NOTE: In case it wasn't obvious this is set in the part in "the Reichenbach Fall" when Sherlock and Moriarty are detained in adjacent cells. It's after the trial but before they have the conversation in Sherlock's house for those of you who don't remember. That's one of the reason's it's called "interlude", it's set at the turning point in the episode as a short break between the first and second half. I probably took too many liberties with their conversation considering how unfamiliar they were with each other at this point, but I think Sherlock would have been able to read a lot into Moriarty from the way he set up the puzzles in the last episode of season three and Moriarty was referred to have having watched Sherlock for a long time.
Two alcoholics, probably in for dangerous driving. Boring. One homeless man. Boring. Stone was an average mix of concrete, standard prison issue. Boring.
Cells are boring. There's only so long you can analyse the type of stone for, and only so long you can spend snatching at fragments of the previous inhabitants' lives from dust traces. And if you re Sherlock Holmes that isn t very long. After a while, there are just four walls, you, and the whispering madman next door. When you're that bored, you'll listen to anything.
" not listening to me are you. Oh, you're so boring Sherlock, you really should learn not to ignore me. Who knows, I might drop you a lifeline, a vital clue. You ll never know what you missed.
He couldn't help but snort, sadly giving away that he was listening. As though Moriarty would ever be that careless. This was the Game of wits, not of patience. Throwing away a clue on a conversation like this would be nothing short of ridiculous, and against everything the Game stood for.
However wasn t it down to intelligence to know when to listen? Moriarty was, as he put it, changeable . It was too much like him to offer him a solution of how to defeat him on a whim through a bleak wall. He shuddered.
A slight drumming noise started up from the other side. Sherlock could picture the consultant criminal leaning against the wall separating them, tapping his fingers against the barrier between them. Testing it. He let his own elegant fingers lingered on the wall's surface briefly before withdrawing them sharply.
"I must admit I am flattered by your testimony. Not being a man suits me; I've always found humanity to be tedious."
"It wasn't meant as a compliment."
A dark laugh seeped through the pores in the wall. Acknowledging the laugh and tapping as Moriarty s reply, Sherlock began to pace around the borders of his cell. Almost the second he turned his back on his rival the tapping stopped. Then it returned suddenly, with all of the fingers on both of his hands being used, in a rhythmic symphony. It was as though he was using his fingers as an orchestra, etching an elegant masterpiece into the stone. There was a time signature and clearly defined pulse. Was he composing or merely tapping out an old tune?
Suddenly he recognized it. Staying Alive . Suitable, if predictable.
"Dull," Sherlock remarked, once again facing his nemesis. Or at least the wall he sheltered behind.
"This entire venture of mine rather has been, whilst you're not around anyway. But that's the way it goes, I spend hours toiling over menial tasks so we can have a few hours fun together."
"The Great Game." The words fell off his tongue easily, a challenge and a question.
"People like us, Sherlock, get bored easily. And when we're bored our minds tear themselves apart. At first, like you, we can find distractions, but it always ends like this," the percussion of Staying Alive died away, "making them. Oh Sherlock dear, you are an excellent distraction."
The words as are you stuck in the detective's throat. He couldn't give Moriarty that.
"I suppose I could try being like you. But angels are boring."
"This Game is boring."
"Oh stop sulking. It really doesn't suit you."
A tense silence settled between them, with not even finger tapping to break it. After a few minutes Sherlock sat down again, his back against the wall he was sure Moriarty was touching. He shuddered, the cold stone s chilling sensation working its way down his back. For a second, he was almost scared. Then he regained his composure with an airy huff.
Drama queen.
The comment behind him was muttered from a source far too close to his head to comfort. He wanted to flinch away, but couldn t back down now. He settled on a cold reply,
I m not the one who organized this charade.
Yet your performance was magnificent, exactly as I predicted.
The last part Consulting Criminal s response was bitter and mocking. Predicted was elongated into two clear syllables as an insult. Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but before he could Moriarty laughed. It with giggles rising into an immense crescendo, echoing and reverberating around the entire cell block. It was hardly possible to tell when the laugh stopped and the thousand equally mad echoes began, supporting and magnifying Moriarty s laugh far beyond the original volume. Simultaneously it rose in pitch to impossible heights, ending in a scream-like last condescending chuckle.
Sherlock couldn t suppress his shudder this time. It shook through his body, leaving him in its wake like a limp corpse. The worst part was his sharp intake of breath which was not entirely drowned out by the maniacal laughter. Moriarty would hear it and he would know.
After that laugh the silence between them was merciful, not stifling. A godsend. He imagined the ticking of clock hands as they pointlessly chased their way around a clock face. This mental image was unimaginative and hardly enough to keep him interested, but he dutifully persisted as it was one way of trying to tell how much time had passed. It was a futile effort, but made him feel like he was at least doing something.
The cell door opening should have been welcome, but after their mutual silence it seemed like an intrusion. It creaked open inwards, covering too much of the floor space and letting in the loud outside world. A bored prison guard gestured vaguely upwards, implying that Sherlock should stand and come with him. The Consulting Detective found his attire and life story excessively dull, single man of around forty, lonely, poor personal hygiene
Luckily his legs didn t give out under him when he stood, so suppressing shudders (following the aftermath of his rival's frenzied laugh) he shakily followed the prison guard out. He composed himself in the corridor, this probably would have been ruined if he had caught sight of Moriarty, however the Consulting Criminal s cell had no window, and even if it had it would have been obscured by the guard.
The corridor was long. Bleak stone with the life long since bleached out of it decorated the walls, and there was nothing he could deduce that he hadn t already on the way in. He should have been happy that they hadn t detained him for longer but after that laugh he just felt hollow.
At the end there was a small office with a bored receptionist, and John.
John.
He looked worried and sincere, almost so sincere it was clumsy in how obvious the stress in his face was. Those frown lines now made his face look like it had been the victims of woodworms whom left interlocking furrows where they had crawled, digging permanent exhaustion onto his face. But that entire expression altered when he saw Sherlock, even his stance becoming more upright as his face brightened.
A fickle smile flitted across Sherlock's face as he faced his friend.