The Most Inept Kidnappers in the History of Crime (Part Two)
First off, thabks to the anon who gave me the idea of them playing cards. ALL CREDIT TO THAT BIT IS THEIRS. Hope you enjoy this next installment. There ought to be another one soon...
Under ordinary circumstances, Mycroft would never deign to enlist the help of both Sherlock and Moriarty. The two of them were like squabbling children, with an unfortunate level of IQ and creativity. The two of them working under one roof was bound to be catastrophic and migraine-inducing, and Mycroft was not looking forward to the experience. Under ordinary circumstances, he would allow the two boys to play out their silly little games, and clean up any international crises following that.
But this was Lestrade. This was not ‘ordinary circumstances’.
He was, of course, the first to arrive at Sherlock’s dismally messy flat, stepping neatly out of the sleek black car he was so fond of. He rapped smartly on the door and waited, despite an urge to drag Sherlock out of there by the scruff of his neck, preferably that little criminal as well, and force them to help him find his Lestrade. However, he was not Sherlock. He did have some sort of impulse control.
“Good morning Mrs. Hudson,” he said rather tightly to the landlady when she opened the door.
“Oh, good,” the woman sighed, visibly relieved. “He’s been quite the handful this last ten minutes...”
Mycroft gave her a meaningless, ambassador’s smile and brushed past her, heading for his brother’s flat, from which, predictably, ominous noises were sounding. Mycroft sincerely hoped there were no hostages involved yet. He liked to be in charge of any abducting to be done.
He wrinkled his nose as he stepped through the open door. “Really Sherlock,” he said with distaste. “Mummy would be so disappointed if she saw the state of the hovel you live in...”
Sherlock glared at him, that childish expression on his face. Mycroft allowed himself a little smirk as penance for his supremely difficult day. He did so hate it when people thought they could touch his things.
“She’d be more disappointed in you,” Sherlock sniped. “Just how many chocolate biscuits with your tea this morning, Mycroft?”
Mycroft refused to twitch. It doesn’t affect him that much, surely. “I was stressed,” he snapped. “Speaking of which, shouldn’t you be a little more worried?”
Sherlock’s head turned so fast Mycroft momentarily entertained the idea of his little brother in a neck brace. “I assure you,” Sherlock hissed, “that I am highly concerned.”
Oh, there was the sociopathic, possessive, potential serial killer Mycroft had been hoping to find here. They were going to need him for a minute.
“Ooh Sherlock,” cooed an Irish voice from behind him. “I love it when you’re feisty.”
Mycroft had no need of melodramatic special effects, such as whirling around and gasping in shock. He had already been warned this...annoyance would be in attendance.
“Jim Moriarty,” he acknowledged with a nod as the man slid past him with a shark’s grin on his face.
“You two know each other?” Sherlock asked, his eyes flicking between them rapidly.
“Of course not,” Mycroft said patronisingly. “So paranoid, Sherlock.”
“Mmm,” Moriarty agreed, as if they were two mothers discussing their errant children at the sidelines of a playground. “Isn’t he just? He thought I took his precious John.”
The laugh was highly pitched and highly disturbing. “No, I never play the same trick twice. So unoriginal, kidnapping one’s loved ones. At least I managed to put a nice little spin on things, wouldn’t you agree, Sherlock?”
“Quite,” Sherlock nodded, busying himself with what appeared to be some sort of cyanide and acid fusion, quite inventive, that Mycroft will allow. “I do so admire your work, Jim. Say, perhaps next time I should strap your loved one in an explosive vest?”
“Wouldn’t work,” Moriarty said dismissively, examining his nails, though Mycroft was sure Sherlock picked up the new tension in the small man’s body just as easily as he had.
“Oh?” Sherlock said, prowling closer. Mycroft removed his gloves and leaned his umbrella against the wall with care, before continuing to play spectator. “If there is no loved one, Jim, then why are you here?”
“Oh no,” Jim giggled. “I love Sebastian dearly. But he’s far too clever for such a simple little trap. He’s a Colonel you know.” Moriarty preened.
Sherlock bristled visibly. “John is an army doctor, which leads to courage and intellect. And he is very loyal.”
“Not as loyal as Sebastian,” Moriarty countered, eyes narrowing. “He has killed for me.”
“So has John,” Sherlock smirked. “And it counts for more, because your lover is undoubtedly a criminal, whereas mine went against his values to save my life.”
Mycroft opened his mouth to say something very stupid, perhaps along the lines of ‘Lestrade is far more loyal than either of your infantile lovers: he doesn’t need to kill to do that. However, he has never once betrayed me, even when he doesn’t know I’m filming him. And he complains, yet stays with me. That shows a depth of affection you could not begin to understand.’ But he changed that halfway through the thought (what was wrong with him, getting caught up in such a petty game?), as Moriarty seemed about ready to tear out Sherlock’s throat.
“I have some information on the whereabouts of all three of our ‘loved ones’,” Mycroft interjected smoothly with the customary curled lip on the last two words, though in reality Lestrade was perhaps the only person he would count as such, and the police inspector knew it.
Both pairs of eyes fixed on him, the cold determination eerily similar. “I have had MI5, 6, some local CIA operatives and the remnants of the London team of the KGB working on it. I have a acceptably solid idea where to find a henchman of theirs.”
Moriarty was looking at him with something akin to admiration in his eyes. “Why,” he said wonderingly. “I may have chosen the wrong Holmes brother to pursue.”
Sherlock snorted in derision, but ducked his head. Mycroft felt a stab of pity for his little brother: it couldn’t be easy, his two ‘arch-nemesis’s in one room.
“Don’t fret Sherlock,” Moriarty said comfortingly to the younger man. “He’s not nearly as pretty as you.”
Mycroft declined to mention that Lestrade habitually called him ‘gorgeous’.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There were worse people to be stuck in a room with, Lestrade decided.
John was a straight up sort of bloke, very honest and friendly, not exactly the kind of person Lestrade would have expected Sherlock to tolerate for very long as he tended to take offence at any sort of cheerfulness that wasn’t serial killers, but then he doubted he was the kind of person Mycroft would have gone for. Perhaps it was because Mycroft didn’t scare him, perhaps it was because Mycroft made him laugh and the look of shock Mycroft had worn when somebody actually snickered at a snide joke f his, but Lestrade honestly couldn’t say he knew himself.
Sebastian was...odd. Very nice, very generous, but Lestrade got the feeling the man was teetering on the edge of Psycho-land. A very technical term often used by Scotland Yard, if you must know. But his headache had definitely receded, which at least merited Lestrade turning a blind ear to any mention of criminal activities.
“I’m curious,” John said, looking up from the grimy playing cards Lestrade had produced from a coat pocket. “How did you and Jim-” he made a flicking motion with his hands, “-get together? Two sevens.”
John placed two cards upside down on the pile in the middle, while Lestrade tried to remember if two or three sevens had already been played. He certainly didn’t have any.
“I’m his Chief of Staff,” Sebastian said, examining his cards. “What can I say? It was an office romance. Cheat.”
“Damn,” John cursed as he swept the sizeable pile of cards into his own hand. “I’m shit at this.”
“You scratch your ear when you’re lying,” Lestrade advised him, placing his own cards. “Four eights.”
John looked at him as if he’d never seen him before. “Quite observant in your own right, aren’t you?”
Lestrade grinned at him: like he hadn’t heard that before. “People don’t seem to notice it when Sherlock’s around. Come on Sebastian, make a move.”
“Hm...two nines. How did you and Sherlock get together, John?” Sebastian asked. Lestrade consulted his own cards: he had the Nine of Spades, but John could easily have the other one in his massive hand. He let it slide.
“One ten. Oh...Sherlock’s a lot more pliable when he’s drunk. Or pretending to be drunk, as I later found out,” John said, shaking his head fondly.
Lestrade knew for a fact he had all four tens sitting in his hand right now. To pity John or to not pity John, that was the question...
“Cheat,” he said teasingly as John groaned.
“Way to be a mate,” the other man groused, and Lestrade shrugged, unrepentant.
“Go on then, Lestrade,” John smirked at him as Sebastian placed his cards (“Two Jacks.”). “How did you and Mycroft get together.
“Nothing special,” Lestrade said, rifling through his cards just for show: there were only four left now. “He kept kidnapping me: I got the hint eventually. Three bea-utiful queens,” he said, slamming his cards down triumphantly. “Last. Card.”
John snorted. “God, you know you’ve gone a bit mad when you don’t even consider that as abnormal.”
Lestrade joined his laughter, but it cut off abruptly when the door to their little cell slammed open. Lestrade sighed heavily and set down his cards. He was just about to win as well.
“On your knees, hands behind your head,” a male voice barked, and as Lestrade eyes adjusted to the new light level.
Lestrade heaved another sigh, but complied, shuffling into position next to Sebastian, with John on his other side. He spared a sympathetic glance at John, whose psychosomatic limp had been playing up again lately. He own knees creaked in protest to his treatment. He was too bloody old for this.
“Is there anything you want in particular from us?” he asked impatiently, and was treated to a sharp pain across his face. He wrinkled his nose in annoyance and stopped as it angered the new cut on his face. That was going to drip all over his bloody suit.
“You speak when spoken to,” threatened the faceless man, who Lestrade could discern was blonde, with a ponytail. Lestrade declined to mention that he sounded like a Victorian governess.
“We would rather like some...leverage with the Holmes brothers,” the man continued sneeringly. “In fact-”
“And what about me?” Sebastian asked brazenly. Lestrade attempted to kick him into quiet submission, but it was a bit difficult from his position. The man sounded a little irritated as he replied,
“We owe Jim Moriarty a slight debt-”
“Oh,” Sebastian said, as if this was some great revelation. “Are you the ones with the stupid name? He’s been going on about you lately...”
There was a sick crack as the man’s gun was introduced to Sebastian’s cheekbone. Lestrade winced on his behalf: the slight man already had a bruise there as well.
“THE RAVENWING SYNDICATE IS NOT A STUPID NAME!” thundered the man.
“Come on,” wheedled Sebastian, coughing a little on blood from what looked like a split lip. “It is a bit stupid.”
“Yeah, I can see where you’re coming from,” John spoke up.
Oh well, thought Lestrade. In for a penny, in for a pound. “A bit melodramatic, I thought.”
“SHUT UP, ALL OF YOU!” bellowed the man, brandishing his gun wildly. “AND STOP INTERR-”
“What?” asked John innocently, and the man roared wordlessly and brought his boot crashing into the side of John’s face.
Well, mused Lestrade. That made his injury seem very insignificant.
“We’ll be back in a few hours to check on you again,” the man said smugly, obviously very pleased with himself for ‘gaining control’ over his prisoners. He obviously didn’t realise that he’d signed his own death warrant in nice swirly calligraphy, and put ‘Please kill slowly’ as a special request.
Lestrade scrubbed the blood off his neck as best he caught, and lunged for the single card he had left of his hand, placing it carefully on top of the pile.
“King!” he crowed. “I win!”
“It wasn’t even your turn!” John protested, nursing his newly-bruised face.
Lestrade huffed. “Don’t be such a sore loser,” he said, and blood bubbled from Sebastian’s mouth as he snickered.
Under ordinary circumstances, Mycroft would never deign to enlist the help of both Sherlock and Moriarty. The two of them were like squabbling children, with an unfortunate level of IQ and creativity. The two of them working under one roof was bound to be catastrophic and migraine-inducing, and Mycroft was not looking forward to the experience. Under ordinary circumstances, he would allow the two boys to play out their silly little games, and clean up any international crises following that.
But this was Lestrade. This was not ‘ordinary circumstances’.
He was, of course, the first to arrive at Sherlock’s dismally messy flat, stepping neatly out of the sleek black car he was so fond of. He rapped smartly on the door and waited, despite an urge to drag Sherlock out of there by the scruff of his neck, preferably that little criminal as well, and force them to help him find his Lestrade. However, he was not Sherlock. He did have some sort of impulse control.
“Good morning Mrs. Hudson,” he said rather tightly to the landlady when she opened the door.
“Oh, good,” the woman sighed, visibly relieved. “He’s been quite the handful this last ten minutes...”
Mycroft gave her a meaningless, ambassador’s smile and brushed past her, heading for his brother’s flat, from which, predictably, ominous noises were sounding. Mycroft sincerely hoped there were no hostages involved yet. He liked to be in charge of any abducting to be done.
He wrinkled his nose as he stepped through the open door. “Really Sherlock,” he said with distaste. “Mummy would be so disappointed if she saw the state of the hovel you live in...”
Sherlock glared at him, that childish expression on his face. Mycroft allowed himself a little smirk as penance for his supremely difficult day. He did so hate it when people thought they could touch his things.
“She’d be more disappointed in you,” Sherlock sniped. “Just how many chocolate biscuits with your tea this morning, Mycroft?”
Mycroft refused to twitch. It doesn’t affect him that much, surely. “I was stressed,” he snapped. “Speaking of which, shouldn’t you be a little more worried?”
Sherlock’s head turned so fast Mycroft momentarily entertained the idea of his little brother in a neck brace. “I assure you,” Sherlock hissed, “that I am highly concerned.”
Oh, there was the sociopathic, possessive, potential serial killer Mycroft had been hoping to find here. They were going to need him for a minute.
“Ooh Sherlock,” cooed an Irish voice from behind him. “I love it when you’re feisty.”
Mycroft had no need of melodramatic special effects, such as whirling around and gasping in shock. He had already been warned this...annoyance would be in attendance.
“Jim Moriarty,” he acknowledged with a nod as the man slid past him with a shark’s grin on his face.
“You two know each other?” Sherlock asked, his eyes flicking between them rapidly.
“Of course not,” Mycroft said patronisingly. “So paranoid, Sherlock.”
“Mmm,” Moriarty agreed, as if they were two mothers discussing their errant children at the sidelines of a playground. “Isn’t he just? He thought I took his precious John.”
The laugh was highly pitched and highly disturbing. “No, I never play the same trick twice. So unoriginal, kidnapping one’s loved ones. At least I managed to put a nice little spin on things, wouldn’t you agree, Sherlock?”
“Quite,” Sherlock nodded, busying himself with what appeared to be some sort of cyanide and acid fusion, quite inventive, that Mycroft will allow. “I do so admire your work, Jim. Say, perhaps next time I should strap your loved one in an explosive vest?”
“Wouldn’t work,” Moriarty said dismissively, examining his nails, though Mycroft was sure Sherlock picked up the new tension in the small man’s body just as easily as he had.
“Oh?” Sherlock said, prowling closer. Mycroft removed his gloves and leaned his umbrella against the wall with care, before continuing to play spectator. “If there is no loved one, Jim, then why are you here?”
“Oh no,” Jim giggled. “I love Sebastian dearly. But he’s far too clever for such a simple little trap. He’s a Colonel you know.” Moriarty preened.
Sherlock bristled visibly. “John is an army doctor, which leads to courage and intellect. And he is very loyal.”
“Not as loyal as Sebastian,” Moriarty countered, eyes narrowing. “He has killed for me.”
“So has John,” Sherlock smirked. “And it counts for more, because your lover is undoubtedly a criminal, whereas mine went against his values to save my life.”
Mycroft opened his mouth to say something very stupid, perhaps along the lines of ‘Lestrade is far more loyal than either of your infantile lovers: he doesn’t need to kill to do that. However, he has never once betrayed me, even when he doesn’t know I’m filming him. And he complains, yet stays with me. That shows a depth of affection you could not begin to understand.’ But he changed that halfway through the thought (what was wrong with him, getting caught up in such a petty game?), as Moriarty seemed about ready to tear out Sherlock’s throat.
“I have some information on the whereabouts of all three of our ‘loved ones’,” Mycroft interjected smoothly with the customary curled lip on the last two words, though in reality Lestrade was perhaps the only person he would count as such, and the police inspector knew it.
Both pairs of eyes fixed on him, the cold determination eerily similar. “I have had MI5, 6, some local CIA operatives and the remnants of the London team of the KGB working on it. I have a acceptably solid idea where to find a henchman of theirs.”
Moriarty was looking at him with something akin to admiration in his eyes. “Why,” he said wonderingly. “I may have chosen the wrong Holmes brother to pursue.”
Sherlock snorted in derision, but ducked his head. Mycroft felt a stab of pity for his little brother: it couldn’t be easy, his two ‘arch-nemesis’s in one room.
“Don’t fret Sherlock,” Moriarty said comfortingly to the younger man. “He’s not nearly as pretty as you.”
Mycroft declined to mention that Lestrade habitually called him ‘gorgeous’.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There were worse people to be stuck in a room with, Lestrade decided.
John was a straight up sort of bloke, very honest and friendly, not exactly the kind of person Lestrade would have expected Sherlock to tolerate for very long as he tended to take offence at any sort of cheerfulness that wasn’t serial killers, but then he doubted he was the kind of person Mycroft would have gone for. Perhaps it was because Mycroft didn’t scare him, perhaps it was because Mycroft made him laugh and the look of shock Mycroft had worn when somebody actually snickered at a snide joke f his, but Lestrade honestly couldn’t say he knew himself.
Sebastian was...odd. Very nice, very generous, but Lestrade got the feeling the man was teetering on the edge of Psycho-land. A very technical term often used by Scotland Yard, if you must know. But his headache had definitely receded, which at least merited Lestrade turning a blind ear to any mention of criminal activities.
“I’m curious,” John said, looking up from the grimy playing cards Lestrade had produced from a coat pocket. “How did you and Jim-” he made a flicking motion with his hands, “-get together? Two sevens.”
John placed two cards upside down on the pile in the middle, while Lestrade tried to remember if two or three sevens had already been played. He certainly didn’t have any.
“I’m his Chief of Staff,” Sebastian said, examining his cards. “What can I say? It was an office romance. Cheat.”
“Damn,” John cursed as he swept the sizeable pile of cards into his own hand. “I’m shit at this.”
“You scratch your ear when you’re lying,” Lestrade advised him, placing his own cards. “Four eights.”
John looked at him as if he’d never seen him before. “Quite observant in your own right, aren’t you?”
Lestrade grinned at him: like he hadn’t heard that before. “People don’t seem to notice it when Sherlock’s around. Come on Sebastian, make a move.”
“Hm...two nines. How did you and Sherlock get together, John?” Sebastian asked. Lestrade consulted his own cards: he had the Nine of Spades, but John could easily have the other one in his massive hand. He let it slide.
“One ten. Oh...Sherlock’s a lot more pliable when he’s drunk. Or pretending to be drunk, as I later found out,” John said, shaking his head fondly.
Lestrade knew for a fact he had all four tens sitting in his hand right now. To pity John or to not pity John, that was the question...
“Cheat,” he said teasingly as John groaned.
“Way to be a mate,” the other man groused, and Lestrade shrugged, unrepentant.
“Go on then, Lestrade,” John smirked at him as Sebastian placed his cards (“Two Jacks.”). “How did you and Mycroft get together.
“Nothing special,” Lestrade said, rifling through his cards just for show: there were only four left now. “He kept kidnapping me: I got the hint eventually. Three bea-utiful queens,” he said, slamming his cards down triumphantly. “Last. Card.”
John snorted. “God, you know you’ve gone a bit mad when you don’t even consider that as abnormal.”
Lestrade joined his laughter, but it cut off abruptly when the door to their little cell slammed open. Lestrade sighed heavily and set down his cards. He was just about to win as well.
“On your knees, hands behind your head,” a male voice barked, and as Lestrade eyes adjusted to the new light level.
Lestrade heaved another sigh, but complied, shuffling into position next to Sebastian, with John on his other side. He spared a sympathetic glance at John, whose psychosomatic limp had been playing up again lately. He own knees creaked in protest to his treatment. He was too bloody old for this.
“Is there anything you want in particular from us?” he asked impatiently, and was treated to a sharp pain across his face. He wrinkled his nose in annoyance and stopped as it angered the new cut on his face. That was going to drip all over his bloody suit.
“You speak when spoken to,” threatened the faceless man, who Lestrade could discern was blonde, with a ponytail. Lestrade declined to mention that he sounded like a Victorian governess.
“We would rather like some...leverage with the Holmes brothers,” the man continued sneeringly. “In fact-”
“And what about me?” Sebastian asked brazenly. Lestrade attempted to kick him into quiet submission, but it was a bit difficult from his position. The man sounded a little irritated as he replied,
“We owe Jim Moriarty a slight debt-”
“Oh,” Sebastian said, as if this was some great revelation. “Are you the ones with the stupid name? He’s been going on about you lately...”
There was a sick crack as the man’s gun was introduced to Sebastian’s cheekbone. Lestrade winced on his behalf: the slight man already had a bruise there as well.
“THE RAVENWING SYNDICATE IS NOT A STUPID NAME!” thundered the man.
“Come on,” wheedled Sebastian, coughing a little on blood from what looked like a split lip. “It is a bit stupid.”
“Yeah, I can see where you’re coming from,” John spoke up.
Oh well, thought Lestrade. In for a penny, in for a pound. “A bit melodramatic, I thought.”
“SHUT UP, ALL OF YOU!” bellowed the man, brandishing his gun wildly. “AND STOP INTERR-”
“What?” asked John innocently, and the man roared wordlessly and brought his boot crashing into the side of John’s face.
Well, mused Lestrade. That made his injury seem very insignificant.
“We’ll be back in a few hours to check on you again,” the man said smugly, obviously very pleased with himself for ‘gaining control’ over his prisoners. He obviously didn’t realise that he’d signed his own death warrant in nice swirly calligraphy, and put ‘Please kill slowly’ as a special request.
Lestrade scrubbed the blood off his neck as best he caught, and lunged for the single card he had left of his hand, placing it carefully on top of the pile.
“King!” he crowed. “I win!”
“It wasn’t even your turn!” John protested, nursing his newly-bruised face.
Lestrade huffed. “Don’t be such a sore loser,” he said, and blood bubbled from Sebastian’s mouth as he snickered.