The sound of the water is almost calming, but almost isn't enough. Lights dance on top of the familiar pool, taunting him with their tango. You won't touch him, little boy, run away, you lose this game, you'll end up just like Carl. But he continues on. His footsteps fill the empty room, and then die as he stops by the sparkling pool, looks around, and begins:
"I brought you a little getting-to-know-you present," Sherlock Holmes says, holding up the Bruce-Partington plans in his thin hand. "That's what it's all been for, isn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance. All to distract me from this."
A door screeches open, and Sherlock turns around. His stomach turns into a bottomless pit as his eyes examine what is in front of him, and his brain tries to process it.
"Evening."
Processing, processing… No, this can't be right.
"This is a turn up, isn't it Sherlock?"
"John? What the heck?"
"Bet you never saw this coming." Doctor John Watson's expression is tired, almost pained. "What… would you like me… to make him say… next?" He moves his arms just slightly to open his big winter coat, revealing a bomb strapped to his chest. The blue and red lights blink and join in with the lights on the water. We told you so, Sherlock Holmes. You lose. "Gottle o' geer. Gottle o' geer. Gottle of geer."
"Stop it," the consulting detective says, slowing moving towards his flat mate.
"Nice touch, this," John continues, and Sherlock thinks he sees just a hint of a smile on his face for the fastest second. "The pool, where little Carl died. I stopped him, I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart."
"Who are you?" Sherlock cries.
For a few seconds, nothing happens. The water rises and falls, and the lights taunt Sherlock. You lose, you lose, why won't you just listen?
"I gave you my number," comes John. "I thought you might call."
"You coward," Sherlock replies, that slight grin now appearing on his face, but only a mask for his real feelings. "Still talking through your victims. Why don't you come out?"
Another drawn out pause. Run away, you've lost.
"It seems you don't understand," John says, taking the device out of his ear. "I'm not the victim, Sherlock." The medical man strips off his coat and unfastens the bomb that is attached to his body. Beneath it all is a sleek black tuxedo. Watson quickly brushes it off. "Westwood," he states with a grin.
Sherlock's eyes widen, and the words he meant to say are stuck in the back of his throat.
"John Moriarty. Hi!"
"John… no. Stop messing around, John."
"John? John Watson? The man who shares a flat with the only consulting detective in the world? The man who helps him? Hmm. Did I really leave such a fleeting impression? Though, I suppose that was rather the point."
Sherlock begins to back away, his eyes filled with horror. He knew, he knew, he never should have trusted anyone. Never should have gotten involved in this "caring" thing, or that thing called "friendship."
John smiles smugly. "I'm sure even you've heard of this phrase, Sherlock," he says. "Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer? Or are you more of a sociopath than I observed?"
"No, no," Sherlock mutters, more to himself than to John or the dancing lights. "How could I have been so stupid?"
"Although, I have loved this," Moriarty continues with a laugh. "This little game of ours. Playing John, from Afghanistan. Playing the caring sidekick. Did you like the little touch with the psychosomatic limp?" He raises his eyebrows at the last part, and the grin just gets wider and wider, taunting him along with the lights. You've really done it now Sherlock. It's over. You've lost.
"People have died," Holmes says with some difficulty. "I thought you cared."
"That's what people DO!" John Moriarty screams. His voice echoes off the walls, bounces around the prison. The otherwise calming sound of the pool, the restless rise and fall, rise and fall, was beginning to join in and bully him. How long had it been since he'd eaten again? John would have made sure- Oh, wait. John.
"Here," Sherlock holds out the Bruce-Partington plans with one hand. "Take it."
"Oooh," John says, swiping the plans away from the outstretched hand. He gives it a soft kiss. "The missile plans." A few seconds pass. "Boring! I could have got them anywhere!"
Moriarty throws the thumb drive into the pool, breaking the dance on the water. Oh how Sherlock wishes it would stay that way, but they're back with their tango again. How could you have been so stupid?
Sherlock's mind is flying at a thousand miles a minute, constantly thinking and turning the situation over in his head. He allows his mind to drift towards wishes once again. How he wishes John would come to his rescue and shoot the man in front of him like he gave it to the cabbie. But oh, wait, his mind says. John is in front of you. He's the one with the sly grin, the one who's making you dance. The one who's going to kill you.
His hand flies to his back pocket, where he grabs a gun and points it at John's head.
"Oh, good!" John laughs. "Very good. How totally unpredictable. It seems you've rather shown your hand there, detective."
A small, red dot springs to life on Sherlock's chest. It dances, just like the lights. Why won't they leave him alone? As if this wasn't enough, they just have to taunt him. He has no choice, though, and drops the gun at his feet with a clang. Moriarty's grin somehow gets wider.
"You really should have backed off, my dear," he says, moving closer still. "Now I'm going to burn the heart out of you."
"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one," the consulting detective states dryly.
"But we both know that's not quite true."
The two meet eyes for a moment. Sherlock never would have imagined that John was capable of this. The nice little military gentleman with the medical air about him. Sherlock curses his foolishness once again. How could he have let emotions get in the way? Where did they even come from? Surely it was all part of John- Moriarty's plan.
"Well," Watson grins, shoving his hands into his pockets, "the flirting's over Sherlock. Daddy's had enough now. You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't."
More lights spawn on Sherlock's chest, his arms, his legs. They all dance the same little tango. You've lost, you've lost.
"I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind," Moriarty shrugs.
Sherlock Holmes is thinking, thinking. In an instant he snatches his gun off the floor and points it at his friend- no, colleague- no, not even that-'s head.
"And probably my answer has crossed yours." He moves his weapon to the vest on the floor.
John Moriarty grins that same permanent grin, his nice gentlemanly smile now so full of evil.
"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock Holmes pulls the trigger. John Moriarty grins. The lights dance their taunting tango.
That was the day that Sherlock Holmes almost regretted meeting John Watson. That was the day he almost made it out alive. That was the day he almost didn't lose. But almost isn't enough.