A/N: Thank you Galadriel for the critical analysis. It's really helpful, and I hope I can follow your advice ^_^.
Chapter One: Captured
New London, 2105
Inspector Beth Lestrade waited quietly in the shadows, watching the two figures moving about under the glow of the streetlights outside an old warehouse in the industrial district. She fingered the weapon at her hip, an ionizer, but did not pull it out. She took her gaze from the two and looked back into the shadows, then made a sound of frustration. Where was he? A loud crash brought her attention back to the figures. One of them had knocked the other into the outer wall of the warehouse and was now proceeding to pummel him. Lestrade made her decision then. Holmes or no Holmes she was going out there.
As she stepped out of the shadows, she heard a movement from behind her, and whirled around. A large, muscular man stood reaching out for her. She took the hand that reached out to grab her, and used it as leverage to twist the entire arm behind the man's back. This gave her maneuvering room to get his other arm behind his back as well. She then proceeded to pull her handcuffs out and place them around his wrists. She stepped back to admire her handiwork, when she felt a sharp pain explode in her head. Then she knew no more.
When Lestrade awoke, she groaned at the throbbing pain shooting through her head. Through shuttered lids, she could tell she was in some kind of light, the brightness of which made her head ache worse despite her eyes being closed. After waiting a few minutes she slowly opened her eyes, keeping them averted from the light source. After letting them adjust, she began to look around the room she was in, ignoring the pain in her head. She was laying on a hard concrete floor in the middle of a circular room, which was empty except for a mirror that ran the whole length of the round cell.
"Finally awake, Inspector?" a warm, elegantly accented voice asked.
Lestrade growled at the sound of the voice, while cursing herself for her carelessness. It was a voice she had groan to loathe hearing since the first time she heard it two years ago. "What do you want with me Moriarty?" she demanded, "Besides the obvious of wanting revenge I mean." She looked around to see where the voice could possibly be coming from, and then decided that the mirror must be two way, with an intercom device underneath.
"Why, Inspector," Moriarty said, actually sounding wounded, "I have brought you here to be my guest. Surely you can show some manners as such."
"Stow it, clone-head," she told him, "And give me a straight answer."
The voice changed to become cold and cruel. "A straight answer? Very well. I am conducting an experiment. I want to see if Holmes cares more for you, or for the thrill of solving a difficult problem."
"Moriarty, you have got to be the most deranged psychopath I have ever come across," Lestrade told him, disgust evident in her tone. She had a feeling which the great detective would choose. No matter how good of friends they had become in the two years she had known him, the case came first.
Moriarty merely chuckled. "Afraid you already know what the outcome of this little experiment will be? No matter. If you behave yourself, I shall let you out of that room and into a more comfortable one."
"I'd rather stay here thank you very much, than take any sort of 'comfort' you may have to offer," she spat out, miffed that he had guessed her thoughts.
Again Moriarty's voice grew cold. "I see. Enjoy your stay then."
Lestrade waited to see if he would say anymore. When the silence lasted for several minutes, she gingerly sat up, fighting waves of dizziness. She then leaned forwards on her hands and dragged herself over to a wall, where she leaned back against it. Her eyes closed of their own accord, and she drifted off into a fitful slumber, with snatches of the past dancing in her mind.
She awoke some time later, after a vivid dream of watching a figure being swept from the deck of a ship into a stormy sea, and of another figure jumping in after it. Sometime during her sleep, someone had put a plate of food in the center of the room, a pillow had been placed under her head, and she had been covered with a blanket. She cursed her injury that had caused her to be less alert than she usually was, and threw the pillow and blanket away from her. She stood up then, and began pacing the room, ignoring the food. With no other stimuli, her mind began to drift back to the past.
Beth sat in the classroom, a bored expression on her face, as the teacher went over programming techniques. She had already learned all this, by teaching herself. Indeed, she could hack into any system at any given time and not get caught. Of course, she only did it when the need arose. Like when all those businessmen had suddenly become millions of creds richer, with no apparent source. They had been embezzling, though no one could prove it, until she had found the electronic traces left behind. The police didn't know who gave them tips like that, only that it was some sort of modern day Robin Hood.
The final bell rang, and Beth gratefully left the school. She walked down the street to an old library, one that had real books instead of the holo versions, which weren't nearly as good as the real thing. They didn't leave enough to the imagination. She stepped inside the ancient oak doors and walked to her favorite corner and sat down in a comfortable armchair. She set her backpack down by her feet and opened it, pulling out a much worn book. She ran her fingers lightly over the cover, touching the words, "John H. Watson", then opened it and began reading.
"Excuse me miss?" a high pitched voice asked.
Beth looked up from her book, then had to look down to see the source. It was a little boy with blond hair, big wide blues eyes, and a pert little nose. He didn't look to be older than five years old, and Beth felt protective instincts well up in her. She had always been protective of little kids, though she didn't know why.
"Yes?" she responded, "How may I help you?"
The little boy bit his lip, then he asked, "Could you help me read this? There's a lot of hard words in it." He held aloft a thick book bound in red leather. Beth leaned forward to read the title, 'The Lord of the Rings.' She smiled and put Dr. Watson's journal away.
"Sure I will," she assured the boy, "That's my favorite book in the whole world." And it was. She felt a connection with this book, almost as if she had been there herself, only in a vague way. The boy smiled, transforming his serious face into one that a child his age should be wearing. "This is a long book, you know," she told him, "It's actually three books in one. Do you want me to read it to you, or do you want to read it yourself with me helping you with the words?"
"Read it to me please," he said, "Then I'll try and read it myself." He then handed her the book and climbed up into her lap. Once he settled, she opened the book, and started reading out loud. "When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating......"
They did this everyday for a month, which was how long it took to read the whole thing. She didn't know the boy's name, nor did he know hers, but names weren't necessary. Generally while she read to him, other people would come up to listen, and would often get caught up in the fascinating fantasy, until, it was to a large group of people that she read. After she had finished the trilogy, the group became agitated, wanting to hear more about Hobbits and wizards and Elves. Beth smiled and promised she would bring The Hobbit from home the next day as the library didn't have it.
The next day after school, she waited at the library for the little boy to show up. When he didn't, she declined to read, not wanting him to miss out. As she started to leave, a woman with a concerned expression came into the library and walked over to her.
"Excuse me, but are you the one who reads the stories?" the woman asked her.
"Yes, but I'm not reading today," Beth answered.
"Oh, well, do you know a little blond hair boy?"
Beth nodded, wondering where this was going, and had a horrible feeling of premonition.
"I'm his mother, and..." the woman stopped and broke off into sobs. Beth instantly put her arms around her shoulders to give what comfort she could, while hoping the worst had not happened.
"I...I'm sorry," the woman said softly, "It's just that...he was so lively, and intelligent, and now...he'll never walk, or hear, or talk again."
Beth frowned. "What do you mean? What's happened."
"He was riding with his father when another hovercar crashed into them. My husband came away unscathed, but my baby..." The woman broke off again, "I just wanted to thank you for giving my boy some entertainment, and to inform you about this." She walked out of the library, leaving a stunned Beth behind.
When Beth went home that evening, she avoided her grandfather, knowing he would be able to tell something was wrong, and she didn't want to talk about it now. How she wished she had asked the boy's name, then maybe she could visit him, but it was too late for that. She lay upon her bed, silent tears running down her face. To never be able to hear, speak or walk. That had to be the hardest thing. 'At least he'll be able to read,' she told herself, 'That's something.'
Lestrade was brought abruptly back to the present by a cackling laugh. "Hello, little Yardie," a voice with a slight French accent said, "Did you like my master's surprise?"
"Shut up Fenwick. You're just a pawn you know. When he no longer has use for you, he'll throw you out like yesterday's garbage."
"Fenwick!" Moriarty exclaimed sharply, "What are you doing in here?"
"N..nothing Master, just talking with the Yardie."
"Well, go on and do what I've told you. The 'yardie' is not to be spoken to by anyone but me."
Lestrade listened to the exchange with amusement, then she became angry. "Moriarty, you will get your comeuppance one day, no matter what."
"And you will not be around to see it, whether Holmes comes here or not," Moriarty told her, "Now, have you changed your mind about a more comfortable setting?"
She ignored him and sat down again by the wall. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of a spoken answer.
Chapter One: Captured
New London, 2105
Inspector Beth Lestrade waited quietly in the shadows, watching the two figures moving about under the glow of the streetlights outside an old warehouse in the industrial district. She fingered the weapon at her hip, an ionizer, but did not pull it out. She took her gaze from the two and looked back into the shadows, then made a sound of frustration. Where was he? A loud crash brought her attention back to the figures. One of them had knocked the other into the outer wall of the warehouse and was now proceeding to pummel him. Lestrade made her decision then. Holmes or no Holmes she was going out there.
As she stepped out of the shadows, she heard a movement from behind her, and whirled around. A large, muscular man stood reaching out for her. She took the hand that reached out to grab her, and used it as leverage to twist the entire arm behind the man's back. This gave her maneuvering room to get his other arm behind his back as well. She then proceeded to pull her handcuffs out and place them around his wrists. She stepped back to admire her handiwork, when she felt a sharp pain explode in her head. Then she knew no more.
When Lestrade awoke, she groaned at the throbbing pain shooting through her head. Through shuttered lids, she could tell she was in some kind of light, the brightness of which made her head ache worse despite her eyes being closed. After waiting a few minutes she slowly opened her eyes, keeping them averted from the light source. After letting them adjust, she began to look around the room she was in, ignoring the pain in her head. She was laying on a hard concrete floor in the middle of a circular room, which was empty except for a mirror that ran the whole length of the round cell.
"Finally awake, Inspector?" a warm, elegantly accented voice asked.
Lestrade growled at the sound of the voice, while cursing herself for her carelessness. It was a voice she had groan to loathe hearing since the first time she heard it two years ago. "What do you want with me Moriarty?" she demanded, "Besides the obvious of wanting revenge I mean." She looked around to see where the voice could possibly be coming from, and then decided that the mirror must be two way, with an intercom device underneath.
"Why, Inspector," Moriarty said, actually sounding wounded, "I have brought you here to be my guest. Surely you can show some manners as such."
"Stow it, clone-head," she told him, "And give me a straight answer."
The voice changed to become cold and cruel. "A straight answer? Very well. I am conducting an experiment. I want to see if Holmes cares more for you, or for the thrill of solving a difficult problem."
"Moriarty, you have got to be the most deranged psychopath I have ever come across," Lestrade told him, disgust evident in her tone. She had a feeling which the great detective would choose. No matter how good of friends they had become in the two years she had known him, the case came first.
Moriarty merely chuckled. "Afraid you already know what the outcome of this little experiment will be? No matter. If you behave yourself, I shall let you out of that room and into a more comfortable one."
"I'd rather stay here thank you very much, than take any sort of 'comfort' you may have to offer," she spat out, miffed that he had guessed her thoughts.
Again Moriarty's voice grew cold. "I see. Enjoy your stay then."
Lestrade waited to see if he would say anymore. When the silence lasted for several minutes, she gingerly sat up, fighting waves of dizziness. She then leaned forwards on her hands and dragged herself over to a wall, where she leaned back against it. Her eyes closed of their own accord, and she drifted off into a fitful slumber, with snatches of the past dancing in her mind.
She awoke some time later, after a vivid dream of watching a figure being swept from the deck of a ship into a stormy sea, and of another figure jumping in after it. Sometime during her sleep, someone had put a plate of food in the center of the room, a pillow had been placed under her head, and she had been covered with a blanket. She cursed her injury that had caused her to be less alert than she usually was, and threw the pillow and blanket away from her. She stood up then, and began pacing the room, ignoring the food. With no other stimuli, her mind began to drift back to the past.
Beth sat in the classroom, a bored expression on her face, as the teacher went over programming techniques. She had already learned all this, by teaching herself. Indeed, she could hack into any system at any given time and not get caught. Of course, she only did it when the need arose. Like when all those businessmen had suddenly become millions of creds richer, with no apparent source. They had been embezzling, though no one could prove it, until she had found the electronic traces left behind. The police didn't know who gave them tips like that, only that it was some sort of modern day Robin Hood.
The final bell rang, and Beth gratefully left the school. She walked down the street to an old library, one that had real books instead of the holo versions, which weren't nearly as good as the real thing. They didn't leave enough to the imagination. She stepped inside the ancient oak doors and walked to her favorite corner and sat down in a comfortable armchair. She set her backpack down by her feet and opened it, pulling out a much worn book. She ran her fingers lightly over the cover, touching the words, "John H. Watson", then opened it and began reading.
"Excuse me miss?" a high pitched voice asked.
Beth looked up from her book, then had to look down to see the source. It was a little boy with blond hair, big wide blues eyes, and a pert little nose. He didn't look to be older than five years old, and Beth felt protective instincts well up in her. She had always been protective of little kids, though she didn't know why.
"Yes?" she responded, "How may I help you?"
The little boy bit his lip, then he asked, "Could you help me read this? There's a lot of hard words in it." He held aloft a thick book bound in red leather. Beth leaned forward to read the title, 'The Lord of the Rings.' She smiled and put Dr. Watson's journal away.
"Sure I will," she assured the boy, "That's my favorite book in the whole world." And it was. She felt a connection with this book, almost as if she had been there herself, only in a vague way. The boy smiled, transforming his serious face into one that a child his age should be wearing. "This is a long book, you know," she told him, "It's actually three books in one. Do you want me to read it to you, or do you want to read it yourself with me helping you with the words?"
"Read it to me please," he said, "Then I'll try and read it myself." He then handed her the book and climbed up into her lap. Once he settled, she opened the book, and started reading out loud. "When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating......"
They did this everyday for a month, which was how long it took to read the whole thing. She didn't know the boy's name, nor did he know hers, but names weren't necessary. Generally while she read to him, other people would come up to listen, and would often get caught up in the fascinating fantasy, until, it was to a large group of people that she read. After she had finished the trilogy, the group became agitated, wanting to hear more about Hobbits and wizards and Elves. Beth smiled and promised she would bring The Hobbit from home the next day as the library didn't have it.
The next day after school, she waited at the library for the little boy to show up. When he didn't, she declined to read, not wanting him to miss out. As she started to leave, a woman with a concerned expression came into the library and walked over to her.
"Excuse me, but are you the one who reads the stories?" the woman asked her.
"Yes, but I'm not reading today," Beth answered.
"Oh, well, do you know a little blond hair boy?"
Beth nodded, wondering where this was going, and had a horrible feeling of premonition.
"I'm his mother, and..." the woman stopped and broke off into sobs. Beth instantly put her arms around her shoulders to give what comfort she could, while hoping the worst had not happened.
"I...I'm sorry," the woman said softly, "It's just that...he was so lively, and intelligent, and now...he'll never walk, or hear, or talk again."
Beth frowned. "What do you mean? What's happened."
"He was riding with his father when another hovercar crashed into them. My husband came away unscathed, but my baby..." The woman broke off again, "I just wanted to thank you for giving my boy some entertainment, and to inform you about this." She walked out of the library, leaving a stunned Beth behind.
When Beth went home that evening, she avoided her grandfather, knowing he would be able to tell something was wrong, and she didn't want to talk about it now. How she wished she had asked the boy's name, then maybe she could visit him, but it was too late for that. She lay upon her bed, silent tears running down her face. To never be able to hear, speak or walk. That had to be the hardest thing. 'At least he'll be able to read,' she told herself, 'That's something.'
Lestrade was brought abruptly back to the present by a cackling laugh. "Hello, little Yardie," a voice with a slight French accent said, "Did you like my master's surprise?"
"Shut up Fenwick. You're just a pawn you know. When he no longer has use for you, he'll throw you out like yesterday's garbage."
"Fenwick!" Moriarty exclaimed sharply, "What are you doing in here?"
"N..nothing Master, just talking with the Yardie."
"Well, go on and do what I've told you. The 'yardie' is not to be spoken to by anyone but me."
Lestrade listened to the exchange with amusement, then she became angry. "Moriarty, you will get your comeuppance one day, no matter what."
"And you will not be around to see it, whether Holmes comes here or not," Moriarty told her, "Now, have you changed your mind about a more comfortable setting?"
She ignored him and sat down again by the wall. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of a spoken answer.