To Be, or not to Be
A/N. This is my first fanfic and something I wrote when my fingers were itching after "The Great Game". Flood of inspiration and all that. I just wondered what Sherlock would see, how he would feel at that moment, and here's the result.
I never thought it would end like this.
On my chest the dots of red light dart and shiver with human frailty, but seem almost gleeful in their erratic, deadly dance. Cheerful little fireflies in the blackness.
Moriarty smiles, like a child, ecstatically jubilant to have us so fully in his grip, but I can draw little else from the tightening of muscles.
But his eyes speak volumes.
Eyes of cold obsidian, glittering with malice, anger pooling in inky whirls. And bitterness, flicking like a minnow through his gaze, hardening his features to a vengeful mask. After all these years, the young man who killed Carl Powers still needs to know he is better.
I raise my gun to him, sliding back the safety latch and his face falls into lines of pity. He knows I won't shoot. As do I, as I evaluate the distance between him and the door and my arm drops to aim at the vest of explosives, so recently strapped to my friend in a lethal embrace.
If I shoot, I am most certainly dead, as will be John, and Moriarty won't escape without mortal injures from the energy blast. The snipers, the mercenaries were barely worth thinking about in this game.
Every path I choose, my end looms over me but I couldn't just shoot him at point blank, what a waste that would be.
I can feel the hard black eyes boring into me, so arrogant and confident, that juvenile defiance uncoils like a young snake in my throat.
An icy calm settles in my gut.
And I squeeze.