"I don't suppose you're going to tell me where we're going?"
The journey was relatively silent, save for the mechanical workings of the vehicle.
"..I'll take that as a no, then. You know, this isn't the first time I've been taken against my will."
The vehicle itself was a glossy black stretch limousine, with no notable markings, and was seemingly kept in near-pristine condition. Inside, sat three men; two of which wore tidy black suits and sat beside one-another. The third man, wearing an everyday outfit, sat alone, attempting to make sense of the situation that he found himself plunged into.
"I would advise that you keep your mouth closed, Doctor." said one of the smart men, leaning forward slightly, coming in close proximity to the average man.
"Wait- you know I'm a Doctor? Who are you? Where are you taking me?" his response was of true shock; he had no idea as to where he could be being transported, which worried him greatly- yet, he maintained his bravado.
"You are Doctor John Hamish Watson. You live in apartment 221B Baker Street, Westminster, London, with one Mister Sherlock Holmes- whom we would very dearly like to speak with."
The other smart man spoke so quickly and truthfully that John simply sat back, aghast, absorbed in every word, "What... for how long have you been following me? And what do you want with Sherlock, huh? ... And why have you kidnapped-"
"-If we have to tell you once more to remain silent, we will be forced to use anaesthesia." Retorted the first smart man. John resided in silence for the remainder of the journey, as he had recalled a previous reaction of his to induced sleep –and he had no idea what the gentlemen's concept of an anaesthetic was, anyway ... probably a strike to the face.
It was a Tuesday afternoon. Aside from when he had no cases, Sherlock found Tuesdays especially dull. This specific day of the week was the pinnacle of boredom for the man, for reasons ranging from the fact that John chose to only shop for groceries on this day, which was often troublesome; to Mrs. Hudson attending a ladies' bingo club, resulting in her being unable to bring fresh coffee (black, two sugars) to his room. Or, possibly most particularly, that it was the most common day for Sherlock to visit the forensic laboratories, which subsequently resulted in him bumping into Anderson. And Anderson made every day a little more monotonous.
Yet, this particular Tuesday had more in store for Sherlock than any other. It was the day that he had been waiting for for weeks, months, years –his life. Because he had found someone just like him. A man who thought in quite the same way, yet acted much more sadistically. The Consulting Criminal to Sherlock's Consulting Detective- someone who could test him to the limits, and far beyond.
And this fine, Tuesday evening was the night that they would finally meet...
The limousine pulled up beside the kerb of a large building, which appeared to be closed for the night. John began to speak, but believed it would be in his best interest to wait until he was out of the vehicle, at least. There was something eerie about the building, even though John recognised it to be one of the local swimming pool and sports centres. The smart men stood by either side of him, presumably to keep him from escaping.
"Do this kind of thing often?" John decided it would be appropriate to begin conversation again, "Y'know, kidnap people and bring them to a swimming pool," in an inappropriate sort of way, "just for the fun of it, yeah?"
The men beside him looked less than impressed, as they near-simultaneously grasped his shoulders and thrust him through an open door of the building- it was evidently not the entrance. Having stumbled upon entry, John turned to scowl at the smart men, but was instead greeted with a blow to the abdomen by one of them. He curled in on himself, groaning as he did, with the floor seeming very appealing to him, "Hng- bastard..." As the pain began to slowly subside, he managed to glance at the doorway, noting at once that the pleasant fellows had left, and closed the door behind them.
"A -anybody here?" he stuttered, eyes scanning the dimly lit room, where most of the light was being reflected from the pool water. John sighed as he made an effort to straighten himself up.
"Ah, nice of you to join me, Doctor Watson." The voice echoed through the large, empty room. John followed it to the left corner of the room. It sounded familiar to him- and reminded him somewhat of Sherlock- until the faceless voice stepped out of the darkness.
"Looks like you've been in the wars, there, Johnny-boy! Ohh, that's right ... Afghanistan, wasn't it?"
The figure moved into the light to show himself fully; hands in the pockets of his pinstripe suit, and a wicked grin decorating his face.
"And where is our dear detective!"
It was a quarter to twelve when Sherlock stepped out of the door of his apartment building, casually adjusting the scarf around his neck. He thought only of where he would find himself in thirty minutes time, and so raised his arm to hail an approaching taxi cab, which pulled up beside the pavement. Opening the door, he glanced at the homeless man sat by the front of the building, thinking momentarily about the man's life; where it all could have gone wrong for him. But he had no real interest in the unfortunate gentleman, sat in the cold –only a passing thought, so he proceeded to clamber into the vehicle, saying, "The pool complex, please."
The ride was a generally tedious one, ever-so-slightly tinged with excitement, with the only thing on Sherlock's mind being the forthcoming encounter with his faceless nemesis. All of the indications he had found, the games they had played together, the innocent people he had been allowed to save, all of them swirled proverbially around his head- he would soon be meeting with his greatest foe, and the notion of it captivated him. The cab driver's life did not interest him in the least, nor did the tall man running down the pavement clutching a handbag (which was a frightening shade of pink), or even the shady-looking character who attempted to flag down Sherlock's cab...
None of that mattered as the cab approached the destination. Pulling the vehicle up to the kerb, the driver mumbled, "That'll be five-fifty, mate." to which Sherlock handed over a ten-pound note and exited the cab, without saying a word in response. The driver smiled, pulling away from the space to go about the rest of the night's work, as normal. Sherlock's night, on the other hand, was to be anything but normal, as he walked towards the doorway, the light which shone from beyond enchanting him into the mystery.
Sherlock opened the door quickly, yet stood momentarily, observing the interior. He walked slowly in; his hands perched expectantly on his lower back, as he began surveying the area. "Brought you a little 'getting to know you' present." The silence filled him with delight, "Oh, that's what it's all been for, isn't it?" Attempting to determine the whereabouts of his rival, "All your little puzzles, making me dance- all to distract me from this." He said, holding the small, black USB device in the air, waving it slightly.
The hinge of a door squeaked alarmingly, as one Doctor John Watson entered into view, sporting an over-sized parka jacket. A wave of realisation washed over Sherlock, and John couldn't help but deliver what he was instructed to, "Evening. This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?"
Lowering the device, Sherlock murmured, in true disbelief, "John, what the hell-"
"Bet you never saw this coming." John hastily replied, evidently not himself. Sherlock walked slowly forwards, staring blindly at his friend, who began opening the jacket, to reveal the latest bomb vest, which was forcibly in fashion as of late. "What, would you like me, to make him say, next?" The words unwillingly spilled from John's mouth, as Sherlock peered around the poolside.
"Gottle O'Geer, Gottle O'Geer, Gottle O'Geer."
"Stop it." A stern voice, which addressed the person in control of John, not the man himself. And Sherlock knew all too well who that person was, continuing to search the surroundings. "Nice touch, this. The pool; where little Karl died. I stopped him." He paused briefly, "I can stop John Watson, too." John looked directly at his companion, who was mere metres away, and stuttered slightly on his next sentence, "I can stop his heart."
"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded, turning away from John to face the entrance. The squeak of another door echoed throughout the arena. A sing-song voice uttered, out of sight, "I gave you my number. Thought you might call?"
A man of average stature, wearing a smart black suit and tie, wandered into view, keeping his hands suspiciously in his pockets, "Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket? Or are you just pleased to see me?" Raising the correctly named gun, Sherlock nonchalantly stated, "Both." The other man's expression remained unaltered as he formally introduced himself, "Jim Moriarty ... hiiii." Sherlock watched, gun held steady, as his adversary strolled casually forward, jokingly adding, "Jim? Jim from the hospital? Oh- I really made such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose that was rather the point."
John glanced up at Sherlock; his stint as a ventriloquist dummy seemingly ended, but lowered his head again once he noted the red laser dot moving up to his forehead. "Don't be silly, someone else is holding a rifle." He directed at Sherlock, "I don't like getting my hands dirty."
He paused, standing in one place, "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big, bad world. I'm a specialist, you see-" Jim's eyes lit up as he looked directly at the man with the gun, "-like you."
"Dear Jim," Sherlock began after what seemed like a lengthy silence on his part, "please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister. Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America." Jim smiled, stepping forward, "Just so."
"Consulting criminal. Brilliant."
"Isn't it?" Jim looked to John, his smile slowly fading, "No one ever gets to me," forming something more akin to a grimace, "and no one ever will." Cocking the gun confidently, Sherlock retorted, "I did."
"You've come the closest- now you're in my way!"
"Thank you."
"Didn't mean it as a compliment."
"Yes you did."
"Yeah okay, I did." Jim began walking backwards, raising the pitch of his voice so it was sing-song-like again, "But the flirting's over, Sherlock. Daddy's had enough now!" Sherlock looked on, gun still aimed at Jim's head. "I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play." He walked, face still hidden behind the shadows of the surroundings. John's head dropped dejectedly, causing Sherlock to take a momentary glance in his direction. "So take this as a friendly warning," a sickening pause, "my dear...back off." Jim's facial expression was as cold as his tone of voice, before changing to a somewhat sinister grin, "Although, I have loved this. This little game of ours- playing 'Jim from I.T'- playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"
"People have died." Sherlock interrupted, infuriating his counterpart, "That's what people DO!" his shout resonated throughout the complex, causing even the surface of the pool to vibrate slightly. Defiantly, Sherlock stated, "I will stop you."
"No you won't."
"You alright?" he directed at John, who tensed as Jim approached him from behind, "You can talk, Johnny-Boy, go ahead." John gave a slight nod in agreement, causing Sherlock to hold out his left hand which held the USB- while still maintaining a steady right hand so the gun remained pointed directly at Jim's head. "Take it."
"Hm? Oh, that- the missile plans." He whispered the last two words as he took the device from Sherlock's hand and proceeded to gently kiss the object, before staring at it for a brief moment, "Bor-ing! I coulda got them anywhere." It was just as he had thrown the USB into the swimming pool that John, like an animal pouncing its prey, jumped behind Jim, grasping around his neck, "Sherlock, run!" Yet, unfazed by the turn of events, Jim smiled, "Pff- GOOD! Very good!" Somewhat reminiscent of his army days, John stated through gritted teeth, "Your sniper- pull that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up."
Ignoring John, he looked up toward Sherlock instead, "Ain't he sweet, I can see why you like having him around, but then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touching and loyal." He moved his own face closer to John's, adding some sort of perverse undertone to his voice, and therefore causing John to pull away slightly, "OOPS! You've rather shown your hand, there, Dr. Watson." He laughed again, as John realised that Sherlock's forehead had gained a red laser dot, and so let go of his grasp. "Gotcha!"
Jim brushed himself off and held his hands up in front of his suit, stating, "Westwood." before commencing with his plans, "Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?"
"Oh, let me guess- I get killed."
"Kill you?" his face contorted, "N-no, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway, some day. I don't wanna rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. Oh, no no no no. If you don't stop prying," Jim paused, his expression turning into something far more menacing, "I will burn you. I will burn, the heart out of you."
Sherlock, expressionlessly and straightforwardly responded, "I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."
"But we both know that's not quite true." It seemed, then, that Sherlock had been played at his own game- that Jim Moriarty knew more about him than he had cared to divulge- that he did in fact have some connection with reality and emotion.
"Well, I'd better be off." Jim glanced around before looking Sherlock in the eyes once more, "So nice to have had a proper chat." Sherlock readjusted his arms slightly, pushing the gun marginally closer to Jim's face, "What if I was to shoot you now? Right now?" Appearing contemplative for a moment, Jim responded jokingly, "Well then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face." and included an overtly 'shocked' expression, "Because I'd be surprised, Sherlock, really I would. And just a teensy bit..." he smiled, "...disappointed. And of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long." He paused again, changing once more to a sinister tone, "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."
"Catch... you... later." Sherlock pronounced each word slowly and carefully, almost mockingly, as Jim walked toward the door; his gun still pointed in the same direction it had been for the last five minutes. "No you won't!" Jim's shrill voice sounded before the door closed with a definite click.
Sherlock held the gun steady, staring at the door for a few seconds, before looking at John- almost coming to his senses following what had just occurred. Swiftly, he threw down the gun and bent onto one knee, and proceeded to remove the bomb vest from John's waist, "Alright? Are you alright?" he demanded.
"Yea-Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine, Sherlock. Sherlock!" He had moved to remove the parka jacket and threw it away from where they stood. As Sherlock ran to check the door, John stumbled forward, the shock of what had happened setting in, "Whoah, Christ!" he supported himself on one of the changing cubicles, bending down so that he was crouching- closer to the ground, so that if he did pass out, he didn't have far to fall. Having found nothing, Sherlock paced alongside the pool, absentmindedly scratching his head with the barrel of the gun. "Are you okay?" John asked.
"Me? Yeah, fine. I'm fine. Fine." Both men were breathing heavily, clearly due to the close-call that they had had, "That thing- the thing that you did, um, you offered to do- that was, um... good."
John appreciated Sherlock's gratitude, even if it wasn't so conventional. "I'm glad no one saw that."
"Hm?" Sherlock sounded, looking down at John. "You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, people might talk." Sherlock shook his head, "People do little else..." he smiled, as John began laughing, if nervously. However, as John started to get up, he noticed that a familiar red laser dot had found its way onto his chest, "Oh-"
"-sorry boys! I'm so changeable! It is a weakness with me, but, to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness." Sherlock looked around the pool, before glancing in John's direction. "You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you, but- everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!" Sherlock looked again to John. He understood what was going through his partner's mind, and gave a small nod, causing Sherlock to turn on the spot to hold the gun once more in Jim's direction, "Then probably my answer has crossed yours."
Slowly, Sherlock lowered the gun so that it was aimed at the bomb vest, which was approximately half-way between them. He glanced at Jim, who clicked his neck and smiled. The pressure in his index finger built up as he processed what would happen once he pulled the trigger. John sighed, dropping his head and closing his eyes, anticipating what was going to happen next.
Sherlock blinked and pulled the trigger, throwing himself over John...
Everything was quiet and still.
Sherlock opened his eyes and shifted slightly to see Jim standing beside the decidedly unexploded bomb vest, "Did I ever mention how lovely a couple you two make?" he smiled, picking up the bomb, parka jacket and all, "Oh, and by the way, boom." He threw it into the pool and dusted off his hands, as Sherlock lifted himself up, allowing John his personal space back. Jim placed his hands back in his trouser pockets and took a few steps back.
"What are you trying to achieve?" Sherlock asked, standing close to the pool. He had dropped the pistol after it had been fired- his sole intention was to ensure that John was safe from the blast that didn't happen. "I've got your attention. I've shown you that you have to protect what you care for." Jim looked to John, who was gathering his senses. Sherlock glanced briefly at his friend.
"You see, Sherlock, this game of ours..." he paused to lower his head and grin before lifting it to stare intently at Sherlock, "...there will always be some collateral damage."
Sherlock's eyes widened as he watched one of the laser dots rise to John's forehead. He opened his mouth and began to reach out a hand, but was stopped in his place by a deafening bang, as one of the snipers fired their weapon. He flinched, waiting for John to fall back, but swiftly noticed that there was no wound to be seen. Yet, John's face was drawn and pale, "Sh-Sherlock-"
"-see you soon, gentlemen." Jim said as he exited through the door, accompanied by his hitmen, as the shuffling noises suggested. Sherlock shook his head faintly, seemingly coming out of whatever trance he was in. A shooting pain ran through his body; he clenched his eyes shut and moved his left hand to his upper abdomen- blood. Lots of blood, coming from a fresh bullet wound.
John lifted himself up from the floor, staring at his wounded friend as he did. Sherlock stumbled backwards and lost his footing on the side of the pool. John jumped up to grasp him, shouting, "Sherlock, no!" but couldn't reach him in sufficient time.
Descending into unconsciousness, Sherlock fell, the clear blue water enveloping his body...
It had been two weeks since the events by the poolside.
John continued to write his blog, detailing the dark monotony that his life had become, and, of course, the dark monotony that his companion's life had seemingly always been. And he wondered about how easily one became so overwhelmingly agitated with breathing the same air; with eating the same food; with sharing the same space with someone who didn't care for much at all. He had contemplated leaving on so many occasions, but in the back of his mind he knew he had to stay- if not for his own safety, but to prevent Sherlock's foreseeable venture into depression for a little while longer. The man in question lay on the sofa, where John had found him presiding for quite a few days now, with the same morose look he had worn for just as long. He had recovered exceptionally well from the bullet wound, so his lounging on the sofa was borne of boredom, not injury.
It shouldn't be assumed that the police were short of crime, and therefore the pair were short of cases. But rather, D.I. Greg Lestrade did not want to have to deal with Sherlock while he was in such an unresponsive state, not to mention the fact that he had suffered a major gunshot wound. John couldn't decide which fact irritated Sherlock the most: that James Moriarty was still at large in some corner of the globe, or that he had been played for a fool. Whichever it may be, it had resulted in near-deathly silence ever since.
And so the tedium continued. That is, until John abruptly closed the lid of his laptop, standing up as he did. Sherlock didn't move, as John had expected. But the man did make a move on John's first utterance of "I need a cup of tea, and to make that, I need milk. Since we've been out of the bloody stuff for days now, I'm going to go buy some." John moved towards the door, knowing that Sherlock's eyes stared at the back of his head.
"I know you have it in you to not be quite so idiotic, John." Sherlock sighed, with his arms very firmly folded across his chest. Emotions were not his strong point, but Sherlock couldn't help but remember that the last time John left in a bad mood, he was abducted by the world's greatest criminal. John, on the other hand, turned to face him in what could only be seen as disgust, "It's a bottle of milk, Sherlock. I'm finally sick of this new 'way of life' we've found ourselves in-" he paused, "-how can we keep living like this? Like we're not even bloody here anymore, waiting around for some sign or message from the almighty Jim Moriarty and his bunch of goons." He sighed, pinching his brow, "I want some tea, and that means getting milk. I'm not going to get captured or die in the twenty minutes it takes to get there and back."
John proceeded to slip on his casual brown shoes, endeavouring to keep his back to the petulant man in the teal dressing gown -which he had worn for the same number of days that he had spent on the sofa. A soft hum broke the awkward silence, as Sherlock's mobile phone vibrated across the coffee table. Understanding that John was not in the mood to pander to his needs, Sherlock picked the device up himself, pressing a series of buttons as John reached for the door handle.
"Wait." He instructed. "Sherlock, I don't know if you understand feelings, but I'd have thought you'd be able to tell that I'm not too impressed with you at the moment." John continued to open the door, but was halted when Sherlock leapt from the sofa and near-skipped across the room, arm extended, offering the mobile to his partner. "He's back, John."
John coolly took the phone, peering down at the message on the screen:
I hear Switzerland is nice this time of year...
–M x