Heya everyone, so here's the missing confrontation scene from Liability :D I'd like to dedicate this to the lovely Sky-Thorn, for being the only person who spotted the lyric in Liability as being from the song 'I'd Come For You' by Nickelback! Well done! So she got the deciding vote, and this is what she chose me to write first :)
Ok, just a warning here. My Moriarty ended up being a bit more, um, shall we say... intense than I'd planned. Oh, and he uses italics in his speech quite a lot hehe :D
This has hints of John/Sherlock (obviously), but also a smidgen of one-sided Moriarty/Sherlock. Personally, I don't really like the Moriarty/Sherlock pairing, but when it's just Moriarty fancying the pants of Sherlock (and really, who'd blame him? Haha! ), then it's all good ^^
My knowledge on Tasers is about as much as my knowledge on Benzodiazepines, so SAVIOUR THY NAME IS WIKIPEDIA!
Whoa, this ended up being waaaaaaay longer than I thought it would, but ah well. This happens between chapter 1 and chapter 2 of Liability, so if you haven't already read that then maybe you'll understand more if you go ahead and read before this. :)
Also, Jim Moriarty plus Lady Gaga's 'Paparazzi' is just too damn good to ignore. Enough said. XD
Read on and review for me, thank you!
Drugging John had been ridiculously easy. Sherlock had expected it to be more of a challenge, to be honest, but slipping the Flunitrazepam in with his milk and two sugars in his tea had been little more than child's play. He should've been suspicious when the detective had offered to make the tea because, really, that was so out of character for him, and yet John hadn't suspected a single thing until it was far too late.
"I'm so sorry, John." Sherlock had murmured with genuine regret as he manoeuvred his disorientated flatmate back until he was laid out on the leather sofa cushions, thrashing weakly as though he was trying to fight off the sedative effects of the benzodiazepines seeping into his bloodstream. John was obviously struggling to keep his heavy eyelids open, and Sherlock hadn't been able to stop himself from leaning forwards and pressing his lips to the shorter man's clammy forehead, his own piercing grey-blue eyes sliding shut with the realisation that this could well be the only chance he had to show his flatmate…his friend… just how much emotion a self-proclaimed 'high-functioning sociopath' could truly feel.
Sherlock had moved back then, wanting to cut off the clenching feeling in his chest before it could hurt him anymore than it already did. John's hands were still twisted in the soft material of his scarf, but the detective couldn't bring himself to care when it unwound from his pale throat, still clutched in John's white-knuckled grip.
"S-Sh… Sher…" The ex-army medic had stuttered thickly as Sherlock turned his back and headed for the door, and it had been so incredibly hard for him to force his legs to keep on walking.
"Sherlock!"
The sheer amount of betrayal and desperation in the other man's voice was more than enough to bring the taller man to an abrupt unwilling halt in the doorway, both physically and mentally. He'd never felt anything like this before. Such a powerful tidal wave of guilt and shame had risen up inside him, and it took him every ounce of willpower he had to keep his eyes trained on the door instead of glancing back over his shoulder. If he looked now, he knew he'd falter. And he couldn't afford to let that happen.
So the dark-haired detective had left the flat as swiftly as he could, letting the door slam shut behind him before he stormed briskly down the staircase, his long coat sweeping around his legs with every step. He'd refused to let himself stop to think until he found himself on the sidewalk outside, flagging down the first taxi he'd seen and clambering into it, anxious to leave 221B Baker Street and John Watson behind as fast as he could. His time was limited now, since it would take between six and eight hours for the benzodiazepines to wear off, and after that Sherlock knew without a shadow of a doubt that John Watson wouldn't hesitate to come running straight after him, and damn the consequences. And that was something else that Sherlock just couldn't allow to happen. He'd done what he had to John for a reason, and a purely selfish and shameful one at that. Sherlock needed to be absolutely certain that John stayed completely out of harm's way, and the further away from the consulting detective he was, the safer he'd be. For now.
"Kensington Church Street." The dark-haired man had told the cabbie without even bothering to spare him a glance as he dug the pink phone out of his trouser pocket and typed out the very same street name, sending the text to the only number saved in the caller history log. It was untraceable, of course, since Moriarty was far too cunning to leave an electronic trail for anyone to follow, let alone Sherlock Holmes.
The reply had come back in a matter of seconds.
24. Don't keep me waiting, my dear.
Oh, Sherlock had no intention of keeping his nemesis waiting. If Moriarty had made his first appearance before John Watson had limped into the lab at St Bart's, then undoubtedly the consulting detective and consulting criminal would have been locked in a furious battle of wits and deviance, playing their dangerous game of cat and mouse all over London, not a care in the world for anyone other than each other as they tried to bring their opposite crashing to his knees. Actually, no. Opposite was the wrong word. Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty were too similar to be 'opposites'. The line between right and wrong was dangerously blurred, and Sherlock knew that he practically lived his life on that verge, literally a hair's breadth away from crossing over in either direction. But now, everything was different. There was much more at stake here. This game had to end, as soon as possible. And Sherlock was the only one who could finish it for good, no matter what it took.
So in less than an hour, the tall dark-haired man stood on the doorstep of 24 Kensington Church Street, his pale face bathed an even lighter shade of white in the hazy moonlight that shone down on him from above. A thrill of excitement and anticipation rose in his chest as he cast a quick glance up and down the street in case anyone was watching or following him, then he pushed open the expectedly unlocked door and slipped inside the building, letting the heavy wood swing shut behind him and plunge him into complete darkness.
In hindsight, maybe Sherlock shouldn't have been so eager to end this as swiftly as he could, because then he might've been a little more cautious. But, unfortunately for him, he didn't give his magnificent mind a chance to communicate discretion before he'd already marched through the gloom towards the nearest door, attracted to the gentle glow of light beneath it like a moth to flame. One of the biggest mistakes he'd ever made, as it turned out.
The consulting detective had all but thrown the door open and strode into the brightly lit living room before him, his sharp eyes falling instantly on the slender suited figure of one Jim Moriarty sitting patiently in a chintz armchair by the flickering fireplace, his head already turned towards Sherlock with a smug wide white grin spreading across his face, looking for all the world as though Christmas had come early this year.
"Hello, sexy." He'd smirked in greeting, his dark eyes gleaming maliciously from across the room.
One step. That's all Sherlock had managed to take towards Moriarty before a large fist came from seemingly nowhere and struck him so hard in the face that his legs just buckled beneath him and he crashed down onto the wooden floorboards, his head searing with agony. White spots erupted in front of his vision as the pain rendered him completely immobile on the floor for several long moments. He didn't even see the booted foot swing for his head in the exact same place, but he definitely felt it in a fresh wave of agony before his entire world faded to heavenly painless black.
And now, a short while later, Sherlock Holmes blinked his way sluggishly back to consciousness only to find himself in a totally different room, this one dull and nondescript, the only light coming from a naked bulb hanging above his head, with his wrists bound behind the back of the rickety wooden chair he was now sat on. Obviously he'd been moved whilst out cold, undoubtedly by the same person who'd knocked him out in the first place. There'd been so much strength behind that single punch that it would've been easy for his brute of an assailant to carry his unconscious body to wherever he was now. He hadn't expected there to be anyone else here tonight other than Moriarty and himself, yet another brief lapse in judgement thanks to his intellect clashing so violently with his desire to protect John. And that was, in itself, fucking inconvenient, especially in a situation as dire as this one.
Sherlock rotated his hands experimentally, testing the tightness of the coarse ropes around his wrists. Hmm, a little slacker than expected, but still too tight for him to escape. But maybe if he wriggled his hands enough, he might be able to loosen it…
"Ah, Sherlock, you never fail to surprise me, my dear." Came a familiar sharp cultured Dublin accent from his right, and the consulting detective immediately turned his head towards the sound, ignoring the ache of his bruised cheekbone. Moriarty stepped forwards out of the surrounding shadows and walked casually towards his prisoner, his hands thrust deep in the front pockets of his suit trousers and that same infuriating smirk on his face. Following a little behind him was a thickset man who Sherlock didn't recognise, but at the sight of the slightly bruised knuckles of his left hand, he knew him instantly as the man who'd tried to rearrange Sherlock's face not too long ago. In the other fist, the newcomer held a large serrated hunting knife, the silvery point glinting ominously in the dim light.
Moriarty stopped in front of the other dark haired man and leaned down a little so he could peer into Sherlock's stoic unreadable face.
"Really, I hadn't expected you to find me here until next week, after the grand finale. You would've loved it, Sherlock, my pièce de résistance…" Moriarty's grin widened knowingly, his almost pitch black eyes fixed unblinkingly on the detective's own intense grey-blue gaze, "The last John Watson to die. Can you guess which lucky person that might be? Or had you already figured it out right back at the start of this latest game of ours?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his lips thinning slightly with restrained anger and loathing, but he'd be damned if he let it show on his face.
"You won't hurt John Watson. I won't let you." He spoke calmly. Moriarty chuckled a little under his breath, wrinkling his nose in a strange combination of amusement and distaste. The unknown man shifted his position behind the consulting criminal as though he was waiting for something, twisting the weapon around and around in his hand almost absently.
"You can't stop me." The suited psychopath replied mock good-naturedly.
"Oh, I can, and I intend to."
"Hmm. You really believe that, don't you?"
Moriarty didn't give Sherlock the chance to respond with the cutting remark that was already there on his tongue, instead stepping back from him and giving a sharp nod of his head towards his companion who lurched forwards and slammed his clenched fist into Sherlock's cheekbone again, snapping his head to the side with the immense brunt force of it. A grunt of pain was swiftly smothered in the consulting detective's throat, absolutely refusing to let it leave his lips. It hurt like hell, but Sherlock wasn't about to broadcast that fact to his nemesis, so he just slowly brought his head back to face the front, lifting his chin defiantly and eyeing his captors steadily with cold calculating grey-blue eyes.
The criminal mastermind smiled brilliantly down at him, brushing some non-existent lint from the front of his immaculate Westwood suit jacket. He was enjoying this far more than he'd enjoyed their previous game with the suicide bombers, high on the power and control he had over his intellectual adversary.
"Oh, I'm sorry, did I not introduce you to my friend here?" Moriarty asked with a small feigned frown, barely managing to hide his sadistic glee behind a thin mask of innocence. Once again he signalled with a nod, and once again Sherlock was punched in the face by the mountain of a man who towered over him beside his criminal employer. The consulting detective's mind spun for a few moments after that third punishing strike, a black haze starting to creep in from the corners of his vision and he blinked furiously to beat it back. He wasn't going to fall unconscious again, not a chance. He hadn't come here to have the living daylights beaten out of him, nor had he come here to just lay back and sleep. John was depending on him right now, even if the ex-army medic didn't know it just yet.
Sherlock spread his fingers wide, then clenched his fists again, twisting and turning his wrists oh so subtly behind his back. Moriarty and his lackey were too caught up in their power position to notice anything suspicious about their dark-haired captive.
"His name is Hunter. Not his real name, of course, but you've got to admit that it's a rather apt title for the job I've paid him to do. He's the one who's been carving up all those look-alikes for you. Did you like that little touch, Sherlock? I've had Dr Watson killed six times already… I'm so looking forward to the seventh. If you're a good boy, daddy might even let you watch this one. You wouldn't want to miss it for the world… And neither will Johnny boy."
The consulting detective tore his gaze from Moriarty to fix his unblinking eyes on Hunter instead, feeling his loathing for the man rise up in his stomach like bile at this latest revelation, and Hunter stared straight back at him, both men's faces as unreadable as each other's.
Definitely ex-military, judging from the way he held himself and how he handled the weight of the knife with obvious ease in his palm. Trained in physical combat, then. A marine, perhaps? Most likely a grunt rather than a leader. His head was shaven, his arms and neck thick with muscle, with sunken eyes of a muddy brown colour beneath heavy dark blond eyebrows set in his hard hawk-like features. Six foot three, approximately one hundred and eighty seven pounds, aged roughly between thirty five and forty, no partner, no children. He seemed to be a man with nothing to lose, and that made him even more dangerous than he already obviously was, if that was even possible.
"Speaking of, where is your little pet soldier?" Moriarty suddenly inquired, bringing Sherlock's attention swiftly back to the slender suited psychopath, who was unquestionably far more dangerous than this 'Hunter' person could ever hope to be.
"Not here." Sherlock answered obscurely, spreading and clenching his fingers again as he tossed his head slightly to move his dark curls back out of his face. Now Moriarty frowned properly, tilting his head to the side as he regarded his prisoner with curious eyes which suddenly brightened with realisation before the suited man tutted loudly, that infernal smirk still playing at his thin lips.
"You've done something very silly, haven't you, my dear?" He sneered, walking casually around the bound detective, trailing one hand across Sherlock's thin shoulder as he moved behind him. The first flickers of panic started to claw at the base of Sherlock's spine beneath his imperious and untouchable demeanour as five long slim fingers curled around each shoulder, the criminal mastermind's breath hot on the back of his neck, making the hairs at his nape stand up on end unwillingly.
"It was necessary."
"Necessary? I'm confused, Sherlock, exactly what is it about this man that has such an impossible hold over you? He's nothing special, nothing of interest; you wouldn't pick him out in a crowd at a first glance! He's nothing like us, and he never will be. So what is it, hm? Why him? Why does he make you care, Sherlock Holmes?"
"I can't care, I'm a heartless sociopath." Sherlock responded haughtily, expertly dodging the painful question he'd been asking himself ever since the ex-army medic took that bullet for him back at the pool all those weeks ago. John Watson seemed to have a natural talent of bringing other people's emotions to the surface no matter how deep they'd buried them beneath many careful constructed levels of control, and his high morality made those around him so desperate to be just as good as him, to live up to his expectations that there was something special in everyone, including reclusive socially-inept high-functioning sociopaths with an aptitude for all things dangerous and life-threatening. Why did he care so much about John Watson? God, that was one thing Sherlock didn't even know himself! He was just one man, one normal, mundane, uninteresting, insignificant man.
He was that and so much more. Loyal, brave, determined, forgiving, willing to put up with whatever harebrained scheme Sherlock threw his way… Willing to die for a man he'd barely known at the time. What kind of person did that make him? That first glance had barely scratched the surface, and Sherlock had found in John Watson something he'd never expected. How he'd lived all those years without him, he'd never know, and now he'd do just about anything to prevent Moriarty from taking away the first and only person he'd ever truly cared about in his entire life.
"Don't think you can lie to me, Sherlock, I can read you like a book." The consulting criminal said, his voice playfully teasing as he released Sherlock's left shoulder to grab a handful of the consulting detective's dark brown curls, ragging his head side to side almost affectionately. Sherlock let him do it. He'd only hurt himself if he tried to resist, either that or he'd earn himself another punch to the face from Hunter who was still stood stock still in front of him, eyeing him like a lion would it's prey, just waiting for the order to strike him again.
"Do you want to fuck him, Sherlock, is that it?" Moriarty hissed vindictively in his ear, the fist entangled in his captive's hair tightening painfully, but Sherlock refused to wince, "Do you want to bugger John Watson? Ha! Oh, this is priceless!"
If he was expecting some sort of reaction from his prisoner, then he was going to be sorely disappointed, because Sherlock didn't so much as bat an eyelid, keeping his piercing grey-blue gaze focused forwards on the armed subordinate. Internally though, there was an uncomfortable twinge in his chest. Moriarty had more or less hit the nail on the head with that one, but sex wasn't the only thing he wanted from his flatmate. He wanted everything, flaws and all, just John entirely for himself and no one else. And that was such a scary concept to Sherlock, since he'd never felt like this about anyone before.
Moriarty's fingernails dug into his scalp.
"I wonder… what would you do if I got there first, hm? How would you react if I fucked your precious lapdog like the bitch he is?"
White-hot fury suddenly surged through Sherlock's veins, every muscle and nerve in his body burning with a rage so unfamiliar and so powerful that for a split second he could see nothing but red. He must've visibly tensed because Moriarty was laughing now, a low malicious sound that would've sent shivers down his spine had he not been so caught up in his hatred and anger. It was pure reaction what he did next. There was no thought behind it at all, fuelled entirely by the urge to cause the suited psychopath as much pain as possible whilst he was tied to this damn chair.
Sherlock threw his head back as hard as he could, smashing the back of his skull into the other dark-haired man's face, taking sadistic satisfaction at the harsh crunching sound that was unmistakably the noise made by a bone breaking. Moriarty cried out in surprised pain, staggering backwards from his captive, and Hunter was quick to let loose yet another brutal punch to Sherlock's already swollen face, this one hard enough to make him groan in pain through gritted teeth and probe the inside of his mouth with the tip of his tongue to check for any lasting damage. Well, he still had all his teeth and he hadn't bitten through his tongue yet, so that was something to be thankful for at least. His cheekbone was a different story, however. Another punch like that and it would fracture for certain.
But his cheek was the absolutely least of his worries now that Moriarty swiftly came back into Sherlock's line of sight, blood streaming down from his broken nose and a wild euphoric expression on his face, grinning maniacally with crimson-stained teeth. A lesser man would've shuddered with fear and disgust, but not Sherlock. The detective's imperious defiance was well and truly back in place, his eyes like twin shards of ice in his head.
"Oh, feisty today, aren't we!" His nemesis laughed, "Did that hit a nerve? I would've thought physical violence was beneath you, my dear, but damn was I wrong!"
Sherlock didn't answer, blinking freely up at the other dark-haired man, fully expecting the fifth punch that would unquestionably shatter his cheekbone like glass. But strangely, it didn't come. Instead Moriarty's grin flickered and he turned gracefully on his heel with an uncaring shrug of his shoulders, disappearing from Sherlock's sight again, his footsteps echoing throughout the entire room as he walked away.
Hunter looked to be getting bored now, his fingers twitching in agitation against the hilt of his knife, but like a good little soldier he stayed put and waited for the next command to assault the bound man before him. A good little soldier. Sherlock felt his stomach twist itself in a tight steely grip. Oh God, John.
At the opposite end of the room there was the creak of a wooden drawer being opened, and then a series of ominous clicks that were unmistakably the sound of some kind of gun being assembled or loaded. Hunter's head had swivelled in the direction of the noises, his brown eyes sparking with undisguised interest, a slow wolfish sneer spreading across his face that was more than enough to make every single muscle in Sherlock's body tense simultaneously with almost imperceptible dread. He hated those rare occasions where he didn't know what was happening or what was about to happen, but Sherlock Holmes didn't need to be the genius that he was to realise that his situation was definitely about to go from bad to worse in the space of a few short moments. He twisted his hands again, harder this time, hissing slightly under his breath as the coarse rope bit into the soft flesh of his wrists.
Moriarty's footsteps approached again from behind and Sherlock immediately stilled his hands, not wanting to give away his intentions just yet. He could feel the heat of the suited psychopath's body as he leaned in closer than he had before, one hand threading through the detective's curls once more and forcibly tilting his head sideways as he brushed his stained lips up along the length of Sherlock's neck. It took every scrap of self-control Sherlock had left to repress the need to flinch away from him.
"I'm your biggest fan, I'll follow you until you love me..." His nemesis sung softly, mockingly, in Sherlock's ear, his grinning mouth ghosting against the other man's pale skin with every word, "And nothing can ever come between us, Sherlock, not even your beloved little soldier boy."
"There's no 'us', and there never will be." Sherlock told him coldly, refusing to react even as Moriarty nipped at his earlobe with his sharp teeth.
"Don't delude yourself. You need me, Holmes! Without me, your life would be oh so boring and unfulfilled! That magnificent mind of yours would waste away without our games, and we don't want that now, do we?"
"Actually, that's why I came here on my own. I came to finish this, and I wasn't going to let you use John against me in order to force me to keep on dancing for you. Playtime's over now, James. I'm done with you."
Moriarty brutally yanked Sherlock's head backwards, his grip in the detective's hair mercilessly tight.
"Don't call me that!" He snarled, his previously collected and superior expression twisted in raw fury and hatred, a vein pulsing at his temple and an angry red flush creeping up his neck. Despite the pain and the uncomfortable angle of his throat, Sherlock smiled triumphantly, his intense grey-blue eyes glinting smugly as he met the suited man's furious dark brown glare. Ah. So that was one of Jim Moriarty's sore spots, was it? He loathed his own Christian name… his father's, perhaps? That was something definitely worth looking into, if he ever got out of this alive.
"The games don't end until I say so, Sherlock, you don't have a fucking choice but to play along until the day you die! You can try and walk away from me, but I'll always be out there in the big bad world, burning your heart out every step of the way! You can't escape it, Sherlock Holmes! You can't escape me!"
The consulting detective graced the consulting criminal with a single slow blink, his expression hardening in determination and finality.
"Watch me."
There was a long moment of almost dumbstruck silence before his nemesis suddenly tore away from him with a growl of disgust, tossing Sherlock's head forwards with purposeful force. Out of the corner of his vision, the taller dark-haired man noticed Moriarty toss something bright yellow at Hunter, who caught it with practised ease in his knife-free hand.
"I want to hear him scream." Was all the suited psychopath said to his lackey, and the ex-marine gave a small nod in understanding, that vindictive gleam creeping back into his eyes again. Sherlock lifted his head curiously, eyeing the yellow gun-shaped object for a split second before he realised with a sickening jolt exactly what it was. Oh God, no…
Hunter pulled the trigger, and Sherlock's world exploded in the most intense unbearable agony he'd ever experienced as two dart-like electrodes struck his chest and a vicious electric charge jolted through his entire body, making him shudder and jerk uncontrollably on the wooden chair as he bit down impossibly hard on his bottom lip to prevent himself from crying out with pain. Twin holes were burnt through the thin material of his shirt and then seared into his skin, leaving small circular black marks on the pale white expanse of his chest. Sherlock could actually smell his own flesh burning.
After what felt like hours, the pain stopped just as swiftly as it'd come and Sherlock fell limp in his chair, his legs splayed out uselessly in front of him and his head lolling against his chest. He physically couldn't move, his motor skills completely knocked for six as the after-effects of being electrocuted sent random twitches through his aching muscles.
Moriarty had moved closer to him again, leaning in to smile at his captured nemesis with pleasant interest.
"Did that hurt, hm?" He asked mildly. Sherlock summoned all the strength it took to tilt his head infinitesimally upwards and glare murderously into those callous dark brown eyes, and Moriarty's smile spread into a full-toothed shark-like grin.
Hunter's stubby finger found the trigger of the Taser once again, and another stream of mind-numbing volts took Sherlock's breath away for the second time in less than a minute, his body unwillingly thrashing and writhing against the ropes that bound him and the wooden chair creaking loudly in protest beneath the consulting detective's weight. For some reason, it hurt even more this time, and when the onslaught mercifully stopped, Sherlock couldn't lift so much as his little finger. He breathed harshly through his teeth, his eyelids impossibly heavy as he tried furiously to override the pain that felt as though it was literally trying to tear his head apart from the inside out.
"To be honest, Sherlock, I'm pretty disappointed you didn't bring Dr Watson along with you today." Moriarty said, his voice strained with sadistic delight as towered over his incapacitated prisoner, "Just think, if he'd been here, this scenario would've been so very different. You would've still been in this chair, no doubt, but let's just say it wouldn't have been your pretty face wearing the bruises. I would've been aiming directly for that heart of yours, my dear."
This time the consulting detective didn't have the strength nor the energy to move his head to look the other man in the eye, and he couldn't bring himself to care either. Moriarty's words were more than enough to freeze Sherlock's blood in his veins, a sharp spike of pain cutting through his chest that hurt even more than both Taser shocks had. He didn't want to hear anything else about John from Jim Moriarty's mouth, but he knew he had absolutely no choice whatsoever, especially when the suited psychopath knelt gracefully down in front of him and rested his hands on Sherlock's thighs, smirking mischievously as he squeezed the tense muscles beneath his palms.
"I would've made you sit there and watch as I broke your pet down and tore him apart so irreparably that not even the great Sherlock Holmes could fix him. I would've hurt him until you'd outright begged me to stop. And I would've stopped, Sherlock, really I would."
Moriarty paused purposely, his cruel grin now so broad that it could've split his face in two. He ran the tip of his pointed pink tongue around his crimson stained lips almost in anticipation, the depths of his brown eyes never-ending and hard as stone around dilated pupils.
"And then I would've put a knife straight through his heart, just to see the look on your face when I killed your precious pet right in front of you. It would've been fantastic, Sherlock, just… orgasmic."
Fury rushed through Sherlock's system like hellfire, but he couldn't do anything with it this time, still slumped down in his chair as he tried to force his gangly limbs to move again. Moriarty laughed, a horrible high-pitched echoing sound that grated against Sherlock's eardrums. All ten fingernails dug sharply into Sherlock's legs before the suited psychopath moved back again, and the consulting detective instinctively tensed up and shut his eyes, bracing himself for the third shock that swiftly followed.
Three times as much agony zapped through every inch of his slender form and his back arched up from the chair as far as it could possibly go, his head thrown back and every tendon stretched taut almost to snapping point. The chair he was tied to couldn't manage under such pressure and splintered beneath him, sending Sherlock crashing down gracelessly onto the floor, twitching violently amidst a pile of broken wood on the cold concrete until the pain thankfully stopped once more, leaving him completely immobile. Around his chafed wrists, the ropes were definitely looser now after all his thrashing and writhing, loose enough for just a few more wriggles of his hands and then he'd be free. Providing he could actually wriggle his hands, because at the moment all he could do was blink and breathe, his eyelids fluttering with exhaustion.
Either the Taser had run out of power of Moriarty had gotten fed up of it, because suddenly Hunter threw the weapon away, neither of his captors caring as it bounced out of sight across the dimly lit room.
"That's enough of that for now, I think." His nemesis announced smugly. All Sherlock could see from his position on the floor were Moriarty's expensive black leather shoes and Hunter's heavy-duty boots, and he didn't even attempt to look any higher, fully focused in getting the feeling back in his twitching hands.
"Hmm, wait a minute. Whatever you've done to your Dr Watson, I'd bet my life it's something to keep him out of action for a certain amount of time, yes? Drugs, perhaps? So here's my idea, Sherlock… what do you say we pay him a little visit right now? Just the three of us. Won't that be fun?"
Sherlock bit down on his own tongue to prevent himself from rising to the bait, giving one final tug of his hands behind his back. His fingers clasped around something rough and solid and he drew it closer to himself, clenching it tightly in his fist, ready for the perfect moment to strike.
"Bring him." Moriarty ordered his lackey as he turned away, obviously intending to follow through on his latest 'idea'. Sherlock tensed in anticipation as those heavy-duty boots came even closer into his line of sight, Hunter bending down beside him and reaching out to drag him to his feet by the scruff of his collar. Only he never got that far, because Sherlock Holmes had chosen the most beautifully timed moment to make his move.
Now fully back in control of his body, the consulting detective swung one of his newly freed arms around, bringing one of the broken chair legs down with impressive force straight on the bulkier man's shaven head. Needless to say, the man-mountain was caught off guard, staggering backwards from the dark-haired detective, blinking furiously as though he couldn't quite believe what had just happened. This gave Sherlock plenty of time to scramble to his feet, yanking off the last scrap of rope that still clung to one red raw wrist.
The ex-marine recovered with astonishing speed, lurching towards the slender man with his knife outstretched. Sherlock dodged aside a second too slow and the serrated blade caught him viciously on his upper left arm, splattering droplets of hot dark blood into the air. If he hadn't just been repeatedly electrocuted, then the pain of it would've probably effected him more, but it was barely more than a tiny sting in comparison, so it was easily ignored as the consulting detective reached out and seized hold of Hunter's right wrist, clamping down on it tightly with his long pale fingers to stop his attacker from stabbing at him again.
He didn't know where Moriarty was in all this, but at the moment he had more pressing matters on his mind. His opponent obviously had both the height and weight advantage, as well as being trained in physical combat, so it was understandable that their struggle was definitely leaning in Hunter's favour, the ex-marine bearing down on the slim detective with every intention of carving him up like a prize steak. His free hand went for Sherlock's throat, and Sherlock's free arm immediately blocked it, but it was distraction enough for Hunter to work his knife hand loose of Sherlock's grasp and slash at his opponent yet again, aiming for his jugular vein. Luckily this time Sherlock managed to jerk out of the way, because if the cut that now ran up his throat had been less than two centimetres deeper it would've been fatal.
Reacting swiftly, Sherlock drove his knee as hard as he could into the other man's thickly muscled stomach, winding him momentarily so he could deliver a sharp rabbit punch to Hunter's wrist with his knuckles extended, causing his opponent to drop his knife with a loud clatter onto the floor. But even that didn't slow Hunter down, and he flung his arm behind his back to the waistband of his trousers, drawing out a hefty imported Sig Sauer handgun which he promptly aimed directly in Sherlock's face.
The consulting detective was rapidly running out of ideas, so he reacted with pure instinct just like he had earlier when he broke Moriarty's nose and summoned the very last reserves of strength he had left to lunge forwards and shove Hunter backwards with as much force as he possibly could. It was more desperation than tactic, but it worked better than he could've ever expected it to as the ex-marine stumbled unexpectedly, caught his foot on a piece of broken chair and went down hard, his gun arm flailing as he pulled the trigger once and shot at Sherlock blindly. He narrowly missed too, the bullet speeding less than three inches past the consulting detective's head as the unfortunate ex-marine landed with his neck twisted at an awkward angle, a horrific snapping sound ripping through the air before the lackey's brown eyes turned dull and glassy, and his huge chest stilled.
Sherlock barely had chance to register that he'd just inadvertently killed a man when there was a sudden harsh stammered intake of breath from behind him and Sherlock all but spun on his heel, braced for whatever Moriarty was about to throw his way.
What he didn't expect to see was the suited criminal stood about a metre away from him, staring down at himself in dumbstruck silence, his chest heaving in an irregular staccato rhythm. And that's when Sherlock noticed the blood seeping through the other man's white shirt, spreading across his Westwood suit jacket at an alarming rate.
By a million-to-one odds, the bullet that had missed Sherlock had struck Jim Moriarty instead, drilling straight into that shrivelled blackened excuse for a heart in his chest. Moriarty lifted his head up slowly, fixing his dark brown eyes on Sherlock's piercing grey-blue ones with an expression of complete disbelief twisting his ashen features. Then his legs buckled beneath him like a marionette whose strings had just been cut and he collapsed backwards, landing spread-eagled on the concrete as his eyelids fluttered once, twice, and then slid slowly shut. They didn't open again.
A strange silence had fallen over the entire room, and Sherlock stood in the centre between two dead bodies, his eyes flickering from one to the other every few seconds, eventually stopping to linger on his fallen nemesis for the longest moment. Was… was that it? Had it really been that easy to kill Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal extraordinaire? It'd happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly, so… unoriginally, that Sherlock's magnificent mind was having difficulty processing exactly what his eyes were seeing. He couldn't deny the obvious that was glaring him in the face, not to mention the fact that he was breathing in the thick coppery scent of Moriarty's blood that hung thick in the air as the scarlet liquid soaked through his suit. He'd been shot in the heart. There was no returning from a wound like that. But even then… It didn't seem to be much of a fitting end to Sherlock's intellectual equal. Killed by accident, by a stray bullet meant for his nemesis. It was so… disappointing, really.
He didn't check either body for a pulse. Why should he? He never wanted to touch Jim Moriarty again, breathing or not, for as long as he lived. Even now, staring down at his fresh corpse, Sherlock felt disgust and loathing for the other man, but he couldn't deny the brief jolt of dissatisfaction that vanished almost as soon as it'd arrived. He'd just caused the death of possibly the only man in the world who could match him blow for blow with whatever challenge or intellectual battle they threw each other's way, but he didn't regret it nor did he feel any remorse. Now that Moriarty was dead, he couldn't burn Sherlock's heart out. He couldn't hurt John Watson.
And with a sober sense of finality, Sherlock Holmes turned away and left the room, not caring as he left a steady trail of his own blood in his wake. It was time to return home now, back to 221B Baker Street.
Time to face John.
God help him.
Hazel eyes watched through the net curtains that covered the window as Sherlock Holmes limped sluggishly away from 24 Kensington Church Street without a single glance back. With a sniff of distaste, the tall burly man released the curtains and made his way into the room Holmes had left behind not ten minutes ago, his heavy footsteps echoing loudly as he made his way to the smallest body that lay on the concrete, blatantly ignoring the second corpse like it wasn't even there.
The silver-haired man knelt down and reached out with one hand, grasping a thin shoulder and shaking it gently, disregarding the crimson stain still spreading through the shirt and jacket.
"Jim? Jim. He's gone." He spoke, his voice a gruff baritone, "He fell for it."
Dark brown eyes flew open, alight with glee as Jim Moriarty drew in a large breath between his grinning bloodied lips.
"Brilliant! Ah, that was so much fun, Moran! The look on his face! He really believed I was dead, ha! Priceless!"
Colonel Sebastian Moran leaned back on his haunches and helped his employer sit upright, unbuttoning the Westwood suit jacket and the shirt beneath it, revealing a thin lightweight Kevlar vest with a small pouch of blood attached to the breast, still oozing the last trickles of fluid through the hole left by the bullet. The blood was actually Moriarty's own, taken from a vein in his arm before Holmes's arrival. For authenticity, his employer had said.
Moran busied himself in removing the vest from Jim's chest, noticing a slight bruising from where the bullet had struck on the dark-haired man's pectoral, directly over his heart. Moriarty looked down at it too, still smirking delightedly to himself.
"Good shot." The suited man observed casually as Moran tossed the vest uncaringly aside. His chief of staff nodded in agreement, casting a quick glance over at the other body lying rigid a little away from them. "Just like I'd planned."
"Of course. Ryan McNaire was the best sharpshooter out of all my boys." Moran replied. Moriarty looked thoughtful as he buttoned up his shirt and jacket once more, totally unconcerned about the red stain across his chest.
"Why did you offer his services to me, then, my dear Sebastian, when you knew he'd die here tonight?" Jim questioned. Moran's thin lips twisted into a nasty little sneer as he returned his gaze to his employer.
"He was starting to get a little too independent for my liking. Thanks to Sherlock Holmes, I don't have to take care of him myself any more."
Moran got to his feet, offering his hand down to the slender man who took it and used it to help pull himself up. Jim Moriarty brushed dust off each sleeve individually, then lifted both his arms up above his head, stretching in an almost catlike way.
"Ah, Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps my obsession with that man has morphed into something more. I think I'm in love!" His employer laughed loudly, his grin wide and prominent in his angular face, contrasting eerily with the dried blood that trailed down from both nostrils.
Moran looked down at the shorter man beside him.
"So what happens now?" He questioned. Moriarty's dark brown eyes flickered to him and he chuckled lowly under his breath.
"Now, we wait. Sherlock Holmes believes I'm dead, so now instead of chasing me he'll probably spend every minute of his spare time fucking John Watson into the nearest available surface. He thinks it's over, but God, how wrong he is. I'll just bide my time, Moran, lull them both into a false sense of security, and when I return they won't know what hit them."
The expression on Jim Moriarty's face hardened abruptly, all traces of earlier sadistic delight wiped clean from his features. His dark eyes burned with malicious intent, and Moran knew his employer was already planning his next course of action in regards to Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
"I can't wait. I will kill John Watson, and then with him out of the way, Sherlock will be mine for the taking. I will have him, Moran, if it's the last thing I do. There's no running away from this. It's for life."
A vicious feral grin spread across Moriarty's face.
"Ah, Sherlock Holmes… we were made for each other."
PRINCESSNALA REALLY NEEDS TO LEARN NOT TO LEAVE LEADING ENDINGS ALL THE TIME! Seriously, that one right there is practically BEGGING for a sequel, damn it all ¬¬
Y'know, I'd totally forgotten Moran actually existed until Wikipedia saved my ass yet again, and there he was :D
Okies, so the next fic from me that's going to be posted up here is the one that would've been up first had Sky-Thorn not found that lyric. It will be option 4, the one in which Mycroft recognises his brother's feelings for john and intervenes to get them together, setting john up on an unusual date that gives us a whole heap of jealous!Sherlock. That one had the majority of votes from you guys, so it's only fair I get started on that one next. :D
So, review for me please? I'm a little unsure about this. Let me know if you like! :)