A/N: I wrote this little piece after listening to two particular pieces of music: Blood On The Pavement (off the Sherlock OST) and Hyperballad by Björk. It's sad and angry and I am sorry...
Crimson Letters
He was not used to being one step behind. No, he was Sherlock Holmes and he was always ahead, always at the forefront of the game. This time, he was not. He struggled to keep up, his mind fought to outsmart the mind of the one who waged war with him— again. The sneer of this familiar visage, this visage of an enemy, burned into his retinas. Though they were kindreds in many ways, James Moriarty was nevertheless, an enemy.
When Sherlock finally put all the messages together, bolting towards the flat of the woman he loved but never told, he knew he was too late. Bursting through her door, he raced to her room where a sight more gruesome than his worst nightmares befell him. Molly's body lay limp, pale and drained from blood. The knife that stuck in her chest was the reason her sheets were now crimson, wet with her life as she had bled dry. With a quivering breath, Sherlock lifted his gaze from her corpse to the wall behind her. In dark, crimson letters, was the cruel message of an enemy.
She didn't miss me. :(
What was the point in weeping? Sherlock inhaled sharply, blinking away the searing pain that ripped through him. Moriarty had kept his promise. He had indeed, burnt the heart right out of Sherlock. The detective turned away, with ashes in his ribcage, from the crimson letters on the wall.
END