Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.
Rolling a cigarette between his middle and index finger, Sebastian Moran sneered as he took in the scribbles peppering the dank walls of the cell. Some were delicate, immense attention and dare he say it love poured in to the swift lines. Others were frantic, legs of the letters can-canning every which way, darker and heavier where the writing implement had been pressed a little too hard. He ran a finger down one L, lip curling as it came away sticky. Spinning on his heel, his expression darkened as he took in the mass of dishevelled hair and dark eyes that pinned him to where he stood. This was normal. This was to be expected. The only thing out of place was that James Moriarty wasn't smiling.
Moran opened his mouth, but before a single syllable of explanation could tumble out, Moriarty raised a hand, indicating that he should keep it shut.
"This wasn't the plan", he begun, his normally sing song tone sharp, and cold. "The plan, dear Sebastian, was simple. The plan-"
"The plan has you locked up in a four-by-four cell pissing in front of perverts!" Moran spat back, jaw clenched as he focused on his boss. Everything about this was wrong. James Moriarty couldn't be confined. The proud man wore Westwood, crisp suits without a crease and shoes that clacked arrogantly across any surface. His fingers dipped nonchalantly in to pockets with clean folded napkins and the technological contraptions that Moran himself despised. Yet now he sat in a steel chair, all sense of pride draining out of his careless posture. A moulded grey t-shirt hung loosely off his shoulders displaying unwashed skin. Ill-fitting cloth trousers clad his legs, dangling past ankles and just showing grimy toe nails. Jim was playing his role well, but Moran didn't like it.
Moriarty raised an eyebrow, before sighing and staring at the door that was all but hanging off its hinges, a bullet hole practically smoking where the lock once was.
"Your methods leave much to be desired." He quipped, before scraping back his chair and stepping out of the room, Moran quickly following.
Dispatched. Discharged. Dishonoured. Disgusted. No explanation, no warning, an action kept under wraps. It was his choice, his comrades were told. You have no choice, he was told. Now, weeks later, he was at a bar. His legs, which should have been pounding across terrain, his calves screaming at him to stop were now dangling idly off a splintered bar stool. His back was almost bent double as he leaned over the counter, eyes scanning the dusty bottles that no-one would touch for want of something to occupy himself with. He sat alone. One look around the dimly lit tavern suggested he was not the only one. A few women were dotted throughout the bar, some with husbands, most searching for the potentials of the future, or perhaps just of that night.
He straightened his back with a painful snap of bones and knots before turning to face the wall of cheap liquor again. Calloused fingers tightened around his glass when the grimy mirror showed him that the seat to his left was now occupied. He inclined his head in the direction of his drinking companion, and raised an eyebrow at a man who didn't look the type to casually or socially drink. He had a slight frame, lean and stunted but by no means weak. A crop of dark, well-kept hair began his appearance. Thin eyebrows shaded obsidian eyes, quick and clever with clouded intentions. A tightly drawn mouth quirked at the corner, slightly parted to almost savagely show gleaming teeth. The man propped his head on his hand, manicured fingernails sprawled across his clean shaven cheek.
"Colonel." He said, his voice light and childish. It wasn't put forward as a question, but after a beat Moran nodded.
"Oooh, I've never had a Colonel before." The man chimed. Moran scowled, shifting to tell the man that he was barking up the wrong tree before his company continued. "You could be a useful asset to my team." Moran froze.
"Team?" He inquired after a pause, voice rough and like gravel in comparison to the intruder's. He received a startlingly sharp grin in return accompanied by a jittery bark of a laugh. Hopping off the stool, the man turned to him.
"I'll be in touch, my dear Sebastian." Was all that was said, before the man swivelled on his smart shoes and clacked out of the bar, each touch of heel to wood ringing out like a gunshot.
Sebastian Moran sat where he had been for the past three hours, mouth ajar and eyes narrowed as he watched the immaculately dressed interruption saunter out the door.
John Watson was growing weary. His fingers ached from clicking through case after case for hours, and his throat was like sandpaper due to accounting each one aloud. No matter the nature of the case, his partner failed to find one in the least bit titillating.
"Okay, you'll like this one." He began, receiving a soft snort of doubt from the cushions on the settee. "This woman Louise says that she wakes up to find her flat a tip. Furniture moved about, things broken and on her door a letter painted in red." John rubbed his eyes with a finger and thumb before continuing. "She thinks it's an anagram because it doesn't make sense, but she mentioned she was never good at Countdown."
"Ghosts. Next." Came the muffled response, tone bored and strained. John frowned at the screen before spinning on the chair to face the back of the sofa.
"What, seriously?"
A mass of curls peeked over the edge of the sofa, followed by an incredulous Sherlock.
"No, not seriously. My God, John, I knew you were thick, but ghosts?" John started to express his offence, but Sherlock pushed on. "Ex-boyfriend, wants her out of the flat. Probably a bad split, possibly a cheater, and he thinks he can scare her out by playing the poltergeist. He still has a key meaning she doesn't wake up when it's happening." He snorted, before flopping back down on the sofa. "Ghosts."
John opened and closed his mouth, before rubbing his hand over his jaw. He turned to continue the search before ABBA pierced the silence of the flat.
So I wanna know what's the name of the game? Does it mean anything to you? What's the name of the game? Can you feel it the way I do?
A sprawl of gangly limbs shoved themselves off the sofa, ambling for the phone resting on the kitchen counter. The ringtone chosen and set by James Moriarty made John's heart sink. Partly because he knew that Moriarty was a dangerous man to deal with. Mostly because he knew Sherlock was going to become unbearable.
Long fingers hovered over keys as message after message rang through. After the tune rang three times, Sherlock pushed the read message key, nostrils flared and tongue teasing his bottom lip.
I think it's about time we went on another date, Sherly. – JM
It'll be fun. Doctors will be on call. – JM
Bring your pet. – JM
"Pet?!" John exclaimed, swaying on his toes as he peered over Sherlock's shoulder. "…Sherlock?"
His partner stood still, scarcely breathing. John reached out to give his shoulder a shove but Sherlock had already moved. He paced around every inch of the flat, spreading his hands in the air. He paused once or twice, but resumed his pacing before John could even be puzzled. Then, in a swift movement, Sherlock spun around with his fists clenched, his face unreadable. Without a single word, he yanked his coat and scarf off the hanger and turned to John. The expression made the Doctor's blood run cold.
Sherlock was smiling. Not a cover smile thrown to people involved in investigations, or the pained grin thrown with contempt at Mycroft. Sherlock was genuinely happy. The corners of his thin lips stretched as far as they were able, his pale eyes damn near iridescent. John groaned, an outward display that although he was too tired for this, he'd go along with it. He always does. He took one more desperate swig of his tea before slamming the laptop shut, and hobbling out the door.
In the building facing 221B Baker Street, a mobile phone was flipped shut. A man grinned at what he witnessed through the inch thick glass. Everything was going to plan. The plan was full proof. The plan would not fail. He weighed the device in his hand before shoving it in the empty pocket of his dusty, tan jacket. With both hands free, he reached for the gun carefully placed at his feet and skilfully flicked it shut with a crack that rang throughout the building.
"Jim. Jim! You're taking this too far. He's one man, he's not a threat." Moran's attempt at pleading with his boss had gone completely ignored. Concern knit his brows together, all of the futile attempts at swaying him before this one nestling deep within the lines that peppered his worn face. Moriarty swung around, shaking his head.
"Hitler was one man. Kim Jong-il was one man. God was one man. One man can do clever things, and he is a clever one. But dim too, oh he can be quite stupid. That's dangerous. And he cares, Sebastian! He has feelings, and he'll go to any length to protect that pet of his or that maid." Moriarty steepled his fingers and hummed, a placid smile on his face. "That, I can use. Do you know about feelings, Sebastian?"
The sharp shooter frowned at the question. It was just the sort Jim was common to ask, but it stumped him none the less.
"Like anger?" He uttered dully. "And fear and hatred."
"Mmmm, close. Those are feelings, yes, but they're weak. And emotions?"
Moran was getting bored of the nonsensical questioning. "They're the same." Came the bitten reply. Moriarty chuckled, face painted with pity.
"No." He said simply, causing Moran to sneer. "Emotions are stronger. They leave more room for weakness. Our dear Sherlock likes to pretend he is stone cold, but he is a child. He feels. He has emotions. He loves, Sebastian. He is weak because he cares and he cares because he is weak. He is so quick and eager to save complete strangers. Just imagine how he will react with his friend's life on the line. The Inspector. The Maid. The Lapdog. Each with a gun to their head and a knife to their pulse. It will drive him mad, and he will do anything to get rid of the threats imposing them." Sucking his teeth, he smirked at his assassin with a predatory slide of his opaque eyes. "Including getting rid of himself."
Moran couldn't stop his eyes from flaring, or his jaw from sliding open. For months he had heard nothing except prose and poetry about the Great Sherlock Holmes. Jim had grown obsessed, planning game after game to play and inventing new ways to get close to him. He tested the consulting detective's intellect with taxi drivers and hostages, his glee growing with each successful turn. He put himself in Sherlock's direct line of sight by playing The Boyfriend to the young coroner that bobbed around him. Moran could do nought but stand aside and watch, one hand on his gun and the other twitching for the smaller man in the case that things go too dangerous. It never reached out, but it longed to. It shook now, fingers unconsciously flexing. This was another game, he knew that, but there was something in the air that bit at him. A whisper that, try as it might, could not be heard over the pounding in his ears. After all this time, Jim was just going to stop? Was this it, the final game between the most dangerous man in England and his plaything? Moran couldn't grasp it, and rose from the chair, knees cracking as his full height arched upwards.
" I'm going out." He announced, receiving only a disinterested wave of the hand from Jim, who, now that he had revealed all he was ever going to about the plan, had nothing left to say to him. He also stood, but he simply strode over to his study as he tended to do.
Moran never asked questions. He never expected answers. Left alone in the room with its walls of untouched novellas and plants that withered and gasped with neglect, Moran stayed rooted to the spot. All notions of stretching his legs or stepping in to a dusky bar bled out of him as he thought about the situation. He could taste the danger, rich and bitter as it settled on his tobacco soaked tongue. He wasn't as sure as Jim was about the lengths Sherlock would reach. It was true that he cared about the Doctor; Moran had witnessed that himself at the Pool, but to commit suicide? No, he would find a way out. He would flip the tables with such force that neither side had a guaranteed victory. It was all chance, a battle of wits and both men were ruthless and snide when it came to topping the other. Jim might lose. Moran couldn't let that happen.
He was weak.
He cared.
He had emotions, just as Sherlock did.
This set deep in his core, and he spurred forward towards the door before his eyes clapped on the table beside Moriarty's chair. There it sat. A lifeline. A chance. A choice. Small and rectangular with infinite possibilities coded in to its circuit. The phone was usually never left unattended; carelessness did not become Jim. Moran knew this was his only shot, and his mind rushed a whisper of thanks at whoever would listen to him. He paused a moment longer to assure himself that Jim would not resurface from whatever he was doing and took a few long strides of long legs and swiped the phone off the table. Before another second had passed, he was out the door, with phone in one hand and long leather case trailing in the other.
John's already war creased forehead deepened further at the human barricade that was stopping him from entering the door. He had gone with Sherlock to the hospital, taking two taxis and walking until John's legs hated Sherlock almost as much as he did. The detective muttered to himself the entire way, no doubt playing every scenario out in his head and working out what to say in response to each of the criminal's quips and challenges. When it couldn't be put off much longer, they closed the short distance between them and the hospital but now Sherlock was telling him to leave.
"We can't have a repeat of the pool, John." He drawled, as if it was obvious.
"We got out of that, didn't we?"
"By chance, or so Moriarty would have us believe. Go home, work on other cases." John opened his mouth to argue, to bargain, but a slight narrowing of icy eyes and a return of Sherlock's taciturn nature froze the words in his throat. It was futile. Throwing up his hands in defeat, John flattened his palms against the door and made his way back out to the harsh London winter. His arm rose slightly to hail a taxi, but a stroke of genius (he would say) or sheer luck (Sherlock would rebut) hit him like a bolt. The building facing the hospital was decrepit and empty, and John knew he would be able to witness the scene from there. Moriarty liked attention and acknowledgement, but even he wouldn't risk the interaction being interrupted.
The roof.
A window in the dilapidated building faced the open space of the hospital roof, and at the slightest sign of trouble John would be able to haul himself over. It would cost time, yes, but it would be more effective than lounging around the flat. One more nod at the hospital looming over him and he was crossing the street, looking left, looking right, looking straight ahead and up and he clambered upwards, taking the stairs by two. A third floor window shone directly towards the flat plane. Sherlock wasn't there yet, but neither was Moriarty. A shifting close to where he stood brought to mind the thought of rats and scavengers and John impulsively scoured the area around his feet, before turning his attention back to the hospital roof.
Across from where the doctor stood, a heavy fire door creaked, juddered and groaned as it was forced open after a long period of disuse and abeyance. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the sound of the Bee Gees playing across the roof, but said nothing as he crossed over to where James Moriarty sat perched on the edge of the building.
"Well, here we are at last. You and me, Sherlock. And our problem, the final problem." The detective frowned at the other party as he approached. Moriarty sounded bored, and almost distant, acting like a child that lost his favourite toy. Which, Sherlock supposed, he assumed he had. He stayed quiet and allowed Moriarty to essentially insult him. He sounded proud of himself, convinced he almost had Sherlock fooled, an idea that Sherlock found laughable even though he had, for a time, harboured the tiniest sliver of doubt. Sherlock idly started to tap the fingers on the palm of his clasped hands, which Moriarty noticed as he circled him.
"Good," he mockingly praised, "you got that, too." The back and forth continued, and Moriarty seemed to be getting more distressed as the time passed, angry almost. The disappointment burned the back of Sherlock's throat, and although he upheld his steely composure, he inwardly cursed himself for seemingly getting so much wrong. He paced, ignoring the other's coercion towards suicide before grabbing the lapels of his no doubt designer coat and forcefully backing him closer to the edge of the rooftop.
"You're insane." he spat, words coming out sharp between ground teeth.
"You're only getting that now?" he asked, incredulous, before flailing as Sherlock threatened to push him over. "Let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friends will die if you don't." Sherlock froze, grip loosening a fraction.
"John?" he breathed, causing the consulting criminal to start grinning.
"Not just John. Everyone."
"Ms. Hudson?"
"Everyone."
"Lestrade." Sherlock stated dully, not questioning any more since he could easily predict the answer.
"Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims." Moriarty concluded, sick pleasure seeping in to his tone. "There's no stopping them now." Sherlock hoisted him up as he continued to speak, but his voice seemed to be drifting further and further away from Sherlock as realisation fell on him.
"Would you give me...one moment please. One moment of privacy. Please." Moriarty rolled his eyes, granting it as Sherlock stepped on the raised stone. He gazed at the skyline across from him, and a deep chuckle began to build in his ribs as his eyes landed on the run down building. Spinning on his heel, he hopped off the platform, confident that he had caught the criminal out. Moriarty laughed him off.
"You talk big. You're ordinary, you're on the side of the angels." Sherlock bore down on him.
"I may be on the side of the angels but don't think for one second that I am one of them." Moriarty scanned Sherlock's face, considering before altering his words.
"No. You're not. I see, you're not ordinary. You're me. You're me."
It had been three months give or take since Moran had become James Moriarty's auxiliary. Quite willingly, he would grudgingly admit if pressed by a third party. The man had been completely forgotten after the encounter in the bar; a result of a particularly foul absinthe and the chufa nuts Moran had been absently flicking in to his slack jaw. He had readily accepted this excuse and had moved on with his droll life until the day his chair cushion had suddenly grown a snide five foot barely anything man that crinkled when he walked.
Moran was not one to show surprise, shock barely registering with him so he merely inhaled lengthily and palmed his damp forehead. Not a word was said as he reached in to his pocket for a moment, producing a battered box of the back street's finest and an intricately engraved lighter that had long since lost its glamour. Holding the cigarette angled between his fingertips and knuckles he flicked the lighter open, blazed up and placed the stick between his lips. He did not drag, however, and instead placed it on the cabinet to his left, burning side outwards. Moriarty watched this entire scene with a cloudy interest. He had come to this former colonel for a reason, but only came to the conclusion after a lengthy discussion with bottles of various sizes and strengths. James Moriarty was not often troubled, but when he was he dealt with it like most do, and was affected like most were.
The second the stringy man turned to him; perhaps to delicately ask "what the fuck is this about"; Moriarty had vaulted out of the cumbersome chair and stepped within a hair's width of the taller of the two of them. Moran did not know him, but he did not need to. He could plainly see that the man just in his line of sight below his chin was apoplectic to the point where reason was a foreign concept. No words were said that night. There was a surge and precipitously both forms were pushed in to the perhaps once Oriental-themed carpet. A scuffle occurred and then a sigh of reception as obsessively clean digits wrapped around yellowed wrists. Follicles screamed as unwashed roots were yanked, coupled with the soft snuffles and grunts from a mouth buried inch deep in infested wool. Blood flowed from hollows on collar bones and deep trenches trailing along shoulder blades, and although heated mouths clamped on these voluble lacerations, they did not stray anywhere else. Breath was ragged, but it was entirely unshared and free to dart around the flat as it pleased without a blockade.
Succeeding the deed, when he was once again alone, a nauseous feeling settled thickly in the lining of Moran's stomach. Absently he dragged a nail against the flayed skin on his shoulder as he realised something quite basic; he'd enjoyed that. There was no affection, no complication, no pained chides but indignant encouragement. His gaze shifted to the ash carelessly fluttering off his cabinet, chasing the friends that had fallen before it as his finger trailed to rest in the hollow of his throat. In that act, Sebastian Moran had learnt many things. The man, James Moriarty, was violent. He was gentle. He was harsh. He was yielding. He was teasing. He was cathartic. He was addictive. A man as observant as Moran had learned one more thing; there was no turning back. Time passed, and to an outside party things would appear the same. For the most part Moran was ignored, unless he was needed for his skills and talents for whatever a situation called for, but things were more than they appeared. The sniper's hands, once so adamant and forceful learned to and were partial to caressing and kneading, his lips that were once clamped shut and concealed ground teeth now peppered pale skin with blossoming bruises and necks with solicitous brushes. But they never kissed. There had been an attempt once, but a sharp twist of an arm and the frustration of being left unfulfilled made for a quick lesson. So they never kissed.
A routine nestled in to place and for a time it had been a permanent fixture. But then a new name began to tumble from Jim's lips. A detective that was so extraordinary and finally Moran maybe finally things will stop being so boring have I finally found the one. Sherlock. The very name was sour and clogged his throat and his ears and his mind. Moran could see that Moriarty was enjoying himself, spending lengths of time talking to this, that and the other on his phone, bartering for bargaining chips. This was all a game to him, a destructive game of chess, and Moran didn't like it, not that his thoughts mattered one bit to his boss. Sometimes Moriarty became frustrated, and would seek what normal people might call comfort, but Sherlock had been a "good boy" lately, and Moriarty's hand had never one strayed to the neck of a bottle." On the day Moriarty announced he was going out, Moran had a set feeling behind his teeth that the next move would be the checkmate, and he took it upon himself to try and get to Sherlock Holmes first, before he would have a chance to win the game.
John's fingers were tight on the frame of the broken in window, palms raw and plastered with rust. He saw Sherlock step closer to the edge of the roof, and John's throat grew tight. Fear almost drove him down the stairs but trust in Sherlock's ability had him stand his ground. But now Sherlock seemed to be losing his footing again, judging by the intimacy with which Moriarty was now showing him.
John watched them clasp their hands together in a chillingly friendly, almost entirely engrossed in the scene which was why he started when a sharp click sounded off to his left. The cacophony set his teeth on edge because he recognised it and could only come to one conclusion as to why he was hearing it now. He pulled away from the window and edge around the free standing stairwell, throat closing almost completely as he located the source.
Moran was crouched in standard pose, one leg bent beneath his as the other stretched off to the side. He rested an M24 against his cheek, back ramrod straight as his arms held position.
From where he stood, John could see the man's trigger finger twitch and impulsively he bolted quickly towards the sniper and rammed his shoulder into the other man's back. A shot fired before Moran threw the gun carelessly aside, turning to grab John and force him to the ground. He landed a punch just south of the smaller man's sternum, and got a clumsy punch aimed at his jaw in return. Moran brought his head down sharply, effectively breaking John's nose and palming it directly after, causing a wretched cry of pain. John elbowed Moran in the shoulder, and again in the throat, shoving him off him as he clutched his nose. The sniper swiped at John, and missed by a hair, before he jutted his foot out and connected with John's knee. Refusing to go down, the doctor threw his entire body weight towards Moran with a cry, and managed to tackle him to the ground causing both of their heads to crack against the concrete flooring. Growling, Moran jammed two fingers directly up John's broken nose, smearing what little blood he collected across his eyes before pushing him off and clambering for the window. John followed suit, intending to continue the scuffle, but both men froze as they took in the sight across the street.
"Oh God." John groaned, voice coming out thick and strained.
Moran grabbed the rifle and hurtled down the stairs, John close behind. When they reach the roof top, both men are panting and heaving, John clutching one hand over his nose in a futile attempt to stem the flow.
"Oh God." he repeats, eyes widened with horror as he stares at the body crumpled on the roof. Thick, dark blood has gathered in a small pool around the body, coming from a bullet wound just left of the larynx. A hand lands heavily on his shoulder. Beside him, Moran drops to his knees.
"I assume that was intended for me." Sherlock sighed from John's shoulder. No-one answered. John cried out in frustration before diving for the gun that had been hastily dropped. Clumsily, he pointed it at Moran's temple. Breathing still heavy, John's hand shook and tightened around the bi-pod.
"John." Sherlock warned.
"He tried to kill you!" John cried. "Would have killed you, if I hadn't-Sherlock, he's working for him!" he nodded quickly to the corpse. "He'll try again, I'm not letting him walk off this roof so he can try again!" Sherlock reached out and pushed the body of the gun downwards.
"John." was all he said, and it was all that needed to be said as John huffed out a painful breath of air and dropped the rifle at his feet. Sherlock steered John near the door, ignoring the sounds of the rifle being scooped back up behind him.
"No. You bastard." Moran heaved. "You bastard. John turned to see who he was addressing, but stopped short as another shot rang out across the roof tops.
Sherlock didn't even flinch.
The body noisily slumped to the ground, and John swallowed, finding his mouth as dry as cotton. A hand on his back pressed firmly and persistently and, feigning ignorance, a detective and a doctor crossed the roof and carried on down the stairs, leaving two quickly cooling bodies behind.
Love your poison.
Drown your sore soul.
Just taste it until you're numb.
Watered down, oh you've watered down
oh you've drinking.
Just keep your demon sweet.