Ch. 14
Sherlock figured at some point he had fallen asleep. What he realized next, he was not in the least bit prepared for. He reached out to see if Beast was asleep next to him, and felt concrete. He opened his eyes, to nothing but pure darkness. He had a massive headache. Drugs. Injection induced. he concluded. His eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the darkness, and he tried to figure out where he was. He inhaled deeply. Musty, damp smell...most likely a basement. Concrete floor, no windows...a cell of some sort, he thought. Well, obviously...he thought again. Suddenly, a loud metal door creaked open, and a flood of fluorescent light flooded in, causing Sherlock’s head to throb again.
“Mr. Holmes...our guest of honor. Come along. Our boss would like a word,” A man said. Scottish, male, mid thirties. He blinked to get a good look at the man, but before he could commit every single line on his face to memory, a blindfold was put on his eyes. Well, there went that. He could still make out a few details, as the blindfold was relatively thin. They were in a house, he concluded, but a rather large house. They must be, or why else would they have drug him through the halls to a lift? Focus. I need to stay focused. he told himself. He wondered if ‘the Boss’ was Mr. E himself? Hmmm...this could be in his benefit after all.
They took him off the lift, and shoved him roughly into a room, and slammed the door. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, desperately wanting to see where they had shoved him now.
“You can take that off now I think,” a voice purred across the room. Sherlock brought his hands to his face and pulled the blindfold off his eyes. He let his eyes adjust yet again. Apparently this was a dining room of sorts. And at the head of the table, sat a very large man, cutting up some type of meat. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I have heard stories about you, Mr. Holmes, but this time could you pretend to be civilized and have a seat?” the man asked Sherlock.
“I would delighted, thank you,” Sherlock said in his best sarcastic polite voice. He sauntered over and placed himself at the right side of the man. He instantly committed everything about this man to memory. Overweight, had a cat, mid to late forties, single, closet homosexual…
“I know your name, but you have me at a disadvantage...I dont know yours,” Sherlock quipped.
“You know it. You have used it many times in the last few months. I do believe you were looking for me, correct?” Mr. E responded.
“Yes, well...that isnt your real name...no...you hate your real name so you changed it when you got in the business. You arent going to make me guess, are you?” Sherlock asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Hmmm...Edgar?”
“They told me you were good, but I didn't realize...miscalculation on my part. So, would you like to know why I have had you brought here tonight, Mr. Holmes?” Mr. E. asked.
“Oh, let me guess to kill me?” Sherlock said, sarcastically.
“No, not exactly. I don't kill for the hell of it, Mr. Holmes. I am not a monster. My men, however, they are a different story. I do not control what they do with their prisoners,” Mr. E said, taking another bite of his meat. He chewed and swallowed it. “I warned you, didnt I? I tried to be civil, and give you a warning. To back off, then what do you do? Beat up my contact for the States! Fair is fair, Sherlock. You know that,” he said it as if they were talking about playing a board game.
“So instead of dealing with your problem yourself, you get your bitches to do your dirty work? Well, I suppose it is just like everything else. You have smugglers and dealers; all the bells and whistles for this little operation. Not that you have any claim to it at all, since you don't actually do anything. Tsk tsk. Quite lazy if you ask me,” Sherlock said, smirking again. He knew he could get under his skin, and with this guy it would be easy. “Im going to guess here, that, you know I am right, of course. Rough childhood? Compensating for not having it as easy as others? Of course, you have suffered your entire life. Your only solution in your sick twisted mind was to make others suffer as you have. So, you decided to take on the drug dealing life, eventually crawling and clawing your way to the position you are in now. You intend to keep it, because you love it, don't you? Making all the decisions on other people’s lives...calling all the shots. You never got to do any such thing growing up, but you sure as hell have made up for that. Those runners are killing each other to get closer to you, so you won't kill them in the end. You must be pretty damned persuasive if you could get your people to turn into monsters like that...for you,” Sherlock continued, getting closer to the man, scooting his chair a little. “Of course, being a closet homosexual doesn't help either. My God, do you have a lot on your plate! See,Mr. E. I have dealt with your kind before, but at least he had half the intelligence I had. He, at least, was not a pathetic idiot,” he chuckled darkly when he saw Mr. E. tense up and drop his fork and clench his fists together. Sherlock was referring to Moriarity, even though it pained him to do so, he meant it. He pressed a buzzer on the underside of the table, and two large men came in.
