The slurs are dashes. H - O - M - E."
"America?" John asked, as a taxi miraculously pulled up the street. Possibly the miracle had something to do with Sherlock's whistled summons.
"Home, John, home!" Sherlock bundled him into the cab. "Where's your gun?"
"In my locker at....home," John said, illumination dawning.
"221 Baker Street," Sherlock told the driver. "Fast as you can, a man's life may depend on it."
"Why aren't we alerting Lestrade?" John asked. "He must have units in the area."
"Don't be deliberately dense, John," Sherlock chided. "This is best handled privately. No flashing lights."
"Do you have a plan?"
"I have about nine minutes to make one," Sherlock announced.
***
Moriarty moved around the little kitchen like he owned it, which made Neal nervous and also completely creeped him out. Nervous, because if Moriarty had stolen his painting from Sherlock, then they could be anywhere and his message to Sherlock would be pointless; creeped out, because if this was Sherlock and John's home, and it seemed like it probably was, Moriarty was way too obsessively familiar with their kitchen.
"I don't normally recruit Americans," Moriarty was saying, spreading jam on a slice of slightly elderly-looking bread. "They tend to be self-absorbed. And loud."
"You don't say," Neal replied, flexing his left hand carefully. Definitely a couple of broken bones. The dull ache in his ribs was beginning to get a lot sharper as time passed and the adrenaline faded.
"No proper appreciation of history or tradition, either. And Canadians! They're so...polite." Moriarty gave him another wide grin, the kind that said I'm picturing myself as a shark right now. "But you have special skills, Neal. And you're reasonably bright. Not Sherlock-bright, or me-bright, but bright enough. Jam?" he asked, waving the knife at Neal.
"No thanks," Neal told him. "I never eat when I'm looking death in the eye."
"Suit yourself." Moriarty took a big bite.
"Where'd you hear about all my special skills, anyway?" Neal asked, to keep him talking.
"Oh, here and there. You made such a splash in Amsterdam! And I hear you love the French, but I won't hold that against you. Think about it -- you could summer on the Riviera. New face, new name, no more boring FBI agents dogging your heels, no more Sherlock Holmes lording it over you, making you run for his amusement."
Neal studied Moriarty carefully. Undoubtedly he had a lot of good sources, but rumor was what it was, and it didn't sound like he had the full story on their little chases. It sounded like he thought Neal was some kind of involuntary participant.
"I do hate doing tricks for Master," he murmured. If Moriarty caught the real meaning of his statement, he didn't let on.
"I need a good right-hand man. Oh, I'd spare you the killing and the maiming -- I know you're fastidious, and I have people for that. I need someone with imagination, Neal. Not that I don't have plenty myself, but it's so hard to convey one's vision sometimes."
Neal glanced at the guards standing at his elbow, facing him and Moriarty. For a second, he thought he saw a shadow move behind them.
***
John had been skeptical about this plan, but Sherlock was reasonably confident it would work. After all, he knew multiple ways to silently break into his own home -- that was just good planning. And if he went in through John's window, as he'd done twice before on test runs ("You came in through my window while I was asleep in the bed?" "Is that a problem? You didn't wake up.") he could pick up the gun on the way.
The issue was the waiting. Moriarty would call Peter Burke again; taunting was what he did, after all. The Titian was a smokescreen, and so were the bombs, but it kept Burke and Lestrade out of the way, at least. And probably nobody would get blown up.
He had to wait for the second call, because then Moriarty's hands would be busy, and the phone would be in use. There were two guards, each armed, and Moriarty undoubtedly had a gun as well. Neal was hunched over, sweating and looking reasonably miserable, but his hands were free, even if they were clasped to his stomach.
With the guards there, he couldn't get a clear shot at Moriarty. If he shot them, they wouldn't fall fast enough for him to shoot Moriarty before he shot Neal, or at least hurt him badly.
Sherlock withdrew, silently, to the landing, avoiding the one squeaky board and the bit of carpet that crunched (they really ought to have it cleaned; carpets weren't supposed to crunch) and texted John.
On my next text, open and slam the downstairs door, then run away quickly. -SH
Understood, John texted back. It was so nice to have someone who didn't protest when you told them to run away.
***
When Moriarty called back, Peter answered the phone as calmly as he could.
"Neal," he said. "How they treating you?"
"Don't ignore me," Neal said, reading aloud once again. "I...am the one...you want...to...talk to."
"My mistake," Peter replied. "You looking after Neal for me?"
"This isn't...an adoption Agent...Burke this...is...a hostage situation and...I want my...Titian."
"I know you do, but an hour just isn't enough time. Hell, Neal's the one who covered his tracks. It might take years. Listen, let Neal talk. Let him tell me what he did with it."
There was a long pause, a faint noise; a voice giving some kind of order, and some footsteps.
"That...isn't...how this works I...want my Titian...or my...money."
"And I want to give it to you, but it's gonna be the Titian or nothing. Nobody's handing out that kind of money," Peter replied.
"Maybe I should just...shoot him now."
"No -- " Peter started, and a gunshot rang out over the phone. "Neal? Neal? Jesus Christ," he said to Lestrade. "Drive faster!"
"We've got the lights going. If we go any faster we're going to mow someone down," Lestrade replied, but he stepped up the speed of the squad car. "You're sure they're at Baker Street?"
"I'm not as fast as Sherlock Holmes, but I get there pretty quick anyway," Peter said grimly.
"I have a response team assembling around the corner. We don't want to tip our hand. You shouldn't even be here," Lestrade added.
"Consider me a civilian consultant," Peter replied, shoving his phone in his pocket as they careened up the street and skewed quickly around a corner, where a police barricade had been erected. Lestrade bolted out of the car.
"Right, ready lads?" he asked, as someone tossed him a Kevlar vest. "We go in silent and fast. Any eyes inside?"
"We've heard shots fired," one of the cops volunteered. "That's all we have."
"They're on the first floor," Peter said. They all looked at him. "What? Sherlock said it."
"You heard him. Bust the door, focus on the first floor. Let's get this bastard," Lestrade said. The special response team crept down the block, slowly. Peter watched through binoculars lifted from Lestrade's car.
He heard the yell before he saw what was going on. A few of the police had stumbled back into the street and there was a faint shout --
"Don't shoot, you idiots!" someone yelled. "They went out the back!"
Peter spared a minute to think, cynically, that this was the oldest trick in the book. On the other hand, this time it seemed to be the truth, and he dropped the binoculars and sprinted down the block when he saw two dark-haired heads emerge through the front door.
Sherlock stumbled down the last step, Neal's right arm slung over his shoulder; Neal's head was lolling worryingly, but he seemed to be moving on his own. Peter arrived as Sherlock eased him into the arms of two of the special response team.
"Mind his left hand," he said. "At least three broken bones. Probably some cracked ribs. Took a nasty header."
"What in the hell do you think you were doing?" Lestrade demanded, as Peter helped them drag Neal towards a fast-approaching ambulance. Blood was pouring down Neal's scalp.
"Not invading with semi-automatic weaponry and smoke bombs?" Sherlock suggested. "He was in my home, Lestrade."
"Am I going to find a body in your kitchen?" Lestrade asked.
"Not Moriarty's, more's the pity. I'd wager his brain is fascinating," Sherlock said, chill in his voice. Peter tipped Neal's chin up; his eyes were unfocused, glassy.
"It's really quite simple," Sherlock continued. "John lured the muscle downstairs. I waited for Moriarty to make a call, and when he raised the gun, Neal dropped to the floor and I shot the gun. Followed by the phone. I would have had his head next if he weren't such a quick little vole," he added. "Went out through my bedroom -- the fire escape. The muscle ran through the back door -- Mrs. Hudson will no doubt be livid about the mud they tracked down the hall. I thought it prudent to check on Neal before giving chase."
"Hit my head," Neal mumbled.
"Yes, your ducking needs work," Sherlock told him. Neal gave him a woozy grin, and then passed out into the embrace of the waiting paramedics.
***
The sun was well up in the sky by the time Neal woke. His ribs ached in a distant sort of way, and his left arm felt stiff. He lifted it and found a cast from elbow to knuckles, wrapping up over three of his fingers.
"Guess I should be glad he didn't break my painting hand," he murmured to himself.
"Good morning," a deep voice said nearby, and Neal turned his head to find Sherlock sitting at his bedside, closing some book he'd been reading.
"Hey, you found me," Neal beamed wide. He was aware that the wash of bonhomie he was feeling was probably the result of drugs. "Good job."
"Not soon enough, it would appear."
"What's the damage?"
"Hairline fracture of the ulna, three broken fingers at the proximal and, in the little finger, intermediate phalanges, no permanent damage. Bruised ribs, mild concussion, three stitches in the scalp."
"Your kitchen table has an edge on it," Neal complained.
"I'll have John put padding on it for our next kidnapping victim," Sherlock informed him gravely. Neal sat up a little bit, wincing.
"So," he said. "You got my message."
"It wasn't particularly subtle. I'm surprised Moriarty didn't decode it."
"He was busy giggling insanely. The bombs?"
"Nonexistent, except for the one at the Tower. To prove he meant business, I suppose. Bluff's as good as the real thing, under pressure."
"I pissed off big money, didn't I?"
"Of a sort. He's the mastermind of most of the more egregious crimes in Great Britain."
"I thought it was him," Neal said. "You get him?"
"No."
"But you will, right?"
Sherlock sat back. "Eventually."
Neal frowned.
"He's disappeared. It's what he does. But now he owes me twice -- last time John, this time you -- and I am known to hold a grudge," Sherlock said. "I doubt he'll bother you again; I imagine you've made your stance on things perfectly clear. I'm the one he wants to get at, anyway."
Neal eyed Sherlock. "How'd you know?"
"Moriarty's not interested in art," Sherlock said. "He's interested in talent."
"He ever try to recruit you?" Neal asked.
"No. He knows better. Perhaps he found you more corruptible, at least on paper."
"I wouldn't have."
"Yes, I know."
"Where's Peter?" Neal asked, sensing that Peter and his own newfound incorruptibility were probably related.
"Asleep." Sherlock waved a hand and Neal followed the gesture, craning his neck slightly. Peter was sprawled in a hospital chair next to a bank of medical equipment, head tipped back against the wall, dead to the world.
"Ah." Neal nodded vaguely. He turned back to Sherlock, who watched him impassively until he spoke again. "So. We both lost this one."
"Yes," Sherlock said. "I think this counts as a loss for all concerned."
"You want to know a secret?" Neal offered, and Sherlock leaned forward. "I only took one thing from the Tate Modern," Neal whispered.
Sherlock cocked his head. "Oh?"
"L'Etang de Trivaux," Neal said. "Matisse. Fun to forge. Original's...I'll send it to you," he assured him.
Sherlock looked him up and down. "You won't be able to fly for at least four days," he said. "I imagine you could break up a portrait sitting across a few days."
"Bring a book," Neal told him, relaxing back into his pillow. "So, do we call the whole thing a draw, or what? Maybe we're just not meant to know who's better."
"Perhaps," Sherlock allowed. "It does seem to add to one's mystique."
"Okay. Tie it is," Neal said. He turned his head to grin at Sherlock. "Hey, wanna sign my cast?"
END
Enjoyed Rematch? Like grammar? Check out The Beta Quotes File.
Notes:
For those of you who led a deprived childhood, the Rattlesnake Eggs Trick is illustrated here.
50 Berkeley Square is indeed the most haunted building in London, now occupied by Maggs Bros. Ltd., an antiquarian bookseller.
Batman climbed Buckingham Palace once.
I had Neal steal The Holy Family With Shepherd because I thought the shepherd kinda looked like Neal. Though as Junie pointed out, Joseph's head looks totally shopped in.
I just plain like L'Etang de Trivaux
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