When he woke up, he was dead.
This was a simple fact: the sky was blue, the earth was solid, and he was dead as the air that he once breathed.
James Moriarty opened his eyes, wondering what had gone so very, very off with his Game.
What did I do wrong? What did I miss, that led to this?
The Game...had it really ended, just like that? So soon? Where was the fun in ending it so early?
It was all so very deliciously simple, really, the little Game. A time to dance and slaughter with wits and fire and brimstone, with thunder and the sweet, deadly, metallic kiss of a sniper's bullet, the scarlet dots marking up the targets, all that lovely fear, so rich, so deep it reeked off his pawns, his chesspieces, his little toys. The Game where there was a side that won, and a side that lost, and either way you would bet everything, and lose a part of yourself to keep going, until the sickly, bittersweet end.
He looked upwards, Nothing but white greeted him, a vast, unending, empty stretch of blank space, lifeless as an untouched canvas. The white burned, pinning him down in its endless grip, crushing him underneath the sudden expanse of nothing.
How boring. It needs some colour. Red, perhaps? A little dash of blood never hurts.
But there was no colours to be seen, nothing to differentiate his surroundings. He tried to move his head, testing how far he could reach.
There was nothing. His head would not turn.
Undaunted, he tried again, with the same result. A faint feeling of unease bubbled up from deep within, churning within his gut like some foul brew of Hell.
Why can't I move?
The sound of the words never reached the air, dying before they could be heard. He tried again.
Silence. Empty, painful, stagnant silence, all around him, crushing him, enfolding him in its cold, unfeeling hold of strangulation. I can't speak. My voice is gone. Why?
Movement was attempted again. He willed his fingers to move, to twitch and squirm, as he tried to see what had happened to his body. Something's very wrong, I can't feel anything.
He forced his gaze to move downwards, straining with effort. Everything felt so difficult.
His body was there, unclothed and pale as death, deep blue veins running ribbons of tangled greyish-sapphire across his skin.
He tried to move again. Nothing happened.
Have I been drugged with some kind of paralytic? No, there'd be some kind of stiffness and sore ache from the entry point if I was injected with something, and I don't have an aftertaste in my mouth. How odd.
He tried again, and again, and again. He tried to speak.
There was no movement, and no sound, only silence. James Moriarty closed his eyes, trying to block out the white expanse burning his retinas with its eerie glow.
A song, perhaps? Something to alleviate the boredom?
Tiptoe, tiptoe, to Burrow Town we go,
The game is on, the rabbit runs,
The dogs are off, to hunt we go,
It's late, it's cold, but the trail's not old,
The scent is still too fresh,
So carry on, and get your gun,
Tonight we'll get their flesh...
It's dark out now, the wind does howl,
And all the days past are flying,
So look to the sky, kiss your life good-bye,
Head out as they're homeward crying.
The Hunt is on, the past has gone,
And all the years you've mocked her,
Tiptoe, lads, and steady your hands,
The lamb's been led to slaughter.
He choked, laughter seizing up his throat in a silent, crushing grip as the words clogged his breathing, shards of syllables cutting into his mouth like bits of glass as they froze behind bared teeth. He couldn't stop, it wouldn't stop, make it stop-
No answer would come. No help would be given. Darkness crept into the edges of his vision, blurring and flickering like the enflamed corners of a old photograph as his eyes rolled back. The skin around the edges of his mouth hurt, but then, that's what happens when you smile too much.
Too quiet. Too calm, Too boring.
But there was no one else to play the Game now. He was all alone. No wonder he was laughing.
The body was twitching again, jerking about in a mad, trembling fashion. The dove-grey gleam of metal glinted dully as the occupant thrashed about, limbs flailing like pale tree branches caught in some unearthly gale. A greyish-pink tongue hung out, the mouth frothing with the last vestiges of saliva. The eyes were rolled back, leaving only the faintest sliver of white visible as sweat clung to the paling skin.
She hummed softly, tucking a lock of brown hair behind her ear as she placed the scalpels and knives, the tweezers and tools back in their proper places on the autopsy tray, lined up neatly and freshly cleaned with a kind of lemon soap. Her hands are stripped of their rubber gloves, the elastic covering rinsed and discarded in a trash bin.
Watching as the body finally stopped moving, feeble jerks and twitches finally ebbing out along with the last of the blood, she surveyed her handiwork before capping and pocketing the syringe, lab coat swishing gently, a faint, raspy, whispering shhhhh in the quiet room.
As the lights are turned off, the last bit of colour left in the morgue as darkness falls is red, the apple gleaming dully next to the dead man's head, a single bite taken out, to stand in company next to the neatly cut, surgically-precise letters.
Now we're even.