Help!!!

AN: Well, I'm back. I think my writing has improved during my hiatus ;) Well, I have an entire story line plotted out. But I was hoping for some feedback beforehand on this little prologue. Please R&R!

Professor Moriarty licked his lips. It was an odd addiction of his; lemons split down the side with salt sprinkled upon it. He really couldn't explain it himself. Once the salt was on the lemon, it was impossible to see the salt as it had subtly vanished into the transparent yellow flesh. But when one squeezed the sides, it was recognizably there. The salt-lemon always brought such a sour/salty taste to the mouth that one couldn't help but cringe. But, ''Everyone must indulge in a little masochism." he would say. This was the same feeling Sherlock Holmes gave him. Yes, Sherlock Holmes was the new lemon in his life; and he had ruined real lemons for Moriarty forever; this, the professor had decided, was something he could not forgive him for.

Which is why he shamelessly bellowed at a poor, unexpected waiter┘no┘a boy, Moriarty later decided, disguised as a waiter. The lad could have been no less than seven and ten years of age. "Amazing who they allow to serve you food these days. They certainly won't allow it in later years." Moriarty also, decided later.

But, yes, the bellowing really was a sad morning for the professor, yet it was really quite a nice day for London; sunny, bright, clear┘and no Sherlock Holmes in sight. And then┘disaster. He was at Simpson's, and had ordered a rasher of bacon, a poached egg, and a glass of water. Just a simple glass of water. Again; a glass of water. And what did he get?

"You bloody fool, are you trying to kill me!?" Bellowed (a word used redundantly, but the only one suitable) Moriarty, choking and gasping. "Why on earth did you give me this!?" He looked at the glass in disgust and flung it to the ground. It shattered everywhere.

"B-but s-sir," The poor lad stuttered, "I gave you what you ordered."

"I asked for water, you twit! Not lemon water! I could have been allergic! Did I ask you for lemon water? No! You should be hanged for your ignorance! I tell you, young man, the next time you think you're being helpful, don't be!" Moriarty could have gone on forever┘but instead barged out of the place. "Damn you Holmes." He muttered under his breath.

This was not a good day.

***
The muscles around his mouth tugged into a smile. It was a twitching, pathetic motion. His head rolled back, lolling from side to side, and the usually sharp, focused eyes, rested half-open in the dark sockets creviced in his shallow face; devoid if any warmth. His body convulsed; small, helpless convulsions. The fingers twitched; good fingers on noble hands; hands that had saved lives┘hands with battle scars and stains and knowledge edged into every crevice of those noble-now lifeless hands.

This was the state Dr. Watson found Sherlock Holmes that morning.

"Oh, Holmes." Watson muttered wistfully as he shook his head indolently, and placed a dark afghan upon his friend's writhing lap.

"Is your mind at peace Holmes?" Watson asked without an answer. "Your body will certainly be soon, if you don't cease hurting yourself like this." Watson expressed his disappointment clearly through his eyes, and walked himself out of his dear friend's room.