The Scientist

Jim

A soft melody rose from the windows of an apartment that stood above a busy London street. Light fingers dragged across the smooth, white keys of a piano, eliciting beautiful notes that formed a concerto.

His eyes were closed and he swayed slightly with the sounds. Nothing occupied his mind right now; it was completely and pleasantly blank. He had learned piano as a child, his mother always encouraging him to continue despite his disinterest. Sometimes it got so boring, and no one else in his class could play as well as he. When he turned nine, he participated in a concert where all of his classmates would perform. He was going to play the "Flight of the Bumblebee" and for the first time, he was excited. He got on stage, a serious expression on his face as he took his seat and positioned his fingers on the keys. As soon as he began to play, he heard talking in the crowd. He glanced over and saw people looking away, chatting about something or other (he had gotten quite good at reading lips), some were even replaying videos on their cameras of their child performing while he was playing his piece perfectly. His fingers twitched in anger and played a wrong note, which led to another, and his fingers were moving so fast that he couldn't stop them. They were out of control, playing everything, all at once, until he pushed himself from the piano with a frustrated huff. Now everyone was staring at him, giving him disapproving looks. These stupid, ordinary people deserved to burn.

"Sir."

Jim opened his eyes and found himself hunched over the piano, harshly playing the keys, leaving bruises on his fingertips. He breathed heavily and sat back up, recoiling from the piano. Composing himself, he took a cleansing breath and stood up, buttoning his suit jacket on the way. He glanced at his right-hand, Sebastian Moran. He stood there with carefully hidden concern, but obviously Jim could see right through him. He grimaced at the emotion and scoffed it away.

"What have you found?"

Sebastian handed him some papers, photos, maps, and other documents. "There are a number of locations where he could be, but I've narrowed it down to eleven establishments."

Jim skimmed over the texts and photographs, tossing away the ones that didn't matter, humming along to the music he decided to play in his head. Partita No. 1 seemed appropriate for the moment. Finished, he handed back the thinned pile to Sebastian. Baker Street: a bit obvious, but you never know. The Watson Household: again, obvious, but maybe too obvious. The last one was simply titled, Doctor Molly Hooper. Indeed. That one would be interesting.

"And then there were three," he said with a terse smile, walking off toward his makeshift office.

Everything in the apartment was temporary. A bureau shoved in the corner with an extension cord snaking very obviously behind the computers; the beds unused except for laying out and cleaning Sebby's weapons; a once blank, virgin wall that was now covered in pins holding up photos, documents, and string. But the stoic piano sat unmoving in the center of the room, the only thing that remained impeccably clean; not a single particle of dust or scrap of paper polluted its surface, unlike every other piece of furniture.

Jim reclined in his chair, his hands dangling comfortably off of the armrests, his legs crossed in front of him, and his chin raised a bit higher than the natural resting position. That piano . . . It had been a gift. Well, gift is a relative term. It was given to him by a very rich man who didn't even know how to play it, and he had given it to Moriarty as a peace offering. He died anyway, of course. Another kill order carried out by Moran. But that piano . . .

"Sir, shall I patrol the perimeter?" Sebastian spoke up.

After another silent moment of staring at the sleek piano, Jim responded with a sharp intake of breath. "Yeah, go ahead. You've done your job in here today. Go out, have a drink, make an illegal arms deal. You have my blessing."

Sebastian hesitated for half a second before nodding and walking out of the apartment. He was just smart enough to figure out that his boss no longer wanted his presence. Good man.

When the lock clicked closed, Jim leisurely rose from his chair and slinked toward his piano. His piano. With all of his illicitly accrued wealth, he had never bothered to purchase a piano. He was always moving around, never staying in one apartment for more than a month. What was the point of having a piano if he would have to leave it whenever he moved? But then he got it. His first piano. His. Once he had taken ownership of the certificate of authenticity, he felt a strange and sudden possessive desire to always keep it close, no matter how often he had to move. He'd find a way. They'd find a way.

A slow smile crept onto Jim's face, his eyes glowing with a dark light in the mid-afternoon sunlight that flooded the room. He was going to have quite a bit of fun soon. It was about time he uncovered what was left of his web. Sherlock hadn't known about the most vital strands that held the entire thing up. He just found thin little strands that were barely hanging on to the edges of Jim's world. He did succeed in completely decimating those mini-networks, but not the ones that truly mattered.

He thought he had won.

He hadn't. He wasn't even close.