Sherlock stood in the open space. The smell of chlorine from the pool burned his nose. Gave his head a bit of an ache. Wonderful, he thought to himself. He was soon to find out the mastermind behind the Great Game and the area decided upon so happened to be an underground pool. Sherlock calculated, to keep his mind ready, how many people had visited the pool today.
None. Possibly the fault of this Moriarty man. He seemed capable of manipulating very large happenings. Given the look of the tile as well as the rest of the pool which was fairly kept, Sherlock knew it was a regularly visited pool. Sherlock didn't know how many people had been turned away for this meeting.
As Sherlock came closer to the corner of the pool, one of the side doors squeaked and, to his utter surprise, John slipped out. His expression was blank, but not emotionless. It was John's normal face: relaxed. Sherlock's brain couldn't comprehend John in this place with that look.
Words spun from John, all followed by a question mark. Loyal? Companion? Friend? Limp? Doctor? Laugh?
Tons more rolled out but these hurt Sherlock the most. Then, a thought occurred to him. The coat John had on was unusually large. A style of him, sure, but the man swam in that coat. Or should have.
"Evening. This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?"
"John? What the hell?"
"Bet you never saw this coming. What would you like me to make him say next? Gottole o' geer. Gottle o' geer. Gottle o' g-" John's face was now utterly expressionless. Sherlock felt a quickening in his chest. Moriarty was controlling him! Sherlock felt a weight lift from his chest. That same weight came back when the bomb became exposed.
"Stop it."
"Nice touch this, the pool. Where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart."
"Who are you?"
John smiled wide, all of a sudden and Sherlock frowned. He thought, maybe, it was a threat to smile like that. But there was something genuine in the smile that made Sherlock want to shiver.
"I apologize." John shrugged the coat off, tossing it and the bomb away. "I couldn't help myself. I'm all about the theatrics, you know." Sherlock couldn't tell if this was really John, or if he was still being controlled. This couldn't be John. Not the man he knew.
But the words coming from John slowly changed and the question marks disappeared. Murderer. Killer. Evil. Psychopath.
The word that practically was printed on his forehead in big, capitol letters was: Moriarty.
"John..."
"Sherlock, please. Do us both a favor and realize something. I am the better genius." John swung his arms in a flourish before facing Sherlock, hands spread almost in a gesture of innocence. "I played behind the scenes for so long. Played you. Played everyone. Did you honestly think that a man, seemingly normal, would fall for you?"
"You faked everything." Sherlock said calmly, putting up a strong barrier around his mind, his heart. The flame that had tried convincing Sherlock's logic that John couldn't possibly have been behind all of this died down to a small flicker. "What about the cabbie? You wanted me alive. Is that why you shot him?"
"No. He was hired to send you a warning before he died. He would have never killed you. I killed him because he was going to tell you about me." John rolled his neck, an expression of irritation on his face. "Unfortunately he gave you my name. Oh well! Couldn't be helped, I suppose. It just made this game of ours so much more fun, wouldn't you say?"
Sherlock took a gun stance and pulled out his gun. Technically, it was the illegal firearm John kept in the flat. Somehow, this seemed appropriate.
"Ah, ah!" John tsked, wiggling a finger back and forth. Suddenly, something flashed past his eyesight and he looked down. A dozen or so red dots had appeared, ready to fire at a moments notice. Sherlock was willing to bet there were more along his back. "On a single word from me, you're gone, gone, gone!"
"My word is when I shoot you down?"
"Of course."
"It would be in my best interest to not shoot you."
"Correct."
Sherlock slowly lowered his arm, relaxing back into a normal standing position. John seemed delighted.
"Why Moriarty?"
"It is my real name. I killed the real John Watson ages ago. I watched him for months beforehand, of course. Found out how he lived. I took everything from him and made the John Watson you know! You two would have been splendid together."
Sherlock fought with all his strength to not pull the gun back up and shoot the man in the shoulder. The scar was real. He knew it was. He had spent a while observing it from a close proximity.
"Did he have the shoulder scar?"
"Yes, it was rather tricky, healing from the wound. But it looked delicious on him. You looooooved it."
Sherlock stared at John-Moriarty. There were no words left. There were no feelings left. Moriarty seemed to notice this, but his smile never faltered as he wiggled his way backwards.
"You must be aware, had the poor cabbie never told you my name, we would have had so much more time together. Think of all the fun! But now you are just getting in the way. If you continue down the path towards me, Sherlock, I will burn the heart out of you." With that, he opened a door and vanished. Sherlock nearly shook with anger.
He stood there a good ten minutes, long after the snipers left, before making his way over to the coat and the bomb. The coat smelled like John. His brain was trying to separate John and Moriarty. With a frown and an angry scoff, Sherlock tossed the coat into the water and forced his mind to realize they were one and the same.
As he left the underground pool and made is way back up into the streets, Sherlock dialed his brother. The anger and the betrayal seethed through him.
"Brother dear."
"I need you to help me with a murder."
"A murder? Are you having mind troubles?"
"No, not that kind. I need someone dead."
There was a pause. "You sound angry."
"I found out who Moriarty is. I want him dead. No more games."
"Were you not just with him?"
"He had snipers on me. You're the government. Find him and kill him."
"It is not that easy. Were it, I would have long ago when you first found out the name."
"You can probably find him under his alias, then."
"Alias?" His brother seemed more irritating than normal, but Sherlock also knew that his relation with John had made him an emotional mess.
"I want John Watson dead, Mycroft! And when he is dead, I want to see his corpse." There was no reply, the only sound Sherlock's hard breathing and his footsteps on the damp ground.
"Of course." Mycroft finally replied. "I will contact you when it is finished."
Sherlock hung up the phone, pocketing it. There was a sick happiness inside of him, thinking of the next time his brother would call.