The good old-fashioned villains never get a happy ending, do they?
"People have died." Sherlock said quietly, keeping his gaze fixed on me. His expression was hard to read – well-guarded – he was at least somewhat used to these kinds of situations. He wouldn't be boring like all the others have been. I was sure of it.
"That's what people DO!" The pool echoed, and I saw Sherlock recoil – just the slightest.
"I will stop you." Sherlock promised grimly, inching closer to his companion, his gun still cocked and pointed at me.
"No you won't," I said, matter-of-factly. I shoved my hands in my pockets and walked slowly towards John and Sherlock. I watched Sherlock. He seemed a little shaken, seeing his partner wrapped up in bombs. Boring! John would be the downfall of Sherlock Holmes. I was certain. A companion is only a weak point. An Achilles Heel.
"You all right?" Sherlock didn't even look away from me; he merely tilted his head towards his silent companion.
John stood absolutely still. His arms still held out awkwardly, as if how he stood would make the bombs hurt any less. I went on my tip-toes to say in John's ear, "You can talk, Johnny Boy. Go ahead." My smirk still playing at my lips, I turned my eyes to John.
I could feel Sherlock's gaze trained on me. From the corner of my eye, I could see that he held out a small memory stick in his outstretched hand. "Take it," He commanded.
"Hm?" I quirked my eyebrows. "Oh, that. The missile plans." I walked slowly to Sherlock, looking as careless as I dared. I took the memory stick from Sherlock's hand and lightly kissed it. I played with the small black drive with my fingers, "Boring!" I sang, lifting my eyes to meet Sherlock's, "I could have got them anywhere." I flicked the drive in the pool, grinning as I did so.
I felt sudden weight on my shoulders, and myself being pulled down in a choke hold. "Sherlock, run!" John was grabbing on to my neck, holding on as tightly as he could, and pressing the bombs into my back as though if he frighten me.
"Oh!" I exclaimed, "Good. Very good." I laughed. This man wouldn't dare do anything with my life – it was obvious. He was infatuated with Sherlock Holmes, and he wouldn't dare hurt me.
"Just like that, Mr. Moriarty." John rasped in my ear, "Pull that trigger, and we both go up."
"He's sweet," I drawled, "I can see why you like having him around." I feigned a thoughtful look, "But then people do get sentimental about their pets." I raised my eyebrows. I turned my head to face John, "They're so touching and loyal," I cooed. "But oops!" I grinned, "You've rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson." Watching John's expression, I said, "Gotcha."
A red dot appeared over Sherlock's forehead. John let go immediately, backing up against a wall. Sherlock himself did not move an inch. He kept the gun trained on me, and he did not waver.
I smoothed out the wrinkles on my suit. "Westwood." I pouted. Patting down the final wrinkles, I straightened out my tie and tilted my head up to meet Sherlock's piercing blue eyes, "Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock?" I droned, "To you." I added.
"Oh let me guess," Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "I get killed."
"Kill you?" Was this man not the fabled Sherlock Holmes? Able to find fifty different clues from one stain on the curtain? Why was he so predictable? "Eh, no." I grimaced, "Don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway someday. I don't want to rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special. No no no. If you don't stop prying, I will burn you." I paused – more for dramatic effect than anything else - "I will burn the heart out of you." I finished with a crooked smile.
"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one." Sherlock managed to say in between his clenched teeth. He was still pointing the stupid gun at me! Did he not realize how useless it was? I shrugged it off.
"But we both know that's not quite true." I gave Sherlock a genuine smile. I was going to enjoy play-time with Sherlock. "Well, I better be off. So nice to have had a proper chat." I smiled at both John and Sherlock, and nodded my head.
"What if I was to shoot you now?" Sherlock said before I could turn to leave, "Right now."
"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face." I plastered a fake look of surprise on my face, "Because I'd be surprised, Sherlock. Really, I would." I answered honestly, "And just a teensy bit disappointed." I gave him a sad smile, "And of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long." I smirked, glancing at John quickly. I raised one eyebrow, "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."
"Catch you… later." Sherlock said gritting his teeth.
"No you won't!" I sang, turning the corner into an open change room. I closed the door behind me, but I could hear Sherlock's frantic cries of 'Are you alright?' Fragile creature, this Sherlock Holmes. Not what the press made of him. They made him to be invincible – they put him on a golden pedestal, but the truth was - I could break him.
I turned another corner and raised my phone to my ear. I dialled the number 5, "Do it." I said quietly. I waited for a quiet, "Yes, sir." And I pushed open the door further away from where I knew Sherlock and John would still be standing. "Sorry boys!" I entered with a flourish, signature smirk still plastered on my face. "I'm so changeable! It is a weakness with me," I pouted. I watched Sherlock's face carefully, but I could only see the blank expression I had observed before. Just with… a bit more red dots aimed at his vital organs. "But to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness." I stopped walking and stared at the back of Sherlock's head. "You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you," I smiled, "Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."
"Probably my answer has crossed yours," Sherlock turned slowly, his gun aimed at my head. He shifted his hand to aim at the bomb-laiden jacket. I saw the gun tremble a little in Sherlock's hand, and I knew that I had won.
I smiled, watching Sherlock's face. I knew he wouldn't do it. He was weak. I was not. Maybe this game of ours wouldn't be as challenging as I had hoped it to be.
I lazily opened one eye, scanning the surrounding rooftop. It was bright – too sunny for my taste, but I didn't care anymore. The day I've been waiting for was finally going to happen – not yet – but very soon. I propped myself up on one elbow. When I rubbed the blue out of my eyes, I noticed a black kitten sitting only three feet away. I hate cats. I felt a tickle in my nose – fuck. My allergies. I tried to shoo the kitten away by waving my hand at it, but it merely moved closer.
"Stupid cat," I muttered. I sneezed – I never quite understood why cats always felt the need to be near me. "Shoo!" I was fully sitting now, and kicked some stones in its direction. "Damn thing." The cat finally decided to run away.
I pulled out a well-wrapped sandwich from my inner coat pocket. It wasn't a small sandwich, but I was hungry, and it didn't look quite appetizing. I frowned into it, but I gingerly unwrapped the sandwich – the wrap could be reused if unwrapped carefully. I bit into it – yum - Meredith put in tomatoes today! I need to tell her to put in more for tomorrow.
"James Moriarty," I heard a familiar voice say. It wasn't a voice I was hoping to hear, but a brother. A brother of the person I was expecting.
"The Iceman," I acknowledged, "Welcome to my humble abode." I made a sweeping gesture at the large, flat rooftop. I re-wrapped the sandwich and tucked it back into my coat pocket.
Mycroft Holmes nodded disdainfully in my direction and sighed, "James, Jim, Richard – how many names are you going by these days? You told me you were Richard Brook."
"And you fell for it," I sang, laughing as I did so. I clapped my hands in a childlike glee.
"Who are you?" Mycroft stood near the door at which he entered, and I noticed a small – very familiar – figure standing close behind him.
"Who is that?" I said aloud, completely ignoring his question. I pointed to the girlish figure behind him.
"This," Mycroft stepped to the side, "Is Molly Hooper. I am told that you two are acquainted."
Molly carefully stepped out into the light. Her hair was brushed and let down. She had taken extra care to look especially beautiful today. Her red lipstick was applied generously, and she wore a slimming black cardigan matched with a gray skirt.
"Molly, dear, you look beautiful," I offered her a smile.
She returned it cautiously, the smile not quite reaching her eyes. "Sherlock is not a fake," She said suddenly, dropping her eyes to the ground - embarrassed, probably.
"Are you here to talk about Sherlock? Really?" I grunted – this was not going my way at all. Not at all. "Boring! This is so boring! You are so predictable, and oh so boring."
"Jim! Please!" Molly shouted suddenly. "Listen to me!"
I was surprised – oh yes, I really was. I tried to meet her eyes again. "You really care about him?" I asked quietly. A small pang of pain gripped at my chest. What was this feeling? Why did I feel hurt by this?
"Yes," Molly blushed prettily, "And he cares about me."
"He cares about you?" I laughed, the pain disappeared, "Sherlock cares about maybe three people – and all of them are men."
Mycroft interrupted with a quiet cough, "Now, if you don't mind, Richard, I have things to talk about with you."
Things? Things to talk about with me? Iceman was going to ask me for something – and I was going to give him the exact opposite. "Alright, name it."
"You are going to hurt Sherlock's friends." Mycroft stated without hesitation.
"I am," I beamed at him, ignoring Molly's gaping mouth.
"Please. Do not hurt John. Don't hurt Mrs. Hudson. Please, I'm begging you. Lestrade is a good man," Mycroft blurted out.
Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade? I didn't even think of them! I was completely unaware of them being important to Sherlock. "Oh, my poor sweet Iceman; I don't go back on my promises," I shook my head, "But to promise you this? No, I just can't.
"I promised Sherlock that I would burn the heart out of him. Now if I leave three people out, I don't think I'll be able to burn it out." I paused, tapping my chin with one finger, "But you know, I was planning on killing you right here. Right now." I quickly typed in the passcode to my phone and sent just two texts: one comprising of new orders to kill Mrs. Hudson instead of Mycroft, and the other to shoot Lestrade instead of Molly.
"You just can't!" Molly stood in front of Mycroft Holmes, holding her arms out in front of him. "Please, Jim!"
"Oh, ho, ho," I raised my eyebrows. This was turning out to be very amusing. "You know that the younger Holmes cannot possibly be interested in you, so you went for the older one – just so you can have the same last name. Am I right?"
"No! It's not like that!" Molly blanched. Her face turned pale and she looked ill – positively ill. The red on her pretty little lips stood out and it was quite nice to look at – but it didn't change the fact that she suddenly looked awful.
"Are you telling the truth?" Mycroft said slowly, his Holmes' eyes fixing on mine.
"You decide, Iceman. Do you really think that Ms. Hooper is here for your charming personality?" I drawled. This scene unfolding was beginning to lose my interest, and I was still hungry. I took out the re-wrapped sandwich and quickly ripped the wrap off. I took three quick bites out, chewing as fast as I could.
"Molly, are you only here because I am related to… Sherlock?" Mycroft looked furious. Well not furious; he had the look of a Holmes when he was mad. Silently fuming – you could see it in their eyebrows when they were mad. All furrowed and ugly – it wasn't a nice sight.
"No! I'm here because…" Molly looked at me for help. Pah. As if. I shrugged at her, shooting her a look of feigned helplessness. "I'm here because…"
Mycroft looked disgusted. He was utterly enraged. "Richard. Promise it to me."
"Nope," I chirped, "I didn't even think of Mrs. Hudson or Lestrande! Instead of you and Molly, I think I'll kill off Mrs. Hudson and Lestrande. That'll burn Sherlock. I know it will."
"No!" Mycroft lunged towards me, hands out. He moved fast for a man of his… stature. I was surprised, but not caught off guard.
In a second I had the barrel of my gun poking his temple. "Iceman, let's not make any sudden movements. Or I'll kill you." I said cheerfully.
Mycroft backed up slowly, his hands up in the air in surrender, "I told you not to kill them."
"You also told me everything I need to know about Sherlock to call him a fake." I beamed at him, "Thanks for that."
"I didn't know!" Mycroft's voice boomed, his true anger showing above the surface of his carefully contained shell.
"But you still betrayed your dear little brother, didn't you?" My tone resembled one of that a parent speaking to a misbehaving child. "Whose fault is it?"
"Please," Mycroft said quietly, his hands quivering.
"Mycroft, love," I said, tucking the gun back into its holster, "Begging does not suit you."
Molly opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. She looked sadly at me, and finally said, "Harriet's in town."
"Harriet?" I turned my full attention to the girl. "Who's that? Someone important to Sherlock?" My full attention was on the girl.
"No," She said sullenly. "It's John's sister. Sherlock was going to have a grand dinner, and have a great time tonight."
"Why are you telling him this?" Mycroft asked under his breath, just loud enough so that I could hear.
"It's not important, but I just wanted him to know." Molly had tears running down her cheeks, silently smudging all of her meticulously applied make up. "I wanted him to know that Sherlock is finally being accepted into society – Jim! We could help you fit in too." She finished, dabbing her tears with a bloodied handkerchief.
Bloody from the hospital work, I guessed. Disgusting. "You think that fitting in is what I desire? After working my way up to the top – the spider, weaving my net of thousands of individual strings, the only consulting criminal – that I want to be a part of your stupid society?" I couldn't help but laugh. What a concept – what a girl! Molly Hooper was a strange girl – that was certain.
"Y-yes," She stammered, "Jim, that's what you told me! On the night…"
"My name… is James, you dim twat!" I burst out. "And it's called an act. Are you daft?"
Molly's eyes welled up with tears, but she bit her lip and all she mumbled was, "I'm sorry."
"No, baby." I cooed, "Baby, I'm sorry." I frowned at Molly, sticking my lower lip out as I did so, "You didn't deserve that."
"You are a psychopath." Mycroft furrowed his eyebrows again, studying my expressions as I studied his.
"You just noticed?" I faked a look of surprise – over-exaggerating my shock. "I'm hurt!"
Off in the distance, I heard sirens blaring. The sound echoed through the city of London, making it louder and closer than it really was. Was there another case for our hero Sherlock to solve? Was he headed there now? Mycroft's steely gaze was still lingering on my face, I noticed. I said nothing – what was there to say? I listened to the silence. London city buzzed with excitement, but I couldn't quite pick out any single voice; it was always a mash of voices, clashing together to make a cloud of nonsense.
"Sirens," Molly gasped. She peered over the ledge of the roof, her cardigan billowing out behind her. "They're headed towards Thames!"
"The river?" Mycroft stood closer to me, looking towards the river with extreme disdain. He looked almost bored – I knew he wasn't. I knew he was still angry.
"What other Thames is there?" I asked drily, quirking one eyebrow. "We should go there."
"Why?" Mycroft backed up two steps, his eyes suspicious – and curious! Well, that… was curious.
"I don't know, maybe Sherlock's there." I shrugged, shooting a pointed look at him.
Mycroft coughed into his hand – probably trying to diffuse his embarrassment. Not that anyone on this roof gave a shit, but whatever. "Right," he dusted off his shoulders, "Let's go."
"You're paying for the cabbie." I said lightly, skipping to the door. I held the door open for Molly – she shuffled by quickly, cheeks turning pink.
"Thank you," She had mumbled on her way past. Mycroft breezed past me without a single glance back.
"Fine, be like that." I muttered, making a mocking face at the back of Mycroft's rather large head. I skipped down the steps – while the others rushed down – I had all the time in the world. This was my game – and I would win – so I knew that I had enough time. I whistled an old Irish tune. A tune that my mother used to sing to me.
I was sitting at the kitchen table, my hands folded in my lap as I watched my mother's face. She was perched on a stool across from me, her expression carefully blank as she studied me in turn. It was silent and I didn't think that the house has been like this before. There was always noise, so much noise. My mother constantly speaking - never keeping her thoughts to herself, or his father muttering hatefully as he moved through the house.
There was none of it though. Nothing but the sound of the fridge humming and that was easily tuned out. It was as if she were waiting for something to break, for me to crumble and ask her just why she had called me down from my room in the middle of the night. I kept my mouth shut and continued to watch her with nothing showing on my face – I was careful to show nothing on my face - because I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of watching me crack. She no longer had the power to make me break under her steely gaze - had lost it years ago.
I kept my questions to myself, even though my curiosity was scratching me up on the inside, begging me to open my mouth and ask. I could survive the mental wounds that my patience sometimes provoked, but the humiliation of losing to my mother was something that I would not afford.
I kept my mouth shut, ignoring the urge to speak, my thumb nail digging into the soft skin of my finger. I could keep the curiosity at bay, wait until the perfect moment to strike. I had learned from the best, had even become better than the best. And I watched my mother slip, watched her tremble and finally parted her lips to speak. She wasn't as good as I was, not any more.
She hummed a small quiet tune. An old Irish melody that I loved. The name always escaped me – I knew it had something to do with a rabbit. My ma – she used to sing. She used to sing beautiful little songs – she never did that anymore.
"You have to see," she informed me and that wasn't nearly enough information to go on. I didn't move, waiting to see what she would do. She was just like me, never willing to lose, not after the build-up that caused their hearts to shudder in our chests.
We played our little games, watching the tension build until they gave it one last parting kiss and watched it shatter apart. That was the fun; the tense, trembling moment before the climax. "This was never something you would have seen coming, not as you are now. This is my last parting gift to you, my darling little boy." She reached out a hand across the table and cupped my cheek. It wasn't a caring touch, but one that quieted the voices in my head so that she could finish. She smiled, sharp biting edges, as her thumb traced the line of my cheek.
She pulled back, smile on her face as she lifted something from her lap. It glittered under the kitchen light, silver and beautiful. I had seen it before, tucked away deep in a drawer, something that I wasn't supposed to find.
She was right though, I never did expect this. The lift of a gun to her still smiling mouth and I remember wondering what it tasted like against her tongue. I never expected the pull of a trigger and the sharp sound that echoed around the sparse kitchen. I never expected the hole in my mother's head as she fell back off her chair and to the hardwood floor. I never expected her blood to seep into the cracks of the wood, a stain that nothing would ever be able to remove.
I never did see it coming, but that was the point, wasn't it?
"Get in the cab, Moriarty – we don't have that much time!" Mycroft snapped, his fingers tapping on the rim of the black cab. He had balanced the door open with his foot, and was gesturing me inside.
"Fine, fine. Don't get your panties in a twist, Iceman." I said with a smile as I slid into the cab.
"The river Thames," Mycroft said to the cab driver as he closed the door behind him. It was a tight fit – Molly, Mycroft and me, sitting cramped in the back of the cab.
"Didja hear? Someone jumped in the river! It was crazy – I don't think it'd be a very good place to go right now." The cabbie said slowly – I hated people who talked slowly. Were they dim or just plain stupid?
"Just go, old man!" I shouted, banging my hand against the plastic that separated him and myself – I could've done a lot worse if there was no plastic. The plastic being there was fortunate in his case.
"Sorry," The cabbie said quietly, revving the vehicle to life. He drove quickly – most Londoners did. He drove as quickly as he could – I could almost smell his discomfort.
I could feel Mycroft tensing up beside me, he tapped his toes, and when he got bored of that, he started to drum his fingers on the side of the door. He glanced around the cab quickly – looking out the window, back in, to the cabbie, glance at me, and back out the window.
"Molly, are you okay?" I whispered to her, raising both my eyebrows.
"Yes," She answered quietly, avoiding my eyes completely.
Cold, it was cold. I'm oh, so cold.
The funeral was a very small affair. Few people showed up – few people liked her alive or dead – she preferred it that way. I had to stand with my aunt, and as she dabbed her fake tears away, I was forced to look sad. I wasn't sad – I had no love for the woman.
In truth, no one looked truly sad. They were attending because they were invited – because they felt like they had to. Humans are pitiful creatures. My ma was the only one who really understood the world. And now she had left me in the world alone, labelling me as the child whose mother did not love him. It was true. Mrs. Moriarty was a lot of things, but a mother was certainly not one of them.
It was cold. Oh, so very cold. It was a winter afternoon, the cold sun shining, but the wind still blowing. We threw flowers and dirt into the hole, and that was it. The end of my mother. She was finally gone for good.
Why did it have to be so cold?
"Sherlock!" Mycroft was screaming now. He cupped his hands around his mouth and kept on shouting. Molly was doing the same of course – searching for her unrequited love. Pitiful - humans are – just pitiful.
"Someone jumped into the river," a hushed voice said from behind me.
I spun on my heel to find the source of the voice, but no one stood anywhere near me. I pulled my coat closer to my body. It wasn't yet winter, but it was so cold.
I never liked the cold.
"Excuse me, mister." A small boy tugged on my coat sleeve. "Can you spare some change?"
"No," I yanked my sleeve away from the boy and walked briskly towards Mycroft, shoving my hands into my pockets.
"Sherlock!" Mycroft called again, sounding desperate now – ooh, that was new.
"Aw, I knew you were a good big brother." I patted the man on the shoulder, "Now if you don't mind, I'm heading back. There's nothing to see here."
"Sherlock!" Mycroft turned away from me with a curt nod, and continued the search for Sherlock.
"I don't want to play with you!" The boy in the blue overalls yanked the car out of my hand and scampered over to Ms. Brook.
I sat down where I was sitting. It didn't matter to me. I wanted to be out of this place. This horrible place they make me call home. The Riverside Orphanage – a place for fun! No. A place for horrid little kids to be abandoned by their parents.
Horrid little kids… I guess I fit in here then. I never thought about it quite like that – and now that I had, maybe I could start here. I could start a new life – clean? No. Never clean. A Moriarty does not start clean slates – we merely change the course of our slate.
"My names Sebastian, here's the car." Another boy had approached him – maybe a year or two older? Didn't matter.
"Nice to meet you Sebastian," I gave him my best smile, "Thank you."
The cab ride back to the hospital was a quick one. The cabbie was silent the whole way there, and he took my tip graciously.
"One hundred quid? Thank you sir," The cabbie pocketed the money.
"Can I borrow your cab?"
"My cab?"
"Your cab."
"Y-yes."
I had pressed my lips against hers, and she recoiled immediately.
"What are you doing?" She had cried, pushing her hands against me.
"I'm sorry, Molly."
"Sherlock-"
"Sherlock Holmes?"
"Y-yes."
Sherlock always won, didn't he?
Not this time.
"This is my cab, you get the next one." The man clad in black stepped into my cab.
"Why?" His friend asked.
"You might talk." The man – Sherlock Holmes – closed the door.
Perfect.
I flicked the switch of the personal TV of the cab. London Taxi Shopping was advertising jewellery.
"Can you turn this off, please?" Sherlock asked quietly. The TV droned on. He asked again louder, "Please turn this off."
The screen cut to my face. I had recorded this a while ago. I stood in front of a children's story board, blue: sky blue, with cheerful clouds floating in the make-believe sky.
"Hello, are you ready for the story?" My voice said from inside the box, "This is the story of Sir Boast-A-Lot." I felt a smile creep on my face. My voice took on a sing-songing tone, one I would use to speak to children, "Sir Boast-A-Lot was the bravest and cleverest knight of the round table. But soon the other knights began to grow tired of his stories of how brave he was, and how many dragons he'd slain.
"And so they began to wonder, 'Are Sir Boast-A-Lot's stories even true?'" I shook my head on-screen, "Oh, no…" I had said, frowning at the camera. The sky turned dark, and rain started pouring from behind me. "So one of the knights went to King Arthur and said, 'I don't believe in Sir Boast-A-Lot's stories. He's just a big old liar who makes things up to make himself look good.'
"And then, even the King began to wonder… But that wasn't the end of Sir-Boast-A-Lot's problem. No, that wasn't the final problem…
"The end." The screen flickered off, and back to the jewellery commercial.
"Stop the cab." Sherlock commanded, "Stop the cab!"
I pulled the cab into a stop near a lamp post. I was smiling – how could I not be? It was fucking hilarious!
"What was that?" Sherlock scrambled out of the cab, slamming the door shut. "What was that?" He ran up to the driver window.
I turned my head to face him. I saw an array of emotions from shock to fear. Fear. In the face of Sherlock Holmes. Yes, this game was going my way. "No charge." I sneered, and revved the car forwards. I saw Sherlock's hands desperately grab at the door, but I easily sped away. I laughed – I laughed until I was out of breath. I laughed myself silly – it was grand.
The look of shock on Sherlock's face? Priceless.
I drove as fast as I could, and I easily out-sped the man on foot. Hilarious.
Now I had to rely on Lestrade – something I wasn't willing to do, but it was something I had to do. I needed a picture of Sherlock being taken in for questioning – that would crush the famous 'private' detective. I knew Sherlock wouldn't do it. He wouldn't fall for such a cheap trick. That's why I have the girl. I have the girl right under my thumb, and I knew she was gullible enough to believe – Sherlock is a fake.
I stopped the cab in a small alleyway, abandoned it completely – I left the key in the car. I was willing to walk a couple blocks to get to my safe-haven. Or my not so safe haven. It was the next place Sherlock would discover me. The last step before the final performance.
I jogged down the streets – no one spared a look – and I made it to the apartment door in less than five minutes. I rang the bell impatiently and the mousy girl, Kitty opened the door.
"Oh, Richard, you're here." She drawled.
I liked her. She was like me. Cunning, clever, and untrustworthy. But I could trust her. I had something of hers that she needed back.
"Nice to see you, darling." I pushed past her and up the stairs to her flat.
"Can you pick up some ground coffee for me?" She suddenly caught my arm.
"Fine," I paused and I bit my lower lip, pouting at her, "I'm short on funds."
She dug through her pockets and she produced five quid, "Thanks." She said. Kitty poured the loose change into my hand and pushed me out the door again. "He will be here when we get back. Right?"
"Right," She was learning quickly.
"I'll be back in a few too. I have a couple errands to run."
I pocketed the coins and started down the road. I knew I couldn't afford anything good, so I decided to waste time and just wander down the streets of London. If you looked once, it all seemed nice – I saw a man looking dapper with a woman on his lap. But if you looked again, I saw it was a pimp and his crack whore. I laughed – I couldn't help myself. I felt nervous.
Nervous for what? I wasn't sure.
I entered the nearest market place and searched for ground coffee. I couldn't find any in reach, so I just picked up the normal kind – what was the difference, anyway?
I paid for it with her five quid and accepted a brown bag for the coffee. "Thanks," I muttered, shoving one hand in my pocket and the other one held the bag. I would need a clever act to meet Sherlock as Richard Brook, and I was positive I could pull it off.
I stood in front of the door, and from the outside, I could hear Sherlock's his low voice demanding answers. If Sherlock was as nervous as I was, I think I could pull this off. I ruffled my hair and pulled at my dirty cardigan. I lowered my gaze and pushed open the door.
"Darling, they didn't have any ground coffee so I got the normal…" I trailed off when I saw Sherlock's equally astounded face. I would need to be convincing for this final act. I raised my hand – mockingly in defeat, but Sherlock didn't know that – "You said that they wouldn't find me here. You said I'd be safe here." I tried my hardest to gasp out.
"You are safe. Richard, I'm a witness. They won't harm you in front of witnesses." Kitty said, unconvincingly, I might add. She was horrid, but I'd have to make-do.
"That's your source?" Sherlock's partner said, shaking his head in disbelief, "Moriarty is Richard Brook?"
"Of course he's Richard Brook." Kitty almost rolled her eyes, "There is no Moriarty. There never has been."
"What are you talking about?" John was confused – oh, so confused. And very angry. He was breathing heavily in pure fury, his fists clenching and unclenching by his sides.
I had to bite at the insides of my cheeks not to smile. How could I not smile?
"Look him up. Rich Brook." Damn you Kitty! You weren't supposed to give away my finishing touch. Rich Brook meant Reichen Bach in German, the story that made Sherlock Holmes. And he was meant to figure it out by himself. Kitty shot me a sly look – that bitch. She preferred Sherlock, and I didn't know. She was helping him – although she wouldn't do much. Not with me paying her as much as I was. "An actor Sherlock Holmes hired to be Moriarty."
"It's going to start very soon, Sherlock: the fall." I whistled a comedic tune, one that slowly descends. "But don't be scared. Falling's just like flying, except there's a more permanent destination." I made a thud noise, mocking the noise of a body hitting the ground.
"Never liked riddles." Was all Sherlock could say.
"Learn to. Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I… Owe… You…"
It was my turn to act once again. "Doctor Watson, I know you're a good man." I trembled, holding both my hands up in plain sight. I started backing up and I stopped when I felt the wall against my back. "Don't… Don't h- don't hurt me."
"No you are Moriarty!" John yelled, pointing a finger at me. Sherlock's little pet was very gullible – not a very smart guard dog. John turned to face Kitty. "He's Moriarty." And he quickly spun to face me again, his face twisted with rage. "We've met, remember? You were going to blow me up."
I put my hands over my face, trying to figure out what to say – but quickly – I held my hands out in front of me again. My voice cracked, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." I gestured to Sherlock, "He paid me. I needed the work. I'm an actor. I was out of work. I'm sorry, okay?" I sounded close to tears – hey, maybe I could be an actor.
"Sherlock, you'd better… explain… because I'm not getting this." John was breathing heavily, his eyes wild with confusion and anger.
Kitty intercepts, "Oh, I'll… I'll be doing the explaining – in print." She handed over the folder that I had given her hours before, "It's all here – conclusive proof."
John looks down at the sheet of paper with her upcoming article. Then he turns to the proof copy showing the layout of how it will appear in the newspaper, with spaces left for photographs. The headline reads in bold, "Sherlock's a fake!" with the strapline, "He invented all the crimes".
"You invented James Moriarty, your nemesis." Kitty said calmly to Sherlock.
"Invented him?" John seemed upset – normal. Ordinary people do get upset easily. I mused to myself.
"Mmm-hmm. Invented all the crimes, actually – and to cap it all, you made up a master villain." Kitty murmured.
"Oh, don't be ridiculous." John had made up his mind.
Kitty turns to face me; her eyes seemed to ask, 'Are you ready?'
I gave her the tiniest of nods.
"Ask him." She pointed at me. "He's right here! Just ask him. Tell him, Richard."
"Look," John said loudly, "For God's sake, this man was on trial!"
"Yes…" Kitty pointed at Sherlock once more, "…and you paid him; paid him to take the rap. Promised you'd rig the jury…"
Sherlock stared at Kitty with a calmly guarded expression. Very hard to read. Oh, good. Very good, Sherlock. Going down swinging, are we?
"Not exactly a West End role, but I'll bet the money was good." Kitty smirked a little. She walked to me and put her arm around my shoulders. I chose to keep my arms up, just to add one more special effect. "But not so good he didn't want to sell his story."
I clasped my hands together and looked at John plaintively. "I am so sorry. I am. I am sorry." I pleaded with John.
"So - so this is the story that you're going to publish." John ignored my plea, and looked to Kitty. "The big conclusion of it all: Moriarty's an actor?" John shook his head.
"He knows I am. I have proof. I have proof!" I looked to Kitty, "Show him, Kitty! Show him something!" I said quickly.
"Yeah, show me something." John muttered angrily.
Kitty stalked across the room to her folders. I put my hands over my face. This would be over soon, Sherlock, dear, and then we will have our final performance. You better be ready. I opened my eyes again to see Kitty and John looking at her folders – Sherlock's eyes were still locked with mine. I gave him a triumphant smile.
Sherlock decides to humour me with a small smile of his own. It doesn't reach his eyes. For once – James Moriarty could win.
Kitty took the folder out and handed it to John.
"I'm on TV. I'm on kids' TV. I'm The Storyteller!" I said, slipping back into Richard Brook's character again.
John flicks through the copies of my fake contact details, painstakingly made to be exactly like the agency website in which I claimed to work for. John flipped to a newspaper article showing a picture of me in glasses and wearing medical scrubs and a stethoscope around his neck. The article was title "Award Winning Actor Joins The Cast of Top Medical Drama".
"I'm… I'm The Storyteller." I said again, "It's on DVD." I look to Sherlock with the face of Richard Brook – he's not amused – but I am. I gesture to John, and looked to Sherlock pleadingly. "Just tell him. It's all coming out now. It's all over." I started to speak faster, "Just tell them. Just tell them. Tell him!" Sherlock suddenly moves closer – I didn't expect this, but it worked to my advantage. I would play victim. "It's all over now… NO!" I sprawl out on the short set of stairs that led towards the bedroom. "Don't you touch me! Don't you lay a finger on me!"
"Stop it. Stop it NOW!" Sherlock suddenly yelled. He was broken.
I had broken him. I turned to bolt up the stairs. "Don't hurt me!"
John and Sherlock sprang into action, "Don't let him get away!"
"Leave him alone!" Kitty shouted futilely after them.
I dash into the bathroom on the other side of the bedroom. I slammed the door right before Sherlock could open it, and I grinned at him. I could hear him opening it, and I hopped on to the windowsill. Right when we met eyes, I fell backwards through the window, and I land safely on a dustbin. I roll off quickly, and dash to the next apartment. I knock three times on the door, and the door opens instantaneously.
"Thanks, deary." I said before I dashed up the stairs. "I need to stay here for a while, and then your car, I hope that's alright." I find the man's car keys on the top of the drawer. "You're a sweetheart; your wife will be home soon!" I trilled before I headed up stairs into his bedroom. I needed the rest.
When I woke up, my phone was flashing.
Come and play.
Bart's Hospital rooftop.
SH
PS. Got something of yours you might want back.
I opened the door of the garage.
He owned a beat up Ford truck. Perfect. I slid into the driver's seat and revved the engine. To Bart's, the final stage for the final performance.
I pushed the door open, and a nurse greeted me with a silent nod. She handed me a small packet and an all access card.
"Thank you, love." I whispered to her, winking as I did so.
She nodded, her face turning pale, as she hurried away from me.
I did have that effect on women. I smirked. I scanned the card against the first door.
"Access granted." The automated voice said - right before the doors slid open.
"Dr. Morris, I need the stuff right now." I yelled through the corridor.
The doctor came up discreetly behind me and put a small package in my coat pocket. "There you go," He said, "Please, I'm begging you, don't hurt my daughter."
"I promised you I wouldn't if you delivered." I sang, still keeping my pace down the hallway. Two rights and a left and I would see the stairs to the final stage.
I climbed the stairs as fast as I could, two at a time. I was ready. It was not yet time – but it didn't hurt to be ready, right? The stairs seemed to be never-ending. I felt my heart pound faster – from the excitement or the stairs? I wouldn't know the answer. I kept climbing the stairs, in a perfect square, skipping one, stepping on the next, jump, jump, run, jump, jump, run.
When I reached the top, my heart was ready to explode. I could feel it thrust against my chest, thud, thud, thud, thud, it wasn't uncomfortable – I always loved the rush of blood.
"Say it to me!" I pressed the gun against his temple.
"I can't!" The man whimpered. He had his hands over his head, and he was crouched on the cold, wet ground. The man who had spoken to me with such arrogance and air was now cowering on the floor. Submitting to me.
"Say it," I growled through my teeth.
"Fine! You… win." The man said, clenching his own teeth, gnashing them together. For a gang leader, he was surprisingly easy to track and take down. He was never defeated – until today.
"Drogo, give me your chains. It's the sign of defeat, right?" I paused, still pressing the gun against his head, "When you lose, you give up your chains."
"I can't." He choked out, "Please, don't make me do this."
"Give it to me." I pressed the barrel of the gun into his temple harder.
"No," Drogo snarled, trying to struggle.
I pulled the trigger.
The sound echoed through the alley. It didn't sound very different to the gunshot that had ended my mother. I felt the blood rush to my head – it wasn't a bad feeling. In fact, I liked it. My lips curved into a smile – James Moriarty had killed a man, and he liked it.
I unclasped the heavy silver chains from around Drogo's neck and tucked it into my pocket.
Drogo, the undefeated. Undefeated? No, not anymore.
I fully took in my surroundings, sun had just risen, and it was not yet noon, and this was the tallest building around. I would give Sherlock a couple hours before the showdown. I was generous enough. I smiled to myself. I felt the wind in my hair and through my dirty cardigan. I brought a change of clothing. Westwood. I changed on the rooftop – it was high enough to avoid any unwanted eyes, but I was careful to not be near any ledges. When I was fully clothed, I decided to wash the dirt and grime out of my hair and gel it up. I hopped down the stairs to the fifth floor of the hospital.
"Can I use the washroom?" I said to no one in particular.
When I didn't get an answer, I went into the closest washroom I could find. I ran the water ice cold, and with the water, I ran my fingers through my hair. Gel in my suit pocket, I gelled my hair back expertly. Not that it was very hard – I just like to consider myself an expert. I exited the bathroom in a grand gesture – no one was around to see it. That was queer. Why was no one on the fifth floor of this hospital?
I pushed the thought out of my mind and climbed up the last set of stairs again to the roof top. I sat on a ledge, just taking in my surroundings. It was eerily quiet for London – the city of hustling and bustling and bad driving. I smiled. London drivers were terrible.
It wasn't real.
The thrum of thoughts grew quickly until his head was pounding with it, splitting open and spilling forth. His hands clutched at his head, attempting to hold it all in, keep it together.
This world was so terribly wrong, too quiet, forgotten and empty. There was buildings and cars, but it wasn't London. Filthy disgusting, ready to burn London. That was where I had last been, standing above her and thinking that it was 'all too fucking easy'.
You're me, I'm you. It was so easy. I am the key, so good of you to notice. You never did see this one coming, for all the brains in your head, did you? Thought you had a plan, nah, time to come up with a new one. Oops, too late! Take five steps, because this is the last act. Take your bow as I have taken mine.
Sherlock, I was going to do it for Sherlock. Just as my mother had done for me when I had been nothing but a child. A gun and a fall. The final act.
I pull out my phone and press 'Compose Text Message'. I press on Sherlock Holmes.
I'm waiting…
JM
I sat on the ledge, and looked down at London city. It could be beautiful – it really could. But the rotten underbelly of London made it ugly. Not that I minded – I was the king of the underbelly. I was going to overthrow London, and there was one person in my way. Sherlock Holmes.
I watched a woman struggle with bags from Tesco, and I watched a boy approach her and ask her if she wanted help. Before she could reply, he had hit her over the head – didn't care if she was dead – because he had all her jewellery and wallet.
This was the London I knew. The London I revelled in. The London I ruled.
I ran my hand over my gel-hardened hair, feeling the wind pick up around me. The sky was blue, the wind was warm – the perfect stage for the final performance. But it could use a little background music.
I entered the passcode to my phone and unlocked it. Scrolling through my music, I found Staying Alive – The Bee Gees. Perfect.
'Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk, I'm a woman's man, no time to talk. Music loud and women warm. I've been kicked around since I was born. And now it's all right, it's O.K.
And you may look the other way. We can try to understand: the New York Times' effect on man.' The phone started to play aloud. I closed my eyes and hummed along. 'Whether you're a brother, or whether you're a mother, you're staying alive, staying alive. Feel the city breakin', and everybody shakin', we're staying alive, staying alive.'
I heard the door shut suddenly. Without looking away from the street below, I said, "Ah. Here we are at last - you and me, Sherlock."
'Staying alive, staying alive.'
"And our problem – the final problem." I held the phone out in the air. "Staying alive! It's so boring, isn't it?" I shut the phone off angrily. "It's just," I hold my hand out palm facing down and skim it slowly through the air level to the roof, "staying." I pull my hand back and briefly sunk my head into it. I could hear Sherlock's nervous pacing back and forth. "All my life I've been searching for distractions." I said, voice wavering slightly – it didn't matter. This would be our last performance together, "You were the best distraction, and now I don't even have you." I said bitterly. "Because I've beaten you."
Sherlock turned his head sharply to face me – he continued his nervous pacing.
"And you know what? It was easy!" I said aloud, "It was easy." I added quietly – I was truly disappointed. Sherlock Holmes… The famous Sherlock Holmes… "Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out you're ordinary. Just like all of them." I rubbed my face with my hands and looked back up to meet Sherlock's eyes, "Ah well." I sang, I stood up, and walked closer to Sherlock, and I start to slowly walk in circles around him. "Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?"
"Richard Brook." He said, his eyes fixed on the London skyline.
"Nobody seems to get the joke – but you do." I said knowingly.
"Of course."
"Attaboy."
"Rich Brook in German is Reichen Bach. The case that made my name."
"Just tryin' to have some fun." I said lightly in a slight American accent. I should really have practiced it more – it was quite rusty. I looked down at Sherlock's fingers – ooh. The keycode that I had given him. "Good, you got that too."
"Beats like digits." Sherlock said after a brief pause, "Every beat is a one; every rest is a zero. Binary code. That's why all those assassins tried to save my life. It was hidden on me. Hidden inside my head – a few simple lines of computer code that can break into any system."
"I told all my clients: last one to Sherlock is a sissy." I drawled, keeping my face blank, looking over Sherlock one more time, just waiting for him to figure it out. I had full hope in Sherlock Holmes. I wanted him to win this. I wanted to keep playing with him.
"Yes," Sherlock gestured to his head, "but now that it's up here, I can use it to alter all the records." He paused, "I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty."
NO. I was wrong. Mister Sherlock Holmes was ordinary. He was so easily fooled. So… so easily misled. He had no feelings, but he had a heart. People he cared for – that was his first mistake. "No, no, no, no, no, this is too easy." I buried my face in my hands. The man that I made my prime plaything was ordinary. "This is too easy." I lowered my hands to turn back to Sherlock. "There is no key," I leaned towards his face, "DOOFUS!"
I shook my head, "Those digits are meaningless. They're utterly meaningless."
Sherlock looked at me, pure confusion written on his face. He couldn't hide it – he knew he was defeated.
"You don't really think a couple of lines of computer code are going to crash the world around our ears? I'm disappointed." I turned away and lumbered across the roof, I continued speaking in a voice mocking him, "I'm disappointed in you, ordinary Sherlock."
"But the rhythm…" Sherlock started to say.
"'Partita number one.' Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach." Was this really the man that was on the tabloids? The newspapers had made him out to be… well – anything like this.
"But then how did…"
I cut him off, "Then how did I break into the Bank, to the Tower, to the Prison?" I spread my arms out, "Daylight robbery." I said simply. "All it takes is some willing participants." I turned, "I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness – you always want everything to be clever. Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building – nice way to do it."
Sherlock finally looked bewildered, "Do it? Do – do what?" He blinked and suddenly realized - his face dropping again into an emotionless state. "Yes, of course. My suicide."
"Genius detective, proved to be a fraud. I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers… Fairy tales."
Sherlock slowly walked to the edge and leaned forward, looking over at the ground below. I joined him, and peered down. "And pretty Grimm ones too." I said, turning my head to give Sherlock one last look.
He really was ordinary – wasn't he? He was a human, he had feelings, he had friends, and his weakness. He had a heart. I had promised to burn it out of him – and burn it, I will.
Sherlock stood up straight and turned towards me, I felt obligated to do the same, so I turned to face him.
"I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity." Sherlock said quickly – he was trying his hardest to out think me. I could see the frustration in his eyes.
"Oh, just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort." I sighed in exasperation. I was tired of this game. I was ready start a new game with a new plaything.
Sherlock walked away from the ledge, pacing again.
"Go on. For me." I said, hopping over to where he was. "Please?" I squeaked, drawing the word out.
Sherlock spun as fast as he could, grabbing me by my coat collar and spun me so that my back was to the drop. Sherlock looked at me, almost scrutinizing my every detail, and shoved me one step closer to the edge. His breathing got shorter – was the first thing I noticed.
"Dad? What are we doing up here?" I peered over the ledge of the building. I tugged on his sleeve, pulling him closer to the ledge. "The cars look so small from up here!"
My father was not a man of words – he preferred action over petty words. Words that could lie. "James," He said quietly.
"Yes?" I looked up to him, and slipped my hand into his. He was my role model. He may have not known it – but he was.
"Listen to me." He crouched down low to be eye-level with me. "You're going to go home to mom now, and tell her exactly what I say next."
"Won't you come home with me? Why don't you tell her?"
He gripped my shoulders – it hurt – and said, "James. Listen to me. You're going to go home to mother, and tell her I'm sorry." His breathing got shorter, "Tell her… I'm sorry for everything."
I looked at my father quizzically. During the last month, he had changed. He came home late, his usually kind face turned tougher and lines were etched into his face that were never there before. "Sorry for what?"
My father was soon out of breath, "I'm sorry, James." He let go of my shoulders and turned to face the ledge. He stepped off the ledge without a final good bye.
Just like that.
"You're insane." Sherlock said, out of breath.
I blinked – what could I say? Of course I was insane! "You're just getting that now?"
Sherlock lurched forwards, holding me above the edge.
I whooped triumphantly – Sherlock was losing it. I wasn't scared. He wouldn't drop me. I held my arms out wider, submitting to Sherlock. "Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive."
Sherlock frowned at me – his eyes still carefully kept blank.
"Your friends will die… if you don't." I growled, smiling with teeth and a flicker of tongue.
I finally saw fear in Sherlock's eyes. Something that had never been there before. Feelings of fear for other people.
"John."
"Not just John," I raised my eyebrows; with a whisper I added, "Everyone."
"Mrs. Hudson."
I smiled, Mycroft was completely right, "Everyone."
"Lestrade," He said hoarsely.
"Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims. There's no stopping them now." The end was near.
Sherlock pulled me up to safety, and I kept my eyes blank – learned it from the best – and stared into his face, unmoving. He was breathing heavily, his face lost in horror. I shook myself free from his grasp and smiled triumphantly at him.
"Unless my people see you jump." I said, "You can have me arrested; you can torture me; you can do anything you like with me. But nothing's going to prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die… unless…"
Sherlock Holmes, I will burn your heart out.
"…Unless I kill myself – complete your story."
I nodded and smiled ecstatically. "You've gotta admit that's sexier."
"And I die in disgrace." He gazed into the distance, his eyes not really seeing.
"Of course. That's the point of this." I said, speaking as I would to a dim-witted child. I looked over the ledge and saw a man stopped at the bench near the bus stop below. "Oh, you've got an audience now. Off you pop." I rolled my neck around from side to side. "Go on."
Sherlock stepped to the ledge.
"I told you how this ends." I said, still smiling.
Sherlock's breath became ragged as he looked down.
I looked away, "You death is the only thing that's going to call off the killers. I'm certainly not going to do it." I turned to Sherlock and looked up at him. I watched him blink – I watched him tremble.
"Would you give me… one moment… please... One moment of privacy?" Sherlock glanced down at me – and for once, I could see the man inside his eyes. The man who had feelings, the feelings of a man with a heart. "Please?"
I shook my head, disgusted. Sherlock was so ordinary. "Of course," I said instead. I moved away from where he was standing. I could hear his shallow breathes, and suddenly he stopped breathing. I knew he was still there. He started to chuckle. I stopped walking, my expression turned livid. I heard Sherlock laugh with utter delight. I spun on my heel. "What?"
Sherlock continued to laugh.
"What is it?" I demanded angrily.
Sherlock turns on the edge smiling at me.
I glared back, "What did I miss?"
Sherlock hopped off the ledge and walked closer to me. "You're not going to do it. So the killers can be called off, then – there's a recall code or a word or a number." He started circling me – from prey to predator, this game wasn't so boring after all. "I don't have to die…" He sang, "If I've got you."
No. This was ridiculous. Was this man mad? I laughed in relief. "Oh!" I smiled at Sherlock, my anger dissipating as quickly as it came, "You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?"
"Yes," Sherlock continued to circle, "So do you."
"Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."
Sherlock stopped pacing in front of me. He turned to face me, his face near mine. "Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am you – prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."
Sherlock was turning out to be a big disappointment. I shook my head slowly, "Nah. You talk big. Nah." I really looked at him then. Into his blue eyes – cold as ice, but still feeling. His weakness. His biggest weakness. "You're ordinary. You're ordinary – you're on the side of the angels."
Sherlock's voice dropped, "Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them." He said ominously. We locked eyes for a long moment.
"James, how far will you take this game?" Sebastian paced in front of me, tapping his gun on the side of his leg impatiently. "Let's stop playing with Sherlock, and get out of here."
"Why would we get out?" I asked, leaning further back into my chair, "I'm winning."
"We need to leave."
"Why?"
"I think you're in love with Sherlock Holmes."
I searched his face. I wanted to know how far he would go. I wanted him to sacrifice his friends. His feelings. For my game. That was the only way he could win. But what I saw disappointed me. I saw ordinary old Sherlock Holmes – fear and pain in his eyes. I knew at once he could not beat me.
Because love… is not an emotion I felt anymore.
"No you're not." I closed my eyes briefly. When I opened them, I saw Sherlock had done the same. "I see." I said softly, almost chuckling to myself, "You're not ordinary. No. You're me." I hissed, a delighted laugh and my voice cracked, "You're me!" I squealed, "Thank you!" I almost hugged Sherlock – was that weird? I offered my hand out to shake. "Sherlock Holmes."
We both looked at my outstretched hand until Sherlock raised his own hand to take my own in his.
I nodded frantically, "Thank you. Bless you," I said softly, I blinked back tears. "As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends; you've got a way out." I lowered my gaze.
This was it.
"Well, good luck with that." I raised the concealed gun to my mouth, I grinned manically and opened my mouth. I put the barrel in – just like my mother had. I felt Sherlock pull back, crying out. I stick the muzzle in closer, and pulled the trigger.
I dropped to the floor.
I wondered what it tasted like. The metal on her tongue. Well now I finally knew.
It tasted like sweet, sweet victory.
Sherlock never saw it coming. But that was the point, wasn't it?