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mekachu04He sat back in his chair, reading over the anonymous email in his inbox. He knew exactly who’d sent it, but had to ponder on the validity of the information.
It shouldn’t be possible, but there it was, black text on a white screen, giving him a once in a lifetime opportunity to gain the ultimate upper hand against his arch-nemesis. And to have the upperhand when dealing with the man who was quickly rising through the ranks to become THE british government; was too good of a tip to not act on.
“We’re going on an adventure, Sebby,” he called for his right hand man - who looked surprised his boss was talking of getting personally involved. “When I give back his little brother, I want Mycroft Holmes to know he owes me, personally, for the (FAVOUR)”
And with that, James Moriarty, up and coming criminal mastermind, headed out with discharged Army Colonel Sebastian Moran to where a group of child traffickers had managed to get their hands on thirteen year old Sherlock Holmes.
______________________________________________________________________________
They don’t have names.
It was the first of everything that was taken from them. Boys and girls from as young as fifteen months, to as old as the two informal leaders - age 15(ish) - huddled in close as their ‘handlers’ argued amongst themselves.
As soon as Sherlock was forced into the room, one of the older boys had made it a point to stay between Sherlock and the men. He was the shorter of the two older boys, but no less imposing. He was scrawny, malnourished, and half his face looking like it went a few rounds with a meat grinder; but he stood fast, harsh blue eyes daring the men to try and cross the room.
Sherlock looked at the other children, and with a painful twist to his gut, he could see the abuse and trauma of their everyday lives screaming out to him with every line of their being. He’d overheard the men earlier, talking about his brother, and knew that the horrors that these children faced would never be his cross to bear - but they didn’t know that. They had no clue he was just a quick ransom for them, not a longtime… investment. Yet here they were, quick to hide him in their mists, to try and keep him untainted - if even for only a few hours more.
A couple of the girls were showing early signs of pregnancy; they pulled him deeper in their huddle, one of them asking him, voice low and soft, if he was hurt, if he was in pain.
It was the most out of body experience Sherlock has ever had, and likely the first time in his life he was left speechless. No one had asked him if he was alright in years, infact, no one talked to him period, if they could help it. And everyone kept him at arm's length. And here was a group of children who had every reason to be distant and bitter, holding him close, and trying to comfort him.
Most of the men filed out, but one last made an aborted gesture to retrieve Sherlock from where he’d been absorbed into the group - he was the initial one who’d pulled Sherlock off the street. Short-Blond-in-front growled at him, moving to block his way. The man shifted his focus from Sherlock to the boy in front, and then the girls were pushing Sherlock, trying to get him to look away, to keep him from watching.
It only took one blow for the 4 foot boy to go down, but he didn’t stay down, and Sherlock watched on in horror as he got front row seats to a horrific beating. The other one of the older boys moved cautiously until he was blocking Sherlock’s view - and more importantly, blocking the enraged man’s view of Sherlock - and stayed there until the man gave angry huff, and stormed out.
No one moved - as if they were waiting to see if the reprieve was real, or a dream waiting to be shattered - until the older boy on the floor let out a pained grunt, pushing himself up into a sit.
_____________________________________________________________________________
There was chaos as the ‘rescue’ went sour. Sherlock was sure if his brother was truly involved, it wouldn’t have gotten pear shaped, but the moment was too good to pass up, and the children were quick to look for chances to escape. Sherlock ended up with the last of the group - a few of the slower moving pregnant girls, the two older boys, and tone of the youngest of the group, a two year old who’d hidden himself during the beginning of the raid. He was being carried by the shorter blond boy as they snuck down the halls of the complex that had been their prison for most of their lives.
(..)
The men who’d come to rescue him were complete strangers; they knew none of Mycroft’s code words and looked to be far more dangerous than the rapists that had been holding him captive.
And they only wanted Sherlock. The stocky brunette boy had taken the toddler and fled with the girls when the Man in the Suit had Sherlock’s abductor gunned down in front of them. Only the blond boy remained with Sherlock, uneasy with this new threat, but still just as steadfast of a protector as he’d been since day one.
The Man in the Suit seemed just as surprised as Sherlock, even when the red light of a sniper’s gun showed up on the boy’s chest. His only response to the red dot was to turn to Sherlock, pleading as he whispered, “Run Sherlock….”
Before Sherlock could even consider it, the Man in the Suit cocked his head, regarding the boy, before raising a hand and giving a flippant dismissive wave.
The air split with the crack of gunfire, and Sherlock watched in horror as the boy crumbled to the ground in front of him. The Man in the Suit was then dragging him to his awaiting car, handing over a cell phone saying, “I’m sure your brother would love to hear from you, Sherlock. I’m sure he’s worried sick.”
______________________________________________________________________________
Handing Holmes the Younger off to the future government went off without a hitch, Moriarty promising so much worse if the two should cross paths in the future.
It was what awaited him at home that was going to require some careful diplomacy.
He had a great assortment of people in his back pocket, but he was NOT expecting to walk into a guest bedroom of surgeons and nurses. “MORAN!”
His sniper - the one man who could be called his confidant - had stationed himself across the hall from the busy room -his gun of choice relaxing against his shoulder. He grunted his acknowledgment of his boss, but never looked away.
Moriarty counted to ten, checking his anger. Anyone else, he would have ordered them shot.
“One question, Moran. DID you miss that shot - “
“I never miss a shot, boss.”
They watched the doctors rush about, his guest room turned to an emergency operating room as they fought to keep a 15 year old boy alive after a sniper round had punched through his shoulder. Moran has the kid’s blood smeared across his chest, watching unblinking into the room. “Won’t shed a tear if he doesn’t make it. He probably won’t.”
“What do you need a pet for, Sebby?”
He smirked - the look dark and unamused. “Boss, you had the same thought as me, or you wouldn't have hesitated on the kill order.”
“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
__________________________________________________________________________
“James Hammish Watson.”
John paused, eyebrows knitting in confusion.
“Disappeared from an orphanage in downtown Glasgow almost twenty years ago. He was five.” Sherlock swallowed thickly, studying the young man in front of him, looking for the boy who’d defended him almost a decade ago, “His biological parents -”
“It doesn’t matter. Watson died. Who cares about his parents.”
“Maybe just a little? Curiosity? Don’t people care about that sort of thing? Where did they come from, and all that?”
He closes his eyes, taking an uneasy breath, “Sherlock Holmes. Caring what normals would want to know. Never thought I’d see the day.”
“You think yourself above normal.”
“No. Not by a long shot. Being normal would be a step up from what I am.”
There was a dangerous ground opening before them, one littered with landmines, “Watson -”
“Moran. My name is John Moran.”
That was a surprise, and Sherlock made no effort to hide it, “The sniper? You took the sniper’s name?”
“I am the sniper. Hi.” There’s a moment of silence, a brief calm, both staring each other down; both looking for the child that had crossed the other’s path half a lifetime ago, “Sir doesn’t like getting his hands dirty. But for you, Holmes, he’s willing to play. He’s given you a glimpse —just a teensy glimpse—of what he’s got going on out there in the big bad world. He’s a specialist, you see. Like you.”
Sherlock tilted his head, drawing away from his deductions about the man in front of him, so the words he was saying: “‘Dear Jim, Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister.’ ‘Dear Jim, Please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America.’”
John smirked, voice pitching in a mocking tone, “Just so.”
“He’s a Consulting criminal. Brilliant.”
“Isn't he? No one ever gets to him, Holmes. And no one ever will.”
“I did.”
“You've come the closest. Now you're in the way.”
“Thank you.”
“Didn't mean it as a compliment.”
“Yes you did.”
“Yeah, okay, I did.” There’s that first crack, a true genuine smile from Wat- Moran the younger, before the look faded back to the strange smirk “But the flirting over, Sherlock. {sing song} Daddy's had enough now! We’ve shown you what Sir can do. We cut loose all those people, all those little problems. Even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off. Although. I have loved this. This little game of ours.______________”
______________________________________________________________________________
Sir calls him John-John, or Johnny-Boy. Boss just calls him John or John-boy. He chose John for himself because it’s one of the most common names in the world, and he wants to be nothing more than to be common.
When he woke up in Sir’s guest room, arm useless at his side, and nowhere to go, he looked at the Man in the Suit, and asked someone just put him out of his misery. Sir asked him if he could be anything he wanted, what would he be - he’d said ‘anyone else’
And that’s what Sir gave him. The chance to drop his past and become someone new.
It shouldn’t be possible, but there it was, black text on a white screen, giving him a once in a lifetime opportunity to gain the ultimate upper hand against his arch-nemesis. And to have the upperhand when dealing with the man who was quickly rising through the ranks to become THE british government; was too good of a tip to not act on.
“We’re going on an adventure, Sebby,” he called for his right hand man - who looked surprised his boss was talking of getting personally involved. “When I give back his little brother, I want Mycroft Holmes to know he owes me, personally, for the (FAVOUR)”
And with that, James Moriarty, up and coming criminal mastermind, headed out with discharged Army Colonel Sebastian Moran to where a group of child traffickers had managed to get their hands on thirteen year old Sherlock Holmes.
______________________________________________________________________________
They don’t have names.
It was the first of everything that was taken from them. Boys and girls from as young as fifteen months, to as old as the two informal leaders - age 15(ish) - huddled in close as their ‘handlers’ argued amongst themselves.
As soon as Sherlock was forced into the room, one of the older boys had made it a point to stay between Sherlock and the men. He was the shorter of the two older boys, but no less imposing. He was scrawny, malnourished, and half his face looking like it went a few rounds with a meat grinder; but he stood fast, harsh blue eyes daring the men to try and cross the room.
Sherlock looked at the other children, and with a painful twist to his gut, he could see the abuse and trauma of their everyday lives screaming out to him with every line of their being. He’d overheard the men earlier, talking about his brother, and knew that the horrors that these children faced would never be his cross to bear - but they didn’t know that. They had no clue he was just a quick ransom for them, not a longtime… investment. Yet here they were, quick to hide him in their mists, to try and keep him untainted - if even for only a few hours more.
A couple of the girls were showing early signs of pregnancy; they pulled him deeper in their huddle, one of them asking him, voice low and soft, if he was hurt, if he was in pain.
It was the most out of body experience Sherlock has ever had, and likely the first time in his life he was left speechless. No one had asked him if he was alright in years, infact, no one talked to him period, if they could help it. And everyone kept him at arm's length. And here was a group of children who had every reason to be distant and bitter, holding him close, and trying to comfort him.
Most of the men filed out, but one last made an aborted gesture to retrieve Sherlock from where he’d been absorbed into the group - he was the initial one who’d pulled Sherlock off the street. Short-Blond-in-front growled at him, moving to block his way. The man shifted his focus from Sherlock to the boy in front, and then the girls were pushing Sherlock, trying to get him to look away, to keep him from watching.
It only took one blow for the 4 foot boy to go down, but he didn’t stay down, and Sherlock watched on in horror as he got front row seats to a horrific beating. The other one of the older boys moved cautiously until he was blocking Sherlock’s view - and more importantly, blocking the enraged man’s view of Sherlock - and stayed there until the man gave angry huff, and stormed out.
No one moved - as if they were waiting to see if the reprieve was real, or a dream waiting to be shattered - until the older boy on the floor let out a pained grunt, pushing himself up into a sit.
_____________________________________________________________________________
There was chaos as the ‘rescue’ went sour. Sherlock was sure if his brother was truly involved, it wouldn’t have gotten pear shaped, but the moment was too good to pass up, and the children were quick to look for chances to escape. Sherlock ended up with the last of the group - a few of the slower moving pregnant girls, the two older boys, and tone of the youngest of the group, a two year old who’d hidden himself during the beginning of the raid. He was being carried by the shorter blond boy as they snuck down the halls of the complex that had been their prison for most of their lives.
(..)
The men who’d come to rescue him were complete strangers; they knew none of Mycroft’s code words and looked to be far more dangerous than the rapists that had been holding him captive.
And they only wanted Sherlock. The stocky brunette boy had taken the toddler and fled with the girls when the Man in the Suit had Sherlock’s abductor gunned down in front of them. Only the blond boy remained with Sherlock, uneasy with this new threat, but still just as steadfast of a protector as he’d been since day one.
The Man in the Suit seemed just as surprised as Sherlock, even when the red light of a sniper’s gun showed up on the boy’s chest. His only response to the red dot was to turn to Sherlock, pleading as he whispered, “Run Sherlock….”
Before Sherlock could even consider it, the Man in the Suit cocked his head, regarding the boy, before raising a hand and giving a flippant dismissive wave.
The air split with the crack of gunfire, and Sherlock watched in horror as the boy crumbled to the ground in front of him. The Man in the Suit was then dragging him to his awaiting car, handing over a cell phone saying, “I’m sure your brother would love to hear from you, Sherlock. I’m sure he’s worried sick.”
______________________________________________________________________________
Handing Holmes the Younger off to the future government went off without a hitch, Moriarty promising so much worse if the two should cross paths in the future.
It was what awaited him at home that was going to require some careful diplomacy.
He had a great assortment of people in his back pocket, but he was NOT expecting to walk into a guest bedroom of surgeons and nurses. “MORAN!”
His sniper - the one man who could be called his confidant - had stationed himself across the hall from the busy room -his gun of choice relaxing against his shoulder. He grunted his acknowledgment of his boss, but never looked away.
Moriarty counted to ten, checking his anger. Anyone else, he would have ordered them shot.
“One question, Moran. DID you miss that shot - “
“I never miss a shot, boss.”
They watched the doctors rush about, his guest room turned to an emergency operating room as they fought to keep a 15 year old boy alive after a sniper round had punched through his shoulder. Moran has the kid’s blood smeared across his chest, watching unblinking into the room. “Won’t shed a tear if he doesn’t make it. He probably won’t.”
“What do you need a pet for, Sebby?”
He smirked - the look dark and unamused. “Boss, you had the same thought as me, or you wouldn't have hesitated on the kill order.”
“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
__________________________________________________________________________
“James Hammish Watson.”
John paused, eyebrows knitting in confusion.
“Disappeared from an orphanage in downtown Glasgow almost twenty years ago. He was five.” Sherlock swallowed thickly, studying the young man in front of him, looking for the boy who’d defended him almost a decade ago, “His biological parents -”
“It doesn’t matter. Watson died. Who cares about his parents.”
“Maybe just a little? Curiosity? Don’t people care about that sort of thing? Where did they come from, and all that?”
He closes his eyes, taking an uneasy breath, “Sherlock Holmes. Caring what normals would want to know. Never thought I’d see the day.”
“You think yourself above normal.”
“No. Not by a long shot. Being normal would be a step up from what I am.”
There was a dangerous ground opening before them, one littered with landmines, “Watson -”
“Moran. My name is John Moran.”
That was a surprise, and Sherlock made no effort to hide it, “The sniper? You took the sniper’s name?”
“I am the sniper. Hi.” There’s a moment of silence, a brief calm, both staring each other down; both looking for the child that had crossed the other’s path half a lifetime ago, “Sir doesn’t like getting his hands dirty. But for you, Holmes, he’s willing to play. He’s given you a glimpse —just a teensy glimpse—of what he’s got going on out there in the big bad world. He’s a specialist, you see. Like you.”
Sherlock tilted his head, drawing away from his deductions about the man in front of him, so the words he was saying: “‘Dear Jim, Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister.’ ‘Dear Jim, Please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America.’”
John smirked, voice pitching in a mocking tone, “Just so.”
“He’s a Consulting criminal. Brilliant.”
“Isn't he? No one ever gets to him, Holmes. And no one ever will.”
“I did.”
“You've come the closest. Now you're in the way.”
“Thank you.”
“Didn't mean it as a compliment.”
“Yes you did.”
“Yeah, okay, I did.” There’s that first crack, a true genuine smile from Wat- Moran the younger, before the look faded back to the strange smirk “But the flirting over, Sherlock. {sing song} Daddy's had enough now! We’ve shown you what Sir can do. We cut loose all those people, all those little problems. Even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off. Although. I have loved this. This little game of ours.______________”
______________________________________________________________________________
Sir calls him John-John, or Johnny-Boy. Boss just calls him John or John-boy. He chose John for himself because it’s one of the most common names in the world, and he wants to be nothing more than to be common.
When he woke up in Sir’s guest room, arm useless at his side, and nowhere to go, he looked at the Man in the Suit, and asked someone just put him out of his misery. Sir asked him if he could be anything he wanted, what would he be - he’d said ‘anyone else’
And that’s what Sir gave him. The chance to drop his past and become someone new.
