Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Sasha watched the light glint off the cut edges of her wineglass in the early afternoon sun. London really was beautiful, even if she knew that the dirt and the smog and the death that accompanied the Industrial Revolution weren’t far away from where she was.
She sat at the wrought iron table and waited for her two guests to arrive. She knew they’d come. There was no chance they wouldn’t arrive. For a few reasons. One, it made the most narrative sense. Two, the whole end of the story relied on it. And three…she was suddenly aware of herself.
Which meant that something interesting was going to happen.
Being a character in a book is weird and I don’t know as I like it.
But at least it gets to the point and cuts out the drudgery.
Like brushing her teeth. Or traveling. Or putting on her shoes.
She was wearing an outfit she didn’t quite remember putting on, unless she focused on recalling the information.
But that was the situation she was in. And if she did everything right, and Sherlock did what she hoped he’d do—she’d spin a unique story and it would free both her and her sister from Vile's trap. They could go home.
Or…Sidney would die.
She was putting her sister’s life on the line. She’d feel better putting her own up instead, but, the story just didn’t work that way.
A shadow blotted out the sun. Looking up, she smiled. She didn’t recognize the man standing with her sister, who looked abjectly miserable as she leaned on the cane she carried. But she knew him, all the same. “Mister Holmes. Doctor Watson. Please, sit. Join me.”
Sidney looked more than happy to slump into her chair and take the weight off her bad leg.
Sherlock took a little longer to settle into his chair.
He was watching her, and his surroundings, like a hawk.
His gray eyes were much like Moriarty’s darker ones, in nature if not in color. He seemed to look through her.
“Before you wonder, we are not being observed. James’s associates have no reason to watch me if I stay within certain perimeters.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Which is precisely why I did not come to see you at 221B, of course.”
“Of course.” Sherlock kept his tone flat and unwavering. He was going to betray nothing. And ask nothing. She called them to the cafe—it was her responsibility to speak.
“You are, however, under surveillance. We have approximately twenty minutes by my measure before they catch up to you and see us together. So you’ll excuse me if I make this brief.
” That was all a lie, of course. Moriarty knew precisely what was going on—and in fact, it was Moriarty himself that had given her the plausible twenty minute window.
“Eighteen,” Sherlock corrected her.
God, he was so fucking punchable. She looked over at her sister. “I do not know how you put up with him.”
“I have no fucking clue,” Sidney muttered.
Oh, no. Her sister was in one of those moods. It was a good thing they were speeding towards the end—no pun intended. She didn’t blame her sister for being grumpy. If she was stuck with Sherlock and had a bad leg she’d probably want to shove her cane up Sherlock’s ass also.
“I said approximately, but thank you for being so predictably pedantic.” She smiled at Sherlock.
“There is no love lost between us and I intend to keep it that way. I have asked you here because while I still, and shall never, have any reason to enjoy how you conduct your business—how our mutual acquaintance conducts his has…transcended that which I can stand witness to.”
“I see being a book snob comes in handy finally,” Sidney muttered under her breath again, downing the glass of wine that was already waiting for her. She took the bottle from the table and poured herself another. “At least one of us is having fun.”
Sherlock ignored “Watson.” Either because it was too out of character or because he was focused on what Irene was saying. Either way. “How so?”
“Blackmailing a man who may or may not have deserved it, we could debate until the end of days. Murder in the name of creating civil unrest is…a far stretch beyond that, would you agree?” She spun her wine glass in front of her idly, watching the light on the cuts change and dance as she did.
“And you wish to warn us of his plot.” Sherlock let out a quiet laugh.
It wasn’t one of humor. It wasn’t even a mocking one.
It was one of bemused triumph. Someone whose opponent in chess had made a fatal error.
Someone who was about to win by no action of their own.
“He has gone a stretch too far for your morals and you wish to alert us to his impending crime.”
“Yes. I thought flaunting a relationship with the man would amuse me for a time, as it would certainly needle you to no end. And it did. But now that I can see behind the veil of this Professor Moriarty, I…find myself out of my depth and with no means to stop him.” There it was. The meat on the hook.
I am just a poor silly widdle woman, after all.
Would he bite?
Sherlock leaned forward, pulling out his pocket watch. “Ten minutes. Tell me everything you know.”
Hook, line, and sinker.
This was going to wind up with her getting killed.
Sidney was going to die.
She knew it. She knew it. Sasha had warned her this was a trap.
But it was a trap that had…maybe a tiny percentage chance of success?
She didn’t honestly know. She wasn’t familiar enough with Sherlock stories to know if Watson had ever died, or if Sherlock had ever sacrificed innocent lives to save his buddy before.
She felt strapped to the front of the proverbial train. Which was fitting, as that was exactly what was probably going to literally happen to her. But Sherlock seemed blissfully unaware of the trap that Sasha and Moriarty had set for him.
It was clever, she had to admit, how Sasha was playing Sherlock against himself. He didn’t suspect a thing. The detective was pacing the room, frantically babbling about how the train yard was the perfect place for an attack as it would drive a bigger wedge between the yadda-yadda-yadda.
Sidney couldn’t give less of a shit.
Tonight, they were going to infiltrate a train yard. And Sidney was going to be used as bait.
Then?
She was probably going to die.
“I am glad you came.”
Moriarty’s dark voice sent a shudder through her as Sasha came to, mid-stride, as she entered the room. She almost tripped and fell. Stupid scene changes. She’d get used to it eventually. Or rather, she hoped she wouldn’t have to. Hopefully she was going home soon.
She wondered if Watson ever died in any of the Sherlock Holmes stories. She didn’t think so. None of the official ones, anyway. And none of the adaptations that she could think of. And in none of them could she think of an example where Sherlock let innocent people die.
Wait. Would they win either way?
Hope bloomed in her heart. It was dangerous to let herself believe she might have found a way out of this mess.
“Like I would miss this for the world.” She shut the door behind her.
It was the top room of the observation tower for the new train station.
Currently, most of the building was still boarded up and under construction.
But this section had its glass and glazing in place, likely to keep the rain and birds from taking up residence in the rest of the building.
“Don’t you need to be down below to oversee the… activities?”
“No. I have well-paid individuals to do that for me. I rarely show my face. It is far safer that way. We will watch from here.” He was standing by the window, little more than a silhouette against a backdrop that was barely brighter.
There were no lights on in the room—it would be too much of a risk to give away that someone was watching.
Down below was the train yard. And in an hour, perhaps less, all of the nonsense of Sherlock and The Problem of the Trolley would be over and resolved. One way or another.
Part of her would almost be sad to say goodbye to Victorian London and Irene Adler. It was fun to be a boss-ass bitch for a little while. To feel like she could actually be someone with her shit together. Someone powerful. Desirable. Intelligent.
She moved to stand beside Moriarty. And some part of her would miss him, too.
His sharp features were barely lit in the moonlight that was cast down over the train yard.
Everything was damp—it was London, after all—and puddles of water on the packed dirt reflected the moon and stars back up at them.
He was so damn handsome. So damn terrifying. The evil mastermind himself.
But this was all her idea, wasn’t it? Not even Irene Adler was to blame for this nonsense. This was one hundred percent Sasha Lancaster’s fault. Resting her gloved hands on the railing, she looked down at the train yard. “How will this all play out?”
“There”—he pointed to one end of the yard—“is the train that will be our deus ex machina for the evening. At the end of the tracks there”—he pointed at the other end—“are fifteen innocent steel workers and their wives and children, already bound, drugged, and gagged.”
She huffed a half-laugh. “Fifteen?”
“I thought your idea of five was a bit…lackluster. I wish to make him feel the agony of his choice should he choose to spare Watson’s life.” When he lowered his hand, he moved his arm behind her to settle his palm on her lower back.
Her cheeks instantly went warm. “By your tone, you seem to think he will murder his friend.”
“I do. He is a fool who is always wont to make personal sacrifices.” His voice betrayed nothing else of his intentions as his hand slid up from her lower back, underneath her shawl, and began to deftly undo the laces of her dress.
She should stop him. This wasn’t about setting a trap. This wasn’t about Sherlock watching them. But she didn’t want him to stop.