BBC own Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes was made by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and I make no money from writing this.
Rated T- Death.
I wish I could end this.
Red lights everywhere, and you're sitting a few inches away from me, frozen in place.
The clocks left ticking. And it occurs to me that this game of Russian roulette can be ended by chance or suicide.
The pool reflects a white glow onto your face and I can see those eyes, filled with fear and stupid bravery. Was I a drug? Did I fuel your lust for the battle? The action? You are Doctor John Watson by day but at night you still try to save lives not because you want them to live, but because it's all you know how to do.
Knitted jumpers to conceal a innocence, but you slouch when you walk and stand tall at attention. I wonder when Moriarty whispered to you did you feel helpless or did you follow on like a puppet?
Because that's what you are John. A puppet. A wooden one that needs to be played with and not rejected, am I your strings? Thin and thick like my violins, playing movements to intensity?
The water beside us would wash us away, but the heat would burn us alight. There's a flicker in Moriarty's eyes and he smiles, he knows.
I'll burn the heart out of you.
It's like he's sticking a gun to my throat and begging me to swallow. To give in, shoot down and end this play. Placing down my cards I have a pair of hearts, me and John's; he has a joker and he's toying with us; cheating.
John nods, but I won't acknowledge his acceptance. I lower the gun to the jacket, but pause.
Think of how the cards read.
Two hearts, the bond between two. Love was involved; between brothers, between rivals, between friends and maybe underdeveloped romance.
3 of Spades- 3 Deaths, spin the spade around and it points to one of us or the bomb-jacket.
A queen- To think that this country had led us to this point, to think that John fought for it, Moriarty fought against it, and I ran from it, and it all lead us to this moment.
Finally a Joker- A card that shouldn't of been. John. John wasn't meant to be played, but he was; and overall he was the most powerful card of them all.
My friend. A man that allowed me to feel. to smile, to laugh, to want, to protect.
I lifted the gun from the bomb-jacket and turned to John.
"Forgive me." I lift the gun and eye Moriarty, who's smirking. I smirk myself and crouch down to John, placing the gun the side of his head, and resting our head's together.
"It's okay John, the war is almost over, you can go home." I whisper to him, he looks up at me with confused eyes as I bend down and press my lips his, he opens his mouth but I don't move against his, instead I breath out into his mouth and raise the gun to his forehead. He closes his eyes.
For a few moments I remain where I am before I pull away and smile, with my mouth still open I pull the gun back swiftly.
"NO!" Moriarty screams as I stick the gun into my own mouth.
I pull the trigger.
And all that I see as my body recoils back into the pool, is Moriarty's surprised expression that I wanted to so badly. John's strings break and as the blue engulfs me I see his blurry figure shimmering above me, and a hand touches mine briefly and tries to catch my limp hand and pull me up, but the pressure pulls me down and there's no air in my lungs to keep me afloat and our hands fall away. I let go and all that I hope is that John's addiction will wash away and that he will forever keep my heart safe; the light fades away and we've all lost.
One day I will write something cheerful!