Orphan on Baker Street

Twenty Ninth: Father

Does this mean he was her murderer? My brain buzzes with theories and worries and questions so fast that I get a little light headed.

"The other grave," he continues, turning his head, "is for your father."

"Where is he?" I ask quickly, with more force and confidence than before.

"I'd take you to him, but," he pauses. "What if you saw all of my plans? Then you'd tell Sherlock, and I can't have that. No, no, no."

"Take me to him," I request angrily. My voice has regained its composure and volume. "If you take me to him, I won't even go near Sherlock again. I just..." I sigh and allow a tear to fall down my face. "I just want to see my father."

"You think he still loves you?" Moriarty responds immediately. "I'm keeping you from him to protect you."

"You're lying," I scream at him. His face falls, and he just shakes his head.

Then he sighs and says, "I am not digging this negativity, Mickey. Let's get back to our game." Then he gives me a sympathetic smile and takes my hand again. I lazily walk beside him back to the 5 empty graves.

"So, who do you think I'll take out first?"

"Probably someone like my parents," I drone sadly. My mouth functions alone now, and my brain sort of enters this world between reality and... I don't know where else. Depression crashes over me like a collapsing building. "Could it be Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes! Wow - you're good at this," he says with a grin. "Who's next? Oh, this is a hard one... Hmm, I'll give you a hint: he loves you."

My mouth hangs open to say something, but I don't hear anything come out. Then it closes and opens again. "Love is a strong word."

"Is that your final answer?"

"It's Lestrade," I say flatly.

"Good job," he says, flashing me another grin as he claps happily. "You're on a roll, Mick! Alright, who goes in the third one? I probably should have made him second, but he's not really that valuable. Heck, now that I think about it, I probably shouldn't have wasted the time digging him a grave."

"Give me a hint," I reply sarcastically. My eyes skim over each of the graves sadly. More tears fall from my eyes as I stare at the last one; it's probably for me.

"He's got someone - well, some two - to lose," he says secretively.

"John," I say softly, almost like a whisper.

"Pardon?"

"John," I say more forcefully. The name almost catches in my throat, and I clamp my teeth together to suppress a sob.

"Excellent job, Mickey! It's almost as if you're... the next person." He raises a finger and points at the fourth grave. "Who goes there?" His voice is softer now, and he looks over at me.

"Sherlock," I say sadly and wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand. "Why are you doing this?"

"Why?" he says with a laugh. "Why? Because it's fun, of course! Why don't you go to school? Why did you agree to work with Sherlock? Why did I kill your mother?" He takes my shoulders and turns me so that I face him. I give him a scowl.

"Life is more fun if you play games... I learned that from Roald Dahl," he tells me fondly. His hand pushes a piece of hair behind my ear. "Plus, you deserve it. What the hell made you think you could get away with deceiving me?" His voice is suddenly very serious and intimidating. "Darling, I am the king of deception... and lies; and manipulation; and murder. This is my chess board, and you're only a pawn to me. A pawn, Mickey," he screams now, "Do you know what that means?"

He steps closer to me. "You are disposable and worthless! Just like John; just like Mrs. Hudson; just like Sherlock. And you're all in the same little clique. Do you know how much easier that makes all of this for me?"

I punch him in the face. I don't remember moving my arm, but I watch it as it curves around to my other side. His head jerks sideways and for a moment, he's still. Then he slowly stands up straight and dabs a finger under his nose.

Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin' alive, stayin' alive.

His ring-tone gets louder as he pulls it from his pocket. Not knowing what else to do, I fall to my knees, shaking with laughter. He walks away to talk on the phone. Through my maniacal laughs, I hear him speak.

"No, I'm fine. There's no blood... How about you speed up the work on Victim One... I just want to put things in perspective for her... Thanks, Bill!" A beep tells me he's hung up the phone.

My laughter has morphed into heavy sobs, and I slowly sink a claw into the ground beside my face. None of this feels real. Who's Victim One? His legs get closer to me, and I blink slowly.

"Get up," he says kindly. "We're going to see your daddy!" Moriarty reaches down and hooks a hand under my armpit. Then, with more strength than I thought he had, he pulls me onto my feet and brushes me off. We walk back to the black car in silence; the broad-shouldered man still sits in the driver's seat.

I look out the window as we drive off, and it takes me a moment to figure out where I'm going and why.

The car slows to a halt in front of an elegant house. There's a white picket fence in the front, and I snort. "Is this your place?" I ask, turning to look at Moriarty in the seat beside me.

"Yep," he tells me with a smile. Then we get out of the car, and I let him walk me to the front. Lights are already on, and the door is unlocked.

When we enter the house, I smell cinnamon. The foyer is very ironically decorated with pictures of a happy family that I assume is his. But when I get a closer look, I realize they're the photos that come with the frames. They hang in a row on the left wall above a coffee table that has a vase filled with orchids. Moriarty leads me through here, through a white door frame, and past a flight of stairs. We pass the living room, which I glimpse briefly, and he pauses at a door placed awkwardly in a corner beside another door.

There are keys jangling as I peek past him to look at the other door; maybe it leads into a kitchen. The door we stand in front of creaks, and Moriarty holds it open for me to go first. I crouch slightly and make my way down the tattered and wooden staircase, the floorboards sagging dangerously under my feet.

When I get to the bottom, my eyes strain to see through the dark. A light clicks on just above my head, and a chain swings in front of me. We stand in a basement coated in dust and piled with cardboard boxes and various books. Everything is arranged neatly so nothing juts out oddly, and a decent sized, square shaped area is left empty except for a chair and a man.

His back faces us, shoulders hunched, hair awry. I tilt my head as I notice something; those curls could never be messy enough to disguise him.

"Mickey, meet your father. I know I told you I wouldn't let you see him, but--"

Moriarty turns from me to look over at the man in the chair. His head tilts too, and I smirk over at the criminal.

"I don't know who should be more surprised - you or me," I say.