A/N: Hi there! So, up until now, I've never done this, but I decided to attempt a Sherlock one-shot. I admit I'm doing this a little prematurely, okay a lot prematurely, as I only just saw "The Great Game" today and it will be a while until I watch more. But this idea just struck me while watching the episode and refused to go away, so I decided why not write it?
Longer summary: this isn't a separate plotline, but a psychological look into the thoughts behing s1e3, revolving around the point of the duality of Sherlock's conscience. As I like to put it, the original idea was "It scares me how close Sherlock is to becoming Moriarty." That thought was expanded into this.
I went on a little after the episode ended. This theory actually isn't my main one but it just kinda happened that it worked here. Please don't tell me whether or not I'm close to right, I'll delete any reviews with spoiler, please don't ruin the Sherlock experience for me. I'm new, but I love the show just the same. It's becoming an obsession.
Please excuse the dots, they're there to ensure my formatting sticks and spacing is a crucial part of my style, in this work in particular.
Well, here goes nothing!
Sherlock stared blankly as the gunshots sounded.
Bang!
Bang!
The sound usually brought him excitement. But this didn't. This was fabricated, this wasn't the real thing. If he turned around, he would see that there was no murder.
Just a crude human face on his wall, blasted in by his own hand. Nothing to solve, but at least something to pass the time.
.
Bored.
With Sherlock, that word scared Watson.
Bored meant he went looking for trouble. Bored meant he shot off his gun at will, into the wall of his own home. But Watson didn't mind.
.
Rather a wall than a person.
.
A fight. A yell. Walking off in a huff.
Watson wasn't sure how it happened, but he was sure he didn't care.
Not like Sherlock ever did.
.
But John did care.
Anxious all night sleeping on the couch.
Anxious through the news report that blared on the television.
Anxious as he ran home to find his friend.
Alive.
Thank God he was alive.
.
A game.
For once, a worthy adversary.
Sherlock was anxious. Something he hadn't felt in a long time. It was a feeling that excited him, that gave him a sense of power. Every day, a new puzzle. No loose ends, left searching until the last moment, adrenaline racing.
For once, Sherlock felt alive.
.
A game.
He thinks it's a game.
That would be Sherlock.
John shakes his head at the thought. No, no it wouldn't.
Sherlock enjoys a case. He lives for murder, he lives for the deaths of others.
No. He lives for solving it, he lives for a puzzle.
Does he?
John saw what was happening. Sherlock had found someone just like him. Someone who was bored by society. Someone who needed a challenge beyond anything an ordinary man could thrive. Someone with an adrenaline addiction to equal his own.
An addiction that could be used to save or to kill.
John only hoped Sherlock was never tempted.
But somewhere deep down, he worried that it was already too late.
.
The third call. Three blips. Soon to be two, soon to be one.
Too soon, Sherlock thought. To soon, it would all be over.
.
Solved.
Solved, too quickly, too easily. John ridiculed him, but he didn't understand. No, he never understood.
People die, John. That's what people do.
.
But then one of them did.
The old woman.
But it was her fault, Sherlock. That's what people do.
He should have stopped her.
He tried.
He tried, but he hadn't been able to save her.
But no. He was only trying to win, wasn't he? Just a step beck in the game. He wouldn't be defeated again.
.
A picture. A fleeting mystery , the adrenaline lasting until the television burst on with John's ready answer. The game was finishing too early. It was becoming too easy.
Sherlock was getting bored.
.
The answer.
The picture. A forgery, of course it was a forgery!
No reply.
But he knew, he knew! His word was never to be mistrusted. Sherlock never dealt in proof. He never bothered explaining to others how he knew or why. He simply knew.
No reply.
4
3
2
1
Have it your way, M.
The star. Of course it was the star.
Because he knew he remembered it for some reason. And he only remembered what mattered.
.
Moriarty.
At last John had a name for his fear.
The fear he had, despite himself, named "Sherlock" in his mind.
The fear of what his friend would become.
The fear of what his friend already was.
.
Moriarty.
The name brought chills down his spine as his hands tingled with excitement.
Latin, "the art of death." Fitting for his enemy.
Welcome, Moriarty. I look forward to dueling you again.
And may the best man win.
.
Four down, one to go.
Sherlock mentioned offhandedly as he watched yet another reality show. Simple mysteries passed the time well enough, but often they only annoyed him.
But he knew that the final round was coming.
Something grand, something new. Always something new.
A smile crept on to his face as John grew more and more worried. But Sherlock just wanted to play. And he knew the final round was coming.
He couldn't wait.
.
Found the Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect. The pool, Midnight.
.
The pool.
Midnight.
Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present, Moriarty. Let us meet the man behind the curtain.
And a man stepped out from the curtain.
John.
Oh.
.
John.
No, please not John.
Sherlock was kicking himself as his brain screamed mockery at him. How could he have let his defences so low? So low as to let one man do the impossible, become so beyond suspicion. To allow himself to be befriended.
No.
No, it isn't John.
It can't be John!
He can't have misread this one. He knows he can't have been so wrong. And that's when he sees it.
.
Fear.
.
Fear, and a bomb.
.
Oh, John.
.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course. Of course he would use John.
And now Sherlock knew he couldn't lose. But not for his pride.
Moriarty had found the one man whom Sherlock couldn't let die.
Well played, Moriarty. Well played.
.
Fear.
.
Fear, and a bomb.
.
Fear for himself. Of course, fear for his life.
But one fear was worse. Fear for Sherlock.
Because John knew now that Sherlock did care.
John knew.
And so did Moriarty.
.
But if John was going to die, he was taking Moriarty down with him.
.
. . .
.
The laser trails off of John, and on to someone knew.
If he was going to die, he was taking Moriarty with him.
But he wasn't taking Sherlock.
.
And he backed away.
.
. . .
.
Catch you later.
No you won't!
And with that Moriarty was gone.
.
The tension released instantly.
Of course Sherlock said he had no heart, of course he played his part and he played it well.
But he had been scared out of his mind.
"Alright? Are you alright?" He tore off the bomb and threw it away as quickly as possible. He was scared, he had been terrified, and this time he didn't care about showing it.
.
Maybe it's not weak, caring.
Maybe it's not a flaw, a dent in a plan.
Maybe, for once, he could show weakness. After all, isn't that what friends are for?
.
Over.
It's over!
John felt like laughing, crying, and screaming all at once. In the end he just collapsed.
He had never felt so relieved in all his life, even as Sherlock stripped the bomb off him in a frenzy like none he'd ever seen.
He'd known all along, of course. The man really did care.
.
But the moment was gone as quickly as it had come.
.
...
.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
To stay here talking on about his bloody feelings as if they mattered.
What mattered was keeping Watson alive.
And the moment he began to care was the moment he failed.
.
Oh.
No. No, no, no, this was over. Over!
Johns eyes shifted, panicked, never straying from the red dots on Sherlock's neck and chest.
He should have ended it when he could.
Said something wrong, perhaps. Revealed Moriarty before he was ready. Given the message wrong. Anything to give Sherlock a way out.
.
Sherlock was searching.
Scanning, observing, looking for anything, anything to give John a way out.
But there were no options.
Check and mate.
.
But Sherlock knew chess.
For a king to kill a king, he sacrifices himself.
But that when there's only the kings left. And Moriarty knew as well as he did that there was still a third.
And that's why his finger quakes on the trigger.
Waiting, hesitating. Sherlock hated hesitation, but what could he do?
Their eyes locked in silent conversation.
.
John was saying yes.
.
But he was scared. John was scared far more than Sherlock, or at least more than he would have ever dared to admit. Had John been holding the gun, he wouldn't have been able to do it. That was one thing Sherlock was sure of.
.
No, of not one but two things he was certain.
John couldn't have done it.
And neither could he.
Sherlock dropped the gun as Moriarty smiled.
He watched in relief as the lasers disappeared one after the other, and moved to leave.
But John wasn't so relieved.
He was staring, trembling in terror as betrayed on his face more vividly than Sherlock had ever imagined possible.
Sherlock followed his gaze.
Of course. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
The lasers weren't gone.
They were on him.
.
John struggled not to cry out. Not to gasp, not to yell, not to move. Not to do anything to get Sherlock killed.
At last, he spoke.
"Do it, Sherlock."
Sherlock tilted his head, confused. John sighed.
"Do it. Admit you've lost."
But he could see the answer in Sherlock's eyes.
Why did he always have to be so stubborn? Why did he always have to be the hero?
.
"Then I will." John's voice wavered, but he did all in his power to sound strong.
"I surrender. You won, we lost. I'll do whatever you want."
"Let."
"Him."
"Go."
.
Moriarty just laughed. "You could learn from your friend here, Sherlock. Such a brave little tyke." John winced. "But do you really think I want you? That would be no victory. No, John, my game is with Sherlock, not you. Never you. Now be on your way, or someone" the lasers focused together on Sherlock's heart "is going to have a nasty accident."
.
John's voice was pleading as genuine grief filled his eyes. "Sherlock, please – "
Sherlock's gaze released itself from the enemy to look at his companion, unable to meet his eye.
"You know I can't."
"Sherlock – "
A high pitched voice pierced the air. "The clock's ticking, John. Now run along like a good little boy and I may decide to let your friend here li – "
.
"You won't kill him."
.
"Ah," Moriarty mutters, pleased. "Ah, you are a smart one, aren't you? But perhaps I will, won't I? What assurance do you have?"
.
"You don't want to."
.
"Don't I? We've finished our game, much to my disappointment. A little redundant to let it continue, wouldn't you agree, Sherlock?" Sherlock for once was speechless.
.
But John had seen this coming, and much to Sherlock's dismay, he had a ready answer.
"I'll make it interesting. Take me. I'll be the bait, I'll be the gamble he always has to take. Torture, near-death . . . you'll come up with something creative. You know I'll be . . . " John's voice cracked, "useful."
.
"John – " Sherlock began, but he choked on his words as one by one, the lasers left his body, leaving a mere two to ensure John's obedience as he stood and came towards Moriarty, hands in the air. No tricks. No, John wouldn't pull something, not with Sherlock's life at stake, and the latter knew this. So it was up to him to play the final move.
.
But the gun lay on the gun lay on the floor, and Sherlock could do nothing but watch helplessly as John approached the enemy with open arms.
.
He finally found his words. "John, DON'T!" John kept walking as more lasers trained on Sherlock's torso. "John, please!"
.
But there was no John left to hear his words, and the room lay empty, save for a bomb rigged jacket and a distraught Sherlock Holmes, who, for once, had no idea what to do.
A/N: Again, please no spoilers! I know my theory is off base, probably by a lot. I actually never intended to go beyond Moriarty's exit, but again, the rest just kinda happened as I wrote.
Yes, I do ship JohnLock, but there's a very specific reason why I use the word "friend."
For one, Sherlock is still just barely coming to terms with the idea of caring about anyone at all. Baby steps, baby steps. "Friend" is a huge leap for him in and of itself.
And as for John, I didn't want this to be a romance story. Also, I wanted John to still be a little shy and very uncertain about his feelings for Sherlock. If you'd prefer, just view it as literally friend, it works with the psychology behind it. I just thought I'd throw in that tidbit.
Well, what do you think? Review! (but no spoilers, please!) (I know, I've said it enough times, but I'm paranoid. :P)