Disclaimers: are stupid. I hate exams.
"What have you done?"
10:34 am, he had just came back from the shopping center, hands full of plastic bags as he trudged up the wooden stairs, calling Sherlock's name. Expect, there was no answer. It's a likely chance Sherlock was so immersed in his experiments or "organizing his mind palace" that he has little to no regards of him returning home with the milk.
Today was especially bad since he had a row with the chip and pin machine again. Luckily the man behind him kindly taught him how to "not yell at the machine" and how "the machine isn't alive" and eventually, through the arduous of resisting the urge to punch the man's face, John walked home with two bags full of food and milk.
A silent response was already normal, however today he happened walked into the room to see his flatmate sprawled on the floor half choking on his own vomit. Military instinct kicked in as he dropped his shopping bags, right hand shooting near his gun.
"Do I have to repeat this again?" His hand curled around the shaft of his pistol. "What, have you done to my flatmate?"
The man at the corner smiled. "Your 'flatmate' seems to have something on mine that I want back," the man said coldly. "Give it back to me, and I'll give you the antidote. If you refuse to do what I tell you… well," he shrugged, "your flatmate dies."
John felt like mentally slapping himself. Of course, Sherlock goes and takes something that's not his and end up getting nearly killed by the owner.
He frowned at this and tried to act stupid. "Sorry but, I don't know what 'thing' you're talking about." It was true. He had no idea what Sherlock took to anger this man to come to their flat.
"You have 10 minutes," the man only replied. "You can't call for help, judging by the traffic today the ambulance will reach Baker Street in 11 minutes. It only takes 10 minutes for the poison to settle in and collapse the respiratory system. Even if the ambulance does reach in time, only I have the antidote. So you're technically tied."
John clenched his fists. He hated people who plan every single detail out. If only there was another way…
"Very well," he said, voice leveled. "I will find the whatever thing you want back and you save Sherlock, deal?"
The man smiled his shark grin. "Maybe," he said. "Depends on my mood,"
John gritted his teeth. He dropped to the ground and knelt next to the still moaning Sherlock.
"Sherlock? Sherlock can you hear me?" Sherlock groaned responsively.
"You know, what's interesting about this type of poison is that it comes from the pufferfish," the man showcased, "and it became one of the deadliest poison on earth. My boss gave it to me—oops, spoiler alert, guess who's my boss? Moriarty~!"
"Shut up would you?" John called from his shoulder. The man's smile dropped into a sour frown.
"Sherlock?" John tapped at his sweating flatmate's face again. "What did you take from the man?"
Sherlock raised his eyebrows and John followed as his eyes traveled all the way up to the bathroom door. John closed his eyes.
"Oh God, please don't tell me that you stole that pink brochure in the cupboard," he groaned.
"Didn't," Sherlock managed to gasp out. John rolled his eyes.
The man laughed.
John turned to him. "What's so funny?"
"Well, aren't you just cute?" The man grinned. "I can see why Jim liked you so much, sticking next to your flatmate like a dog. I would like to have someone like you. Too bad, I killed my recent associate," he stopped for a second, "associates," he corrected. "Boss wasn't happy." He deadpanned.
A cough interrupted John from his thoughts as he whipped around to see Sherlock starting to close his eyes.
"Dammit," he swore, "Sherlock, Sherlock keep your eyes on me, don't sleep it off okay?"
"Wasn't, planning to," he tried turning over to his side but John pulled him back again.
"Sher-oh God," Sherlock's eyes were abnormally dilated, black pupils staring back at him with just a ring of blue and green showing around the circle.
"Wha-"
"Botulinum toxin," the man announced proudly behind him. "Funny how it's the same poison that killed Carl Powers, he was a nice kid. Sad, I never got to meet him though."
"So Moriarty gave you the poison?"
"I asked. Boss is always kind to his favorites."
John stopped himself from punching that man. "Sherlock, just hang on for a moment okay? I'll be back," he dashed off to the bathroom.
A few days ago, the mysterious pink brochure had appeared in the cupboard of the bathroom. John remembered asking Sherlock where he got it from and Sherlock just mumbling something incoherent so John decided to leave it there. He did excepted something big was going to happen linked to the brochure — it did seem quite valuable — yet he didn't except to be tangled in this sort of situation.
Without thinking, he grabbed the pink brochure then stumbled back into the living room, the edges of the metal cutting into his skin for gripping it so hard.
"Here you go," John held up the pin, "the thing you wanted. Now give me the antidote,"
The man stepped forward and took the brochure from him. He examined it for a while. The answer seem to cut through John's heart like a wire. "Hmm, no,"
Disbelief crowded his head. "What?"
"Because of the delay… let's play a little game, shall we?"
"I…," A headache quickly blossomed and John held up a hand to check if he didn't hit his head on the way out. "What do you want?" He said through clenched teeth.
"I just want to play a game," he said innocently.
"There's no time for a game,"
"Oh, there's always time for a game Doctor Watson," the man grinned, "let's play, who am I?"
John stepped forward. "Look, I have no time for your games you promis-"
"And you're wasting time," the man cut. "And by the way, I just love watching you scatter around like an ant. Remember, 6 minutes left," he tapped his watch, "the clock is ticking Doctor Watson,"
As if on cue, Sherlock threw up all over the floor. John closed his eyes and wished everything would disappear.
On the contrast, the man's snarky voice pipped up again. John swore if he heard the man's voice again, he would lose it. "There's this woman… she killed herself, in order to advocate for the abandonment of women."
"Wow, well that's stupid," John retorted sarcastically.
"She shot herself in the head,"
Something clicked in his mind. Wait, this woman, he knew her…
"Yet she came back,"
The puzzles seem to suddenly snap together.
"She came back, as a ghost to haunt people, killing them off one by one," the man whispered, stressing on each word, "It's not a game anymore, Doctor Watson," at the same time, he made a face at Sherlock.
The woman who shot herself in the head. Eighteen ninety something, Sherlock was talking about her on the plane ride back. He was drug induced that time but the facts weren't any different. Mary searched it up online that day too. The woman who shot herself in the head yet she survived, somehow. The case was never solved. Just like Moriarty's.
"Now who is she?" The man's words broke John out of his thoughts. "Who is she?" He spread out his hands like performing a magic show, grin plastered on his face.
A groan escaped from below and John turned to see Sherlock hugging the floor, drooling everywhere over the floor. His eyes were beginning to roll back ad his skin was as pale as alabaster, still shining with sweat.
"Sherlock," John knelt down again and shook him awake.
"Thanks for the brochure by the way," the man walked over and peeked at the slobbering Sherlock.
"Not looking very well is he?"
John clenched his teeth, trying to ignore him. Big, fat, ass mouth, he fumed. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, the only non paralyzed body part, in agreement.
"This brochure was my mother's. Passed down from families. He thought it had something to do with my associate's death. It did," he sniffed at him, "smart aleck. Sent the whole damn police squad searching my house for it. For course, he made one mistake," he glanced down at the dying detective, "self-pride. He tried to analyze it himself. If I hadn't come here earlier enough, well," he shrugged, "I'll be in some damn prison wouldn't I? But no, look what's happening now,"
Sherlock glared at him with all the force he could muster.
"I get my revenge," the man sneered, "and a nice game to play with your pet,"
John rolled his eyes and tried hard not to punch the man in the face. Instead, he concentrated his energy on trying to keep Sherlock conscious. "Hey, Sherlock, can you speak?" A responding groan told him the answer. John dropped his head in defeat. "Okay, just hang on there okay? Come on," he took Sherlock's hand with his. "Focus your energy on staying awake ok?"
Sherlock's dilated eyes flew to John's face. His entire feature has now slackened due to the poison and judging by the short gasps of pain the poison had already settled in his abdomen.
"Sherlock, who was the woman?" He knew there's a less percent that he can reply but he still have to try.
The detective's helpless eyes traveled back up at him. His features moved to say something but only a muddled moan escaped from his mouth.
"He couldn't talk, the poison had already settled too much in," the man snarled with glee from behind.
Another cry rang through the room as the pain started spreading down his chest. At first, John mistaken it for sweat however as he looked closer, he realized Sherlock was crying. Tears stained his face as the breathing became more irregular, heartbeat way too fast for a normal person. He opened his mouth again and this time let out an inhumane sound.
"Dammit Sherlock," John pressed his fingers against his temples trying to think.
The woman! The woman who shot herself in the head Sherlock was mumbling about her what was her name! Shot herself in the head yet came back. Just like Moriarty. Dammit, think! Another cry of pain.
"Killed herself,"
"Shot through the head,"
"Just like Moriarty,"
"Died in 1895,"
"Secret twin sister maybe?"
Mycroft stepped up. "Emilia was not a twin, nor did she have any sisters. She had one older brother who died four years ago."
Emelia.
Emelia Ricoletti.
John's eyes flew open as he stood up and pointed to the man still smiling in the corner.
"Emelia Ricoletti, wasn't it?" He said. "That was her name, the woman who shot herself in the head, it was Emelia Ricoletti right?"
The man only responded with a slow smile. "Not bad," he tossed syringe at him, "I underestimated you,"
Catching the syringe in midair, John knelt down and ripped open the package. He didn't spend time to think whether the needle was sterilized or not. He immediately began working. Out of the corner of his perception, the man started talking again. God, will he ever stop?
"It's not a game anymore Doctor Watson," the man called from the stairs. Still not willing to stop, John thought. "I shall see you soon," he said softly. The door slammed to a shut. John sighed. And then the door opened again. "Maybe!" He called. The door closed with a bang.
John's hands quickly found the vein in his flatmate's neck and in seconds, the needle sunk into the flesh. He began to push down on the syringe. Sherlock's eyes rolled up.
"No-" John turned his gaze towards Sherlock and gently tapped his face. "You're not going this time, you're staying with me,"
Sherlock first stared at him open-mouthed. Slowly, he began to gain muscle recognition and flexed his jaw. He lets out a sigh and closes his eyes. The antidote seemed to be settling in. Soon, Sherlock's breathing resided to normal and his heartbeat evened out.
John finally starts to breathe properly. He released Sherlock and threw the syringe aside. Head swimming, he collapsed on the ground and too, closing his eyes briefly.
He did it. He stopped Sherlock from dying, bought the milk, and won the fight between the chip and pin machine, and stopped himself from dying because of the killer's incessant talking. So much for a Saturday.
It's not a game anymore.
Even if he did save Sherlock, there is one certain fact that he learned today.
Moriarty is back.
Exams are over. I failed Latin, got a 75 because I missed the entire last page. I also failed math and bio and humanities. I suck so much. I'm in a bad mood now so updates might be slow. Please understand.