An Impossible Request

Dear Mr. Holmes,

I'm being framed for crimes I didn't commit. Is it possible to prove my alibi?

Richard Brook

Sherlock stared at the short, simple message. Since he’d tangled with Moriarty at the pool, he’d known the man was nearly as masterful an actor as he was himself. But when the story came out that a Richard Brook had been hired by Sherlock himself to stage crimes, Sherlock couldn’t help the admiration he felt. But this, this was new. This wasn’t what he’d expected in what were rapidly becoming the closing gambits of their game.

Feeling an overwhelming urge to just delete the message and forget about it, Sherlock’s finger hovered over the delete button. It would be so simple, so easy to just pretend he’d never gotten the message. But it was a puzzle, it was brilliantly new and Sherlock could never turn down something so fascinating. He saved the message, setting one of the little programs on his computer to tracking down it’s source. If this truly was from an innocent man, Sherlock figured it would have no problems finding him.

Ten minutes later, the tracking program gave him an answer: a building in southern London. He closed his computer and tossed it into John’s chair. Bounding up, Sherlock rushed into his room to change. If he was going to meet with a man who might turn out to be Moriarty, he wanted to be wearing his own sort of armor. Moriarty put a lot of stock in wealth and power and Sherlock must look like he had both if he wanted Moriarty to see him as an equal, notwithstanding his fine mind. A perfectly tailored suit would do that for him. And Sherlock would have the extra pleasure of wearing the purple shirt that always made John’s mouth go dry, to judge by how often the man swallowed when he wore it.

“John!” Sherlock called, coming back out of his room dressed to within an inch of his life. “We’re going out. Have a case!”

“What case?” John asked irritably, glaring at Sherlock. “What case could possibly be more important than Moriarty right now?”

“Richard Brook,” Sherlock said simply, flashing John a grin before dashing downstairs. John froze in surprise for a few seconds, trying to process exactly what was going on. Then he shrugged and rushed after Sherlock, knowing the brilliant man wasn’t thinking about keeping himself safe right now. He saw Sherlock getting into a cab, sliding in himself just before the cab took off.

“Explain,” John said, turning to Sherlock and pinning the man with a stern look. One of the things John had learned after living so long with the detective was that his captain voice and short sentences work very well to get explanations. John wasn’t sure exactly why, other than the thought that Sherlock might enjoy being ordered around by someone he considered worth listening to. And if anything ever happened between them, that might be an interesting theory to pursue. He met Sherlock’s eyes, the sly glint telling John that Sherlock had followed most if not all of his thoughts.

“I received a message from a Richard Brook,” Sherlock said after a pause. “It merely said that he was being framed for crimes he did not commit and wondered if it would be possible to prove it.”

“And you decided to go running out to meet him?” John asked incredulously, voice high with disbelief. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? What if this is another trick of Moriarty’s?”

“I traced the message and it was from a building in southern London,” Sherlock replied serenely, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I think if it were from Moriarty, it would have been more difficult. Moriarty is ever the showman and he would have made me work for the answer. So we’re going to the building and we’re going to find Richard Brook.”

Sherlock smiled at John then turned to look out the window, unwilling to say another word. This frustrated the doctor to no end but he knew he’d get no more out of Sherlock. The ride was quick, the cab pulling up to a small, red-brick building. Sherlock darted out, leaving John to pay the fare. He sighed as he got out, following after Sherlock and wishing he’d brought his gun along. John caught up as Sherlock was examining the postboxes. The detective pressed the buzzer for the one labeled Brook as John reached his side.

“Hello?” a voice said through the intercom.

“Hello, yes,” Sherlock replied quickly. “I’m here to see Richard Brook.”

There was no reply but a buzzing sound heralded the door unlocking. Sherlock opened it and took the steps two at a time while John followed a little slower. He was still feeling hesitant about this and wished Sherlock would slow down. They stopped outside a door that was slightly open, as if the occupant was expecting them.

“Sherlock, wait,” John muttered but was ignored. Sherlock pushed into the room and looked around. It was sparsely decorated though all the furnishings were of good quality. John closed the door behind them, wondering where this Richard Brook was.

“You would be Sherlock Holmes, then?” a low voice came from the window. “Thank you so much for coming. I didn’t think you would.”

“I enjoy a mystery, Mr. Brook,” Sherlock replied, finishing his survey of the flat. “Care to explain what exactly is going on?”

Richard Brook stepped out of the shadows by the window. John tensed but saw that the man wasn’t Moriarty. He looked similar, dark hair and eyes and a slight build. Brook gestured to the couch and Sherlock settled himself gracefully on one end while slanting a glance at John. John sat down on the other end, keeping his eyes on Brook. Brook perched on an armchair across from the couch and bit his lip.

“All right, I guess the place I need to start is a man named James Moriarty,” Brook explained, knotting his fingers in his lap. “He came to me, wanting to use my name and my career for something. He offered to pay me very well and, I have to admit, that got me to agree. I’ve been in a bit of a slump lately and needed the money.”

“Did you ask what he wanted to use your name for?” John asked, tilting his head in confusion. “Sounds fishy, someone needing your name.”

“I didn’t,” Brook replied sadly, shaking his head. “It was actually one of the conditions to receiving the money that I asked no questions. But now, I see that my name is being used to discredit you and that I was used by you to perform crimes. I need your help to stop it.”

Sherlock made a small noncommittal noise, his hands steepled under his chin as he studied Brook. He could tell that the man was telling the truth and that he was feeling guilty about the whole thing. And suddenly, all the information Kitty Riley had made sense. It looked real because it all was but it wasn’t Moriarty’s information. It was information that he’d appropriated to further his agenda against Sherlock.

John sat looking from Brook to Sherlock and back, wondering how exactly they could fix everything. And if they even should; he still wasn’t convinced that this wasn’t a trick. John crossed his arms and fixed Brook with a glare.

“How exactly do we know you’re telling the truth?” John asked sternly. “This could all be a plan to get Sherlock here to kill him.”

“He’s telling the truth, John,” Sherlock said quietly, sparing John one glance before focusing back on Brook. “However, you raise an important point. How can we prove he is who he says he and Moriarty isn’t?”

“I have all the pictures Moriarty used,” Brook explained, getting up to pull a file out of the desk near the window. He handed the file to Sherlock, who paged through it quickly and recognized most of the pages from the file Kitty Riley had. “Surely these can be examined and proved unaltered. I am Richard Brook and James Moriarty is not.”

“Yes, I believe this will help,” Sherlock said absently, still scanning through the CV. There were a few odd things in the list of jobs, many of which coincided with trips he’d taken for cases. They were some of the more complicated ones, which Sherlock had traced back to Moriarty. While Brook was telling the truth, he wasn’t telling all of it. Something was off here.

“Can you tell me how Moriarty found you?” Sherlock asked, flipping the file closed. “Why did he choose you?”

Brook hesitated, taking a deep breath and looking away from Sherlock. He fidgeted a little bit, fingers twisting together. John could tell that Brook was uncomfortable and if he could tell that, Sherlock could probably tell exactly why.

“I’m... not sure,” Brook finally said, hedging his answer. “He approached me and said he’d followed my work and liked it. I tell fairytales, you see. And he also said the fact that we looked similar was a benefit to what he had in mind.”

“You aren’t telling the whole truth,” Sherlock said bluntly, his eyes narrowing as he dropped the file on the coffee table. “How far back does your association with Moriarty go? You and see share several inheritable physical traits. Are you related?”

“I’d hoped you wouldn’t catch onto that,” Brook sighed, shaking his hand. “Moriarty is my half brother. We met several years ago, towards the beginning of my career. Since then, I’ve done... favors for him every once in a while and he’s paid me handsomely.”

“Let me guess,” Sherlock said dryly. “Those favors coincided with certain acting jobs you took.”

He pointed out the jobs that happened around his cases, nodding in satisfaction when Brook agreed with a surprised look on his face. Sherlock turned to John, gesturing the other man to stand. John did so, his mouth opening to question what was going on.

“Wait!” Brook exclaimed, jumping up and grabbing Sherlock’s arm. The detective shook off the hand, glaring at the slightly shorter man. “I thought you were going to help me.”

“I was,” Sherlock said simply. “Until I realized that you were aiding Moriarty in his crimes. You may feel remorse now but that didn’t stop you from doing his bidding before. Have a good day Mr. Brook.”

Sherlock moved away as the sound of shattering glass with the room. Brook dropped to the floor, a neat bullet hole in his forehead. Had Sherlock waited even just another second, the bullet would have killed him and not the other man. John snapped into a protective stance, pushing Sherlock into a crouch and heading towards the door. It was out of the line of sight of the window and the best place to escape from.

“Run, Sherlock,” John whispered frantically to the detective. “When you get downstairs, turn to the left, away from that building next door and run. Try to find an alley to duck into.”

He pushed Sherlock through the door and ran after the detective, Sherlock’s longer legs keeping him in front of John. They both turned left out the door, finding an alley about a block away from Brook’s flat. They turned into it, chests heaving as they caught their breath from their sprint. John leaned against the wall, giggles overtaking him. He knew it was the adrenaline catching up to him and let the laughter run its course. Sherlock joined him, their shoulders touching as they both leaned against the wall for support.

“Next time, let’s not meet the man in his own place,” John finally said, slanting an annoyed look up at Sherlock. “And give me time to grab my gun before running out the door. That sounded like a sniper rifle. I bet it was one of the pet snipers Moriarty keeps.”

“Yes, it appears this time I was mistaken,” Sherlock replied contritely, nudging at John’s shoulder. “I’d hoped Richard Brook could help me take down Moriarty. However, the man wouldn’t have told any of his catspaws anything important. Especially not the one whose identity he’d stolen. It would seem that I will have to face Moriarty in the end anyway.”

A chill went through John at the flat, dead way Sherlock spoke his last sentence. It seemed like the detective already knew the ending of that meeting and it wasn’t good. John shook it off with an effort, believing fully in Sherlock and his abilities. If anyone could deal with Moriarty, it was the man laughing breathlessly beside him. Deciding that they were probably safe to leave the alley, John led the way this time and flagged down a cab. Though he promised himself he would do anything to ensure that Sherlock came out the victor in his games with Moriarty. He didn’t want to contemplate a life where Sherlock lost.