“Fair enough.” Mycroft shrugged. Part of his respect for the woman sprang from the knowledge that she was, undoubtedly, not to be trusted. With anything, least of all the questions he planned to ask about James Moriarty’s whereabouts. Mycroft trusted his powers of deduction, however: he was positive that, given the opportunity, he would be able to read the answers from her face, her mannerisms, her body. He expected that, upon mentioning Moriarty, she would give some sort of tell –– an unconscious skim of her shoe along the ground, meant, without her realizing, to remove traces of dirt left behind by the location in which she’d visited him; the slightest shift toward confidence, which might indicate that he was alive and she’d confirmed it; a hint of fear in her cool gaze, almost completely smothered, prompted by the idea of being found out by so many interested parties. But what Seba Moran did do made no sense.
For a moment –– less than a moment; so short an amount of time that even Mycroft Holmes barely caught it –– she’d looked agonized. Almost heartbroken. In the next second, which was equally short and buried under an equally immediate and chilly facade, she’d hinted at denial. Not the type usually described by those idiotic Stages of Grief which the feeble-minded believed in; not the type, either, of one who knows that the facts presented to her are false. No, this was the type of denial fueled by hope, fueled by love –– two things Mycroft hadn’t expected to see in Seba Moran.
“We would like you to help us locate James Moriarty. Although perhaps you cannot help me, after all, since you’ve clearly no idea where he is.”
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